Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - 9 Hours of True Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #truescarystories #realhorrortales #nightmarefuel #spinechilling “9 Hours of True Scary Stories” is an intense collection of bone-chilling real-life horror encounters—stories of people who came face-to-face with the unexplainable. From eerie whispers in empty rooms to paranormal shadows that follow in the dark, these tales reveal how terror hides in everyday life. Each story plunges you deeper into fear, blurring the line between the real and the supernatural. If you think you can handle nine hours of true terror… think again. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truescarystories, realhorror, darktales, hauntedencounters, ghoststories, paranormalactivity, nightterror, scarynarration, creepynarratives, urbanlegends, supernaturalhorror, psychologicalthriller, chillingmoments, eerieexperiences

One, the fog was thick as wool, so dense you could carve it with a blade. We rode in silence, the creek of the oars swallowed by the mist, the sea a black, dead thing beneath us. I stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the smudge of land just beyond the veil. We were close now, close enough to smell the damp earth of their fields, the smoke that should have risen from their hearths. But the air was wrong. It carried no sound but the faint lap of the tide and the pulse of it. of our own breath. I knew the rhythm of a village, the sounds it should make even at rest.

No dogs barking. No children running through the shallows. Just silence. I thought of the feast we'd have, of the riches waiting to be plucked from the hands of men too weak to defend them. Yet still, the quiet nodded me. The hull scraped the beach, and we disembarked without a word, slipping into the pale light of the shore. The mist parted and slow, dragging curls, revealing the village like a corpse pulled from the sea. Houses sat half-sunk in the mud, their doors ajar. The people moved through the streets like cattle, their heads bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. They were pale, too pale, as if something had drained the blood from their bodies. Bjorn was the first to step forward, his axe gripped tight in his hand. He moved like

a hunter-stalking lame prey, no fear in his eyes, no hesitation. The rest of us followed, the mist clinging to our boots, our weapons drawn, though it felt more like habit than need. The people, or what remained of them, barely registered us. Their movements were slow, dragging, as if their bones had turned to lead. Too easy, Gooner muttered beside me, his voice low and hard. I could hear the sneer in his words, but I couldn't shake the cold, coiling in my gut. This wasn't right. Diorne swung first, his axe splitting the skull of a man

who barely lifted his head to see it coming. The crack of bone rang out, a hollow sound in the fog, but there was no cry of pain. The body crumpled to the dirt in silence, like it had never been alive to begin with. I glanced around, the others had begun to move, swinging swords and axes with practiced ease. Each strike brought down another villager, no one. No fight, no resistance. Just bodies hitting the ground like sacks of grain. The air filled with the dull thud of meat and bone, but none of the men were laughing. None of them spoke.

I took a man down myself, a swift blow to the neck, and the way he folded was wrong. It wasn't the violent collapse I'd seen so many times before. He didn't clutch at the wound, didn't gasp for air. He just slumped, eyes open and empty, face slack like the life had been gone long before I struck. They're sick, Eric said from behind me, his voice tight. He just felt a woman, her eyes wide and glassy, mouth hanging open like she'd forgotten how to close it.

It's not right, any of it. Bjorn swung again, splitting the back of another skull with a grunt. They're weak. We'll take what's ours and be gone. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something had taken what was theirs long before we arrived. We moved through the village like shadows, blades drawn but hands growing heavy with doubt. The air hung thick, not with the smell of death but with something worse.

Rot, yes, but something old, something that had been left to fester too long in the dark. It clung to the back of my throat, turning the taste of the sea into ash. The bodies piled up, limp and lifeless in the mud. But there was no satisfaction in it. No spoils worth the taking, no challenge to fuel our bloodlust. Just the slow shuffle of those left standing, their eyes blank, their faces slack. They stumbled over the dead without a glance, without care, as though they couldn't feel the cold creeping up their limbs, couldn't sense their own dying.

Look at them, Gooner said again, but this time there was no sneer. He stood over a man he had cut down, the body splayed in the dirt at his feet. The man's skin was waxy, stretched tight over his bones, and his eyes were still open, staring up at the sky. His mouth hung slack, as if in the middle of a word he'd forgotten how to finish. Something's wrong with them, Eric muttered. He stood nearby, wiping his blade clean, though there wasn't much blood to show for it. This isn't just sickness, Bjorn spat into the

dirt. They're dead. Does it matter? We take what we came for. But there was nothing to take. The houses were bare, their hearts cold, their walls empty of life. Food rotted in pots, untouched. We found no coin, no treasure, only the signs of a people who had stopped caring, who had left their lives behind without ever leaving their homes. I glanced toward the shore, the mist still thick, swallowing the edges of the village, making it feel like we were caught in some half-world, stuck between waking and dream. Something wasn't right, but I couldn't say what. The quiet was too deep, the sickness too old. We should leave, I said, my voice low. There's nothing here for us. Bjorn shot me a look, but he didn't

argue. He could feel it too, the wrongness that seeped up through the mud, the weight of something unseen hanging in the fog. He nodded once, a silent agreement, and we turned back toward the shore, our steps quicker than before. The bodies we left behind didn't move, didn't breathe. But the village felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl. Two, the sea felt like an endless void beneath the hull, black and cold, with nothing to it but the steady groan of wood against water. We had pulled away from that cursed shore, but none of U.S. could shake the weight of the village, the silence we'd left behind. It clung to us like the mist that still hadn't lifted, like something we couldn't outrun. Bjorn was the first to fall. It wasn't sudden. It crept in,

slow, like the sickness itself was biting its time. At first, it was just the cough. A rasp in his throat that he blamed on the damp air, on the cold. He tried to laugh it off between pulls of the oar, but the laugh came out hollow, forced. His skin was pale, but we all were. The sea did that to a man. By nightfall, though, he'd gone quiet, slumping against the side of the ship with sweat beating on his forehead. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling like a bellows that had been worked too long, too hard. Just a fever, Hapthor said, though his eyes lingered on Bjorn longer than his words would admit. He'll shake it off, but there was something in Bjorn's eyes that wasn't right. They were glassy, unfocused, like he was looking

through us, past us. He was still breathing, still there, but something about him felt, distant. As if a part of him had stayed behind on that shore, lost to the fog. He needs to needs rest, I said, but even as I spoke the words, I felt a knot of uneased titan in my gut. Rest wouldn't help him. I knew it, even then. Whatever had taken hold of Bjorn, it wasn't something a man could sleep off. We laid him down on the deck, his chest still heaving, his hands clutching at the air like a drowning man reaching for something that wasn't there.

The others kept their distance. They wouldn't say it aloud, but they were afraid. They wouldn't meet his eyes, and neither would I. The wind died with the sun, and the night closed in around us. Bjorn's breath was the only sound, faint but constant, like the slow pull of the tide. I stood watch, my back to the sea, and prayed for dawn. The sickness crept through the ship like a shadow, slow at first, unnoticed. Bjorn still lay where we'd put him, his breath now shallow and rattling, as if each pull of air was

a fight he couldn't win. We gave him water, we spoke of getting him back to shore, to the healers, but no one really believed it. Whatever had him wasn't something that could be fixed with herbs or chance. By the second day, more men began to cough. It started small, just a tickle in the throat, a moment of discomfort that passed quick enough. But we saw it, the way it spread, like ripples in still water. First it was Gjarton, leaning over the side of the side of the ship, his face pale, his shoulders trembling. Then Gooner, his hands shaking as he tried to grip the oar, the sound of his breath wet and strained. They're weak, Hapthor muttered, but I could see the worry in his eyes, the way he glanced over his shoulder

at Bjorn, still unmoving. It's just the cold. Nothing more, but the cold hadn't touched them like this before. We'd sailed through harsher winds, colder nights. We'd faced hunger, frostbite and wounds that cut deeper than anything this sickness could. But this, this was different. They weren't themselves. Something had taken root in them, deep in their blood, and no matter how hard they tried to shake it off, it clung. The others started pulling back, huddling closer to the center of the ship,

away from the sick. There were no words for it, no orders given, but the space around Eric grew wider, a chasm that none of us dared to cross. It felt like a slow retreat, though no one wanted to call it that. I watched Gjardin from the corner of my eye. His hands trembled as he clutched the oar, his breath shallow, just like Bjorns had been. He was trying to row, but there was no strength in him anymore.

I saw it before he did, the way his grip loosened, the way his body slumped forward like a rag doll, his face pale as bone. He's gone, someone whispered, though it wasn't true yet. we all knew. There was no fighting it, no shaking it off. One by one the rest of us drew further away, our eyes fixed on the horizon that never seemed to get any closer. I could feel it in my chest too, faint but growing, like a seed-taking root. The cold sweat, the heaviness in my limbs. But I kept it to myself. There was no sense in naming it. Bjorn was always the last to fall. It was how we'd known him, the one who held the line, the one who kept us moving when

the rest of us faltered, raised his cup past the dawn itself. He didn't speak of fear, never let it show, and that was enough for the others. But by the third night, even he couldn't hide it anymore. I watched him, lying there with his back against the mast, his chest rising and falling with slow, labored breaths. The sweat glistened on his brow, his skin pale as the moonlight that seeped through the heavy mist. He said nothing, but the silence around him was telling. His hands shook, just like Jarton's hat. His cough, once stifled, came louder now, a wet, guttural thing that clawed its way up from deep inside him. He'll be fine, Gooner said, though his voice had no weight to it. He's Bjorn. But we all knew what was coming.

Bjorn did too. When dawn came, he hadn't moved. moved. His axe, always within arm's reach, sat untouched beside him. He was still breathing, but just barely. The color had drained from his face completely, his skin cold to the touch. Gooner moved to him, crouching by his side, but even he couldn't meet Bjorn's eyes anymore. There was no strength left in him, only the sickness. Let him rest, I said, but the words felt hollow. rest. Rest wouldn't help him. Nothing would. The sickness had him now, the same way it had taken the others. It wasn't until midday that his breath finally stopped. We stood in a circle, staring down at him. There were no rights this time, no words of glory or honor. What could we say?

Bjorn had been a warrior, and now he was just another body on a ship full of the sick and dying. We should burn him, Eric said, though his voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. Before, before. No one wanted to finish the thought. But there was no fire, no flames to send him off. We didn't move him. We couldn't bring ourselves to. Instead, we left him there, leaning against the mast, eyes closed, his face as still as the

dead sea that surrounded us. He was the strongest, Guna whispered, his voice hollow now, stripped of its earlier bravado. If it took him, he didn't finish. He didn't have to. Bjorn was gone, and we knew it wouldn't be long before the rest of us followed. Three, it was sometime past midnight when I heard it, a soft rustle, like cloth against wood, barely louder than the whisper of the waves.

At first, I thought it was the wind, or maybe one of the crew shifting in his sleep. We'd been up for too long, the weight of the weight of the wind. the sickness pulling us into restless half-dreams. But the sound came again, and this time I knew it wasn't the wind. It was Bjorn. I turned slowly, my eyes catching the faintest movement near the mast where we'd left him, cold and still. His body had slumped forward, his hands twitching against the wood, his head lolling to one side like a puppet cut loose from its strings. His eyes were still closed, his mouth slack, but he moved. Not much, just to the a slow, unnatural shift, like something had stirred beneath his skin, something that didn't belong

there. For a moment, I thought it was a dream. Bjorn had been dead for hours. I had watched the breath leave his chest. But now he was shifting, his fingers brushing the deck in slow, scraping movements. His legs twitched, the muscles stiff, but trying to move as if life had returned to them in some cruel way. Bjorn.

Eric's voice cut through the silence, hoarse and weak, barely more than a whisper. He was the closest, lying not far from where Bjorn had been propped. His face was pale, slick with fever, his eyes wide as he watched our dead brother move. What, what is this? Bjorn's head jerked suddenly, his mouth moving as though he was trying to form words, but only a low, guttural sound escaped him. His eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, staring at nothing. His body shuddered, every movement sharp and wrong, like he was fighting against some unseen

force pulling his limbs in directions they weren't meant to go. Gods, someone muttered from behind me. I didn't know who. It didn't matter. None of the gods were here. He's sick, Gooner said, though his voice cracked as he spoke. It's just the sickness. He, he's not, but I could hear the lie in his words.

This wasn't sickness. This was something worse. Eric was backing away now, his breath coming fast, panic rising in his throat. Bjorn, he's, he's moving. I wanted to move, to speak, to tell them what I didn't even know myself, but my legs felt rooted to the deck. Bjorn was standing now, slow and jerking, his mouth hanging. open as he made that same low sound, a sound that wasn't human. He took a step, his legs

unsteady, his hands reaching out blindly. This was no longer Bjorn. We stood frozen, watching the thing that had been our brother stagger across the deck, his hands reaching out like a man lost in a dream. His movements were slow, jerky, as though his own body resisted each step. The man we had known, the brother we had fought beside, was gone, and in his place was something that wore his face but moved like a puppet, pulled by invisible strings. What do we do? Eric's voice trembled, barely holding together. He had backed himself into the corner of the ship, eyes wide, watching as Bjorn stumbled toward him. What in the name of the gods? No one answered. We had no words, no explanation. We only had the sight of our

dead walking among us, as if death herself had been cheated, twisted into some horrible jokes. We, we have to stop him, Guner said, though there was no conviction in his voice. He stepped forward, axe in hand, but his grip was loose, uncertain. He looked at Bjorn like he was still a man, like somewhere in that cold, stiff body was the brother we had known. But there was nothing in Bjorn's empty eyes, only a hollow hunger that drove him forward. Bjorn's head jerked toward Gooner at the sound of his voice, his neck twisting unnaturally as his body followed. He took another step, and then another, his pace quickening, but

still slow enough that it felt more like a nightmare than something real. There was no rush to him, no rage. Only the strange, cold intent of something that shouldn't be moving at all. Stop him. I muttered, more to myself than to anyone. Stop him. How could we? He had been one of us. He was one of us. But Bjorn wasn't Bjorn anymore, and the longer we stood there, the clearer it became. The cough, the fever, the slow decline, none of it had prepared us for this. We hadn't known what the sickness really was, what it could do. But now, looking at the shambling figure before us, there was no doubt.

The sickness didn't just kill. It took something from the men it touched, leaving behind only the shell, something twisted. twisted and empty, driven by nothing but the same hunger we had seen in their eyes in the village. Guner, I said, my voice low, we can't leave him like this, but Gunner didn't move. His axe hung at his side, and he took a step back as Bjorn came closer. He's still Bjorn. He, he might come back. No, Eric's voice was thin, strained, but there was no mistaking the fear in it.

No, he won't. Look at him. Look at what he is now, Gooner faltered, his hand tightening on the axe. He took one more step back, shaking his head, his face twisted with a mixture of rage and fear. We can't. Not Bjorn. Not him. Bjorn was close now, too close. His hands reached out for Gooner, slow but relentless, his fingers twitching, his mouth still open in that wordless moan. Gooner lifted the axe, but it was half-hearted, hesitant, like he couldn't bring himself to strike. We don't kill our brothers, Guner whispered, his eyes locked on Bjorn's empty face.

I stepped forward, though my body felt heavy, my legs weak. He's not your brother anymore, and that was the truth. But the truth wasn't enough to move us. Not yet. The weight of it pressed down on us like the fog that clung to the ship, a slow, creeping realization that this sickness had stolen more than our strength. It had taken the men we knew and left only this, this hollow thing. But still, no one swum the axe.

No one raised a hand. We were too slow, too afraid to act, and that fear, that hesitation, was what doomed us all. Bjorn's hand shot out, faster than we'd seen him move since the sickness took him. His fingers latched onto Gooner's tunic with a grip that belied the line. lifelessness in his eyes. Guner stumbled back, eyes wide in shock, but Bjorn held fast, his mouth twisting into something like a snarl, a sound, a guttural growl, rising from deep in his chest. God's help us, Guner gasped, his axe dangling uselessly in his hand.

It all happened at once. Bjorn lunged, pulling Guner closer, his dead weight crashing into him like a wave. Guner was thrown to the deck, Bjorn on top of him. of him, hands clawing at his throat, his body jerking with violent spasms. The sounds he made were almost human, but not quite, a guttural noise that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Get him off. Guna choked, his hands wrestling against the dead weight of Bjorn's limbs.

His axe was out of reach, and his strength was fading fast. There was no more hesitation left in any of us. I moved, as did Eric and Jarton. Together, we grabbed Bjorn, pulling him off Gooner with a strength that came and not from bravery, but from pure, cold fear. Bjorn thrashed in our grip, his limbs wild and uncoordinated, but stronger than they had any right to be. His eyes were wide and empty, but his body fought with a primal, unnatural energy.

Eric cursed under his breath as Bjorn's hand lashed out, catching him across the face. Damn you, Bjorn, he spat, but we all knew it wasn't. him anymore. Over the side. I shouted, and we forced him toward the edge of the ship. It was the only thing we could think to do, the only way to end it, to get rid of whatever this sickness had turned him into. Vjorn writhed, his body twisting in our grip as we dragged into the rail. His mouth opened again, that horrible moan spilling from his lips, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. But it was gone just as fast, replaced by that same hollow hunger. With a final heave, we pushed him overboard.

Bjorn's body hit the water with a sickening splash, but he didn't sink right away. He flailed in the surf, his arms still reaching out, still clawing at the air as though trying to pull us down with him. For a moment, we watched in stunned silence as he thrashed in the black waves, until finally, mercifully, he disappeared beneath the surface. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. We stood there, breathing hard, staring at the spot where Bjorn had gone under, the water still rippling as if unwilling to let him go. Bjorne, Guna whispered, his voice cracking. We, we shouldn't have, I gripped the rail, staring into the endless blackness of the sea. We had no choice. But the words felt hollow, even as I said them.

Bjorn had been our brother, our strongest. Now, he was something we couldn't even name, lost to a sickness we barely understood. Eric wiped a hand across his face, his breath ragged. How many more? No one answered. We all knew. Four, the sun hung low, bleeding into the horizon, and the air on the ship was thick with sickness and fear. We stood, huddled close together, but not from camaraderie.

this time because none of us dared get too close to the others. The coughs from the sick were louder now, more frequent. Men we had known all our lives, men we had trusted, were becoming something else. Not yet like Bjorn, not fully, but more like him than us. Guna glanced toward them, three of our crew who sat slumped against the railing, shivering despite the heat still in the air. Their skin had turned pale, their breaths shallow. They muttered under their breath, their words drifting into the rising mist.

We have to do something, Eric muttered, his eyes flicking between the sick men and the rest of us. We can't just wait for them to, for them to become like Bjorn. They're not dead yet, Gooner snapped, though his voice cracked with the strain of it. They're still our brothers. We don't kill men who still draw breath, then what? Eric's voice rose, a tremor running through it. What do we do when they turn? When they come at us like Bjorn did?

Do we wait until they're clawing at our throats? We had all seen what happened to Bjorn, but none of us could speak it aloud. The memory of his wild, empty eyes still haunted me, but the men lying there now, I couldn't look at them without thinking of the times we had fought together, drank together. They were still there. But for how long? I stared at them, at Kjartan, whose breath rattled in his chest, at Vigdis, who had once been the loudest of us, now a quiet, shivering heap against the mast.

They were dying, that much was clear. The sickness had them in its grip. But to end it now, while they still breathed. They're not lost yet, Gooner said, softer this time, as if saying it loud would make it real. They could fight it off. We've seen men recover from worse. You didn't see Bjorn, I muttered, the word spilling out before I could stop them. none of us can fight it the silence was heavy and the only sound was the labored breathing of the sick the scrape of their boots against the wood as they shifted their bodies slowly betraying them we can't let it get to that point again eric said his voice steadier now though his eyes were wide with fear we can't wait until it's too late if they turn like bjorn will have no choice gooner's hand tightened on his axe his knuckles white I won't kill my brothers. I said nothing.

I didn't have the words. All I knew was that the sickness wasn't stopping. It was creeping through the ship, claiming more of us each day. And we stood there, paralyzed by fear and loyalty, too slow to act, too afraid to admit that the men we had sailed with were already lost. Then what do we do? Eric pressed, his voice tight, desperate. What's the plan, Gooner? Do we wait until it's too late?

Until they're tearing us apart, Gooner's face hardened, but his eyes were dark, unsure. We'll wait. We'll wait until they stop breathing. It wasn't enough, and we all knew it. But we didn't have the strength to say otherwise. We didn't have the strength to do what needed to be done. Night fell like a heavy blanket over the ship, dragging the air into a thick, uneasy quiet. The sick huddled where they lay, their breaths shallow, interrupted only by the coughs that

echoed in the silence. They hadn't gotten any better, but they hadn't turned either, not yet. That was the cruel part. The waiting. We couldn't let them roam free. Not after what happened with Bjorn. But we couldn't kill them either. Gooner had made sure of that.

We tie them, Guner said, though his voice was low, like he didn't quite believe. leave in the decision himself. He stood over them, axe in hand, but there was no strength left in his grip. His eyes darted from one sick man to the next, never resting too long on any one of them. We'll restrain them. They won't hurt anyone if they can't move, tie them. Eric's voice cracked. What are we, farmers? You saw what Bjorn became. Ropes aren't going to hold them when it happens. No, Gooner said, sharply, the bite of authority returning to his voice, though I could hear the strain in it. We tie them.

We don't kill men who aren't dead. They're still ours. When they pass, we'll deal with it. The ropes were old, worn, but they would have to do. Eric and I moved together, keeping our distance, but the task was clear. We weren't warriors anymore, just men trying to keep the dead from rising in the night. We bound their wrists first, then their ankles, tying them to the posts, making sure the knots were tight.

Jartan muttered something under his breath, words slurred and soft, but he didn't resist. None of them did. They were too far gone already. Vigdis looked at me as I tied the rope around his wrists. His eyes were glassy, fever-bright, but there was still something of him in there, something human. Don't, he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. Don't do this. I'm still here, I paused, my hands trembling on the rope. He was still here. But for how long? His skin was already pale, his breath shallow, and I could see the sickness crawling across him, taking him

inch by inch. I couldn't look him in the eye. It's for your own good, I muttered, though the words felt hollow, meaningless. I'm not gone, Vigdis whispered again, a hint of panic rising in his voice now. His hands jerked in the ropes, weak but determined. I'm not like Bjorn. Please. I pulled the knots tight. Behind me, Guna watched in silence, his face grim, though I could tell he was fighting his own battle inside. The lines were blurred now, between life and death, between brotherhood and survival. Tying them like this, our comrades, our brothers, felt wrong. But leaving them free to turn felt worse. As we finished binding the last of them, the ship fell into a tense quiet. The ropes creaked against the wood, and the sick men's breaths were ragged in the

darkness. We stood there, staring at them, unsure of what came next. We had bought ourselves time, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. They'll break those ropes, Eric said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would bring the sickness down on us all. When it happens, they'll break them. They won't, Goner said, though there was no confidence in his tone. He turned away, his axe dragging at his side. They won't. But we all knew better.

We were only delaying what was coming, too weak to admit what needed to be done. The sickness wasn't something you could tie down. It would come for them, just as it had come for Bjorn, and when it did, ropes wouldn't be enough to hold it back. We had spent the night watching, waiting, the silence pressing down on us like a weight we couldn't shake. The creak of the ropes was the only sound, the sick men shifting weakly against their restraints, the occasional cough breaking the stillness.

No one slept. Not really. The air was too thick with dread. When it happened, it was sudden. faster than we expected. Vigdis had been quiet most of the night, his breathing shallow and uneven, his skin slick with fever.

He was one of the strongest men on the ship, always laughing, always pushing us to row harder, fight fiercer. But now he was just a shell, bound to the post with nothing left in him but that damned sickness. I was on watch when he started convulsing.

His body jerked violently against the ropes, his muscle straining, his eyes wide open, fixed on something none of us could see. He thrashed, harder than I thought a dying man could. His head snapped back, his mouth opening wide, a guttural scream ripping from his throat, a sound that didn't belong to any living thing. God's. Eric yelled, leaping back from where Vigdis was tied. The others stirred, panic flickering in their eyes as they scrambled to their feet. Vigdis pulled against the ropes with a strength I didn't think he had left. The ropes groaned, the wood creaking beneath the strain.

His body twisted unnaturally, his wrists raw against the bindings, his movements frantic, animalistic. He's going to break free. Eric shouted, his voice high with fear. He reached for his axe, but there was no confidence in his grip. The others moved to act, but none of us knew what to do. Gooner stood frozen, watching vig this fight against the ropes, his axe limp in his hand. It was happening again, the sickness taking him, turning him into something else, something wild and ravenous. But we hadn't prepared. We had known it was coming, but still, we weren't ready. With one final jerk, the ropes snapped. Vigdis surged forward, his hands free, his body lurching toward us like a man possessed. He stumbled at first,

but then his movements grew more deliberate, more focused. His eyes, wide and empty, locked on Eric, and in that instant, I saw it, the same hunger, the same emptiness that had taken Bjorn. Eric raised his axe, but it was too late. Vigdis slammed into him, knocking him back against the rail with a force that left Eric gasping for air. They struggled, Eric fighting to keep the axe between them, but Vigdis was relentless. us. His hands clawed at Eric's throat, his face twisted into something monstrous, no longer

recognizable. Get him off. Eric's voice was a strangled plea, but no one moved. We were paralyzed, just like before. It was Gooner who acted now, rushing forward with his axe raised. He swung it hard, burying the blade deep into Vigdis' back. The sound was wet, brutal, but it barely slowed him. Vigdis turned, snarling, his hands still clawing at Eric's throat, but Guna kept swinging. The second blow was enough. Vigdis collapsed, twitching, his headless body falling limp to the deck. We stood there, panting, watching as Vigdice's body spasmed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic jolts. It took a long time for him to stop moving.

No one spoke. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. We had known this was coming, but it didn't make it easier. It didn't make the fear any less. That's two, Eric gasped, his voice shaking as he pulled himself to his feet. Two of our own. There'll be more, Guna muttered, his eyes fixed on Vigdis's body, still twitching. There'll be more before this is over.

We looked around at the other sick men, still tied down, still breathing, but for how long? We were losing them, one by one, and we were too late to stop it. We can't just stand here, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. We need to decide. Now, before it happens again. But there was no decision left to make. The sickness had already made it for us. Five, it had come to this.

We could no longer wait. The sickness was spreading faster than we could control, and those who hadn't turned yet were close. Too close. The air on the ship was thick with it now, the smell of sweat, fever, and fear. None of us spoke as we dragged Jartan to the rail, his body limp and burning with sickness. He wasn't dead yet. But he was close enough. We can't wait anymore, Eric muttered, his voice low, heavy. He stood beside me, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes. The weight of what we were about to do was written all over him, but there was no other choice left. We knew what came next, and we couldn't risk another Vigdis or Bjorn.

Guna nodded grimly, his hands wrapped tightly around Chardon's wrists. Before they turn, he said, his voice cold, like he was trying to convince himself. We have to do it before they turn. Jarden's breath rattled in his chest, his eyes glassy, barely seeing us. He didn't struggle, didn't plead. I wondered if he knew what we were about to do, if he cared anymore, or if the sickness had already hollowed him out. Eric leaned over the edge of the ship, staring into the black waves. The mist hung low on the water, swallowing everything it touched, and it felt like we were drifting into the void itself.

Guna and I lifted Garton, are movement slow and deliberate, careful not to look him in the eye. The rope we had tied him with dangled from his wrists, but it didn't matter now. He was weak, too weak to fight, too weak to even speak. With a final heave, we tossed him overboard. The splash was soft, barely a sound at all, but it felt like a stone had dropped into my chest. The water closed over him, swallowing him whole, and we stood there, staring at the ripples until they disappeared. Behind us, the others lay still, their breaths shallow, their eyes closed.

They hadn't turned yet, but it was only a matter of time. We would have to do the same for them soon. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like anything a man should do. We should say something, Eric whispered, his eyes fixed on the dark water. For them. Something to send them off. What good will words do now?

Gooner muttered, his face hard. We're beyond words. And he was right. The time for prayers and rites had passed. All that was left was survival. We dragged the others to the rail one by one. Hapthor, barely breathing, still muttered to himself as we pushed him over. Then ORM, his body stiff with fever, but still alive enough to understand what was happening.

He didn't fight, though. None of them did. It was as if they knew there was no point. When it was done, when the last splash had faded into the silence of the sea, we stood there, staring out into the endless black. The ship felt emptier now, quieter, but the weight of what we had done hung over us like a storm waiting to break. They were our brothers, Eric whispered, his voice thick with grief.

They were dead, Gooner said, but his voice lacked conviction. We had thrown our brothers to the sea before their time, and no matter how much we told ourselves it had to be done, it didn't feel like justice. It felt like murder. The ship groaned beneath our feet, the ropes creaking in the night, but the dead men's faces stayed with us, just beneath the surface, as if they were still there, watching, waiting for their revenge. The ship was quieter now, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet.

It was the kind of silence that nodded your guts, the kind of silence that nodded your guts, the kind that made your mind turn on itself. The air was thick with something else now, a broth of guilt, paranoia, the weight of what we had done. The dead were gone, but they weren't far. I could feel them, just beneath the surface of the water, drifting along with the ship, their empty eyes fixed on us. We didn't speak of it. Not out loud. The act of throwing our brothers overboard had been agreed upon, but the decision hadn't settled in us. It Festered, growing heavier with each breath we took. Eric sat near the bow, staring at his hands, the knuckles white from where he'd been

gripping the rail all night. He hadn't spoken since we'd sent Hapthor and the others into the sea. His lips moved from time to time, whispering something to the air, but no sound came out. He was praying, I think. Or trying to. They were already gone, Guna muttered from where he stood, but his voice was hollow. He'd said it a dozen times since we'd thrown the last of them overboard, but each time, it sounded less like truth and more like a man trying to convince himself of something he couldn't

believe. We did what we had to, but I could see it in his eyes, the way he wouldn't look at the water, wouldn't look at the ropes that had held them. The others were gone, but they weren't gone enough. The sea had taken them, but their ghosts had stayed. I felt it, too. The weight of it. Every step on the deck felt heavier, like the ship itself was carrying the burden of our

dead. I found myself glancing over the edge, half expecting to see their pale faces staring back at me from beneath the waves. They're still with us, Eric muttered suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, trembling, and it sent a shiver up my spine. He hadn't spoken in hours, and now that he had, it was like a crack in the hole, small, but dangerous. I can feel them. They're gone, Gooner snapped, his eyes flashing with the kind of anger that

comes from fear. We did what we had to. There's nothing left of them. They're in the sea now. Eric shook his head, his fingers twitching against his knees. No. They're still here. Watching. Waiting. I turned away from the rail, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I hadn't wanted to it, but I felt it too. We'd done what we thought was right, but the feeling wouldn't leave me. The sense that we hadn't sent them to the gods, but into something darker. That the sickness wasn't just in their bodies, but in the air, in the water, creeping into everything it touched. Gooner laughed, but it was forced, sharp. You're losing it, Eric. You're letting

this get in your head. They're gone, but Eric's eyes were wide now, wild, darting between Gooner and the sea. How do you know? How do we know they won't come back? Like Bjorn. Like Vigdis. How do we know they're not down there waiting, biding their time? Gooner stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists. We threw them over before they turned. They weren't like Bjorn. They were just sick, but they hadn't turned. We did what we had to. Eric stood, backing away from him, his voice rising. What if it's not enough? What if they come back?

What if it's in us too? We don't know who's next. The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around all of us. None of us wanted to say it, but we all felt it. That gnawing fear, that creeping doubt. We had thrown the sick overboard,

but what if the sickness was still with us? What if we were next? We're all infected, Eric whispered, his eyes darting around, full of a growing panic. I feel it. Don't you feel it? The cough, the fever, it's just waiting to take us. Gooner's hand went to his axe, his face dark with something I couldn't name, fear, anger, maybe both.

Stop it. We're fine. We're alive. They were dying. We're not. Eric looked at me, his eyes pleading, searching for confirmation. for some kind of answer I couldn't give. How do you know?

I had no answer. None of U.S. did. The paranoia had taken root, and now it was spreading, just like the sickness. We were waiting. Waiting for the next cough, the next sign. The ghosts of our brothers were in the water,

but the sickness, the sickness was still on board. We just didn't know where. Or who? The air on the ship had grown things. thick with fear, a suffocating weight that pressed down on all of us. No one spoke much now, and when they did, it was in whispers, sharp and tense. Eric hadn't stopped muttering to himself, pacing the length of the deck like a caged animal, his eyes darting from the water to the sky to the rest of us, as if waiting for something

to happen. We were all waiting. Waiting for the next cough, the next fever, the next sign that one of us would be next. was unbearable. The silence. The paranoia. The way we looked at each other, searching for any hint of the sickness in the sweat on someone's brow, in the rasp of their breath. Trust had slipped through our fingers, and now all that was left was suspicion. It started with Eric. I don't know when exactly, but something in him snapped. His mutterings grew louder, more frantic, until he wasn't just pacing, but stalking the deck like a man possessed.

His hands shook as he clutched at his axe, his eyes wild and unfocused. We're all sick, he screamed into the night, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. He was standing at the center of the ship, his body trembling with the force of his panic. Don't you see? We're all going to die here. We're all infected. Eric, calm down, Guna growled, stepping toward him, his own hand tightening on his axe. His eyes were dark, dangerous.

I knew that look. He'd been fighting his own fears, holding it together for the rest of us. But Eric's madness was pushing him to the edge. You're not sick. None of us are. How do you know? Eric spat, his voice high with desperation. How do you know it's not already inside us?

It doesn't just come for the week. It's in the air, in the water. You can't escape it. He lunged at Gooner, wild-eyed and shaking, his axe raised high. The swing was wild, clumsy, but it was filled with the kind of madness that had overtaken his mind. Gooner sidestepped, grabbing Eric's wrist and wrenching the axe from his hand with a brutal twist. Enough. Guner roared, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.

You're not sick, Eric. You're just afraid. We all are. But this isn't helping. We need to stay together. Eric struggled against him, thrashing like a madman, his eyes darting from Gooner to me, to the others who stood frozen, watching in stunned silence. You're lying.

You don't see it. You don't feel it. It's already here, already inside us. The others were watching now, their faces pale, fears spreading through them like wildfire. Eric wasn't just one of us anymore, he was a reminder of what could happen. Of how fast the mind could break when the body wasn't yet gone. Throw him over, someone shouted from the back of the ship. It was a voice filled with terror, not reason.

It made the hair on my neck stand up. The crew was turning on itself. No, Gooner said, but his voice was strained. He was holding Eric in a tight grip, trying to keep. him from thrashing any further. Eric's not sick. He's just, but Eric twisted free, breaking from Gooner's grasp and stumbling toward the edge of the ship. His chest was heaving, his eyes wild with the certainty of his own fate. I won't let it take me, he screamed, and before any of us could react, he flung himself over the rail. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the

splash as Eric hit the water, his body swallowed by the dark waves. We rushed to the rail, staring into the blackness, waiting for him to surface. But he didn't. The sea was silent. Gooner stood there, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. He said nothing, just stared at the place where Eric had disappeared. That's it, then, one of the crew muttered, his voice trembling. He was right.

We're all cursed. The others were looking at one another now, not with fear of the sickness, but fear of each other. Paranoia had taken root so deeply that no one trusted anyone anymore. Even the simplest cough sent men scrambling away, eyes wide with terror. I saw it in their faces, the madness creeping in, the certainty that we were all doomed, that none of us would make it off this ship alive. Guna tried to keep order, to hold us together, but it was too late. The fear had spread faster than the sickness. Some of the crew whispered about taking the smaller boats, rowing away from the ship before they caught whatever curse had taken

their brothers. Others simply sat in silence, waiting for death to come, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. And as the hours passed, more began to cough. It was faint at first, just a clearing of the throat, a subtle rasp in the breath. But we all heard it. We all knew. The sickness wasn't done with us yet and none of U.S. were going to stop it. Six, by the time dawn broke, we were fewer. The night had stolen more of us, some to the sickness, others to the madness it bred. The ship felt hollow now, the creaking wood and lapping waves are only companions. The one still with us were shadows of the men they had been, eyes dull and lifeless, bodies worn thin with fear. None of us spoke of what happened to Eric, but the memory clung to us, suffocating.

We were down to the hardest choices now. The newly sick lay bound where we'd left them, their breaths ragged, their skin waxy with fever. But they hadn't turned. Not yet. That was the cruel part. The waiting. Gooner stood by the mast, staring at them, his axe in hand. His face was drawn, tight with the weight of command.

that had become a burden too heavy to carry. But he was still the one we looked to, still the one we expected to make the call. They won't make it, Gooner said at last, his voice low, but firm. You know that. We can't risk another night. We end it now. There was no argument. The words hung heavy in the air, and I felt them sink deep into my chest.

He was right, of course. They wouldn't make it. They were slipping away, already halfway gone, and when they turned, it would be worse. We couldn't wait any longer. We'd seen what the sickness did to the body when it took hold. But doing this, ending it while they were still breathing, was something different. Something we weren't ready for. They're still alive, I muttered, though I knew the protest was hollow.

My eyes flicked to Gudroon, her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. She'd been with us through more winters than I could count, her laugh once loud enough to carry across the ship. Now she was a ghost, barely hanging on, but not yet gone. They're not coming back, Guna replied, his voice hard. We've seen what happens. You want to wait until they're clawing at our throats. Eric's last moments flashed in my mind, the madness that had gripped him before he threw himself

into the sea. Then Bjorn, Vigdis, and all the others. They hadn't been men when they'd turned. They'd been something else, something beyond saving. I tightened my grip on my axe, the wood rough in my palm. The decision had already been made. It wasn't about mercy anymore. It was survival. One of the younger men, leaf, barely more than a boy, stood frozen, his face pale as bone. His hands trembled around his sword, and I could see it in his eyes, the doubt, the terror. He wasn't ready. None of us were. But there was no time for doubt now.

We have to do it clean, Gooner said, his voice sharp as a blade. No hesitation. No mercy. They deserve a quick death, not the sickness. I nodded, though my throat felt tight. Quick death. Easier said than done. Gooner moved first.

He didn't flinch, didn't let his hand shake. With a single swing, he brought his axe down on Gudroon's neck, the sick thud of the blade echoing across the deck. There was no scream, no struggle. Just silence. The others followed. One by one, we dispatched the sick. Leif, Fry dis, Kinweed fought beside, laughed with, bled with.

The axe fell again and again, and with each swing, the weight in my chest grew heavier. Then we came to Rolf. He had been too quiet. His breath was steady, but there was something off about him, something I hadn't noticed before. His eyes. They were wide, wild, darting around the ship like a trapped animal. Rolf? Guna called out, his axe poised.

Rolf didn't answer. He was staring. past U.S., past everything, his lips moving in rapid, frantic whispers. His hands clutched at the ropes that held him, his knuckles white, and it hit me all at once, he hadn't been silent because he was sick. He was silent because he was gone. Not to the sickness, but to something darker. Rolf? I stepped closer, my heart pounding in my chest. He snapped then, thrashing against the ropes, his eyes wild, his voice rising in a shrill, broken cry. They're coming for us. We're all going to die here.

Guner moved quickly, but Rolf was faster. He broke free from the ropes, lunging at us with a strength that defied the fever raging in his body. His eyes were wide, crazed, filled with a madness that had been festering beneath the surface. Get him! Guner shouted, and we closed in, axes raised. Rolf fought like a man possessed. his hands clawing at us, his mouth twisted into a snarl. He swung wildly, catching leaf in the side, sending him sprawling across the deck. The boy cried out, clutching his ribs, but there was no time to check if he was all right. Rolf was a threat now, not just to himself, but to all of us. We moved in as one, pushing Rolf back toward the rail. His body thrashed,

his face twisted in terror, but there was no mercy left in us. This wasn't the sickness. This was madness. And madness would tear us apart. With a final shove, we pushed him overboard. The splash was the same as it had been for the others. Quiet, final. But this time, it felt different.

There was no relief, no sense of survival. Only the hollow sound of the sea swallowing another of our own. Guna wiped the blood from his axe, his face unreasonably. That's it, then, he muttered. The worst of it. But I wasn't sure if I believed him. For the first time in days, the ship felt still. The weight of what we had done hung heavy in the air, but there was no turning back now.

The bodies of our brothers were gone, swallowed by the black depths of the sea, and the madness they had brought with them had been swept overboard with their corpses. The three of us that remained moved in silence. We cleaned the deck, scrubbed the blood away, and lashed down what we could. It was busy work, something to fill the empty hours, something to keep our hands from shaking. The sickness seemed to have receded. We hadn't seen any new signs, no more coughs, no more fevers. Maybe the worst had passed.

Maybe we'd purged the ship of whatever curse had gripped us. Gooner stood at the helm, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his grip on the wheel steady for the first time in days. He had become a rock in the chaos, his face hard and unyielding. I wondered if he felt the same weight I did, the guilt, the fear, but if he did, he didn't show it. We did what we had to, he muttered, more to himself than to me, as I joined him by the helm. His eyes were still on the horizon, as if looking away would undo the fragile piece we had one. It's over now. We'll make it through, I nodded, though my throat felt tight. height. It feels different, I said, and I meant it. The air was lighter. There were no more

shuffling feet, no rasping breaths of the dying. Just the soft creek of the ship, the flutter of the sails and the wind. For the first time in what felt like forever, the air didn't taste of death. We stood there for a long time, staring out at the horizon. The sky was a soft gray, the sea calm beneath us, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe it was over. The worst had passed. We had survived. But as the hours stretched on, something shifted. I noticed at first in the air, the stillness. The wind had dropped, the sails sagging against the masts, and the sea, which had once been alive with gentle waves, now lay flat and cold, like glass. The mist that had followed us for days seemed to thicken, creeping in from the edges

of the horizon, dark and heavy. Guna frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked out at the sky. The calm, once comforting, now felt wrong. Omnis. The sea was too quiet, too still. It was the kind of stillness that came before a storm. Do you see that, he asked, his voice low. I followed his gaze, In the distance, just beyond the mist, the clouds were gathering. They weren't the white, drifting clouds of a peaceful day, but dark, rolling masses, thick and heavy with rain. They moved slowly, but steadily, creeping toward us like a shadow stretching across the sky. I felt a knot tighten in my chest.

The storm was coming. And it wasn't just any storm. still pale from the blow Rolf had given him, stood at the bow, his eyes wide as he watched the clouds roll in. It doesn't look right, he muttered, his voice barely audible over the creek of the ship. The way they're moving. It's like they're coming for us. The words sent a chill through me.

He was right. The clouds weren't just drifting. They were hunting us, moving with a purpose, dark and heavy like the sickness we just cast into the sea. Guna turned to me, his jaw clenched. We need to be ready. This storm's not like any I've seen before. We worked quickly, securing the sails, lashing down the supplies, but the unease hung in the air.

The ship creaked louder now, the water lapping against the hull in short, sharp bursts. The calm had gone from eerie to unsettling, and the dark clouds were growing closer by the minute, blotting out the last bits of daylight. What? If it's not just a storm. Leif whispered, his voice trembling as he looked out at the gathering clouds. I didn't answer. I couldn't.

The sky darkened. The sea, which had been so calm, started to churn, small ripples spreading out in every direction, as though something beneath the surface had awoken. The wind, dead just moments before, began to pick up a low, keening sound in the air, like a howl just on the edge of hearing. This isn't right, Gooner muttered, his wind. knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. None of this is right, I felt it too.

The weight of it. This wasn't just a storm. It was something else. Something darker, something tied to the sickness we thought we had left behind. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, a deep, gnawing dread that twisted tighter with every breath. The wind howled, and the first crack of thunder rolled across the sky. We had survived the sickness. But this was something else.

The storm loomed closer, thickening the air with its weight, casting an unnatural shadow over the ship. The sky had turned black, the clouds swirling in slow, deliberate circles like some malevolent eye watching us from above. The waves, which had been nothing more than ripples before, now heaved the ship in erratic, unpredictable rolls. There were three of us left, each worn thin, haunted by what we'd done. by the brothers and sisters we'd lost to the sickness and the sea.

The storm wasn't even here yet, but already it had begun to eat at us. The calm before had been a mercy. Now, there was nothing left but the black sky and the cold edge of fear in our hearts. Leaf was the worst. He had been quiet since Rolf went overboard, but now, as the storm bore down, I could see something in him unraveling. He hadn't been right since the madness with Eric, and the cut Rolf had left on his ribs, though shallow, seemed to be festering. He stood at the bow,

clutching his side, his eyes flicking between me and Gooner as if measuring us, wondering how long we'd last. His skin was pale, slick with sweat, but it was his eyes that worried me, the way they darted from shadow to shadow, like he was seeing things that weren't there. Did you feel that? Leif muttered, turning sharply toward me. His voice was shaky, his hands trembling as he gripped the rail. The ship, it's pulling us, something's pulling us. Can't you feel it? I glanced at Gooner, who tightened his grip on the helm. His jaw was set, his eyes dark with a quiet fury. It's just the storm, he said, his voice steady but strained. Get below and rest, Leif. You're not thinking straight, but Leif didn't move. His eyes were wild,

darting between us like a cornered animal. No. It's not the storm. It's them. He pointed to the water, his hand shaking violently. They're still out there. I know it. I can hear them.

The dead don't rest. They're waiting, waiting for us to join them. They're gone, I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though the unease was clawing at me too. We did what we had to. Leaf shook his head, his face twisting in desperation. No. You don't get it. None of you get it. We threw them over, but they're not gone. They're just below us, under the ship. They're waiting. We're all cursed, just like Eric said. We're next. He was losing it, and we both knew it. But part of me understood. The way the sea churned, the way the wind howled in a distance, it felt like the dead hadn't left us at all. Maybe they hadn't. Maybe the storm wasn't just a storm.

Gooner stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Leif. Enough. You're talking madness. Get below deck. Now, Leif backed away from him, his eyes wide with fear. You don't feel it, do you? You don't see what's happening. We're all sick.

It's in us, all of us. Gooner's hand went to the hilt of his axe, but Leif saw the movement and staggered back, tripping over his own feet. Stay away from me, he shouted, panic rising in his voice. You're infected. I know it. I can see it in your eyes, my heart pounded in my chest. We were unraveling, just like the others had.

First Eric, then Rolf, and now Leif. We thought we had made it through the worst, that the same. sickness had left us. But it hadn't. The fear was still here, spreading like a plague in our minds. Leif, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. No one's sick. We've survived. We're almost through this. Don't let it take you now, but he didn't hear me. His eyes were locked on Booner, wide and full of terror. I've seen it, he whispered, his voice barely audible. I've seen what it does. You're next, Gooner.

I know it. Without warning, Leif lunged toward the rail, scrambling to climb over it, his hands gripping the wood with a wild desperation. I'm not waiting, he screamed, his voice high and broken. I won't let it take me. I won't let it. I moved fast, grabbing his arm before he could throw himself into the sea, but he thrashed wildly, his strength fueled by panic.

His nails clawed at my hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Let me go. Let me go. They're in the water, they're waiting for me. Guna was there in an instant, his hands wrapping around Leif's shoulders, pulling him back from the edge. But Leif fought harder, his body twisting in our grip, his voice rising into a shrill, inhuman scream.

You're all sick. You're all cursed. With a final wrench, Guner threw him to the deck, pinning him down with a knee to his chest. Leith gasped for air, his eyes rolling wildly, his body trembling with terror. I could feel his pulse racing under my hand, his panic so palpable it felt like it could spread to me. He's lost, Gooner said, his voice low and grim. We're not far behind.

The words hung heavy in the air, the truth of them sinking into us like stones. had broken, but the sickness, the fear, wasn't done with us yet. I could feel it creeping through me too, the edges of my mind fraying with doubt, with the weight of all we had done, all we had seen. The storm wasn't the only thing coming for us. 7. There's a heaviness in the air that I can't shake. It clings to me like damp wool, seeping into my bones. The ship rocks beneath my feet, the water gentle now, but I can feel the weight of the dead pressing down on us. Or maybe it's just my mind, dragging itself deeper into that darkness that's swallowed us whole. Three of us left. Leif sits by the stern, his back against

the rail, eyes half open, but seeing nothing. Guner still moves, still breathes, still walks like the sickness isn't scratching at the back of his throat. But it is. I can see it. I can hear it in his breathing, a rasp too deep, too wet. He hasn't said a word since dawn, but I know he's watching me. They're both infected. Leaves gone already, might as well be a corpse. His lips move, mouthing words that never come. Maybe he's praying. Maybe he's just talking to ghosts. Gooner's holding out, but it won't be long now. He's always been the strongest, the last one to break. But I can see the way his hand shakes when he grips the axe, the way he winses with each breath. It's only a matter of time. I watch him from across the deck, my knife

hidden beneath my cloak. I haven't slept. Not with them still here. I feel it tightening around my chest, the need to finish this. Gooner is the biggest threat, always has been. But he's slipping. His face is pale beneath the grime, his his eyes bloodshot, skin stretched too thin across his bones. He knows, too. I can see it in the way he looks at me. The way he avoids getting too close. He's waiting for me to act, just like I'm waiting for him.

It's a dance, slow and deliberate, and I wonder which one of us will move first. I glance at Leaf again. He's not long for this world. He'll die on his own, but I can't leave him like this. He's breathing shallow, rattling breaths, sweat dripping from his face like the life's already been wrung out of him. He doesn't even know I'm there as I approach. The knife feels heavy in my hand, like it knows what's coming. It's not quick.

It's never quick like they tell you. His eyes flutter, his body twitching as the blade slides between his ribs. He lets out a small gasp, a wheeze that barely sounds human. Then it's over. I pull the knife free, wiping the blade on his shawl, though the blood stains the deck darker than the night. Booner watches from the helm. His hand rests on his axe, but he doesn't move. Not yet.

We both know this is the moment. It has to be. I stand, the knife still keen in my hand, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. The space between us feels impossibly small, like the ship itself is shrinking under the weight of the weight of. of what has to happen next. You've lost it, Gooner says, his voice low, raspy. I'm not sick. But there's something hollow in his words, something that says even he doesn't believe it anymore.

He's sick. It's only a matter of time before it gets him too, before it turns him into whatever the others became. I can't wait for that. I can't let it happen. I've seen it, Gooner, I say, and my voice sounds distant, like. it belongs to someone else. I know what's coming. He tightens his grip on the axe, takes a step toward me, slow and deliberate, like he's measuring the distance. You're the one who's lost,

he says, but there's fear in his eyes now. Real fear. He swings, the axe slicing through the air, but it's a desperate swing, too slow. I dodge, barely, and the weight of it sends him off balance. I don't wait. I lunge at him, the knife catching him in the side, just beneath the ribs. He grunts, staggers back, his hand clutching at the wound. But he doesn't fall. Not yet. He's still too strong. He swings again, this time weaker, more desperate. I duck, driving the blade in deeper, twisting it until I feel him buckle. His breath comes in short gasps, his eyes wide, with shock, like he hadn't expected it to end like this. He drops to his knees, his axe clattering to the deck. His hand reaches out, as if he's trying to hold onto something,

anything. But there's nothing left for him to grab. Just the cold wood beneath him, slick with his own blood. He looks up at me, his mouth opening like he's about to speak, but no words come. I don't wait for him to finish. I pull the knife free, wiping it clean on my sleeve, though the blood sticks to my hands like it's part of me now. The ship creaks beneath us, the water slapping gently against the hole. The world feels impossibly quiet. I step over Booner's body, his eyes already dimming, his breath slowing. I'm the last one. The last one left. I tell myself it's over. But deep down, I can feel it, the tightness in my chest, the ache in my bones. I'm not sick. I'm just tired. Just tired. But the thought lingers,

creeping in around the edges. What if I'm wrong? I cough, once, then twice. It's nothing. Just the cold. Just the air. I've survived. The sky is still, painted with streaks of pale light, and the ship rocks beneath me like a cradle. There's an odd piece to it now. No more whispers, no more fevered mutterings. Just the sound of the sea, the steady creak of wood, and my own uneven breaths. I rub at my chest, trying to ease the tightness that's settled there. It's been days since I've slept.

The weight of what I've done drags behind me, pulling my legs, making each step feel heavier. The wind bites at my skin, cold and sharp, and I pull my cloak tighter around me. It's just exhaustion, I tell myself. Just the guilt of surviving when the others did not. I walk across the deck, passing over the bloodstains I couldn't wash away, the memory of their bodies lingering in every shadow. Gooner's axe still lies where he dropped it, slick with salt and blood.

I step around it, avoiding the sight, not wanting to remember how it felt, watching him fall. I've only done what I had to do there was no other choice they were sick I'm not I keep telling myself that as I make my way to the helm I'm the last one left and it's up to me to steer us home

I can see the faint line of the coast now just a smudge against the horizon we're close I cough again harder this time the sound rattles in my chest wet and thick I swallow it down, trying to steady my breath, but the tightness in my lungs won't let go. The salt air, it's heavy today.

It's clogging my throat, filling my lungs. I rub at my chest again, as if that will stop it, but the ache doesn't go away. I look out at the sea, the water calm beneath the sky, and for a moment I feel it, the pull of it, the vastness of it. I could let go, just stop, let the ship drift. But no. We're close now. I'm close. My legs feel weak as I brace myself against the helm, trying to focus on the task at hand. The sail is still full, the wind carrying us forward, but I can't seem to keep my hand steady on the wheel. The weight of it all, of everything I've done, everything I've seen, it's pressing down on me, making it harder to breathe. I cough again,

harder this time, doubling over as the air is ripped from my lungs. I spit into the sea, watching the flecks of red disappear into the water below. It's nothing, I tell myself. Just the cold. Just the wind. I'm not sick. I can't be. But the thought is there now, a dark shadow creeping through my mind. I push it away, gripping the wheel tighter. I've survived.

I've made it this far. I'll make it to the shore. But as I look out at the horizon, the land growing closer, I can't help but wonder if I'm too late. I cough again, and this time, the taste of blood lingers on my tongue. Epiloch. They saw the ship early in the morning, a dark shape on the horizon. At first, just a speck against the pale sky, but as it grew, they stood in silence, watching as it cut through the still water. There hadn't been a ship for weeks, not since the last of the raids, and this one came

slow, dragging through the sea like something broken. Villagers gathered at the shore, wordless. There was a wrongness to it, even from a distance. The way the sail hung limp, the way the ship listed slightly as if it were being pushed along by something unseen. No shouts came from the deck. No sound of men calling out. Just the groan of wood, the way whisper of the wind. They're back, someone said quietly, but it wasn't a statement filled with certainty. More like dread. It didn't feel like a return. It felt like something else. The ship scraped the shore, the hull grinding into the sand, but no one moved closer. They could see the figure now, alone at the wheel, barely standing. He was a shadow of the men who

had sailed out, hunched and gaunt, his skin pale even at a distance. That's not them, one of the elders whispered. The figure stumbled, his hand gripping the wheel like he needed it to stay upright. They watched as he pulled himself forward, each step labored, his body shaking with the effort. He made it to the edge of the deck, but there was no triumphant return, no sign of the men who had left with him. He was alone. He's sick, a woman's voice trembled from the back of the crowd. The man swayed, his hand rising to cover his long. mouth. Then came the sound, low and wet, a cough that cut through the silence like a blade.

He doubled over, spitting blood onto the wood, his body convulsing as the sickness racked him. None of them moved. They stood frozen at the edge of the village, staring as the man collapsed to his knees. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving like a bellows, his skin glistening with sweat. That's the last of them, an elder muttered under his breath, his voice thick with dread. He's the only one left, but the truth was worse than that. He wasn't just the last, he was the herald. They could hear the sickness in his breathing, in the rattle of his chest, and see it in the blood that pooled beneath him. Each cough was louder, each breath more strained. The man tried to rise, his hands grasping at the railing, but his body was

too weak, too far gone. He was dying before their eyes, and still, no one. moved. The ship rocked gently, the last of its crew now crumpled on the deck, his life spilling out in red streaks. The villagers watched, motionless, as he convulsed, the sickness gripping him in its final, brutal throws. And then he lay still. There was something hanging in the air now, something they could feel pressing down on them, thick and cold. It wasn't just the man who had come back. He had brought something with him. Something they couldn't see, but it was there, drifting with the mist, crawling toward the shore. One of the women backed away first, pulling her children with her, her eyes wide with terror. Then another,

and another, until the crowd began to scatter, moving as if the sickness itself was already upon them. They didn't wait to see him die. They turned and fled like dust in the wind, scattering back to the safety of their homes, leaving the ship and the man on it behind. The ship sat in the shallows, silent, unmoving. Yet as the mist curled around it, thick and unnatural, the shadow of its mast stretched further inland. It crept slowly, darkening the sand, inching toward the village with the weight of something long buried and stirring to life. Black against the dying light, it seemed to swell in the gathering fog, its dark shape reaching further with each breath of wind. Behind their doors, the villagers closed their eyes and prayed. But out,

side, the shadow kept coming. We begin today's story by talking about one of the owners of Rose Hall, a Georgian-style mansion anchored in the mythical land of Jamaica. The origins of this estate's construction date back to the year 1750, when the English settler George Hall decided to start laying the foundations of this mansion and named it Rose, in honor of his wife. Unfortunately, George died just three years later, and Rose remarried three more times. Her third husband, John Palmer, was the representative of King George I in the Jamaican district of St. James, and he was also the one who completed the house

between 1770 and 1780. Sadly, this grand mansion was never filled with the laughter of children, as both spouses died shortly after finishing the construction, leaving no descendants. For many years, the closest relatives fought over the inheritance, but it was eventually John Rose Palmer, their nephew, who inherited the great estate. He became the envy not only of his family but also of the locals, as this estate had one of the most important sugar plantations in the region, one of the most prominent in all of Jamaica.

The wealth that generated surpassed anything any nobleman could desire. It truly seemed as though life was beginning to smile upon John, until the day he met Annie Mae Patterson, a young French woman not only full of youth and dreams, but also full of love for him. Annie Mae Patterson always came across as very generous, charming, and pleasant, a girl with whom John could talk for hours and from whom he never stopped learning. To John, Annie was a true goddess. However, Annie was hiding a very dark secret, she was a ruthless killer. John Palmer and Annie Patterson married in the year 1820, and the first years of their union were the happiest of John's life, until one night, she stabbed him over and over without stopping,

making sure he was truly dead. Once the massacre was complete, she ordered her black slaves to pick up the pieces from the bed and bury him on a nearby beach. From that moment on, the nightmare at Rose Hall began. Annie would go on to take the lives of hundreds upon hundreds of slaves. Once John Palmer was declared dead, Annie inherited his entire fortune,

and not only his wealth, but the Rose Hall mansion as well. Over the following years, she delighted in wasting money, hosting lavish parties, buying the finest dresses in town, and indulging in every imaginable luxury. But money runs out, and a widowed woman in those times could fall prey to robbers, danger, or men who only sought her fortune. So she decided to find another wealthy man on her own. She went on to marry twice more, both husbands met the same fate as John Palmer.

However, their deaths weren't identical, the second husband died from her. poisoning, and the third was strangled. Once again, Annie relied on her slaves to bury the bodies on two separate beaches. She then spread word that her husbands had succumbed to yellow fever, a common illness during that era. No one dared to question her story, not only because she was a powerful woman in those days, but also because people feared her. Everyone in that community had their secrets, and nobody wanted to meddle in someone else's business, getting involved could cost you your life. Annie was a woman cloaked in mystery, fascinated by the occult. She enjoyed playing with voodoo, flirting with the dark and the spiritual. It is said that she

performed voodoo rituals right on her estate, rituals used to torment her more than 3,000 slaves, whom she kept in check by threatening to curse them for all eternity. She ruled through terror and malevolence. It's believed she learned the art of voodoo from one of her slaves, who, trying to gain her favor, taught her a few tricks. But Annie was never a grateful person. So it's assumed that once she had learned everything she wanted from him, she killed him, just as she had done with her husbands and most of her lovers. The power she gained through voodoo, the fear she inspired, led her slaves to name her the

white witch. Each morning, Annie would step onto the back balcony of the mansion, the one that overlooked the courtyard, and from there, she gave orders to her slaves. She dictated how the household chores should be done, who would work the fields, who would stay behind to clean, who would serve her personally, 24 hours a day. She also determined the punishments for anyone who disobeyed. Punishments ranged from lashings, to mutilation, to burning with hot irons, to entire nights in the mansion's basement, where Annie punished her slaves with total impunity. Some were even executed. But many testimonies claim that wasn't the worst

fate imaginable. The worst fate was when the white which entered the servant's quarters, selected a new lover, and forced them to spend an entire week fulfilling her every sexual fantasy. Once she tired of them, she would execute them in the most brutal way, through torture and slow bloodletting. She buried them in unmarked graves, empty pits with no religious symbol whatsoever, like a stray dog or cat. Still, very few managed to escape Rose Hall. In fact, almost no one dared to try. Annie had filled the estate with over a hundred traps, animal snares, deep pits hidden among the brush. And if you manage to survive the first wave of deadly traps, don't worry, Annie Palmer would wake in the middle of the night, mount her horse, and hunt you down.

She'd drag you back to the basement, brand you like an animal, and depending on her mood, you might never see daylight again. Annie's estate extended over 24 kilometers, a vast territory with dense plantations. The mansion itself sat like a true feudal castle, and from her bedroom window, Annie Palmer could observe everything that happened. She watched the slave quarters, the laundry fires, everything. If she saw even one suspicious movement, she'd go hunting for the escapee herself and dream up the punishment on the way. In those times, social classes were starkly defined, A minority exploited an oppressed majority, creating a system ruled by fear, an element Annie knew how to exploit very well. At Rose Hall, fear went far beyond the physical.

Slaves didn't just suffer mortal wounds, they were haunted by the fear of the occult, the fear of voodoo. With her esoteric knowledge, Annie threatened to steal their souls for eternity, to never let them rest even after death, and this idea hurt far worse than a thousand lashes. As previously mentioned, Annie Palmer was trained in Haitian voodoo until she became a fearsome witch, the white witch, the one who knew all and saw all. If a neighbor annoyed her, she'd turned to voodoo, and within days, that neighbor would fall ill and die. Annie's evil knew no bounds. Some of the legends told by the Rose Hall slaves say that she never allowed her friends or close associates to bear children.

Any woman associated with her who became pregnant would suddenly miscarry, often after a perfectly healthy pregnancy. It was said that just having tea with Annie at Rose Hall could result in losing your baby two days later. The slaves believed these tragedies occurred because the White which had decided to rob that family of their future, because no one was allowed to be happy around her. Annie Palmer was incapable of happiness. She didn't know what true joy was, and therefore, she wouldn't allow any of the future.

anyone else to smile either. When exactly she became so cruel is unknown. Did it happen during her childhood in the streets of Paris? Or when she moved with her family to Jamaica? Nobody knows. The only thing that's certain is that Annie Palmer had no heart. Annie Palmer was a true monster. In 1831, significant changes began in Jamaica's colonial society. The British government decided to abolish slavery. But the Jamaican elite chose to delay this new law as long as possible, clinging to slavery as if they had never heard of such government mandates. As if they had never heard of human freedom, a fact that caused great tension among the black population and triggered intense uprisings throughout the country. And Rose Hall was no exception, for the revolt

reached directly into the lands of Annie Palmer. Annie truly believed that the terror she instilled in her slaves would be enough to quell their rage, to calm their anger. But it wasn't enough, for their wrath became much stronger than their fear, and a group of insurgents entered her estate armed with torches. They tore down the main door, climbed the stairs, and murdered her in the cruelest way, in her own bed. They beat her over and over, cut off her limbs, disfigured her face, and once she was dead, they threw her out the window.

Once she was dead, a neighbor picked up her corpse and buried her. her in an unmarked grave with three crosses meant to guide her soul to the afterlife, leaving one side of the grave without a cross so her soul could escape the tomb and wander through the estate. Still, this theory doesn't hold much weight, since what sense would it make to bury a noble woman in an unmarked grave with three crosses? It doesn't make sense. Which leads us to the second version of her death, the second version that explains why Annie Palmer was buried under such circumstances. We know that white crosses are used to seal the power of a witch in Haitian voodoo tradition.

So this leads us to quickly consider the second version of her burial. A legend says that Annie Palmer had hired a foreman who was a powerful bacher, a voodoo sorcerer, something he hid from her at the risk of his own life. The foreman had a young daughter who was engaged to a very handsome young man. Annie knew about this, she knew about the engagement, and still decided that wasn't a reason to stop him from becoming her lover. She became infatuated with him and forced him to spend a night with her, to spend a night fulfilling all her desires and fantasies.

The young man's family and his fiancé were devastated, for they knew that within a week, he would end up dead, as that was the fate of all her lovers. Even so, they had time to think of a way to protect him, to save him, and to ensure that the marriage could still happen. They had time to think of something. But Annie didn't follow her usual pattern. Instead of spending a week with him, instead of taking an entire week, she enslaved him that very night and decapitated him.

Perhaps that night, the young man refused to sleep with her, declaring his love for the foreman's daughter, and maybe that drove Annie mad. She enraged all her slaves and devastated the foreman's family, allowing fury to take hold of the slaves and spark the revolt. That very night, her slave stormed into her home, knocked down the front gate, climbed the stairs, and stabbed her, beat her, bled her out. They fought not only with violence but also through voodoo, through witchcraft. And the foreman, being much more experienced in that field than Annie, was able to defeat her and destroy her spiritually and emotionally, a fact

that made it easier for the rest of the slaves to finish what he had started and destroy her physical body. Once this was done, the foreman entered the woods and, through rituals, created a sacred tomb sealed with three white crosses, to seal not only the spirit of the witch but also her wickedness, her deep evil. There, anchored in the rock forever, leaving a space for her soul to wander eternally and to keep lamenting and reflecting in the afterlife on everything she had done in life. But that tomb would have no name, no name so that the soul could never rest, could never find peace. Because if she didn't know who she was in life, she wouldn't know who she was in death. Unfortunately, rage prevented the ritual from being completed,

from being properly finished, and so the spirit of Annie was left not only to wander the earth, not only bound to the mansion of Rose Hall. Annie's spirit had become a demon. She had become a vengeful, resentful soul filled with fury. After Annie's death, the house belonged to the British government and was later sold to three different families, the Jarrett family, the Barrett family, and the Henderson family. The first two families continued the sugar plantations, continued to exploit the land, and they did report strange things, but didn't pay much attention. They reported the creaking of the wood, dry coldness, and thick, suffocating air in some of the rooms. But really, neither of these first two families lived in the house. They used it as a plantation, as a workplace, not as a home

to live and prosper in as a happy family. But the third family, the Henderson family, did use Rose Hall as a home. They wanted to grow there and consider Rose Hall a family legacy. During their stay, the Henderson's experienced truly inexplicable events. They reported that same dry coldness, that same thick and suffocating air, and that they felt watched, watched by something, someone that didn't seem to be there. By something that had no body, by something truly hostile. They reported that in the darkest places of the house, one could feel a disturbed presence, a dark presence, an almost monstrous presence. But the worst wasn't what they experienced, the worst was what their servants experienced. The servants feared certain rooms because they were

convinced something truly dark was hiding there. But the owners of the mansion ignored their warnings, ignored the fear of a few servants, until one day, something truly tragic happened. Out of nowhere, one of the maids fell from the same balcony where Annie Palmer used to give her morning speeches to the slaves. She was thrown from that balcony, and during the fall, she broke her neck and died. At that moment, the Henderson's concluded that the house was truly haunted, because when the maid fell, there was no one upstairs. No one who could have pushed her.

And that fact disturbed them so much that they decided to leave the house the very next day after the unexplained death. They packed all their things and moved to Kingston. Today, the Rose Hall Mansion is owned by two Americans, who purchased it in 1965 and remodeled it between 1966 and 1971, spending a total of $2.5 million to renovate the mansion and make it livable. Still, the fury of the White which didn't end with the murder of that maid. Her rage remained alive, still pulsing through the walls of Rose Hall. And it said that during the restoration, truly strange things began to happen, disembodied laughter, whispers, footsteps, the same symptoms the house exhibited during the Henderson's time. But this time, there were new developments, new phenomena.

This time, while restoring the room of Annie Palmer's first husband, stains began to appear on the ceiling, damp stains next to John Palmer's bed. Stains that, once you touched them with your finger, you realized they weren't damped. spots, they were blood stains. Fresh blood. Stains that, once you went to another room or called someone and came back, had disappeared without a trace. Intense odors, odors that floated through every room. And this led the couple to open the doors of Rose Hall to paranormal investigators, and not only to them, but also to curious visitors eager to learn not just the history of Rose Hall, but also the terrifying legend behind it. And, in fact, To this day, the estate still receives tourist visits to showcase not only the story,

but also the valuable objects and Jamaican mahogany furniture inside. And not just that, also genuine works of art from the 15th to 19th centuries. And like any good haunted mansion, everything remains practically intact, exactly as it was in the time of Annie Palmer. The end. I wasn't expecting much that morning. Another press briefing, another policy announcement, and this one. Windshield wipers.

Rividing stuff. I barely made it on time, shuffling in with a lukewarm coffee in one hand and dragging along my over-eager in turn, Ralph, with the other. Ralph was practically vibrating with excitement, clutching his notebook like it was the holy grail of journalism. This is big, James, he whispered, eyes wide with the kind of naive enthusiasm that me want to retire early. Sure, Ralph, I muttered, taking a sip of my coffee. Windshield wipers. The defining issue of our time. As Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy took the podium, I noticed something strange, the room wasn't just filled with the usual droning murmur of reporters killing time before lunch. There was an actual buzz in the air. People were leaning forward,

pens poised, cameras ready, waiting for, what, exactly? A new standard in rubber blade technology. Duffy started strong. For too long, we've overlooked the tools that keep us safe in everyday conditions, he declared, his voice full of the kind of confidence usually reserved for presidents and infomercial hosts. Windshield wipers might seem trivial, but they're not. They're essential. I rolled my eyes and glanced at Ralph. The kid was already scribbling furrowed in deep concentration. You buying this? I asked under my breath. Just listen, he hissed back, eyes glued to the stage like he was witnessing history in the making. Duffy went on, unveiling the administration's plan to standardize wiper speeds and introduce adaptive technology. How many of you have driven in a

downpour, flipping through wiper settings that are either too slow or too fast. Hands shot up across the room. Mine stayed down, though I begrudgingly admitted I'd been there. It's a small problem, Duffy continued, but it's a solvable one. And we're here to solve it. The crowd applauded. Ralph was nodding like a bobblehead. I leaned closer.

This is theater, I said. Maybe, Ralph shot back, but. it's good theater. And then, the unexpected happened, a live video feed from President Trump himself. America deserves the best, Trump declared, his voice booming through the speakers. Even in the little things. Think about your own body, think about the way your p-hole works. It lets out what it needs to, in the right amount, at the right time. It's efficient. It's natural. It's perfect. That's what we're aiming. for with windshield wipers. We want them to respond just like that, no more, no less,

just right. The room fell into a stunned silence. A few awkward coughs. A shifting of seats. Then, slowly, applause began to spread like an infection, until the entire room was clapping, because what else do you do in a moment like that? Trump grinned from the screen, basking in the bizarre admiration. This administration is about solutions that make life better for every single citizen. No more squinting through streaked windshields on the way to work. The energy was undeniable. Duffy closed the briefing with more technical details, but it was Trump's weirdly effective

analogy that would dominate the headlines. By the time the briefing ended, I had to admit, I was impressed. Not because windshield wipers suddenly seemed like a world-changing issue, but because they'd somehow made people care. That was the real skill on display. As we walked out, Ralph was practically glowing. So, what did you think? I shrugged.

They sold it well, I admitted. Still not sure it's the revolution they're pitching, but, they sold it. Ralph grinned. Told you it was big. And that's when I murdered Ralph. We were in the elevator, just the two of us, and I looked over at him, his stupid, eager face, his stupid, eager enthusiasm. It was too much. Too bright. Too hopeful.

I jabbed my pen into his neck and twisted, savoring the way his eyes went wide with shock. The blood spurted, warm and immediate, coating my hands, my shirt, the stainless steel walls of the elevator. He made a wet, gurgling noise, but it didn't last long. By the time we reached the basement, he was low. gone. I dragged him out of the elevator and stuffed his body into a trash can. It wasn't elegant, but it would do for now. Then, I wheeled the trash can all the way to my house, nodding politely at the five people I passed along the way. What's in the trash can? One of them asked, laughing. Oh, just a body, I joked, and they all chuckled like idiots who know,

with absolute certainty, that nothing bad ever happens. Once home, I got to work. Ralph had always been a lean guy, but there was a surprising amount of meat on him. Enough to last a while. I took my time, cutting, bagging, labeling. It's important to stay organized. Some cuts went in the fridge for immediate consumption, but most went into the freezer, sealed neatly in Ziploc bags. It's okay to eat human meat, as long as you cook it. That's just science. Of course, that was all years ago. These days, no one even remembers Ralph. His disappearance was a blip, barely newsworthy. The police never found a thing. Turns out, when a young journalist vanishes, people assume he ran off to chase a bigger story,

not that he ended up on someone's dinner plate. I think about Ralph sometimes. Mostly when I'm eating. There's something poetic about it, his body, his energy, all of it, now a part of me. The windshield wiper briefing was the last big story he ever covered. And you know what? He was right. It was big. Bigger than either of us knew. So, here's to Ralph. The intern. The optimist. The meal. He really was quite delicious. Romania in the 1990s was a country of transformation but also of traditions. myths and legends, overlapping with technology pouring in from the West after the long dark years of communism. The country had taken revenge and paid for 50 years of communism with

blood by executing the Chowsescu family. The dictators of communist Romania. But in the Romanian countryside, in the Romanian villages, time seemed to have lagged behind, and refused to pass its mystical stage. My grandmother often told me, in the long winter evenings, when we sat huddled around the terracotta stove, about the story of Lena Bonkus, who faced the devil and killed her own daughter. Lena was a witch. A real one, my grandmother was keen to point out. She cast spells of separation, murder, financial bankruptcy, illness, madness. But for all these spells to work, she worked with the devil. The devil called Inoran. Ineran had made a pact with one of Lena's great-grandmothers. He would help her perform the spells, but in return,

every time a girl was born into the witch's family, she was worshipped by the devil. That little girl would grow up, become a woman, and at the age of 18, there was a ritual that required the girl to be raped by a number of men. Estelle's powers were unleashed, and the first people she killed with spells were her rapists. A pact signed in blood. Lena was the fourth witch of her kind. But she was also a very intelligent woman and she hid her occupation very well. She seemed to be in her community of villagers, a rich, powerful, socially involved woman, a member of the church and a businesswoman, for she had a shop in the village, by which he justified his wealth. She was actually doing spells for which she was paid. A lot of money. Through these spells, she eliminated

the rivals of those who called upon her. In the high circles of Timishwara and Romania, she was very well known, and very rich people often turned to her to solve their problems. Lena also had a daughter, a Lena, who was about to reach the age of majority, and who soon had to go through the ordeal of rape. The time was coming when she would pay the devil's tribute of blood and suffering, and Lena felt she couldn't let her daughter go through what she had gone through. So he decided not to do the ritual. Not to organize the coming of age of the girl bathed in pain. So the girl's day had passed and nothing had happened, but one night when Lena had gone to the river to let some spells flow on the water, she met the devil

Inoran there, who warned her that her deed would not go unpunished and that the girl she will be dragged straight into the depths of hell in no time. Lina had broken the pact and there were demonic consequences for that. Desperate, Lena proposed to the devil to accept a duel of powers. And Ineran accepts. night the two had fought in an abandoned church. Ineran challenges Lena to do a certain thing, and Lena in turn challenges Inoran to split a curly hair, which the devil fails to do. In trouble, Ineran's fur turned black and burned, turned white. The devil was gray with rage. But being the devil, he had decided not to keep his promise. Desperate not to lose her daughter,

through a ruse, Lena had captured him in an old mirror that she threatened to break. Only then did Ineran admit defeat, but he also slipped in a threat to Lena. No one will be able to do any harm to your girl, except you. Lena had answered the devil that she would never harm her own daughter. The devil laughed and disappeared. Months passed, Lena's daughter was more prosperous than ever and had fallen in love with a handsome boy from a very rich family in Timishwara. One night, however, a woman from the city came to the village to the witch and peasant.

paid her a huge sum of money to cast a spell by which that woman wanted to kill her son's lover, because she considered her unfit for marriage he. Lena happily accepted, and performed the spells rigorously. Soon, however, her own daughter began to fall ill. She fell to bed seriously ill. When the woman from the town came to bring the witch the rest of the money and tell her about the success of the spell, she came across the bed where the sick girl was lying in the house, and when she saw her.

she ran away in terror. That which realized only then that the girl for whom she had cast murderous spells was actually her daughter. Then Ineran appeared and laughingly repeated her words to him when she had said that she would never harm her daughter. In vain did the witch cry, in vain had she wailed. For nothing he had torn her clothes from her and her hair from her head. The evil had been done. The curse left on the water with the words, may the spell return, river returns to flow towards the mountain. Nothing could be done. He had summoned the demon, he had enlisted the help of other witches, but to no avail. Her daughter melts down and dies before she turns 19 in excruciating pain. No one could win a fight with the devil.

Grieving, Lena donated everything she had left and went wandering around Bonot, and some say that even today she can still be seen walking like a street person, through the city of Timishwara. If you found this topic interesting, you can read all and many more such happenings on Amazon book. Look for Benatica, Volume 1, written by Cresson Daniel. The first message appeared on the back wall of an abandoned house located very close to Old Hill and read as follows, who put Bella in the Witch Elm. Over the following months, more and more graffiti appeared, same message, same typography. And although sometimes the name Bella was replaced by Lebella, the words were always the same. Its author knew the case, knew the body, and apparently

also knew the name of the victim, a name that was, until then, unknown. Let's begin. There are many stories about haunted forests, but none compared to Hadley Wood. That land, since ancient times, had been feared by all, as it was said that terrible monsters, weirwolves, and even covens of witches lived within it. However, with the outbreak of the second World War, people stopped fearing ghosts, the sound of anti-aircraft weapons was much scarier than the sinister laughter of a witch. So, people simply stopped fearing the forest, or at least they did, until April 1943. This story began on the afternoon of April 18, 1943, when four young boys tempted fate by entering Hadley Wood. Their names were Bob Hart, Tom Willets, Fred Payne, and

Bob Farmer, aged between 17 and 18. As mentioned before, at that time, fear of bombings was greater than fear of ghosts. So the boys gathered their courage, grabbed their dogs, and ventured into the forest in search of food. Food was scarce back then, so encountering a monster or a witch didn't matter, they just wanted to hunt rabbits, birds, or anything edible for their starving families, parents, siblings, grandparents, everyone was hungry. They walked for several minutes and finally reached an area belonging to Lord Cobham. Lord Cobham was known to be unfriendly and wouldn't hesitate to shoot if he saw trespassers hunting on his land. But the teens were hungry, and the warning signs didn't scare them.

Soon the sun began to set and the night crept in, so the boys decided to end the hunt. However, just as they were about to go home, Bob Farmer saw what seemed to be a witch elm, named for its ghastly appearance. Convinced that its many branches likely hid bird nests, he climbed the tree to check. It was then that, deep in a crevice, he spotted a glimmer of white. Quickly breaking a branch, thinking it was an egg or an animal, he reached in and touched it, and realized it was a skull. He touched more of it and, though at first thinking it was a dead animal, soon realized it was a human skull, with hollow eye sockets that seemed to stare directly at him. Panicked, he jumped down from the tree and screamed, prompting all his friends to run.

The four of them were so terrified they made a pact, to never tell anyone about the body in the tree, to take the secret to their graves. But Tom Willits didn't agree. As soon as he got home, he told his parents, who immediately called the police. Authorities cordoned off the area and examined the witch elm inch by inch. What they found left them speechless. Inside and around the tree were human remains. Inside were most of a woman's skeleton, a spine, ribs with pieces of rotted cloth, and a skull with teeth, between which was a piece of fabric. They also noticed the right hand was missing.

Outside the tree were more bones, fingers, tibias, and other remains, as well as objects that might have belonged to the victim. Blue shoes with crape saws and a cheap wedding ring, gold-plated. But there was no sign of the right hand. Forensic Dr. James Webster concluded the woman was about 35 years old and had likely had a child. She stood about five feet zero inches, had light brown hair, and had been dead for approximately 18 months, placing her death around October 1941. But the strangest thing of all, according to him, was the cause of death.

Given the cloth in her mouth, this woman died of suffocation. Her killer, or killers, asphyxiated her, cut off her right hand, and before rigor mortis set in, forced her folded body into that tree. I can't imagine a woman accidentally falling in there, nor do I think it reasonable she would climb in to commit suicide. James Webster, 1993. Given all this, the police had several investigative leads, missing persons records, dental records, and factory logs for the kind of shoes found. But that first point was tricky, the war had greatly inflated the number of missing persons. Still, police didn't give up. They reviewed every report and compared descriptions to the woman's remains, but none matched. Next were the dental records.

But British dentists maintained absolute silence. Supposedly, none of them had a patient with that dental profile. Finally, the shoes. Police tracked all nearby shoe factory. that might have made that model. They found one, water company, and traced all buyers of that type of shoe. Unfortunately, six pairs had been sold at a market in Dudley, 18 kilometers from Hadley Wood, and no records existed for the buyers. So once again, police were left with nothing. Only one potential clue remained. At the end of 1941, a businessman and a schoolteacher reported

to police that they had heard a woman screaming in Hadley Wood. But after, After inspecting the area, officers found nothing and dismissed the report. Another key detail, at the end of that year, a group of Romani people camped in the area. Police had to intervene multiple times due to family disputes. This sparked the theory that the victim may have been a nomad, possibly explaining why her identity was so hard to determine. No one really knew who she was, where she came from, or why she was there. She left no trace behind. Still, all this was speculation.

So on April 28, 1943, a judge closed the case, ruling it as a murder committed by one or more unknown individuals. Months passed, and just when police thought the case was dead, Christmas 1-943 arrived. And with it, the first graffiti. The first message appeared on the back wall of an abandoned house near Old Hill, who put Bella in the witch elm. More graffiti followed in the months after, same message, same typography. Sometimes the name changed to Lubella, but the words were always the same.

The author knew the case, knew the body, and apparently knew the victim's name, still officially unknown. The police went mad trying to find the author, perhaps the killer, or someone close to them. But they never succeeded. That's when the first hypotheses surfaced, each more shocking than the last. The first came from anthropologist Margaret Murray, who spent years studying old customs and beliefs from the region. She reached a chilling conclusion. Bella's death may have been the result of an occult ritual. To understand her theory, we need to look at three key points.

The name of the victim. The location of the body. The missing hand. First, the name, Bella or La Bella, both variations of Isabella or Clara Bella, names often linked to occult practices at the time. Second, the location, inside a witch elm, a hollow space barely 60 centimeters wide, too small for a person to enter voluntarily. The killer could have buried her, but instead, climbed a tree and stuffed her in before rigor mortis set in.

Why? Ancient records say when a witch was condemned to death, her body would be sealed inside a tree, believed to trap her evil soul. Third, the missing hand. Her killer cut it off with a saw and took it, possibly as a trophy. This connects to the ancient belief in the hand of glory, a magical object made from the right hand of a hanged or suffocated person, said to unlock doors, reveal treasure, and paralyze enemies.

Still, investigators dismissed this theory, saying scattered bones showed animals had fed on the body, and the hand's removal wasn't ritualistic, just a morbid trophy. Once the case went public, newspapers overflowed with letters, thousands of people offering their theories. Many supported Margaret Murray's. Some claimed a coven had operated in Hadleywood between 1940 and 1943. Others said Bella was a Romani woman killed by her family for witchcraft. Some claimed she was a prostitute or vagabond. But it wasn't until 1953 that the two most compelling theories emerged.

That year, the newspapers Wolverhampton Express and Star received a letter from the brother of a woman calling herself Anna of Claverley. Anna claimed to know everything about Bella. She said Bella was a spy in a Nazi network gathering intel on munitions factories. But something went wrong, and Bella never completed her mission. A journalist named Wilfred Byford Jones arranged a private interview with Anna. He discovered her real name, Bunah Mazzop, widow of RAA. pilot Jack Mossop. She said her husband told her he had been involved with a group of spies, including a Dutchman named Van Ralt. One day, Van Ralt picked up a woman in his car,

they didn't know her name. After drinking heavily at a pub, the woman passed out, unable to stand or speak. Van Ralt and Mossop decided to play a prank, they took her to Hadley Wood and shoved her inside the tree. But this theory doesn't explain the cloth in her mouth or the cause of death. Mossup died in 1941 at St. George's Hospital in Stafford. Van Ralt was never identified. Later, declassified MI5 files revealed another lead. In 1941, German spy Joseph Jacobs parachuted into Cambridgeshire and broke his ankle on landing. Captured, he was found to be carrying a photo of a German actress named Clara Bowerly, also known as Clarabella. Jacob said Clara Bella was his lover and had been recruited by the Third Reich as a spy. She parachuted into

the West Midlands in 1941, and was never heard from again. Could she have been the woman in the tree? No. Bella was five feet zero inches. Clara was five feet ten inches. And Clara died in a Berlin hospital in 1942. So now it's your turn. What do you think? Who was the mysterious Bella trapped in the witch elm. The end. The curious case of Queen and Reed Gray, it all started like a picture-perfect fairy tale. Queen Hannah and Reed Gray were the couple that everyone envied. She was a dedicated nurse, and he was a successful businessman in the medical equipment industry. They were young, attractive, and had what seemed to be an unbreakable bond. Their love story officially began in October 2000 when they decided to get married, and from the outside,

everything about them looked flawless. Soon after tying the night, they purchased a stunning mansion in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, a luxurious coastal town known for its pristine beaches, upscale neighborhoods, and extremely low crime rates. Their new home cost a jaw-dropping $4.5 million, but hey, they were the grays. Money wasn't an issue. With time, their fairy tale evolved as they welcomed two daughters into their lives. Queen decided to quit her job as a nurse to dedicate herself fully to her children, and on the surface, their lives were nothing short of perfection. They threw extravagant parties, mingled with other wealthy couples, and built a reputation as the ultimate power couple in their affluent community. Everything looked

polished, glamorous, and sophisticated. But, as we all know, appearances can be deceiving. Cracks in the perfect marriage, behind closed doors, their relationship was a mess. Infidelity was a regular occurrence, on both sides. They fought constantly, separated multiple times, but always found a way to maintain the illusion of a perfect marriage. The people around them had no clue about the chaos that was unfolding in their private life. By 2009, things were spiraling out of control. Reed was drowning himself in work while Queen started partying harder than ever. Her nights out became more frequent, and alcohol turned into an everyday companion.

Her priorities shifted, she was more interested in dancing at nightclubs and hanging out with men ten years younger than her than spending time with her daughters. The marriage was reaching its breaking point, and a divorce seemed inevitable. Then, on the night of September 4, 2009, something happened that changed everything. The mysterious kidnapping, that Friday started like any other day. Reed woke up early, left for work, attended meetings, and had lunch with colleagues. Nothing out of the ordinary. But at around 5 p.m., his phone rang.

It was Queen. He hesitated before answering. have been tense between them lately, and he wasn't in the mood for another argument. But when he finally picked up, a chill ran down his spine. Queen wasn't just calling to chat, she was calling for help. She had been kidnapped by a group of Albanian men who were now demanding $50,000 in ransom. She begged him to come home immediately. Read, panicked and confused, dialed 911.

The police took his call seriously but found the whole situation suspicious from the start. When they arrived at the Grey's Mansion, they found no signs of forced entry, no broken windows, no struggle, just a neatly placed note on the dining table, allegedly written by Queen herself. The letter read, Read, please, you have to stay calm. Whatever you do, do not call the police, or I'm dead. These men are professionals. There are three of them, and they have me right now.

They want $50,000 in cash, and they need it by tomorrow. The letter then went on to instruct Reed on how to withdraw the money. Since banks don't just hand over that kind of cash easily, Queen told him to visit four different branches and take out smaller amounts from each to avoid suspicion. She also warned him not to contact anyone because the kidnappers had placed a GPS tracker on his car and were monitoring his every move. The whole thing felt off. Why would professional kidnappers ask for such a small amount when Reed made over a million dollars a year? And why did Queen claim he owed money to a loan shark when they had no financial troubles? The police grew even more suspicious when they started digging into Queen's background.

She seemed like an ordinary woman, a devoted mother who loved binge-watching lost, cycling around the neighborhood, and posting inspirational quotes online. Nothing about her screamed criminal mastermind. The next morning, Reed received another call from Queen, telling him to stay alert for further instructions. The police, now fully involved, decided to play along and set up surveillance on Reed's house. And then, 45 minutes later, another call came in. But this time, Queen wasn't calm. She was screaming, hysterical, and clearly distressed.

Something wasn't right. The ransom that never happened, the police were determined to get Queen back safely but refused to hand over any money. Instead, they attempted to set up a sting operation at the meeting point where the ransom was supposed to be dropped. But just when they thought they had a plan in place, Queen called again, saying the kidnappers had spotted police vehicles and changed the meeting location. This happened several times throughout the day.

Each time, a location was agreed upon, and each time, it changed at the last minute. The kidnappers were always one step ahead. Then, on September 6, they escalated things. Reed received a photo of Queen, alive but looking distressed, with a chilling message, if you screw up again, she's dead. The police knew they had to act fast. That night, Queen's mother received. a phone call from her daughter, desperately begging her to deliver the money instead.

She was given precise instructions, put $50,000 in a blue bag and drop it off at a designated location. But the cops had a plan. They swapped the cash for $10,000 and a GPS tracker. They followed the drop-off point, hoping to catch the kidnappers red-handed. Except things didn't go as planned. A group of unsuspecting German tourists found the bag and, thinking it was lost money, took it straight to the police. Meanwhile, Queen's kidnappers called her mother again, demanding

to know where the money was. The case was getting weirder by the minute. The shocking truth, then, out of nowhere, Queen was released. She called Reed, claiming she had been let go without explanation. The police immediately picked her up for questioning, expecting details about her captors. But instead of talking about the men who had allegedly kidnapped her, Queen accused Reed of setting the whole thing up. She insisted he had been acting suspiciously, delaying the ransom payment on purpose. But the police weren't buying it. The timeline didn't make sense. And then, the biggest twist of all, security footage surfaced of a man seen buying supplies at a convenience store during the supposed kidnapping.

When the police released the image to the public, they got a call almost immediately. The man in the picture. His name was Jasmine Osmanovic, a 25-year-old Bosnia mechanic. Jasmine denied everything at first, but when pressed, he cracked. He confessed that the whole kidnapping was fake and had been orchestrated by none other than Queen Grey herself. They had been having an affair, and she wanted to extort money from Reed before he could divorce her. With that confession, Queen was arrested.

At trial, Queen's lawyers claimed she had bipolar disorder and wasn't in her right mind when she plotted the scheme. But the evidence was overwhelming. She was sentenced to seven years of probation and ordered to pay $43,000 to cover the costs of the investigation. Jasmine got six years of probation and had to pay the remaining $43,000. And that's how a glamorous, high-society marriage turned into one of the most bizarre crime stories in Florida's history.

Now, the question is, do you think their sentences were fair? I moved away from my hometown a few years ago. My father had committed suicide when I was a small boy, going out to the barn and shooting himself in the face with a shotgun. I barely remember him still. The only thing that stays with me from that day was my mother's agonized, racking sobs when she found his mutilated body. Sometimes, during nightmares late at night, I still hear those same screams, repeating

over and over like a skipping record. My little brother, Charlie, was born with Down syndrome. My mother took care of Charlie by herself since I moved away. I rarely talked to my family, something I feel increasingly guilty about looking back. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had a worsening addiction to pills and alcohol. To this day, I don't know if she intended to kill herself or not. But, after examining her corpse, the medical examiner concluded that she had a lethal combination of benzos, morphine, and vodka in her system.

When they found her body rotting in the summer heat in her bedroom three days later, they said she had one eye half open, her arms still outstretched towards the telephone, as if trying to call for help even in death. The police ended up finding my number a few days later. I lived over five hours away, but when I heard Charlie was being kept at the police station, I immediately took the day off of work and headed back towards my hometown of Frost Hollow. I remember driving through the rural town, a place of rolling hills and thick, dark forests, thinking how dead and empty the whole area looked. A lot of the houses that had been there when I was younger had since been demolished or lay baron,

dilapidated and rotting. The police station in the center of town seemed to be one of the few places still open. I looked at the shuttered windows lining both sides of Main Street, seeing one out of business sign after another. On the bright side, however, there were plenty of parking spots along the cracked, empty streets. I got out of the car, seeing a feral, mange-covered dog ripping through bags of garbage in a nearby alleyway. The sickly sweet smell of decaying trash filled the air, thick and cloying. I entered the glass doors of the police station, finding an old crone pecking at a keyboard behind the front desk.

She looked like a twisted dwarf, her eyes magnified to giant orbs behind her glasses. She looked up at me with a pale, bloodless face. Yes, she said in an annoyed voice. I'm here to pick up Charlie Benton, I said. The old woman looked behind her, where a tanned woman in a police officer's uniform was leaning against a rusted metal cabinet, looking through a file. Sergeant Alvarez deals with that, the old woman spat, looking back at her computer. The police officer sighed, looking up at me with humorless eyes. A few moments later, she circled around, coming out the tinted black glass.

door around the side. The slow, erratic typing of the old woman continued ringing out like the ticking of a failing heart. Sergeant Alvarez had wide, almond-shaped eyes and jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She did not look happy to see me. Your Dennis, she asked. I nodded, pulling out my license. She inspected it closely before handing it back to me. We found your brother in quite a state. He was covered in blood, naked from the waist up wandering through people's backyards at night. When the police found him, at first he was unresponsive, as if he were sleepwalking or something. His eyes were open, but he was not talking and appeared to be looking at things only he could see. After about 30 seconds of this, they said he appeared to wake up,

though he still wasn't giving coherent answers at first. He just kept saying, she was walking, she was walking. Eventually, after a lot of trying, they were able to ask him about why he was wandering at night and why he was covered in injuries and blood. Your brother said something kept hurting him in the house at night and that he had to get out. He had, marks on his body, Sergeant Alvarez said, her eyes suspicious. Intelligence gleamed behind them. The strangest thing. It looked like someone had burned handmarks into his back and shoulders. I found this information disturbing on some instinctive, primal level, but I didn't know why. Who could have done that?

I asked, confused. She shrugged. Charlie couldn't tell us, she said. Your mother had been dead for three days by that point, and the wounds on Charlie's body were fresh. Do you know if there was anyone else who regularly visited or lived in a house with them? I shook my head. my mother had no friends I said she was practically a hermit she used to just stare out the window for hours when I lived there like a zombie no one ever came to visit her the black doors swung open

again and charlie stood there next to a muscular police officer charlie's face had his typical vacant stare charlie appeared in his mid-twenties a sweaty lumpy mass of a human being wearing a tight pinky in the brain t-shirt. His enormous belly hung over his belt, his shirt seemingly always pulled up to expose a few inches of naked flesh. He had confused, mud-brown eyes that rarely focused on anything for longer than a few seconds. But there were other times Charlie seemed to have an almost photographic memory, repeating entire conversations in his strange, droning monotone even months after they had taken place. She is dead, he said, his muddy brown eyes focused. She is dead. She was walking. I squinted at him, feeling cold dread dripping down my

heart. Charlie, buddy, it's okay now, I said, taking a step towards him. He looked up abruptly, seeming to just now realize that I was there. Dennis, he screamed, his enormous belly jiggling as he ran forward. He wrapped his thick arms around me, his face filled with an innocent, childlike excitement. He lifted me off the ground. A breathy exhalation of fetid breath hit me directly in my face. I grunted as he squeezed the air out of my lungs. Charlie was immensely strong and often didn't realize his own strength. You're crushing me, buddy, I grunted in a small, crushed voice.

Charlie dropped me back down on the ground. I looked closer at him, seeing healing, sickly wounds peeking above the neckline of his t-shirt. A rainbow of black, purple and blue marks hung there, formed in the shape of long, twisted fingers. The worst of them had drops of pus falling from the burnt craters in the center. I wondered how many more lay hidden beneath his clothes. Sergeant Alvarez gave me her card, telling me to call her if I found out any more information about the case or if Charlie remembered anything or was able to give more information in the future. I wondered who could have possibly been hurting Charlie. It made me feel sick and angry, thinking of someone following him around, scaring him and attacking him during the night.

Charlie already hated and feared the dark as it was, adding another layer of cruelty to the disturbing case. He had feared it ever since he was a small boy. I walked him out of the police station, buckling him into the passenger seat of the car. As I sat down in the driver's seat, he looked over at me. Sweat glistened on his upper lip, and his goofy bull cut of a haircut was sticking up in random spots. Dennis, I saw her, Charlie said in his flat monotone. She was walking. At night, I heard her feet.

In the dark, I heard her feet. Who was, buddy? I asked. Who did that to you? Did someone hurt you during the nighttime? He nodded. A single tear fell from his squinty eye. dripping down his round face.

It wasn't mom. He shook his head in response. His lips started quivering. He leaned close to me, whispering in a horse, terror-stricken voice. The bone-face woman, he hissed, breaking down in tears. I had contacted a team to remove the soiled items in the master bedroom after receiving a call from the police. The team told me it would be a fairly easy job, and that I would be able to stay in the house later. that night. With no other living family except Charlie, I would undoubtedly inherit it anyway,

though I had absolutely no intention of keeping it. I wanted to sell it as soon as possible, but I would have to go through everything and decide what, if anything, I wanted to keep. All of Charlie's stuff was also still in the house, which I knew we would need to go through and package regardless. It was a Friday, and I had the weekend off work. My plan was to finish moving everything out of my mother's house that weekend. Charlie and I pulled into the sprawling property that night, turning on to the flat, dirt driveway towards the old colonial. Sharp stones crunched rhythmically under the tires.

I took in the sight, the large windows and wraparound porch of the dark purple house. I saw my childhood neighbor, Sloan Herbic, standing outside on his front lawn. Behind him loomed his Victorian house, a blood-red building of sharp, turrets in dark, dusty windows. Sloan Herbock was a strange man in more ways than one. He had been burned horribly as an infant in a crib fire, barely surviving with his life. Melted folds of lumpy scar tissue covered most of his body, including his face and head. Miraculously, he hadn't lost his eyesight, nose or lips, but both of his ears were missing

as well as all the hair on his head except his long, black eyelashes. His horrifyingly scarred body looked nearly as pale as an albinos, but his eyes were as dark as sin. I remembered Sloan as an arrogant, aloof man with no friends, about ten years older than myself. According to what my mother told me as a teenager, Sloan's mother had gone missing when I was little, during the time when they were constructing our then brand new home in Frost Hollow. By now, I thought, he must be at least 40, though the keloid scars and mutilated ridges of flesh running over his entire body made it impossible to tell. As I got out of the car, I gave a neighborly wave, but Sloan ignored me.

He stared fervently down at the hole, slamming the sharp tip of the shovel into the earth over and over again at a frenetic pace. I walked by Charlie's side up the rickety wooden steps to the front porch, pulling the spare house key out of my pocket from so many years ago. With trembling fingers, I slid the key into the lock, finding that my key still worked, as I knew they would. The door opened onto a dark, sinister hallway. A nauseating odor emanated from the house, blowing out the front door like the rancid breath of some primordial monster. It was the smell of rotting bodies, clotted blood and infection. It left a slightly sweet aftertaste.

gagging, I flipped on the light switch. I took a step forward, but Charlie didn't follow. He stared up at me with an unusual intensity, taking his huge, round arms and crossing them over his chest. The front of his dirtcake sneakers came up the perimeter of the threshold, but he refused to go any further. He just shook his greasy, sweat-covered face. Come on, buddy, I said encouragingly, giving him a wide smile.

What's wrong? He pointed behind me, down the hallway. I instantly looked over my shoulder, my heart leaping up like a jackrabbit. Having watched far too many horror movies, I expected to see some bloodstreet tag standing there with a face like a skull and an ear-to-ear grin. But the hallway lay empty. She's still here, Charlie said slowly, his eyes giant, glassy orbs of terror. She is dead, Mom's not here, Buddy,

I answered, ambling back toward him and taking one of his enormous hands in mine. I could feel the width of it, the smooth flatness of his palms except for one thick ridge. Mom's at the funeral home. We're going to see her Sunday, remember. Charlie shook his head again, his hair flying everywhere. This place is bad, he said. We've got to stay here for the weekend, Charlie, I responded, feeling a rising sense of irritation. I already explained it all to you.

The house is fine. They took the dead body out already, so what's the problem? You'll be with me the whole time. It will be bad, Charlie said, sweating heavily. It won't be scary, buddy. I promise, looking back, it is hard to imagine any more untrue words than those. Much of the stuff from my mother's room had been taken out by the cleaning team. They told me that some of her fluids had burst from her body, staining the mattress and bed frame with their black rot.

Luckily, not much had gotten on the floor, but a small puddle had dripped down. The guest bedroom was directly underneath Mom's room, just a small, square room on the first floor with a bed, a dresser, and a TV. I kept the bedside lamp on all night. On the ceiling of the room, there was a Rorschach inkblot of dead, rotted fluids that still. needed to be cleaned up. It was about the size of a basketball and looked like an eye. It had a dark, circular spot in the center, followed by thin, black tendrils that cracked their way towards the oval perimeter of the stain.

Charlie crawled into bed next to me, putting a heavy, hot hand on my shoulder before falling asleep almost instantly. But I couldn't sleep. After what felt like an eternity, I looked over at the red lights of the alarm clock, seeing it was 3.32 a.m. I swore under my breath, sensing that my insomnia would not leave me alone this weekend in this place of horrors. At exactly 333, a jarring mechanical shrieking started outside. I jumped up in bed. Charlie awoke instantly. He sat up so fast that he smacked his head on the wall with a dull bunk. What the fuck is that noise? I hissed, jumping out of bed.

I looked up at the stain as I went, giving it a distrustful glance backwards. The mechanical catarwalling seemed to be growing louder as I made my way toward the front of the house. I went to the front window, seeing Sloan Herbic running a woodchipper next to his totally dark house. I could just barely make out his dull silhouette, hearing the din of the constant grinding. Charlie gave an incomprehensible scream in the guest bedroom. I heard his heavy footsteps running toward me. His face was red and flushed, his pupils dilated and frantic. The eye moved, he said, his voice having more emotion than I had heard in it in a long time.

I blinked, the fog of sleep still clouding my mind. You mean the stain? I asked, finally figuring out what he was talking about. The stain on the ceiling? He nodded ferociously, bobbing his head up and down quickly. Eventually, I ended up talking Charlie down and getting him back to bed. The stain was still in the same spot, as far as I could tell. Around 4 a.m., the sound of the woodchipper finally died.

In the eerie silence of the dark house, I fell into a nightmarish fever dream where I saw women bound with chains in a basement surrounding a mannequin wearing a suit made of human skin. The next morning, I went over to Sloan's house and knocked until he answered. While I waited, I studied the strange gargoyle knocker plastered across the scarlet door. At first, he would only crack it open a fraction of an inch, staring out at me with a single black eye. Can you not run the wood chipper in the middle of the night? I asked, giving him a faint, anxious half-smile. It's keeping me and Charlie from sleeping.

I mean, you had the thing going at 3 a.m. last night. A few heartbeats later, the front door flew over. open. Sloan took a step towards me, until his scarred, alien face stood only inches from mine. It's because of my skin, isn't it? he asked in a hoarse, low voice. He spoke in a strange cadence, mumbling the words in dissonant rhythms. If someone cut your eyes out so you couldn't see how ugly I am, you wouldn't care about the wood chipper anymore, would you? I took a step back, the smile peeling off my face. I reached for the canister of police mace in my pocket, gripping it firmly and putting my hand on the trigger.

Sloan, that has nothing to do with that, I answered coldly, narrowing my eyes at him. Don't act like a goddamn psycho. Look, if you keep that shit up, I'll call the cops. Don't fucking do it again. I had no patience for nut jobs like him. He always gave me the creeps. As a kid, someone had gone around pouring bleach into the eyes of people's cats and dogs, blinding them and leading to some getting euthanized. I always suspected Sloan of doing it,

though he never got caught. My brother and I spent the rest of that day packing up anything we wanted to take with us, putting it in boxes and labeling it. Charlie didn't have a lot of possessions, and mom didn't exactly have a lot of valuable items in her house, so it was fairly quick going. I figured I would either end up selling or donating most of the crap left behind in the end. Before I knew it, the sun had started setting again. The darkness of a moonless sky descended on frost hollow like a guillotine blade. My brother and I kept working, mostly in silence, though Charlie would come over and show me random objects he had recently acquired. Rick. Charlie said, proudly holding up a plush doll of Rick from Rick and Morty. A trickle of fake drool dripped Rick's mouth, and a trickle of real one from

Charlie's. I laughed, ruffling his hair as if he were a toddler. That's right. I answered excitedly, that's Rick. You like Rick, buddy. You like how he just does whatever he wants whenever he feels like. Charlie nodded excitedly at that. After a couple more hours of sorting, I decided to go to bed. I wanted to leave as early as possible on Sunday morning after the funeral, which was the next day. Charlie followed me like a puppy, his normally unfocused eyes flitting from one side to the other with a kind of intensity one had rarely seen there before. He constantly scanned the shadows, as if looking for something. We kept all the lights in the surrounding rooms and the guest bedroom. As I lay there, about to fall asleep, I glanced over

at Charlie and saw him staring straight up at the stain with wide, watery eyes. I don't know how long it was later when I awoke suddenly in the pitch black. I blinked quickly, confused. And then I heard it, the noise that had caused me to set up in bed. Right over me, I heard something gurgling and hissing in rhythmic breaths. It sounded as if whatever it was had lungs filled with blood and dirt. The terror I felt at that moment was incomprehensible. But it grew much worse when two burning, skeletal hands reached down and grabbed me. They covered my right. right arm in an iron grip, the thin, blade-like fingers feeling inhumanly long. I could feel my skin burning and melting.

I screamed, kicking out with my legs and trying to pull away. I brought my left hand up, grabbing blindly for the thing's face. I groped in the darkness until I felt it, a face like a skull. It was slick and wet under my touch, sticky with clotted blood. I felt the muscles of its skeletal face thrumming and contracting. the thing had no skin i repressed an urge to scream instead reaching for its eyes even as its burning hands continued yanking at my arm trying to pull me off the bed i felt a nose that was just a ragged hole of destroyed flesh felt the fetid breath passing softly through those mutilated patches i reached up into its eyes but there were no eyes there just two empty sockets i reached inside and felt the skittering of insect larvae under my fingers At the back of the empty socket, my fingers groped thin strands like fleshy wires that had been severed. With all of my strength, I stuck my finger deep down into that warm, twisting socket,

stabbing my fingernails into the optic nerves and vessels at the back and ripping. The hands on my arm instantly released. I felt some of the melted skin go with them, heard the tearing of my flesh as warm blood instantly dripped from the wounds. Hyperventilating, my breath with pain, I fumbled in my pocket for my lighter. I brought it up, flicking it. I caught a glimpse of the thing my brother called the bone face woman, her naked, skeletal body running out of the room with a sickly gurgling of her diseased lungs. Overhead, the stain had turned into a real eye, a fleshy, black thing that flitted over the arm with a dilated pupil. It emanated insanity, it stare glassy and inhuman. Charlie lay on the floor, his eyes opened,

but unseeing. My breath caught in my throat, the burning agony in my arm temporarily forgotten. I ran toward my brother, kneeling down over his limp body and shaking him. I saw fresh burn marks in the shape of a hand on his face, covering his forehead and temples. The cracked, broken flesh dribbled pus and blood like thick, clotted tears down his cheeks. When he didn't respond, I shook him again, grabbing him by the chin and forcing his eyes to meet mine. I saw him blink. He inhaled like a drowning man, grabbing my hand tightly and shaking his head from side to side. She was here, he whispered.

She is dead, Dennis. She lives in the dirt. We need to get out of here and never come back, I said, trying to pull Charlie up. He was far too heavy. Can you get up, buddy? Come on, we'll leave now. With great difficulty, Charlie pulled himself. up. His eyes started watering as the weeping burn marks continuously dripped a rainbow of

clotted fluids. I took out my phone, trying to call for help, but nothing was working in the house anymore. The electricity had gone off, which was why the lights had all gone out, but that wouldn't explain why my fully charged cell phone had gone black as well. Charlie and I stumbled outside. I put him in the passenger seat of the car, deciding to get the hell out of there and never come back. But when I tried to turn the starter, the car didn't make a sound. The engine didn't even make an attempt to turn over. It's her, Charlie whispered, his face a mask of terror and pain in the darkness.

The Boneface Woman wants us to stay, well, she can go fuck herself, I spat, anger and fear mixing in a toxic sludge in my blood. I watched the house closely, seeing the curtains at the front moving. I caught an occasional glimpse of that abomination. peeking out at us with her empty eye sockets and skinned face. I looked at Sloan's house, realizing I could call for help from there. He was the only neighbor within a half-mile radius. Charlie, the car's not working and I need to call for help.

I'm going to go across the street and use Sloan's phone to call the cops. I want you to lock yourself in the car. Don't open the door for anyone except me or the cops. You got that, I asked, keeping a constant watch on the house, expecting the bone-face woman to slink out after us at any moment. She is dead, Charlie said robotically. She is walking. She will not let us leave.

After I had made sure Charlie had locked himself in the car, I sprinted over to Sloan's dark Victorian house. I ran up the porch steps, ready to start knocking frantically on the door. But as soon as I touched it, it creaked slowly open, showing a dimly-like kitchen. A single oven light was turned on. I looked around and disgust. The place was filthy. Mold covered pots and pans covered the stovetop. Drying crusts of filth covered a mountain of dishes emerging from the sink.

Maggots and other insects feasted like kings here. The white reflections of glittering rat and mouse eyes peaked out at me from the corners of the room. Sloan. I called, not wanting to be too late. loud. Even though I wouldn't have admitted it to him, I was, quite honestly, terrified of Sloan Herbic. There was something off about that man. I left the kitchen, moving to the living room. There was only a single night light in here. All around me loomed naked human skins nailed to the wall. They rose in two rows, the bottom row offset from the top by a few feet

so that more of the space could be used. I crept closer with wide eyes, realizing that the vast majority were just latex or silicone. Not all of them, however. Stuck randomly among the fake hanging skins were some that looked different. These looked thicker and had soft ridges running over their surface. I even saw signs of belly buttons, tattoos and nipples on these leathery skins. At that moment, I knew without a doubt that they were human.

Many looked ancient and cracked, the leather falling apart at the shoulders or waist. There was a couch covered in what looked like gore in the center of the room facing a TV and DVD player. On a small wooden table next to it lay a phone and a blood-encrusted meat cleaver. Shaking with excitement and fear, I crept closer to them, immediately grabbing the weapon. I took Sergeant Alvarez's card from my pocket, calling it. She answered on the second ring, sounding. tired. Hello, she said. Sergeant Alvarez speaking. This is Dennis Benton, I whispered furtively. I need help immediately. Send an ambulance and police to my mother's house at 3.32, Angel

Trace Road. Something's happened. Where are you right now? She asked. I met my neighbors across the street, but there's, like, body parts everywhere. I think he might be a serial killer. I don't know what the fuck's going on here, but please, hurry. I gently put the phone back down on the cradle, hearing a floorboard creak behind me. Sloan Herbic stood there, his dark eyes blazing. He pointed a pistol straight at my head. Looking down the barrel felt like looking into eternity. He was wearing a suit made of what looked like pale, white human skin.

It covered him from head to foot, hugging his body with precision. All of the thread and sewing marks were expertly hidden. It almost made him look like some strange, alien nudist, wearing a suit of white leather. At his feet, he had an open canister of gasoline. With practiced ease, he kicked it over, letting the pungent liquid spill out onto the floor all around me. Hey man, you don't have to do this, I said, trying to act calm but quivering inside. I expected him to pull the trigger at any second, and then it would be lights out forever. I've already started, he said, grinning and pointing out the window.

I saw my house burning across the street. I felt the blood drain from my face as I thought about Charlie, sitting there in the car with his childlike innocence. I hoped you would know to get out in time. Why are you doing this? I asked, horrified. I never did anything to you. Everyone who looked at me did something to me, he spat. They hated me because I'm ugly.

and burned. But now I have a new skin, so people can't hate me anymore. I made it myself, and this face. He pointed at the dried human skin wrapping around his head. This is my mother's. She was one of my first, but she never truly left, you see. She told me, take it. This is my body, given to you. Take my skin, take my face and my hair, and from it, make yourself a new body. Make yourself a thing of beauty, as soft and pale as winter moonlight. After I killed her, I buried her under the dirt in your house, back when it was being built. I knew they would pour the foundation the next day. All those tons of concrete covered her, took her away, and then no one ever knew what happened.

He shrugged. It had to be done, to make me whole again. No mother could see her own son become a twisted, ugly thing, after all. The rest of the skin mostly came from prostitutes. I find female skin is much softer, more malleable and easier to work with. They also take better care of their skin than men. He laughed softly at this. Okay, so you've already finished your suit, I said, sweating heavily.

So let me go. I have nothing to do with this. He smiled an insane rictus grin behind his leathery mask. I only need one more piece, and that is the soles of the feet, he answered in his cold, psychopathic way. I'll get those from you. Good-bye, Dennis. It was nice seeing you again. At that moment, Charlie stumbled in the room, his movements loud and ungraceful. Sloan turned, surprised. A heartbeat later, Charlie slammed his heavy body against Sloan's back, sending him flying. The pistol went off, the bullet missing me by inches.

I heard it was over the top of my head and smash into the ceiling above me. Cold dread worked its way down my spine as I realized I had just missed death by inches. Sloan landed on his stomach at Charlie's feet. Screaming, Sloan put his left hand up, revealing a zippo lighter there. He flicked it, throwing it at the pile of gasoline. I backpedaled quickly, trying to go around the blazing ball of fire and get to Sloan. Get the gun. I screamed at Charlie.

Charlie looked down at Sloan with slow comprehension dawning in his face. He took one massive sneaker and stomped down on Sloan's right hand with the pistol in it. I heard the bone crack like twigs snapping. Sloan shrieked, trying to pull away, but Charlie continued leaning down on his arm, preventing him from moving. it. The fire was creeping at an incredible rate, rising up the walls and across the ceiling. Thick, black smoke filled the room, suffocating us. I ran at Charlie, my eyes watering. I realized I was still holding the meat cleaver in one hand. I looked down at Sloan in his suit of human skin, still trying to raise the gun with his broken arm. I wanted to finish this quickly. I brought

the knife down into the back of his neck, hearing the bone crack. There was a wet thud and a bubbling of blood as the meat cleaver bit deeply into through his spine, and then Sloan was still. Come on, Charlie. I said, grabbing his large hand. He wrapped his fingers around mine. Coughing and choking, we stumbled out into the night as police cars started pulling up. The first one had Sergeant Alvarez in it, who ran towards us, helping a stumbling Charlie toward the back seat of her car where he could sit down and catch his breath. Both houses were on fire now, blazing pillars of flame that rose high into the black, starless sky.

At that moment, I only hoped that the flames would eat away the corpse of Sloan's mother, the bone-face woman. I was in bed, scrolling through my phone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight and I should have been asleep, but my mind wouldn't shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I'd forgotten something. Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom's number. She always told me to call, no matter how late.

If you're ever feeling off, she'd say, just call me. So I did. It rang twice before she answered. Hello, her voice was soft, like she'd been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said, hello, was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded. Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you? There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, no, you didn't wake me, sweetheart, my stomach tightened. She sounded like her,

but the way she said, sweetheart, made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn't place. Are you okay? I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little. I'm fine, she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script. A chill ran down my spine. Mom, is something wrong, the line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn't make it out. What did you say?

I asked, my voice louder now. Silence. Mom, the call ended. I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds. I didn't hesitate, I called her again. This time, she picked up right away. Hey, honey, she said, her voice warm and familiar.

What's wrong? Why are you calling so late? My breath caught in my throat. Mom. I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but, I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?

She laughed softly. Sweetheart, you didn't call me. I've been asleep. No, I did." You answered. We talked, well, kind of. It didn't sound like you, though. Maybe you dreamed it, she said.

But her voice carried a hint of unease now. I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. It wasn't a dream, there was a pause. Then she said, honey, I swear I haven't been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you're okay? I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice, it wasn't a dream.

Yeah, I lied. I'm fine. Sorry for waking you, it's okay, she said, her voice soft again. Call me if you need me, okay. I love you, love you too. When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before. I didn't call her again that night.

But I couldn't shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been. I couldn't sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screened dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.

The sound of her voice, that voice, played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn't entirely foreign. That's what scared me the most. At some point, I must have dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock was. read 312 a.m. I hadn't set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened. Then, the phone rang. I jumped, heart-slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID,

Mom. My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn't sleep either. I answered, trying to steady my voice. Hello, but all I heard was static. Mom. I said again, louder this time. A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name. Sweetheart, my skin prickled.

It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking. Who is this? I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. The voice ignored. me.

It's so late, you should be sleeping, I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me. What do you want? My voice cracked. The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, come find me. I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.

For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. didn't. Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on a floorboard in the hallway. I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time. Hello.

I called out, my voice shaky. No answer. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door. The hallway was empty, nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light. Then I saw it.

My mom's voice wasn't the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn't moving like me. It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled. I froze, unable to look away. The reflection's smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone's flashlight.

My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant. The air in the hallway felt different now, denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved. Who, who are you? My voice barely rose above a whisper. The reflection didn't respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face.

My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn't even trying to mimic my movements anymore. I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it, subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn't slept in days. And then it moved. Not like a person, though.

It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even. further. My stomach churned. Stop it, I said, my voice louder now. You're not real. It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me. The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I said, stop it. I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway. The reflection's lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl. My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped

it. I glanced down, another call. Mom! I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn't move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do. I answered. Hello, this time, her voice was clear. Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath, relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. Mom. Where are you?

I'm at home, sweetheart. It's late, why are you calling so much? Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt, off. I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn't there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flat. flashlight beam shaking against the walls. Mom, I didn't, my voice faltered.

You called me, there was a long pause on the other end of the line. No, I didn't, she said slowly. Are you sure you're okay? My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again. Yeah, I. I'm fine, I lied. Okay.

Get some rest, all right. You sound like you've had a long day, sure, I said. said quickly. Good night, I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should have been.

And then, faintly, I heard it, her voice. But it wasn't coming from the phone this time. It was coming from behind the mirror. The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn't my mother's voice anymore, not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her. My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall.

The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said. I didn't answer this time. I couldn't. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer. Why won't you answer me, sweetheart? The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest.

You always call me, don't you? Don't you want to hear my voice? I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. You're not real, I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. This isn't real, the air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn't just standing there. It was closer.

Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn't my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone. And it was still smiling. I didn't move. I couldn't. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gap. gasps. You don't look happy to see me, it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking

from the bottom of a well. It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half. I've been waiting, it whispered. So long. For you, my stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence. Mom. This time, I answered. Her voice was frantic. Honey, are you okay? You're scaring me, I, my voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror.

The thing inside it was still watching me, it's black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. Mom, where are you? I told you, I'm at home. Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense. Stay there, I said quickly. Don't, don't leave the house.

What's going on? She asked, her voice rising. You're scaring me. sweetheart, I didn't answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped. You shouldn't have answered, it said, its voice dripping with malice. You opened the door, the glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spider webs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest. Mom, I said into the phone, my voice shaking. If anything happens,

If I don't call you back, just stay where you are, okay? Don't come here, what are you talking about? she demanded. What's happening? The mirror shattered. I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter, or crash. When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone. But the voice wasn't.

It was behind me now. The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low. Sweetheart, it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable. I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on or go out. I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I dropped it.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear. Mom. I croaked. There was no response. Just static. Mom, please, I said, my voice breaking. Say something, the static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh, a soft, low chuckled that didn't belong to her.

You really thought she could help you, the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn't coming from the phone anymore. I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn't obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen. The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn't belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.

It wasn't me, but it was. It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn't blink. Why are you running?" It asked, its voice layered with mine in something deeper, more guttural. You called me, remember, I couldn't move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate,

as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach. I've been waiting, it said. Its mouth didn't move when it spoke, but the words were clear. Do you know how long I've been waiting? It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn't seem possible. Who are you? I whispered, my voice barely audible.

It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. You know who I am, it said. You've always known. You just didn't want to admit it. I don't. It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin. You let me in, it whispered.

When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice, I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. No, I said, my voice-breaking. I didn't mean to, doesn't matter, it said, grinning wider. You're mine now, the flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing's face. And then it reached for me.

I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant. Its hand, my hand, reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone scream. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen. You won't feel a thing, it said.

Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. You'll just, fade, I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now, endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone. Please, I whispered, barely able to form the word. It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea.

in a voice that was half mocking, half genuine, it said, you don't even know what you're begging for. The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren't just darkness, they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward. No. I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold on to. You called me, it said again, stepping closer. It's face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. You answered. That's all it takes, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away.

But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head. I've been waiting for so long, it whispered. And now, you'll wait too, I don't know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence, deep, oppressive silence, and then the sensation. of falling. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment. I was in the hallway, but it wasn't mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn't belong to me, didn't belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my

ears ring. And then I saw it. It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn't smile this time. It just watched. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn't obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped. And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away. I don't know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows.

Minutes? Hours? Time didn't feel real anymore. Eventually, I heard something, a faint sound, distant but growing louder. It was a phone ringing. I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone. It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer. The screen lit up, showing a name I didn't recognize.

But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter. Until it read, Mom, I didn't want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass. I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest. Hello. I whispered. And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard,

Sweetheart, I'd been waiting for you, the call disconnected. And the hallway went dark. The wrong voice. I was in bed, scrolling through my phone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight and I should have been asleep, but my mind wouldn't shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I'd forgotten something. like I'd forgotten something.

Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom's number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. If you're ever feeling off, she'd say, just call me. So I did. It rang twice before she answered. Hello, her voice was soft, like she'd been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said, hello, was too slow, almost deliberate,

like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded. Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you? There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, no, you didn't wake me, sweetheart, my stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said, sweetheart, made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn't place.

Are you okay? I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little. I'm fine, she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script. A chill ran down my spine. Mom, is something wrong, the line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn't make it out.

What did you say? I asked, my voice louder now. Silence. Mom, the call ended. I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds. I didn't hesitate, I called. her again. This time, she picked up right away. Hey, honey, she said, her voice warm and

familiar. What's wrong? Why are you calling so late? My breath caught in my throat. Mom. I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but, I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane? She laughed softly. Sweetheart, you didn't call me. I've been asleep. No, I did. You answered. We talked, well, kind of. It didn't sound like you, though, maybe you dreamed it, she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.

I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. It wasn't a dream, there was a pause. Then she said, honey, I swear I haven't been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you're okay? I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice, it wasn't a dream. Yeah, I lied.

I'm fine. Sorry for waking you, it's okay, she said, her voice soft again. Call me if you need me, okay. I love you, love you too. When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before. I didn't call her again that night. But I couldn't shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it

was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been. I couldn't sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screened dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own. The sound of her voice, that voice, played in my head on a loop.

Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn't entirely foreign. That's what scared me the most. At some point, I must have dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 312. I hadn't set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened. Then, the phone rang. I jumped, heart-slamming against my ribs.

The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID, Mom. My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn't sleep either. I answered, trying to steady my voice. low, but all I heard was static. Mom.

I said again, louder this time. A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name. Sweetheart, my skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.

Who is this? I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. The voice ignored me. It's so late, you should be sleeping, I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me. What do you want? My voice cracked. The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment.

Then, clear as day, it said, come find me. I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight. For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn't. Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway. I told myself it was nothing.

Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time. Hello. I called out, my voice shaky. No answer. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door. The hallway was empty, nothing but shadows.

But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light. Then I saw it. My mom's voice wasn't the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn't moving like me. It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled. I froze, unable to look away.

The reflection's smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone's flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant. The air in the hallway felt different now, denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved. Who, who are you? My voice barely rose above a whisper.

The reflection didn't respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn't even trying to mimic my movements anymore. I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it, subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn't slept in days.

And then it moved. Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even. further. My stomach churned. Stop it, I said, my voice louder now. You're not real, it cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me. The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I said, stop it. I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.

The reflection's lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl. My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down, another call. Mom! I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn't move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew.

what I was about to do. I answered. Hello, this time, her voice was clear. Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath, relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. Mom. Where are you? I'm at home, sweetheart. It's late, why are you calling so much? Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt, off.

I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn't there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls. Mom, I didn't, my voice faltered. You called me, there was a long pause on the other end of the line. No, I didn't, she said slowly. Are you sure you're okay? My throat tightened.

I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again. Yeah, I. I'm fine, I lied. Okay. Get some rest, all right. You sound like you've had a long day, sure, I said quickly. Good night, I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway.

I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should have been. And then, faintly, I heard it, her voice. But it wasn't coming from the phone this time. It was coming from behind the mirror. The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn't my mother's voice anymore, not really.

It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her. My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said. I didn't answer this time. I couldn't. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer. Why won't you answer me, sweetheart?

The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. You always call me, don't you? Don't you want to hear my voice? I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. You're not real, I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. This isn't real, the air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back.

Only this time, it wasn't just standing there. It was closer. Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn't my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone. And it was still smiling. I didn't move. I couldn't.

My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gulfed. gasps. You don't look happy to see me, it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well. It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half. I've been waiting, it whispered. So long. For you, my stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence. Mom. This time, I answered. Mom, her voice was frantic. Honey, are you okay?

You're scaring me, I, my voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. Mom, where are you? I told you, I'm at home. Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense.

Stay there, I said quickly. Don't, don't leave the house. What's going on? She asked, her voice rising. You're scaring me, sweetheart, I didn't answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped. You shouldn't have answered, it said, its voice dripping with malice. You opened the door,

the glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spider webs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest. Mom, I said into the phone, my voice shaking. If anything happens, If I don't call you back, just stay where you are, okay? Don't come here, what are you talking about? She demanded. What's happening? The mirror shattered. I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction.

But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter, or crash. When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone. But the voice wasn't. It was behind me now. The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low. Sweetheart, it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable. I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on or go out. I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear. Mom? I croaked. There was no response.

Just static. Mom, please, I said, my voice breaking. Say something, the static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh, a soft, low chuckled that didn't belong to her. You really thought she could help you, the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn't coming from the phone anymore. I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn't obey.

The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen. The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn't belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light. It wasn't me, but it was. It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn't blink.

Why are you running?" It asked, its voice layered with mine in something deeper, more guttural. You called me, remember, I couldn't move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach. I've been waiting, it said. Its mouth didn't move when it spoke, but the words were clear. Do you know how long I've been waiting?

It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn't seem possible. Who are you? I whispered, my voice barely audible. It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. You know who I am, it said. You've always known. You just didn't want to admit it.

I don't. It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin. You let me in, it whispered. When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice, I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. No, I said, my voice breaking. I didn't mean to, doesn't matter, it said, grinning wider.

You're mine now. The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing's face. And then it reached for me. I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.

Its hand, my hand, reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone scream. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen. You won't feel a thing, it said. This grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. You'll just, fade, I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now, endless and dark, stretching

into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone. Please, I whispered, barely able to form the word. It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half mocking, half genuine, it said. You don't even know what you're begging for. The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren't just darkness, they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping

around my waist and pulling me forward. No. I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold on to. You called me, it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. You answered. That's all it takes, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will

it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head. I've been waiting for so long, it whispered. And now, you'll wait too, I don't know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment there was only silence, deep, oppressive silence, and then the sensation of falling. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment. I was in the hallway, but it wasn't mine.

It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn't belong to me, didn't belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring. And then I saw it. It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn't smile this time.

It just watched. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn't obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped. And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away. I don't know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes?

Hours? Time didn't feel real anymore. Eventually, I heard something, a faint sound, distant but growing louder. It was a phone ringing. I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone. It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer. The screen lit up, showing a name I didn't recognize.

But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter. Until it read, Mom, I didn't want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass. I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest. Hello. I whispered. And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard,

Sweetheart, I've been waiting for you, the call disconnected. And the hallway went dark. We begin. As you know, this case has caused a great stir in recent weeks and has created two very distinct groups. The first is the group of people who believe that this case is a lie, a lie created from the dear David case, whose sole purpose is to bring fame and recognition to its creator, Beto Salas. The second is the group of people who believe that this case is 100% real,

that the four videos are indeed real and that there is no trickery involved. And I, unfortunately, do not side with either group, because to take a side, you need evidence. If you don't believe in the case, you need solid arguments. And if you do believe, you also need solid arguments. and you cannot have solid arguments without conducting a field investigation. If you haven't been there, haven't seen it with your own eyes, haven't felt the energy of the place, or interviewed the main subject, you cannot take a stance. You can have your opinion, that is undeniable.

But to say something is definitively true or definitively false is like walking on quicksand. Those who are against it basically argue the following, that threads were used to pull the objects, that the lights being off is a clear sign someone was hiding there, that someone in the dark was pulling the strings, and that before things happen, it seems like Beto already knows where they will occur. And those who support it have only one argument, that Beto's scared attitude and constant cries for help are proof that the case is 100% real. So today, I will put on the table some, not all, because otherwise this video would be endless, of my knowledge about parapsychology to provide a few nuances to the case that may turn it into more than

just four viral videos. But for that, you need to pay close attention because there are points that are hard to understand. The paranormal world is based on frequencies. This idea is really complex, not just to understand but also to explain. So I will try to summarize it as much as possible and use as few technical terms as I can so we can all understand it. Throughout the day, frequencies with every mood they have. For example, you wake up, look out the window, and see that it's a beautiful day. Your mood at that moment is joy. Joy would correspond, for instance, to frequency A. Mid-morning, a friend calls you and tells you your best friend has been admitted to the hospital. Your mood is now sadness, which would correspond, say, to frequency B.

You go to the hospital and find out that in the room with your best friend is a person you really dislike, and you find out they were notified before you. Your mood is now anger, which would correspond to frequency C. We'd have three different moods, joy, sadness, and anger, and each would correspond to a different frequency. But what happens when a person is unconscious? What happens when we are asleep and unaware of our emotional state? We have very low frequencies that we could hardly reach when awake. A sensitive person can change frequencies at any time of the day, either intentionally or accidentally. However, there are several points during the day when a normal person, well, that sounds bad,

an average person can access other frequencies. These are when they are relaxed, sad, or asleep. So we could say that entities exist in frequency B, states of consciousness with very low frequency, And when someone is unconscious, their frequency is so low that they could directly come into contact with multiple entities. If Beto Salas's case is true, then during the three days he was unconscious, he could have entered the frequency of one or several entities. When Beto said he dreamed of a little girl who gave him a stuffed animal, many people

said that the ghost of a girl really gave him the stuffed animal, that this same ghost materialized, opened the bedroom door, walked in, spoke to his wife, and he said that the ghost and gave her the stuffed animal. Let me tell you, that is impossible. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that the paranormal world is not like what Hollywood shows. Entities require a tremendous amount of energy to materialize for even a few moments. There are no records, files, or serious investigations that proven entity has materialized for that long, interacted, touched, or opened a door in the flesh.

That is, for now, unthinkable. as a sensitive person I've been able to see entities and although for me seeing them has felt eternal it's never been more than a few seconds for an entity to materialize on one hand it must be in sync with the receiver that is on the same frequency and on the other hand it needs a huge amount of energy this leads me to the first theory that the entity is not and never has been a little girl an entity capable of orchestrating what I'm about to to say next cannot be a child. The first theory would suggest that a real flesh and blood girl actually entered Bato Salas's room, a girl who was probably visiting a sick relative and, in her innocence, thought it would be nice to give him her favorite stuffed toy. This sweet moment could have stayed just that, a nice memory. However, an intelligent entity could have connected with Bato Salas's frequency, seeing through him what was happening, seen how the girl wished him a speedy recovery and gave him the toy, and used that tender moment to take control of the situation.

Not all entities have a message for us. In fact, 90% of the ones I've encountered either weren't aware of what they were doing or their only intent was to feed on fear. It sounds like a movie, but in reality, they have to survive, their pure energy and need to feed on more energy. Flesh and blood people release energy, we release energy in everything we do, and they are like a kind of energy vampire. These entities make themselves present when you're emotionally low, exactly the point where Beto may have been. His body was sick, and even though he was unconscious,

his emotional state likely wasn't good. That's when the entity connected with his frequency and decided to cling to him. If there's something I don't have much experience with, it's cursed objects. However, on this channel, we've investigated topics like the Dybock Box and Haunted Doebbock Box and haunted dolls like Harold, Robert, and Annabelle. In all these cases, experts have reached

very clear conclusions, entities don't possess objects, they possess souls. If a negative ritual is performed on an object, entities may be attracted to it, but they will never completely lose their free will. A clear example of this could be the Robert doll. In this case, we saw that the doll was created so that a demonic entity would always be present around it. But the entities intention was not to possess the doll. The doll was a container that, once handed over, would open and begin a process of possession. But it didn't fulfill its goal. The entity continued to linger around the doll and, to this day, is still looking for the next victim. That's why the museum section where it's kept is so active. Let's say the doll itself is bait. With the Dibbeck box case,

we saw that you can go even further, you can actually trap an entity so that it doesn't begin the possession process or turn the object into bait. However, as we saw in that case, once the box was opened, total chaos broke loose, and aggressive paranormal events began to occur with the previously mentioned intent. In fact, the intention of negative entities is always the same. That's why I believe that if this case is real, Beto Salas's doll is nothing more than bait. The entity in question, as I said earlier, may be using this tender anecdote to catch the of its real victim, to lure them slowly and eventually begin the possession process.

Poultergeist phenomena are a very broad field of phenomenology, and at times, it's very hard to separate them from other paranormal events. At first glance, this case seems to be an infestation of this type. In 2017, I took a trip to Edinburgh, a city considered the mecca of parapsychology. The purpose of the trip was to personally investigate not just the city's legends, but also the incredible poltergeist events experienced by people living near the Greyfriars Cemetery. Everyone I interviewed said they experienced the exact same things and lived through all three levels of paranormal phenomena. Those in the first level, the classic one, let's say, said that multiple objects would fall off shelves on their own and even fly to another part of the room. But they only did it when someone was looking, which, according to one woman I interviewed, suggested that the events were caused by a childlike ghost.

to his only goal was to get attention. You could hear Knox, feel the voice of someone calling you, but when you went to check, no one was there. So when I learned about this case, experience told me that if it was real, it must be this type of event, childlike, attention-seeking, patterned, and, of course, meant to drive its victims crazy. There it is, the first one, there it is, and that's what scares me, that's what really scares me.

Some pictures that were hanging straight wake up crooked, as you can see. But I want to capture as much as possible. There it is, the first one, there it is. I don't know what's happening, God, there's two. Many have pointed out how strange it is that Beto knows exactly where and when the paranormal events will occur. That it's curious how he anticipates things. And psychology has an explanation for this, the so-called psychic gaze. For someone who has never experienced a paranormal event, this might be very hard to understand.

So I'll give a very simple example, when there's a very strong entity in a room that wants to manifest, it directly connects with your frequency to let you know that it's about to act. And you feel this as if someone were staring at the back of your neck, as if a stranger were right in front of you, staring deeply into your eyes. A stranger who is very, very big and very, very strong. It's an incredibly uncomfortable sensation. You know this person is huge and powerful, but you can't see them. You just stand there, staring at the point where you know someone invisible is watching you intensely. And then something happens, something inexplicable. A glass falls, a chair moves.

Suddenly, that sensation disappears, as if it was never there at all. After objects fall or move on their own, come the f-wraps, documented throughout the centuries. To explain this, we have the incredible case of the Fox Sisters, founders of the spiritualist movement. They not only experienced paranormal events throughout their lives, but also developed the theory of spectral knocks or raps, through which entities can communicate. Another case involving raps could be the drummer of Tedworth, recorded, if I remember correctly, in the 17th century by Reverend Joseph Glanville. This case was really shocking because two girls claimed to hear drumbeats in their room, as if a ghostly drummer

were truly there. Skeptics from all over the world accused the girls, without proof, of making the sounds themselves to make others believe their room was haunted. But many tests were carried out, and it was eventually proven that those spectral knocks were 100% real. However, in Beto Salas' case, there is something that disturbs me. It's that in this case, the raps don't respond to questions. It's a very clear voice that does so. Are you the little girl, the beautiful girl from my dream who gave me the stuffed animal to help me get better? Holy God, it said, Hello, we're not here to hurt you. Are you the little girl, the beautiful one who gave me the stuffed animal? Are you here with us, with me? Say, holy, no, no, no. I want to run, but for my

children. Are you lost? Do you need something? Tell me, if I can help you, I gladly will. Do you need something? It said her mother. For an entity to do something like this, to speak so clearly and so often, it needs a tremendous amount of energy. Too much. I have never encountered anything like that. But if someone has, please leave it in the comments. Even so, the voice isn't what really worries me. What really worries me is that when Beto decides to leave, the entity reacts very violently, with three knocks. I'm going to close the door to come with this person,

to try to help you, okay? My God, did you hear that? She's here. It's a little girl, trying. I don't know. I'm really scared. The three knocks in the paranormal world are an insult to the Trinity. Demonic entities in the first phase of infestation present themselves with those same three knocks,

mocking the Holy Trinity and challenging their victims. It's their way of saying they are above any God, above any belief. After the three knocks, that's when you should really fear for your life. That's when the nightmares begin, and, of course, the attacks. The three knocks have appeared in countless cases of demonic possession. A clear example would be the case of Roland. Doe, which inspired the film The Exorcist. Others we could mention include Annalise Michel, better known as Emily Rose.

However, I'm very skeptical about that case. I don't think it was truly demonic possession, just as I have my doubts about the Enfield case. Over time, many facts have been omitted, and in Enfield's case, there were many lies. But one possession case I do believe in is the exorcism in Connecticut. it. In fact, the main victim was a boy who was terribly ill, very sad, practically depressed, who underwent very aggressive treatment, and who also lived in a place prone to paranormal activity. Which would bring us to a third conclusion, the real conduit of the entity into the earthly world is Beto Salas himself. But now it's your turn, do you take a side, or are you like me,

do you prefer to keep an open mind? The end. It was the morning of Saturday, October 11, when Karen Panell failed to show up for work. At the time, she was working as a customer service agent for American Airlines in Tampa, Florida. And let me tell you, she wasn't just any employee, she was practically the employee of the month, every month. Responsible, punctual, professional, and completely dedicated to her job. Her work wasn't just a job to her, it was her passion. So when she didn't show up, her co-workers immediately knew something was wrong. One of her colleagues tried calling her, home phone, cell phone, nothing. No response. That's when she decided to call Karen's boyfriend, Tim. He picked up, groggy, as if he had just woken up. But as soon as

she told him that Karen hadn't come to work, his groginess disappeared, replaced by pure panic. He knew Karen. He knew how responsible she was. If she wasn't at work, something terrible must have happened. He told the co-worker he would check on her and call back with an update. Without wasting a second, Tim jumped in his car and sped toward Karen's house. When he arrived, he rang the doorbell, knocked on the door, and called out her name, no answer. Dread creeping in, he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The front door was unlocked. That was a very bad sign.

Cautiously, he stepped inside, calling her name again. His eyes immediately drifted to the right, toward the kitchen. That's when he saw it. drops of blood. At first, just small droplets scattered across the floor. But as he moved forward, the blood became more prominent, on the floors, on the walls, even smeared on the furniture. It wasn't just a crime scene, it was a massacre.

Then, in the corner of the kitchen, he saw them, Karen's feet, motionless. His stomach lurched. His knees nearly buckled. He barely made it outside before he doubled over and vomited onto the lawn. He couldn't bear to see more. He didn't want to see more. With shaking hands, he grabbed his phone and called 911. Paramedics and police arrived within minutes.

But what they found was even worse than what Tim had seen. Not only was their blood everywhere, but Karen's body was almost unrecognizable. She had been stabbed 16 times, mostly in the chest and neck. Whoever did this hadn't just wanted to hurt her, they wanted her dead. The wounds told a horrifying story. The killer had targeted her heart, a clear sign of rage, of personal hatred. Karen had fought back, her defensive wounds made that clear, but in the end, she didn't stand a chance. Even worse.

The crime scene was almost too clean. No fingerprints, no evidence left behind. Whoever did this was careful. They had worn gloves, covered their tracks. And the murder weapon? Missing. Police determined that the killer had used a kitchen knife, one of Karen's own. That meant they either grabbed it in the heat of the moment, or they had planned this all along.

As police searched the house, something wasn't adding up. If Karen had been attacked in the kitchen, she must have let her killer in willingly. The signs pointed to someone she trusted. But then they found something that changed everything. Outside, in the backyard, things were disturbed. A bird bath had been knocked over. The electrical box was open, wires tampered with. And most chilling of all.

The sliding glass door at the back of the house, the lock had been forcefully ripped out. Now, this looked like a break-in. Back inside, more clues emerged. Karen's purse was open and dumped onto the kitchen counter. Was this a robbery gone wrong? It seemed logical, except, the attack was too personal. Too violent. This wasn't just about money.

And then, on one of the kitchen walls, police found something shocking. Written in blood were three letters, Arosa. Karen's case had just taken a dark and twisted turn. Karen Pannell was born on February 10, 1964, in Landstow, Germany. She was the youngest and only daughter of Ursula Marie and Ralph Panel. Being the baby of the family, and the only girl, she was cherished, protected, and full of energy. When she was still young, her family moved from Germany to Georgia, USA, due to her father's military career. She graduated from Northside High School in Warner Robbins,

Georgia, and later moved on her own to Tampa, Florida, where she built a successful life for herself. She became a flight attendant and even did some modeling. Everyone who knew her spoke highly of her, kind, warm, always smiling. Whether she was helping customers, working with colleagues, or spending time with friends, she was a ray of sunshine. But there was one thing about Karen that deeply worried those closest to her, her taste in men. Karen, for all her kindness, had terrible luck when it came to relationships. People said she was too good, too trusting, and men took advantage of that. She had been in toxic, even abusive relationships.

And worse, she had a pattern, breaking up with a bad guy, only to fall for someone exactly like him. At one point, she even got married to a man named Jeff Payne. They were together for five years before divorcing. And as if a divorce wasn't hard enough, shortly after, she received devastating news, she had multiple sclerosis. The diagnosis changed everything for her. Karen decided she wasn't going to waste a second of her life.

She wanted to travel, spend time with loved ones, and truly enjoy every moment. She switched jobs, moving from flight attendant to customer service agent, something that gave her more stability in time for herself. She still dated, but her bad luck with men continued. One ex became so obsessive that she had to call the police multiple times just to get in to leave her alone. Then she met Tim. And everything changed.

Timothy Permanter, or just Tim, was the man Karen had been waiting for. He treated her like a queen, attentive, sweet, supportive. By 2003, they were already talking about moving in together. They met in a car dealership where Tim worked. wanted a new car, and the moment they met, there was instant chemistry. The very next day, they went on their first date. From then on, they were inseparable. Tim seemed perfect.

He had his life together, drove a sleek blue BMW convertible, and had an intriguing past. He claimed to be a former Navy SEAL, retired after top-secret, high-risk missions. He even had the scars to prove it. But things are never as perfect as they seem. The last time Tim saw Karen was Friday, October 10, 2003. As usual, they had a date. He dropped her off at home at 7.30 p.m. Since Karen had to work early the next morning, they decided not to spend the night together.

But before leaving, he gave her a small gift, a cat-themed calendar. She loved it. She hugged him, smiling, and then waved goodbye. That was the last time he saw her alive. By 9.30 p.m., Tim was on the phone with his best friend. George Solomon, who lived an hour away in Moon Lake. George invited him over, saying he and his girlfriend were going out and Tim should join. So Tim drove there, spent the night with them, and got home very late.

The next morning, he was woken up by the phone, Karen hadn't shown up to work. The moment Karen's body was found, police looked at Tim. The boyfriend is always the first suspect. They hauled him in for questioning, and that's when the truth about Tim unraveled. He had been lying to Karen about everything. So, here's the deal, I live alone. One bedroom apartment. Nothing fancy.

It's cheap, decent neighborhood, no complaints, well, at least until recently. When I first moved in, it was pretty uneventful. Just your standard new place adjustment phase, getting used to the weird sounds the building makes, the way the plumbing sometimes groans like a dying animal, the occasional creaky floorboard that makes you think someone sneaking up behind you when you're just trying to make a midnight snack. The usual, you know. But then, things started happening. Little things. Things that could be explained away if you didn't think too hard about them. Like, I'd go to grab a glass from the cupboard, and the door would already be open. Weird, but maybe I left it that way. Maybe I just

didn't notice. Then my keys, I have this hook by the door where I always hang them because otherwise, I'd lose them in approximately 3.4 seconds. But some days, they wouldn't be there. I'd find them on the kitchen counter, or on my nightstand, or, once, on the floor by the couch. I told myself I was just being absent-minded. And then the food. I know for a fact I bought a six-pack of yogurt. I eat one every morning.

But by Wednesday, there was only one left. I thought, okay, maybe I miscounted. Maybe I ate more than I thought. Maybe I was just that exhausted after work that I wasn't remembering properly. Then came the window incident. Now, listen, I do not open my windows. Ever. Growing up in a rough neighborhood teaches you certain habits.

Lock your doors. Keep your blinds shut. Don't give people a reason to think they can mess with you. So I make sure my windows are locked. Double-checked, always. That's why when I came home one evening to find my bedroom window wide open, my stomach dropped. I stood there in the doorway, just staring. to process.

My first thought was that I must have been robbed. But nothing was missing. My TV? Still there. Laptop? Untouched. Even my emergency cash stash, still sitting in the drawer where I left it. So if it wasn't a break-in, then what the hell was it?

I tried to come up with explanations. Maybe I forgot. No. No way. Maybe maintenance came in while I was gone and forgot to close it. But there was no note, no email. Nothing. It made no sense, but I forced myself to move on, to pretend it wasn't a big deal.

Then came last night. Three in the morning. Dead asleep. And then, creak. Not the kind of creek you hear when a building settles. Not pipes. Not the wind. A footstep.

I froze. Eyes wide open, staring at my ceiling, barely even breathing. another creak. Closer. Every hair on my body stood on end. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, turned on the flashlight, and aimed it at my bedroom door. Nothing. The door was still closed. I sat up, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just my brain playing tricks on me in that weird half-a-sleep state. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I had to check. So I got up. Slowly, quietly, checked my closet, nothing, bathroom, empty, living room, front door, locked, windows, shut, and then I saw it. The vent. In the corner of my living room, there's this big floor vent. You know the kind, old building, outdated heating system, huge metal grate that looks like it hasn't been clean since the 90s. I'd never really paid much attention.

to it before, but now, now I could see that it was loose. Just slightly. Like someone had pried it open and then tried to put it back without making it obvious. I crouched down, foam light shining into the darkness beyond the grate, and that's when I saw it. A blanket. A half-empty water bottle. A crumpled fast food wrapper.

I stopped breathing. Someone had been living in my walls. I just knelt there, staring, mind completely blank. I wanted to move, to react. but my body wasn't cooperating. Everything clicked into place, the missing food, the open window, the creaks in the night. I wasn't losing my mind. I wasn't just being forgetful.

Someone had been inside my apartment. Living here. Watching me. I don't remember standing up. I don't remember grabbing my keys. I just remember walking straight out the door, getting in my car, and driving to my friend's place without looking back. I didn't sleep. How could I?

This morning, I forced myself to go back. Just to check. The vent? Closed again. Like nothing ever happened. And I don't know what's worse, the fact that someone was living there. Or the fact that they know I found out. That was the start of the nightmare.

I wish I could say it ended there, that I packed my bags and got the hell out, but things don't always work out the way you want them to. See, moving isn't that easy when you're broke. And at the time, I was broke. So I did the only thing I could do, I tried to act normal. Like I hadn't seen anything. Like I wasn't completely losing my mind every second I spent in that apartment. But once you see something like that, you can't unsee it.

You can't pretend everything's okay. Every noise made my skin crawl. Every misplaced item sent me into a spiral of paranoia. I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I set up my phone to record while I slept, just in case. And every morning, I'd check the vent, and every morning, it would still be closed. Then, one night, I heard something new. Breathing.

I was lying in bed, phone in my hand, reading some stupid article to try and distract myself, when I heard it. Soft. Shallow. Right on the other side of my bedroom wall. I stopped breathing. Strained my ears. The sound was so faint I almost thought I was imagining it.

Then, a rustling noise. Like fabric shifting. Like someone moving around in a tight space. I should have called the cops. I know that. But in that moment, all I could think was that if I called them and they didn't find anything, I'd be stuck here. Alone. With whatever was living in my walls.

So instead, I did something really, really stupid. I knocked on the wall. Silence. Then, three knocks. Coming from inside. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, I packed a bag and got the hell out. Found a cheap motel, spent the last of my savings just to avoid going back.

And while I was lying there in that scratchy motel bed, staring at the ceiling, I made a decision. I wasn't going back. I didn't care what it took, I was breaking my lease, breaking my bank account if I had to. Whatever it cost, it was worth it. So the next day, I went back, just to grab the rest of my stuff. I told myself I'd be quick, in and out. But when I got there, something was different. The door was open, not unlocked, open.

Like someone had been expecting me. I didn't go inside. I didn't even hesitate. I turned around, walked straight back to my car, and never looked back. I don't know who, or what, was living in that apartment. I don't want to know. But sometimes, when I'm lying in bed in my new place, safe and far away from that nightmare, I still hear it. A creek. A rustle. A soft, shallow breath. And I wonder,

did I really escape? Or did it just find a new way in? Don't go back, a Wisconsin nightmare. A couple of summers back, my girlfriend and I decided to get out of the city and spend a weekend hiking and camping in the northern woods of Wisconsin. We'd done similar trips before, we're from Chicago, so driving north into the green quiet was kind of our escape from the constant noise and traffic. But this particular trip. Yeah, this one changed everything. After what happened, we've both pretty much agreed, we're not going back unless we've got a small army with us. Now, don't get me wrong, we're not total amateurs when it comes to hiking and camping. We've hit up a bunch of state and national parks. We like getting out there, feeling the fresh air, walking

away from reception and emails and all that city junk. But this region of the Chiquamagon National Forest, up by the North Country Trail, was new territory for us. It's remote, like really remote, and back then, that's exactly what we wanted. Or thought we wanted. We had it all planned out, hike around 15 miles into the trail, find a backpacker's shelter, and set up camp nearby. Just a couple of nights out under the stars, recharge our brains, then head back. The night before, we crashed at a friend's house in Wausau so we could get an early start. The drive from there into the forest was peaceful, gravel roads winding through thick trees, everything green and quiet.

For the first hour or so, it was perfect. But then we saw these two guys on the side of the road, standing by a truck that looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by rust. Confederate flag bumper sticker, dented fenders, the works. They were just, standing there. Staring. I gave them a friendly wave, the kind of we're all just enjoying nature, wave, but they didn't wave back. They just kept watching as we passed. I glanced in the rearview, and yep, still see.

staring. We laughed it off at the time. Made a joke about backwoods hillbillies or up creepers or something stupid. In hindsight, I wish we'd taken it a little more seriously. But at that point it was just a weird moment in an otherwise peaceful day. Eventually, we found the trailhead. No other cars, no other hikers. Just us and the wild. Honestly, that part felt awesome. It was cool and quiet, the bugs weren't too bad, and the trail was absolutely gorgeous, hills, valleys, thick woods, moss-covered rocks. The whole deal felt like something out of a nature documentary. We hiked for a solid eight hours, stopping here and there to snap pictures, drink water, and just soak it all in. That first part of the day. Still one of my favorite

memories. The forest was beautiful, untouched, like time didn't exist there. By the time we reached the shelter, we were sore, tired, but in good spirits. Now, the shelter itself was nothing fancy, just a basic wooden structure with a roof and open walls, plus a fire ring nearby. Instead of sleeping inside the shelter, we picked a little clearing about a hundred feet behind it and set up our tent. It felt more private, and we liked the idea of being tucked away in our own little spot. That night, we got a fire going, boiled some water. ate those dehydrated trail meals that somehow taste amazing when you're starving, and passed a bottle of wine back and forth. The sky was clear, and the stars were insane. No city lights,

no sounds except the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves. It was perfect. Until it wasn't. We put the fire out when it was just embers, packed up our trash, and crawled into the tent. I was exhausted, carrying a full pack for fifteen, miles will do that to you, so I passed out pretty quick. Normally, I wear earplugs when I camp because other people in campgrounds can be loud, but here. We were totally alone, so I figured, hey, no need. My girlfriend didn't fall asleep as fast. She always gets a little nervous sleeping outside, especially in unfamiliar places.

But eventually, we both dozed off. I don't know what time it was when the sound woke us up, but it was a little bit. full dark. No moonlight, just black outside. At first, it was faint, a dull, rhythmic thudding sound. Like, wood hitting wood. Not like something falling. More like someone deliberately knocking two logs together. Thunk. Pause. Thunk. We sat up, barely breathing. The tent we had didn't have mesh windows, so we couldn't see outside. We just had to sit there, listening. At first, I told myself it was probably just an animal, maybe a raccoon messing with our trash, or a branch falling. But no, it wasn't that kind of sound. It kept going. Slow, steady. Someone was doing it on

purpose. And then it stopped. Silence. Absolute silence, except for the faint buzz of night insects. We sat frozen. My girlfriend grabbed my hand, her grip was ice cold. I didn't bring any kind of weapon. I usually carry bare mace, but this time I decided to skip it to save a little weight. She told me not to leave it, but I figured we were fine. Big mistake. After a long silence, we heard footsteps, like leaves rustling. Then, voices. Low, hushed. Male voices. We couldn't make out what they were saying, but we were sure, at least two people were out there. Talking. I've never felt fear like that. Not in a dream. Not in a movie. I mean real fear. We didn't move. We barely breathed. We just sat there in the

dark, hoping whoever it was didn't know we were there. hoping they'd leave. Eventually, the voices faded. Or maybe they stopped. I don't know. It was hard to tell. We stayed awake all night. Didn't move, didn't talk, just listened. Every Russell made our hearts jump. At dawn, when the light finally started to filter through the trees, we slowly unzipped the tent and stepped out. Nothing. Just trees in silence. We packed everything as fast as we could. Rolled up the sleeping bags, collapsed the tent, shoved it all into our packs. Before we left, we walked back to the shelter one last time, I don't even know why. Curiosity, maybe. That's when my girlfriend screamed. On one of the wooden beams

near the entrance, the word kill was carved deep into the wood. Big, ugly letters. And around it were fresh cuts, long, sharp slashes, like someone had hacked at it with an axe or a huge knife. The wood shavings were still on the ground. That's what we'd heard. That's when we stopped walking and started running. I don't think we said a single word for miles. We just kept moving, barely taking breaks. Every sound made me look over my shoulder. Every bird call made my heart race. The trail we had found so beautiful the day before now looked like a nightmare maze. The glacial ridges and dips that had seemed majestic now just felt like hiding places for something, or someone, watching us. When we finally saw the sign for the trailhead, we both

almost cried. But the nightmare wasn't over yet. Our car was still there, but something was off. The windshield wiper was standing straight up, and something was stuck to it. As we got closer, my stomach dropped. It was a dead squirrel. Its body had been shoved down over the blade, its fur matted with blood. And smeared across the windshield, in crude, sloppy streaks, was more blood. I didn't even try to clean it off. We threw our gear in the trunk, jumped in, and I peeled out of there so fast I'm surprised

that gravel didn't shred my tires. The whole drive back, I kept checking the rearview mirror. Dust filled the road behind us, so I couldn't see anything, but I couldn't stop looking. We finally pulled into a gas station in a nearby town. I used a wad of newspaper to get the squirrel off and scrubbed at the blood with the windshield washer. The attendant didn't ask questions. Maybe he knew better. We didn't stop again until we reached Chicago.

We haven't been back to that forest since. And we don't plan to. Part 2. we didn't stop until we were halfway back to Chicago. Both of us were pale, silent, shaken to the core. I couldn't stop thinking about that squirrel impaled on my windshield wiper like some twisted warning, and that word scratched into the shelter wall. Kill.

Who even does that? Some sicko was clearly out there, close enough to us in the night to hear our every breath. And we'd slept there, unaware, just a thin layer of nylon between us and, Whatever the hell that was. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. What if they had come closer? What if they'd messed with our tent instead of the shelter wall? I mean, the sounds we heard, the voices, who knows what they were doing out there in the dark.

We couldn't have been more exposed. No protection. I kept replaying every step of our hike back to the car, half expecting someone to leap out from behind a tree. Every crunch of a branch, every bird call made me whip my head around like a paranoid maniac. We made it home, but I didn't sleep for a few nights. Neither did my girlfriend. Every creek of the apartment made her flinch. Every passing car made me peek out the window.

We were on edge for weeks. That trip changed something in us, it made the wilderness feel less like a peaceful retreat and more like a place you should never be alone. especially not with strange men lurking around with axes. It wasn't long after that when I had another strange run in, and this time it wasn't deep in the woods. It happened right in my own town, well, not my hometown, but the small Wisconsin town I had temporarily moved to for work. Population, 11,000. The kind of place where people wave to you from their porch and the gas station guy knows your name.

Or so I thought. I was on my way to a meeting at my boss's house, he ran our little company out of his basement while we looked for an actual office. So I'm cruising down this quiet country road, taking in the scenery, when I noticed something weird in my rear-view mirror. There's a blue sedan riding my bumper so close I couldn't see its headlights. I drive a Kia Soul, which is shaped like a toaster, so if someone's that close, they're basically climbing into your back seat.

I tapped my brakes lightly. The guy didn't back off. Instead, he honked. Just one long, loud blast. I looked up and caught a glimpse of him. Bald. White. Probably in his forties.

Wearing sunglasses even though it wasn't all that bright out. I don't know why, but something about him made my skin crawl. Maybe it was the blank expression. Or maybe it was how close he was willing to follow a complete stranger. on a nearly empty road. So, I did what any passive-aggressive driver would do, I flipped him off and dropped five miles under the speed limit. He had plenty of room to pass. I was the only car out there. But nope, he just stayed glued to my bumper. I even took out my phone and pretended to snap a photo. Still nothing. Just cruising behind me like a heat-seeking missile.

At one point, I reached an intersection where I was supposed to turn right. But just to see what would happen, I turned left instead. And like something out of a movie, he followed. That's when I knew it wasn't just bad driving. This guy was following me on purpose. I tried to lose him in a roundabout, doing a full circle. Twice. He stayed with me like we were tethered together.

My stomach dropped. It didn't feel like a joke or road rage anymore. It felt like stalking. I considered my options and figured the safest move was to head to the police station, even if it made me late. So I did. Pulled right into the parking lot, ready to jump out and run inside if I had to. I thought, surely he'll drive off when he realizes where we are. But he didn't.

He pulled him right beside me. parked so close i could barely open my door then he just sat there staring that creepy smile still plastered across his face like he was enjoying a private joke now i'm studying to be a behavior analyst i work with kids now but i'm deep into criminal psychology in my free time profiling patterns motives i love that stuff but sitting there trapped in my car i wasn't an analyzing anything. I was scared. And I was scanning his car, checking for weapons, trying to decide if I could run fast enough if I had to. I picked up my phone again, this time to call 911. As soon as I started dialing, the guy rolled his window down, stared at me for a beat longer, and then slowly backed out and drove away. Like nothing had happened. Like I wasn't left there trembling with a thousand questions. I ran inside the station and gave my statement. Told the officer everything I remembered, although I hadn't caught

the license plate. Apparently, I wasn't the only one. There had been other reports of a guy in a blue car tailgating people, making them feel unsafe. The officer gave me a card for victim services and told me to let someone know if I ever saw that car again. Then, when I went back outside, I noticed something new. There was a note on my windshield. Just a small, smiley face. That's it. A little smiley face drawn on a piece of paper, tucked under the wiper like a calling card. I took it back inside. The officer looked at it and said, That's disturbing. Don't go anywhere alone for a while. I'll check in on you, and he did. Called me later that day. Drove by my apartment during his night shift. It's a small town,

stuff like that means a lot. Made me feel a little safer. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that this guy might show up again. So I had a talk with my fiancé, told him I'd post my work schedule from now on, and if I ever didn't check in within ten minutes of arriving somewhere, he needed to call the police. No hesitation. Then, not long after that, my Uncle Sam came to visit. You've got to know something about Uncle Sam, he's the family clown.

Always telling jokes, pulling pranks, laughing so loud it echoes through the house. I've never known him to be serious. Until that day. We were outside looking at my car, popping the hood, doing that whole guy bonding thing. My dad was there too. We weren't really mechanics, just pretending to know what we were looking at. Then Sam got real quiet and said, let me tell you something that happened to me. Might be good for you to hear. I'd never heard his voice like that, lo, almost shaky.

He wasn't grinning anymore. There was no punchline coming. He told us he'd never shared this story before, but seeing me with my new car and being reminded of his younger days made him want to speak up. Back when he was in college, he went to this small rural school in Wisconsin, surrounded by farmland and not much else. During his junior year, he moved off campus to a house a few miles out of town. One night, after drinking a little too much at the local bar, he decided to walk home. It was late, dark, and cold. Cornfields on both sides, not a single streetlight in sight.

That's when a pickup truck pulled up next to him. Beat up, rusty, loud engine. The guy behind the wheel looked like your typical farmer. Worn out cap, plaid shirt. Hey, you need a lift, he asked. Sam, being a little buzzed and a lot naive, said sure and climbed in. At first, everything seemed fine. They chatted a bit.

Sam gave directions to his house. But then, five minutes in, the truck sailed right past his street. Hey, man, you missed the turn, Sam said. Oh, I know a shortcut, the farmer replied. been around here 50 years. Just pay attention, you'll learn something, and that's when Sam sobered up. The guy drove them deep into the countryside, turning onto a dirt driveway that led to a run-down farmhouse.

The place looked abandoned. Broken swings set in the front yard. A shed in the back with one faint light glowing. Everything else was dark. No neighbors. No sound. When the truck was. finally stopped, Sam made a move to get out. But when he reached for the lock, he realized

something terrifying, the lock knob had been sawed off. There was no way to manually unlock the door. He was trapped. Part 3. Uncle Sam sat down on the front bumper of my car, hands in his lap, staring off like he was watching that old pickup truck pull up all over again. There was no knob, he said, real quiet. Just a little jagged hole. where it used to be. Like someone didn't want passengers getting out without permission. My dad and I exchanged a look. Neither of us said a word.

And then, Sam continued, the guy gets out. Walks around to the back of the truck. Opens the tailgate and just stands there for a second. Sam said he looked through the window and saw the guy fiddling with something, couldn't tell what exactly, just saw the man's silhouette against the dim barn light. He kept bending down and standing up again, like he was gathering tools. Sam's heart started pounding. The guy hadn't said a word since they pulled into that driveway.

I knew something was wrong. I just knew, Sam said. So he started looking around. Frantically. Trying to find anything, anything, that might help him get out. That's when he spotted a screwdriver tucked halfway under the seat. Like a gift from the universe. He yanked it out and went to town on the door.

Wedging it into the seam, pushing, prying, digging at the inside of the panel like a madman. He said it felt like hours, but it must have been less than a minute. Then, miracle. The door popped. He didn't wait. Didn't look back. Just threw it open, hit the ground running, and didn't stop until he saw porch lights way off in the distance. He said he cut through fields, leapt over ditches, tripped over a barbed wire fence and didn't even feel it.

He was bleeding by the time he reached a farmhouse and pounded on the door. The couple who answered were old. Confused. But they took one look at Sam, mud covered, wild-eyed, out of breath, and let him in. Called the sheriff. They even gave him a ride home later. But when the deputy went back to check out the property the next morning, Guess what? Nothing. No truck. No man. No tools. The place was empty. Like a ghost story.

I never told anyone, Sam said, his voice almost a whisper. But I still think about it. What if I hadn't seen that screwdriver? What if that guy was waiting for me to pass out? Or worse, he looked at me then, straight in the eyes. Be careful, he said. He said, he's said. Always trust your gut. That story messed with my head for days. It wasn't just the content, it was seeing Sam tell it without a single joke. The man had lived with that memory for decades. No police report. No closure. Just a near miss, like so many others. It made me start wondering how many close calls people have and never talk about. How many weird encounters, almost crimes, almost deaths happen in everyday places, and just, disappear.

And then came the third incident. The one that shook me the most. It happened while I was working at a therapy center in a nearby town. I was driving home late after a long shift. The sky was dark, the roads were quiet, just me and my thoughts and some lo-fi beats on the stereo. I took a back-road shortcut I'd used a dozen times. It shaved off ten minutes and wound through some scenic farmland.

I liked that stretch, until that night. I was halfway through when I saw headlights behind me. No big deal. Another car. Except, the car didn't pass. It didn't turn. It just followed. Close.

Too close. I tapped the brakes. No reaction. I sped up. So did they. Then they started flashing their brights at me. Over and over. Like they were trying to signal something.

Or scare me. I started sweating. There were no houses nearby. No businesses. Just empty land and one narrow road that curved like a snake through the fields. My mind raced. Was it the same guy from before? The blue car creep.

I took out my phone and dialed 911. Told the dispatcher I was being followed, gave my location as best I could. She stayed on the line with me, calm and steady, guiding me toward the nearest open gas station. I didn't even know where it was, I just followed her directions. But the car behind me didn't let up. Kept flashing its lights, revving the engine, swerving slightly like it wanted to force me off the road. My hands were shaking on the wheel. Then, out of nowhere, the dispatcher said something that froze my blood.

We just got another call. A woman in a van nearby says a car matching your description has been harassing her for ten minutes. I blinked. Wait, what? Are you in a gray kiosol? Yeah, then I think, the guy might not be following you. He might be trying to warn you. I was confused.

Beyond confused. Pull over when it's safe. Carefully, she said. So I did. I pulled into a gravel shoulder and came to a slow stop. The car behind me stopped too. A man got out, hands raised, palms open. I cracked my window, heart pounding.

Ma'am, he said, your back tire is about to fall off. It's wobbling like crazy. I tried to get you to stop earlier, but you just kept going. Sure enough, when I got out to check, the tire was nearly detached. One more curve and I might have flipped the whole car. Turns out, he'd seen it while passing me earlier and had turned around to try to help. The flashing lights. The swerving.

He was trying to get my attention, not hurt me. And just like that, all my fear turned to shame. And then gratitude. The man helped me get it fixed and drove off into the night, a real-life good son. Samaritan. But it hit me hard, how fast your brain jumps to worst-case scenarios when you've been through enough close calls. Trusting people becomes harder. Even the good ones. So now, whenever someone says, you're just being paranoid, I smile and say, maybe. But it's kept me alive so far, between the woods, the smiley face stalker, and Uncle Sam's midnight escape from the mystery

farmhouse, I've learned this much. The world's not always what it seems. Danger doesn't always announce itself with thunder and lightning. Sometimes it creeps quietly behind your car, or scratches warnings into walls, or hides a screwdriver under a seat like a secret escape route. And if your gut says something's off, listen. Even if no one believes you. Even if it makes you look crazy. Because maybe, just maybe, it'll be the one time you're not. Part 4 final. After everything, I started keeping a journal. Not the cute kind with stickers and doodles,

but a beat-up old notebook I stuffed in my glove compartment. I wrote down license plates that gave me a weird vibe. Names of places I'd driven through that felt wrong. Even smells. You ever smell something that just doesn't belong. Like metal and bleach and old pennies, all at once. I have. And I don't ignore those smells anymore. Once, maybe a few months after the tire thing, I was walking to my car after a night shift at the therapy center. Parking lot mostly empty.

Air still. That sticky, post-midnight silence where every sound feels too loud. As I reached from my door, I smelled it again. That metallic, acidic, wrong smell. Like rust and chemicals and something. dead underneath. I froze. Looked around. Nothing. But I swear, I wasn't alone. I unlocked my car and climbed in fast, locked the doors, flipped the interior lights on, and checked the back seat like always. Empty. I still turned the key and peeled out like a bat out of hell. And just as I passed the edge of the parking lot, I glanced in the rearview mirror. There was a man standing in the shadows between the dumpsters. Not moving.

Not chasing. Just watching. No one ever found anything. I filed a report just in case, but they said the cameras in that part of the lot hadn't been working for weeks. Classic. That's when I realized something I hadn't let myself believe before. These incidents...

They weren't random. I was being watched. Or targeted. Or maybe just extremely unlucky. But one thing was clear, it wasn't over. About a week after the dumpster guy, I got a letter in my mailbox. No return address. Just my name, handwritten in uneven block letters.

Inside was a single piece of paper. You shouldn't have run, no context. No signature. I stared at it for a long time. The first thing I thought of was the blue car, years back. The guy whose smile didn't reach his eyes. Was it him? Was this a revenge thing? Or had I just become a magnet for creeps and psychos? I called the cops again. They said it was probably a prank. Kids do weird stuff. Yeah, okay. Kids with access to my address and a twisted

sense of timing. Sure. So I installed cameras. Front porch. backyard one facing the driveway i stopped walking alone at night i kept pepper spray in my jacket and a tire iron under the driver's seat but the worst part wasn't the fear it was the waiting waiting for the next knock the next scratch the next time something was just slightly off then came the night that confirmed it for good i was house sitting for a co-worker big place in the hills surrounded by woods, way too isolated for someone like me. But I needed the cash, and it was supposed to be an easy gig, feed the dog, water the plants, lock up at night. The first two nights were fine. Quiet. Peaceful, even.

I started thinking maybe I'd overreacted. Maybe I'd imagine too much. Then, night three. I woke up around 2.30 a.m. No reason. Just, awake. The kind of waking where your brain is already alert before your eyes are even open. I sat up in bed and listened.

The dog, this chunky old lab named Murphy, was growling. Low and steady. Not barking. Just a warning. I got up, grabbed the bat by the bed, yeah, I brought one, and crept into the hallway. Murphy was standing at the top of the stairs, hackles raised, staring and staring at the front door. I followed his gaze. The door was open. Just a crack. But open. And someone had put something on the welcome mat. A smiley face. Drawn in chalk. No signature. No note.

Just a little grinning symbol scratched onto the wood like a message from some twisted fan club. I slammed the door, locked it, checked every window, every closet, every inch of that damn house. Called the cops, again. They came, took a report, said they'd patrol the area more frequently. But I could tell they didn't believe me. Or maybe they were just tired of my calls. That's when I hit my limit. I drove home that morning, packed a bag, and went to stay with Uncle Sam. He took one look at me when I walked in and said, it started again, hasn't it? I nodded. He didn't even ask questions. Just made coffee, turned on the porch light, and handed me an old revolver. I sleep with one eye open now, he said. Maybe you should, too, we spent that night

on the porch. Talking. Watching. Waiting. Like old war buddies sharing ghost stories from the same invisible battlefield. And as the sun came up, I finally asked him something that had been burning in my brain since the beginning. Why do you think it's happening to us? Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Some people attract lightning. Others attract weirdos. Bad energy. Evil. I don't know what it is. But we're not the only ones. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a manila folder. Thick. Stuffed with old clippings, printouts, scribbled notes. He slid it toward me. He slid it toward me. I've been tracking cases, he said. People who vanished after telling someone they were being followed. Women who reported stalkers and then changed their minds. Men who found

smiley faces carved into their trees or fences. Some of them disappeared. Some turned up dead. Others just, stopped talking. I flipped through it in silence. Photo after photo. Note after note. all had something in common. No closure. No arrest. Just silence. Like whatever's out there wants you to doubt yourself. Wants everyone else to think you're crazy. Until you disappear quietly, without a trace. So now, I stay alert. I keep the cameras running. I log every odd detail, every strange sound, every shadow that moves where it shouldn't. Because I don't think this ends. Not really. You can run. Move houses. Change numbers. Switch cars. But if it's found you once, it can find you again. So if you're reading this and something in your gut

says you're being watched, listen. And if you ever smell metal and bleach in a place that shouldn't have either, run. Because you don't want to end up in someone else's folder. Trust me. The end. It all began with a chilling realization in the dead of night. Someone struck him hard on the head, jolting him awake from what he thought was sleep. The pain was sharp, searing through his skull, and he immediately shot to his feet. Darkness engulfed the room, and no one was in sight. His mind raced with fear as he began to shout, calling for his son and his son's friend, who had been staying over.

Panicked, he told them what had just happened, insisting that someone had broken into the house and attacked him. But the boys dismissed his fears, insisting he must have dreamt it all. Yet, deep down, he knew better. The throbbing pain in his head was too real to ignore. This unsettling incident was only the prelude to a far more sinister story, one that unfolded on a sunny Sunday morning, June 30, 2013. It was around 6.30 a.m. when two passers-by noticed something unusual on the road leading to Bunola in Majorca. A land rover was parked haphazardly on the shoulder of the road. The sight was odd enough to draw them closer, and when they peaked inside the vehicle, they stumbled upon a horrifying scene. An injured man lay slumped in the driver's seat.

They recognized him immediately, it was Andrew K. Benazer, a well-known local businessman. Horrified, they contacted the police without delay. Minutes later, the judicial police and the homicide unit of the Civil Guard arrived at the scene. The initial impression suggested a robbery gone wrong. Andrew's body bore signs of a violent struggle, particularly severe injuries to the head. Known for always carrying cash and wearing a Rolex, Andrew had neither on him this time. It seemed plausible that a thief had targeted him and fled with his valuables. However, something about the scene felt off.

The lack of blood spatter or significant pools of blood in the car hinted that the crime might not have taken place there. Could this have been a cold, calculated act of vengeance? To unravel the mystery, we must delve deeper in the car. into the life of Andrew K. Benazer. At 57, Andrew was a prominent entrepreneur from Alaro, Mallorca. Known to many by the nickname, too, he was both admired and envied in equal measure. He had built an impressive fortune through two major businesses, Palma Maddoch, a gaming company valued at nearly two million euros, and Coulter, a real estate firm worth approximately

four and a half million euros. Together, they owned 78 properties. Additionally, Andrew himself had 19 more properties to his name, ranging from houses to commercial spaces. Wealth, however, comes with its burdens. Andrew's success inevitably attracted envy, but his private life remained a mystery to most. He was known to be a solitary man with few close friends. He maintained a close relationship with his father and had been married, fathering three children, Inaara, Tony, and Andrew Jr. Yet, his family ties were anything but harmonious.

For reasons unknown, Andrew's marriage ended. bitterly. After the divorce, he severed ties with his two eldest children, leaving them out of his will. His youngest son, Andrew Jr., became his sole heir. The boy excelled in school, earning his father's favor and eventually moving in with him. Andrew Sr. even involved his son in the family business, grooming him for the future. Andrew's personal life took another turn when he began a relationship with Inniiborka, a woman from Moldova. Their romance lasted several years but ended abruptly in March 2013. The breakup sparked rumors, with whispers suggesting that Andrew Jr. had something to do with the split. Despite such speculations,

Andrews Sr. remained tight-lipped. He confided in no one, not even his sister Margarita, who was one of the few people he trusted. As the investigation into Andrew's death began, the police examined surveillance footage from the area where his car was found. They also combed through his home, believing it might hold clues. The house was thoroughly inspected, and even the phones inside were tapped. The authorities hoped to uncover any slip-ups in conversations between family members, as Andrew had limited contacts outside his inner circle. Initially, the police ruled out the family as suspects, suspecting instead that Andrew's death was the result of a vendetta tied to his business dealings. On the night of

June 29, 2013, Andrew had been at his father's house. Everything seemed normal until he received a mysterious phone call. Without revealing who had called, he abruptly left. That was the last time anyone saw him alive. However, a breakthrough came when the wiretaps picked up a suspicious conversation between Andrew Jr. and his friend Francisco Abbas. In the transcript, published by the Diario de Mallorca, the two discussed dividing the inheritance among Andrew's siblings, a startling revelation considering Andrew Jr. was supposed to inherit everything. The cryptic exchange raised eyebrows, prompting investigators to dig deeper. They uncovered testimonies from two individuals with damning information about Andrew Jr.

The first was Innia Borka, Andrew Sr., S.X. partner, who revealed the tumultuous relationship between father and son. According to Inia, Andrew Jr. had moved in with his father at 15, citing financial struggles with his mother. Initially, he was a promising, well-behaved young man, but things soon took a turn. He shirked household responsibilities, spending endless hours playing video games. His father's attempts to impose limits were met with resistance, and their arguments grew increasingly heated. Inia described the situation as unbearable, which ultimately led to her breakup with Andrews Sr. in March 2013.

The second testimony came from Margarita, Andrew's sister. She confirmed the strained dynamics within the family. While Andrew Jr. had become his father's favorite, their relationship deteriorated over. time. Andrew Jr. S. obsession with video games, particularly titles like Dead Rising 2 and Call of Duty, consumed him. He became a renowned player in online gaming communities, even winning a national tournament. Among his peers, he was known by the username, Tactical Men, proudly describing himself as a killing machine. Andrew Jr.'s passion for gaming led him to forge a close friendship with Francisco Abbas, a 20-year-old from Zaragoza. The two met online and bonded over their shared

love of games. Their friendship grew so strong that they began visiting each other in person, solidifying their connection. In June 2013, Francisco traveled to Mallorca to visit Andrew Jr., arriving just days before the murder. During his stay, events took a dark and unsettling turn. Andrew Sr. was initially pleased to see his son forging a real-life friendship, but his happiness was short-lived. On the night of June 28, he found himself mysteriously falling asleep after eating a piece of cake his son and Francisco had baked. He woke up later, convinced he had been struck on the head. Though his son and Francisco dismissed his concerns, Andrew Sr. confided in Margarita the next morning, expressing fears that the boys might be

plotting against him. Margarita's concerns grew when the police found blood traces in Andrew Sr. S. Home using infrared technology. This discovery confirmed their suspicions, the murder had occurred in the house, not the car. The evidence pointed squarely at Andrew Jr., Jr. and Francisco. Both were arrested immediately after Andrew Sr. S. funeral. During separate interrogations, they confessed to the crime, each offering their version of events. Andrew Jr. admitted to the murder, claiming years of psychological abuse drove him to the breaking point. He described feeling humiliated and belittled by his father, particularly in front of others. Meanwhile, Francisco revealed a different motive. He confessed to being deeply in love

with Andrew Jr., willing to do anything to win his affection. Francisco claimed that Andrew Jr. promised him a share of the inheritance if he helped carry out the murder. The duo's plan was as sinister as it was methodical. On the night of June 28, they baked the cake laced with sedatives, hoping to incapacitate Andrew Sr. when that failed, they decided to strike the following night. Using a weapon inspired by Dead Rising 2, a bat with embedded nails, they launched a brutal attack. Andrew Sr. was lured into the liver room, where Francisco struck him from behind. Over the next several minutes, they delivered over 40 blows using the bat, a hammer, and a vase. Once Andrew Sr. was dead, they cleaned

his body, dressed it in fresh clothes, and staged a robbery. After dumping the body in the Land Rover, they drove it to the remote location where it was eventually discovered. Their efforts to cover their tracks were sloppy, however. The Land Rover attracted attention, and witnesses identified it as Andrew Sr. S. Vehicle. This, combined with the blood evidence at the house, sealed their fate. Both Andrew Jr. and Francisco were found guilty of murder. Andrew Jr. So the Jana went to them and, they were asked if they saw Sasty and the woman responded in the name of the team. He said that they had seen her but that,

unfortunately I had bad news and, is that Sasty had fled said he left, heard without saying goodbye without saying anything, and what was I painted, with a boy, In May 2021, one of the more atrocious crimes in history was, a twisted bloody crime, ruthless but ever guilty, paid for what they did, evidence is a confession and was discovered that these people were actually. Serial murderers, however, on the day, present has not yet done justice and this is where the sinister case begins of. Today Sazuayana was a member of a, numerous family from Yamna A, small town located in Maper, western Bengal, according to some sources. In his land there were only 4,000 inhabitants and all of them or at least,

Most were dedicated to cultivating their land and raise animals also the rate. Crime was very low almost. They all knew everyone. They respected and S.A.S. Gutey won the love. Of everyone who met her mother, he had heart problems and S.A.S. Gutey, helped him with the meal medication with. S.A.S. Guty purchases was a key piece in. His family since childhood was shown as a very responsible person and, delivered to others and

something else. Interesting of her is that she was very intelligent and all were convinced that I was going to get what was put. 20 years SAS Gute was studying, a second year at the university of the college where it was formed as nutritionist was a very studious and highlighted above the rest of colleagues taking out the best qualifications of its entire course but, despite being so successful, the feet in, the earth and helped others, improve your notes gave them classes, individuals manage time, I prepared Excel tables for them, all that made her very happy, I loved

doing group jobs and it was also very close and affectionate another. Very interesting point is that physically, it seemed harmless was thin, short, very little thing but I really had, a very strong character and was not left. Intimidate for anyone and this leads us to, year 2020 specifically at the time in, those who began the pandemic every, country saw it in a different way and, restrictions arrived at times, different and not many countries were, ready for something like that and a clear example. Of this was India the universities. They were in big cities with, very modern electricity but, students many of them came from, isolated villages places without electricity, with bad internet or directly without, internet so keep

studying from. House was impossible for them and S-A-S-Gutty. When he learned of this, he decided to protest. In her case she did have internet, electricity but new people who, they do not have the same fate as her with, which began a project for the government put the batteries planted, his faculty and began to protest and, many more people joined, she complained online, with direction they distributed posters, pamphlets, and claimed aid for, students you help S.A.S. Gutey. Managed to become a whole. Example in her free time this girl. Immersed fiction and

fantasy books. And I dreamed of traveling the whole world. Planned trips that he never did for. Lack of money but liked. Imagine in that situation on a plane. In a different country he liked a lot. Dreamed but unfortunately your dreams would never be done. Reality on May 3rd, 2021, presented as any other all the family gathered for lunch in the house of SAS Gutea Yanna's parents and, I'm 2 30 minutes at noon. Sasty started collecting, clean everything put inside sideways to, help his father man dedicated himself to, clean the stoves and she to scrub the dishes, but at some point he stayed, no soap to what he asked his, where there was more and after. The man gave indications left, of the kitchen when everyone ended there. Tasks were divided went to there, rooms to the garden

to the living room and about four. In the afternoon someone noticed that, the dishes remained dirty that, whole PICA was full of glasses and dishes so they decided to call Sasty, but the girl did not respond was not in. His room nowhere in the house and the family immediately became very nervous a month before the Jana family, decided to make some reforms in the kitchen. So they called the contractor and this, suggested two men to fix in the kitchen but for reasons that we do not know these workers were 10, no work days and May 3rd. They returned to work with a member, plus a woman at first were two. Men and May 3rd were two men, and a woman so the Yana were, towards them and asked if they saw. To Sasty and the woman responded on behalf of, of the team

said that they had seen but unfortunately had bad news and it was that sasty had fled said he heard without say goodbye without saying anything and what had paint that he has escaped with a boy sasty was an outgoing girl had everything and also had studies a career to escape with a boy were not her plans she wanted to study traveling the world had many plans and leave with anyone was not in your mind and having been would have shared with others without this woman named tuptipatra he insisted a lot repeated that he had escaped that he had hurry that did not even say goodbye and the more. He insisted more rarely, everything seemed so. The family decided to divide several. People stayed at home. Main others toured the gardens and, S.A.S. Gute's mother

and brother. They directed their old house in this. Point I must tell you a little what is the area according to some sources was a house, a field destined to grow plants and, raise animals and had some very remote areas that the family or even played and among them. I found the first house that was high. They saw a very tiny residence, made of Adobe when they had no money. They They lived there, but when they saved they, built a house with better, materials on the other tip of the farm, and Adobe's was abandoned son, as a warehouse as a resting place, but, apart from that they didn't even touch her and, went to that place where the mother and the brother headed for the house, Maine toured the garden they arrived, to Adobe's house and

recorded everything, but there were not and a trace of. S.A.S. Gute looked under the beds and, cabinets and realized that one, of them was key by, this about four 30 minutes in the afternoon. They decided to throw the door down and, do it on the other side discovered the S-A-S-S-Life body Gutea-Yana, is completely torn and a piece. Of this was strongly tied in. Around his neck there was blood for all, parts on your face and your arms in your, intimate parts, and it was very clear that had been and another thing that was very, clear is that the three workers knew, something of the subject so immediately, they called the police and accused them. Formally we are still devastated and, shocked with this tragic death in, our own

family sometimes not even. My parents are even real to. Most of their lives passed in. India cannot believe that such a crime. Euro has occurred in your country of origin. Ains Vera Prima da S.A.S. Goudi ana. When the police arrived at the scene, crime began to. Interrogations cordoned off the area and they asked everyone and in that. The three workers were included, Bikash Murmoo by Bel Dakota Munda de Jant, and finally Tupti Potra of Sabang Law. Police in front of the family itself asked the two men to take away, t-shirts and under these. They discussed. covered dozens of scratches, scratches that implied that they were. The culprit Sazuayana defended, until the end and those subjects in there, bodies had

the crime-proof but, the most interesting thing is that your clothes were, clean was impeccable and the police, assumed that dirty clothes were, hidden somewhere so, registered all property and they ended up finding in a corner the, used clothes at the time of crime, I was in that house on that property, they had wounds and the body had them. Clothes were on the scene everything pointed, to them and therefore pressed a, little more and the three individuals do not. They showed a remorse PCE. They showed cold without empathy as if that. Thiem not with them and that attitude implied another very interesting and is that all crime. I was planned to the millimeter knew what, what did what his victim would be, how to do it and

wore replacement clothes, to commit the crime and flee without further ado. How is these three people logical? They were arrested and taken to police station, and once there I returned to question and, the more questions they were asked more, things they had in fact confessed that they had previously killed more, women and that their modus operandi always. It was the same offered very, she pretended to be workers were going to, certain areas and quickly looked for. His victim a Begita Bella girl, thin that apparently did not have, strength and then studied in the area the, the kidnapped they were a section. They tortured her and finally killed her. From there they changed clothes and fled without more and for when the family, he realized it was too late. Because

they were in another city in, poor villages the police did not usually act. DePriza and confusion became, the best weapon to disappear without being, seen the families went crazy, looking for victims, and sometimes, it took days to find them days that they took the opportunity to flee the most, far possible but Sasty's family. They stopped their feet more than normal these criminals were, accustomed to attacking families of, under resources people who do not usually send, to your children to study other cities, and that many times do not know or read or, writing comes poor isolated areas, dedicate to the field to create animals, but, Sasty's family was completely, different and the girl's father while the criminals were at the police station,

presented there with a document of criminal complaint for the police to, was forced to make a complete research in this report. Initial the three subjects were accused, formerly of sexual salado murder, criminal conspiracy and search already. That had no permission to enter the. Adobe's house could only enter the main house since the reform was in, your kitchen but once again I repeat that. Adobe's house could not enter the,

six in the afternoon of that same day gave. Start Sasty's body autopsy. Yana and this revealed things that will put you. The spike hairs were estimated that S.A.S. Beauty Yana was attacked between 2.30 p.m. on May 3.30 p.m. on May 3.21 and what he suffered was a. Authentic cavalry was brutally and, also suffered manual strangulation, the nose and the neck damaged organs and mutilated end. They severely cut part of their body. These monsters made torture. Was extremely painful and the worst. Of all, the crime was committed in, less than an hour

these criminals. They were so accustomed to killing that. They knew what bones break and how to proceed, so that the victim could not flee or, neither will shout every aspect of the. Autopsy implied that these, criminals had done it before, previously killed and that modus. Operandi was not improvised everything was, planned and if they were released, they would repeat it again that the police, I had to act as quickly as possible. Before the autopsy report the, family was horrified end, inevitably looked back like, I told you before this family a month ago I decreased reforms, specifically in the kitchen of the house. Maine and for this they called a contractor made a deal, what they wanted and this contractor

called. To two workers the workers arrive look, the kitchen and for ten days disappear. On the internet there is no information about. We do not know if they were for parties of the town if it was for a personal matter, but the issue here is that May 3rd is return to work and bring to a third member and that person was, a woman well seems that. the ten days of absence those two, workers plotted the perfect plan when they were hired were fixed on several neighborhood girls in the neighbors in the family and finally decided

that. His victim would be Sastiyana was short, thin very little, very sweet thing and, apparently he was the perfect victim. Then they went to the next phase of, his plan and was to study all the property. How was the main house like the garden as it was the secondary house and, they set out that I was never going to that house. No one was isolated very removed was, very silent and the family and not even the. I stepped on but the problem here was to bring SAS-Qadi to that point and their enters. I play the third member of the woman the idea is the following criminals. They believe that Sasty will trust them and this mode takes it peacefully to Adobe's house but what happens that if they asked her things about the work. Girl would call her father since,

and after all the father was the person that hired these men he directed. The work knew what to do and therefore the best option was to call another woman and that this person would be able to speak with Sasty and get the girl, will entrust her any, nonsense our friends and S-A-S-E-S-Quati, would accompany the woman to the house of, Adobe and once they're the men, would attack and kill her but what she is. People did not study is the way of being. Victim Sasty was very outgoing. He told his family where he was going, where did he like who liked who not, and Tupti-Patra the woman insisted, too much that the girl had, escaped something that Sasty would never do in here. Another point arrives that will expose the hairs, at the end and is that

having all three. Criminals between bars the woman told, police who had the bag at home, the Yana had collected the clothes, bloody had photos of the, wounds had confession, but, supposedly this woman's bag, he was at his victim's house so, asked permission to make a call and, he directly contacted the contractor, asked this contractor to, please go to Yana's house and collected, without further ado, the call goes to the house of, the Yana, and once there ask for the bag, the woman but the family refuses in. Rotundo in several pages mentioned, that he was practically kicking and then they opened the bag and they found two bills of tickets that amount of money was too much great for three simple workers and four the hypothesis of

contractor was also behind that that man knew what was going to happen and still knowing who they were and he sent them to the house of the yanna here we reach the most outrageous of all and is that the police he took dna samples from the three suspicious and s a sqaddy's body yana but after that after this Proof left them freedom and this news. Indignant to the country the family of S.A.S. Gutee could not be silent about this. Theme and immediately spread, though. History in social networks called on. Television Press created a website we about the case disseminated.

The names of criminals as you, I said at the beginning of the video in the area, in which everything happened never happened. There were hardly any crimes there weren't. Just robberies and everyone knew each other. Among themselves it was a quiet place without. Conflicts but after the crime, though. Neighbors panic many times. I left open doors and children, played on the street without supervision as, they knew everyone

did not distrust, but the problem here is that the crime was not. A simple kidnapping was somewhat brutal that it happened inside the victim's house, within an area that should be, safe for her so panic, extended and even more when the culprits, they were on the street and the faculty in the that S.AS Gutey studied several, protests against what had, passed and demanded that the government did something about it that AP ways, the culprits that will lead them to trial, to make them pay during the Pandemia helped many people and these now wanted to return the favor. They wanted to give it justice that the government was not giving him a immediate detention tougher penalties a hard punishment for these people but nothing this case took a complete turn. Jiro that made Sasty's story will stop being imported and

that is that too. Political parties decided to contribute there. Granite of Sand in this case the BJP and the TMC the media. They began to say that Sasty was a leader. BJP party youth one of the two main political parties of the India on May 2nd, 2021 the TMC party, won the elections in the region in the who lived Sasty and his family and media interpreted this crime as a accounts adjusting when winning the TMC thugs affiliated with said party, they decided to kill the leaders of the, otherwise the BJP and supposedly, among them was Sasty in this way the terrible crime no matter how bad, sound was in the background because, for the population the victim of the case does not, he was someone without a person to, who wanted to silence the most media.

Important from India took the case. As something political and not as a crime. Brutal for what thousands of people. They thought the story was a lie that. Sasty had never existed and his. Death was invented to discredit. To TMC but Sasty was real. History was 100% true and according to the,

family was never affiliated with any. Political party was a good student. Good daughter, good sister helped. I wanted to travel more. I had dreams but three patients decided that he did not deserve. Be happy and after sneaking into your house. They killed form, ruthless and this leads us to the outcome of the case and is that in reality there is no one. With all the great controversy the case was, silence there is no sentence there

is no. Arrests and the three culprits continue. In freedom what we know is that family created a page called justice for Sasty and starting from this they are, promoting a signature collection to bring the three to justice, guilty to the three people who, the moment ended in the, I am recording this are 28,000 signatures but need 35,000 so. Here Abigito in the the description leave you, direct link so you can, participate and so that we can, get the three culprits to be, taken before justice so now, it is your turn what do you think of the case and, you think justice will finally be done. The case starts in November 2011 with a viral story about a man named Ricky Nells who allegedly killed his wife after she threw away his

Star Wars action figure collection. Ricky, a 30-year-old, had been married for several years to poor P. Lenro, 28. Their marriage was rocky, with constant arguments that seemed to escalate quickly. She even threatened to move back to Thailand. But when she tossed out his prize Star Wars collection, that was the last straw. In a heated confrontation, Ricky strangled her. While it was a tragic incident, the story spread like wildfire online, sparking memes and endless discussions on forums, YouTube, and Facebook. It even reached a point where people debated if the story was real or just internet lore.

Little did anyone know that Star Wars would again be at the heart of a murder case just three years later, but this one had a twist of Erie planning behind it. Fast forward to 2014, where the true story of Samina Imam, a successful regional manager at Costco, begins. She was a woman known for her kindness, a true people person who could lift anyone's spirits with her warm smile and thoughtful advice. She managed Costco stores across three major cities, Southampton, Bristol, and Coventry, frequently traveling in meeting new people. Despite the demanding nature of her work, she loved it, and something about her happiness led friends and family to suspect she might be seeing someone. By December 2014, her close ones were nearly certain Samina was in love. She was more

cheerful than usual, constantly on her phone, and always had plans. Her family expected she'd introduce her mysterious partner over the Christmas holidays. Samina's holiday plans included working until 4 p.m. on December 24, meeting up with someone afterward, and possibly spending Christmas with friends or that special someone. On December 26th, she'd drive from Cardiff, where she lived, to Essex to celebrate with her family. But Christmas came and went, and Samina never arrived. On December 26th, her family reported her missing. The police immediately sprang into action, launching Operation Ceramic, to uncover Samina's last known movements. Her co-workers confirmed she'd left work at 4 p.m. on December 24th, which surveillance footage

from the Costco parking lot corroborated. A bit later, another camera captured her shopping at a Marx and Spencer store, where she bought a bottle of Bellini in some sweets. All clues pointed toward a romantic rendezvous. The police soon discovered that Sam Ina had booked a room at the Murmoud Hotel in Birmingham for the 24th and 25th, with full board, a lavish holiday plan. Yet the hotel staff reported that she never checked in, meaning something had happened before she reached her destination. For 11 days, police searched tirelessly, while the media circulated her description and that of her black BMW. She was described as a petite woman of English and Pakistani descent, with dark hair and standing about five feet tall. Meanwhile,

detectives got hold of her phone records and found messages suggesting she was upset on December 24th. At 6.30 p.m., she'd sent a message to a man named Roger, expressing anger, and saying she was going where she be appreciated. Roger Cooper, 41, a Costco manager and Samina's colleague, seemed suspiciously indifferent in his response the following day, merely texting her, Merry Christmas. Police decided to bring him in for questioning, where he eventually confessed to having an affair with Samina, though he claimed she had another man and had left him out of jealousy. Roger's alibi was that he'd spent Christmas Eve with his brother David in Lester before returning home to his wife. For police, his calm reaction to Samina's angry message and the

vague alibi raised red flags. Police obtained location data from Samina's phone, which showed she'd headed to Leicester instead of Birmingham on the 24th, aligning her location with David's home, which cast further doubt on Roger's story. The case took a shocking turn on January 4, 2015, when a neighbor reported seeing Samina's BMW parked on their street. Police inspected the vehicle, finding three suspicious details, it was spotlessly clean, devoid of Samina's belongings, and the driver's seat was pushed way back, odd for someone as short as Samina. Instead, it seemed suited to someone like Roger, who was nearly six feet three inches. As suspicions mounted, police called in Roger's brother, David, a former military man who

stood nearly six feet six inches. David seemed visibly nervous and denied knowing Samina or having seen her on the 24th. Yet Samina's phone had been in Leicester, near his home, casting doubt on his story. Police scoured surveillance footage near the street where Samina's car was found. They spotted two tall men exiting the vehicle, later identified as Roger and David. Determined to break David's resolve, detectives called him in for further questioning while another team searched his home. They found a bizarre collection of Star Wars memorabilia, random trinkets, and even a bottle of Bellini and sweets, identical to the item Samina had bought on the day she vanished. Confronted with this evidence, David finally cracked and admitted that

Roger, who was married but had multiple affairs, had been romantically involved with Samina. As the affair grew intense, Samina pressured Roger to commit fully, even issuing him an ultimatum to choose between her and his wife. Fearing she'd expose him, Roger saw Samina as a liability. So, on the night of December 24, David claimed, Roger had lured Samina to his house. Once there, the brothers confronted her, and David, not knowing how to calm her, allegedly used a chloroform-soaked cloth to subdue her. Unfortunately, she died. Panic-stricken, David called a friend named Ben, who supposedly helped dispose of the body.

Despite David's confession, police doubted his story fully absolved Roger. An anonymous tip led them to a plot of land owned by David in Leicester, littered with rubble and debris, an ideal spot to conceal a body. There, on January 16, they found Saminus remains buried in a military-style sleeping bag, her head wrapped in a plastic bag and her torso bound. An autopsy confirmed that she died from chloroform inhalation, and her system contained a lethal mix of toxins. With evidence mounting against them, Roger and David were arrested on January 7.

While the media sensationalized the case, playing up the Star Wars angle, detectives focused on building a solid case against the brothers for premeditated murder. On October 21st, 2015, both were found guilty of first-degree murder, with a minimum sentence of 30 years each. This tragic case revealed the length some people will go to hide secrets. Although Samina's murder was linked in pop culture with Star Wars, the true horror lay in the cold, calculated actions of the Cooper brothers. The chilling story serves as a reminder that real-life villains don't wear costumes, they often hide in plain sight. This retelling captures the case's drama and psychological tension, revealing how an obsession with control, and the touch

of Star Wars, led to a calculated tragedy. When psychologists share stories of working with individuals who turned out to be psychopaths, it's almost always gripping, unsettling, and deeply thought-provoking. From eerie moments to chilling confessions, these encounters reveal the complexity of human behavior and the challenges faced by professionals trying to help or understand individuals with psychopathic tendencies. Here's a deep dive into some of these unsettling stories, rewritten in an informal yet unique style, while sticking to the requested 3,800 words. The first encounter, Sarah, one psychologist recalls an experience that left an indelible mark early in their career. After working in

forensic psychology, they transitioned to working with children and adolescents due to the dangers they faced, including being physically assaulted multiple times. Enter Sarah, an eight-year-old girl from a seemingly loving and supportive family. Sarah's parents, balanced and devoted, had gone through a carousel of therapists before landing here. Most therapists struggled with Sarah because she wasn't your typical troubled child. She wasn't impulsive or prone to tantrums. Instead, Sarah was meticulous, calculating, and eerily calm. What set Sarah apart was her history.

She had a disturbing habit of dismembering Barbie dolls and harming small animals. But what truly alarmed the psychologist was how Sarah never got caught. Instead, she'd convince younger kids to do her bidding, a puppet master pulling the strings. During one session, Sarah's true nature emerged. Armed with a $500 testing booklet, Sarah began tearing pages, one by one, all while maintaining unbroken eye contact. When asked why she was doing it, Sarah simply smiled and said, What are you going to do about it? The psychologist, unfazed, replied, nothing.

It's not my booklet, that response threw Sarah off completely. For hours afterward, Sarah engaged in a battle of wits, testing reactions, pushing boundaries, and attempting to unmask any emotional response. Her parents, terrified yet helpless, later moved the family to a rural, forested area. Six months later, the area suffered one of its worst wildfires in history. To this day, the psychologist wonders if Sarah was responsible or if it was mere coincidence. The teen gang member, another story comes from a mental health counselor at a residential program for adolescents.

One of their patients, a teenage boy with a history of violence, seemed to embody the textbook definition of a psychopath. This teen had been in and out of gangs since the age of 12, with a rap sheet including murder charges and violent assaults. Despite his history, he appeared calm, even agreeable, during therapy. He talked about wanting a better life and moving on from his past. But there was always an undercurrent of something darker, a sense that his remorse was performative.

The counselor recalls how the teen spoke about his future. While he claimed to want a fresh start, he admitted that returning to his gang was his backup plan. He even spoke matter-of-factly about the crimes he'd committed, devoid of any genuine emotion. The counselor's gut told them the teen was manipulating the system, doing just enough to get by. Despite the progress made on paper, the underlying coldness lingered, leaving the counselor with an uneasy sense that true change might never come. The arsonist teen, in one chilling case studied for research purposes, a 17-year-old boy set fire to his family's home, killing both his parents.

The boy had meticulously planned the crime, siphoning gasoline over several months to avoid suspicion. On the night of the fire, he doused the doorways with gasoline and set the house ablaze, leaving his parents trapped upstairs. When apprehended, the boy showed no emotion. Instead, he casually chatted with officers about video games and girls during his ride to the station. His only moment of irritation came when the car radio played music he didn't like.

his interrogation, the boy described the act as if it were a mundane chore, like taking out the trash. His calm, detached demeanor was described as deeply unsettling. At one point, he even asked investigators if he could see his parents' remains, not out of remorse but sheer curiosity about the aftermath of his actions. The counselor's brush with danger, a counselor once recounted an encounter with a client that left them shaken. The client, a seemingly ordinary man, described an argument with his partner in chilling detail.

Argument, which began over a minor accident involving spilled water, escalated to the point where the man cornered his partner and wrapped his hands around their neck. What struck the counselor wasn't just the act itself but how the man recounted it, calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. Throughout the session, the client shifted between charming and coldly manipulative, attempting to elicit reactions from the counselor. It was a terrifying experience, one that underscored the danger of working with individuals who lack empathy and emotional depth.

A case of familial deception. In a twist-filled story, a psychologist working in educational psychology encountered a young woman who brought her seven-year-old sister for an evaluation. The child struggled with basic skills, leading schools to suspect a learning disability. The older sister portrayed herself as a selfless caregiver, sacrificing her own needs to care for her neglected sibling. However, as sessions progressed, inconsistencies emerged. The sister's story began to unravel, revealing a shocking truth, she was

the child's sister but her mother. Pregnant as a teenager, she tried to hide her condition, with her parents' complicity. The child's developmental delays were likely a result of prenatal neglect. The psychologist was left grappling with the layers of deception and the psychological impact on both sisters, the serial killers puppet master, a criminologist shared an unsettling professional encounter with the relative of a suspected serial killer. Though not directly involved in clinical settings, this criminologist worked closely with law enforcement and saw firsthand the influence of this relative on the killer.

It became clear that the relative had been the guiding hand behind many of the crimes. Law enforcement suspected as much but lacked the evidence to prosecute. Both individuals are now deceased, but the criminologist remains haunted by the chilling dynamic they observed. The born-evil debate, in their career, this criminologist also encountered several individuals whose actions were so heinous that the question of nature versus nurture arose. Were these people born this way, or did their environments shape them into what they became? One individual, a highly intelligent criminal, evaded justice due to their cunning.

Another admitted to abusing animals as a precursor to harming children, a confession so disturbing that the criminologist couldn't share it with anyone, not even their closest friends or therapist. A chilling reminder. These stories, while unsettling, serve as a reminder of the humanity behind even the most heinous acts. As one criminologist eloquently put it, there are a no monsters under bridges or in the woods. It's just us. We create the conditions for crime and evil as societies, communities, and nations. We're responsible for the monsters we fear, final thoughts. The work of psychologists, counselors, and criminologists often brings them face to face with the darkest corners of human behavior. Whether it's a calculating

child, a manipulative teen, or a coldly detached adult, these professionals navigate a mindfield of ethical, emotional, and personal challenges. Through their stories, we gain a deeper understanding of the complexities of psychopathy and the resilience of those who dedicate their lives to studying and addressing it. Finally, I found the true story. So, here's the deal. The truth hit me like a ton of bricks. It turns out, the older sister was actually the real mom of the little girl. Yep, she got pregnant when she was super young and tried, unsuccessfully, to terminate the pregnancy

by taking pills. The parents, completely ashamed of the situation, hit her away until the baby was born. Then, in a masterclass of denial, the grandmother stepped in to raise her own granddaughter as if she were her daughter. They even went so far as to move to a whole new city to dodge the judgmental stares of their neighbors. The whole family was wrapped up in this big, ugly lie. And as if that wasn't enough, they also ignored the fact that the little girl needed extra care and attention. Honestly, the most disturbing part for me wasn't even the cover up itself, it was how cruel the older sister, aka the real mom, was to her own mother just to keep the lie intact. That lie, though, came at a huge cost, and the one who paid the

most for it was the little girl. Her development suffered, but no one seemed to care. A troubled student, let me rewind a bit. I'm a teacher, not a psychologist. But I had this third grader, around eight years old, who transferred to my class from another school. Let's call him M. From the moment he walked in, he was quiet, too quiet. He kept to himself and didn't talk to anyone. He had an IEP, individualized education program, but honestly, I can't remember what it was for. One day, I was writing on the board with my back turned, and out of nowhere, I heard this blood-curdling scream. I spun around, and one of the kids had a pencil stuck in their hand, like, actually lodged in there. Chaos erupted in the classroom. I asked what

happened, and everyone pointed at M. I was stunned. What could have triggered him to do that? When I walked over to M, he was just sitting there at his desk, calm as could be, like nothing had happened. I was in shock. I couldn't wrap my head around why he would do something so violent. Later, I decided to go through M's file from his previous school. That's when I stumbled upon a note from his former teacher. Turns out, this wasn't his first time doing something like this. According to the note, M had stabbed another kid in the chin with a pencil. I was floored.

I immediately wrote a letter to my principal, insisting that M be removed from my class, for the safety of everyone, including myself. Before any action could be taken, we had to meet with his parents. On the day of the meeting, M's mom showed up, along with his younger sister. We explained what had happened, and the mom again. admitted that Em hadn't been the same since their dad left. She also mentioned that the whole family was already seeing a psychologist. I'll admit, I felt a little bad for her. But then, toward the end of the meeting, I noticed something that made my stomach drop. M's younger sister

had burned scars on her hands and arms. When I asked the mom about it, she told me, without much emotion, that Em had poured alcohol on her and set her on fire. That was it for me. I knew I couldn't have him in my classroom anymore. Eventually, M was transferred to a specialized school for kids with severe mental health issues. Years later, to this day, I still think about M. It's been about 16 years since all this happened, and I often wonder what became of him. He had so much anger inside, but he was also eerily calm, like he didn't fully grasp the consequences of his actions, or maybe he just didn't care. My wife, who is a psychologist, once told me that psychopaths and sociopaths often blend in with the rest of society.

Their masters at hiding their strange behavior and replacing it with something that looks normal. She even mentioned examples like Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez, the Knight Stalker, and John Wayne Gacy. These men were monsters, sure, but in their younger years, they figured out how to act right to avoid suspicion. Gacy even got married and had kids. According to my wife, it can be almost impossible to spot a psychopath because they know exactly how to manipulate people. They'll say all the right things to seem normal. But if you look closely, there are often little tells, an unsettling enthusiasm when sharing stories, a complete inability to empathize, or a strange indifference to other people's pain. Even so, not everyone

who shows these traits is a psychopath, sometimes, it's just bad vibes. A resident's dark side, back when I worked as an orderly at a residential facility for kids and teens with special needs near Chicago, I met this one resident who left a lasting impression on me. He was in his early 20s, and we actually got along pretty well. He loved sci-fi, just like me, and we bonded over that. But some of the more experienced staff warned me to be cautious around him. He was incredibly strong and prone to delusions. One day, I came in for my afternoon shift and saw one of the morning staff members with his shirt covered in blood. Apparently, the resident had snapped during a class and attacked him, aiming for his face and even grabbing whatever objects

he could use as weapons. After that, I kept my guard up around him. But what stuck with me was how he reacted after the incident. He knew what he'd done was wrong, and he understood that his actions had made the other residents scared of him. But there wasn't much remorse, at least, not in the way you'd expect. It was like he knew how to act sorry without actually feeling it. Years later, I heard he'd been arrested for assaulting a caregiver at a group home.

It broke my heart because, despite everything, I had hoped he'd find a way to turn his life around. But the system he was in didn't make that easy. A family crisis. I'm not a psychologist, but one weekend, I found myself in the middle of a crisis. My sister called me, panicking because her husband had threatened to end his life. I rushed over, terrified of what I might find. Thankfully, he was alive, just sitting there, drinking whiskey, and acting like it was no big deal.

When I confronted him, he tried to downplay everything, claiming he never said he was going to hurt himself. But then my sister came home and showed me the texts he'd sent her. They were chilling, basically a goodbye letter. Yet, when we called him out on it, he flipped the script and started blaming my sister for calling her parents and making a scene. I suggested counseling, but that just set him off. He went on this rant about how no one could tell him what to do.

It was a mess. The sociopath I knew in college. In college, I knew this guy who was officially diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder. He was the life of every party, always surrounded by people. On the surface, he seemed like the perfect friend, charismatic, funny, and generous. But something about him always felt off to me. He was a compulsive liar, and I could never bring myself to trust him. One night, he followed me outside while I was smoking and tried to strike up a conversation.

He was using all his usual tricks, charming smiles, subtle flattery, but I wasn't buying it. Eventually, I told him straight up that I didn't trust him and why. For the first time, he dropped the act. His face went completely blank, like all the emotion had drained out of him. Then, he admitted it, he had been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder and basically confirmed everything I suspected about him. Even after that, he never stopped trying to manipulate people. It was like a game to him.

Whenever he got what he wanted, he'd catch my eye and wink, as if we were in on some private joke. It was unsettling, to say the least. The nurse's perspective, as a nurse, I've dealt with my fair share of psychiatric cases. One patient stands out, though. He'd been brought in after trying to break into a family's home while they were inside. He claimed he didn't remember doing it, but during our conversations, he admitted some deeply disturbing things. For example, he once brutally killed his family's cat and blamed it on the dog.

He even told me that when he broke into the house, he fully intended to hurt the people inside. I reported everything he said to the doctors, but to my disbelief, he was discharged the next day without any follow-up. It was one of those moments where the system felt completely broken. Final thoughts. These experiences have shown me how complex and, frankly, terrifying human behavior can be. Whether it's a troubled kid like M, a resident in a facility, or someone hiding behind a charming facade, there's always more to the story than meets the eye. It's a reminder that understanding

people requires empathy, patience, and, sometimes, a healthy dose of caution. As soon as he saw it, he knew it was the next piece of the puzzle. So he stopped his vehicle, walked over, opened the bag, and found a right leg. It all began on Sunday, March 22, 2009, in Cotteret, Hertfordshire. At 7 a.m., a farmer was doing his work on the corner of his property. Right next to the fence, he saw a travel bag. He had a long day ahead of him and assumed it was just trash, so he kept working, plowing the land, tending to the animals. But by the afternoon, curiosity got the best of him, and he decided to take a closer look. His actions were simple, he approached the bag, stopped his tractor, got out, and opened it. Inside, he found a tightly

sealed blue plastic bag wrapped in layers of duct tape. It was odd. He hesitantly pressed on the plastic bag and immediately realized there was something soft inside. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, none of them good. So he pulled out his phone and called the police. A patrol car arrived at the scene, assuming it was a false alarm, thinking the farmer was overreacting, that it was probably just garbage. But when an officer opened the bag, they found a human leg.

A perfectly amputated leg. The area was immediately secured, and a preliminary search for more evidence began. To start, although there was a road nearby, it didn't seem like the bag had been thrown from a vehicle. There were no drag marks, no mud stains on the bag. It was as if someone had deliberately placed it there and then driven away. Second, there were no fingerprints on either the travel bag or the plastic bag. Third, the analysis of the leg revealed that the victim's DNA was not in any database, meaning they had no criminal record.

However, one thing was certain, it was a left leg. But was it from a man or a woman? How had they died? Why was the leg there? What they did know was that the amputation had been done by a professional. The joints had been carefully separated, there were no saw marks, no knife cuts. It was an almost perfect dismemberment. This led the police to initially believe that a doctor had performed the amputation,

that maybe the victim had needed the surgery, and the hospital, unsure of what to do with the limb, had discarded it. But this explanation made no sense. The only way to find the killer was to find the victim. But as mentioned, their DNA was not on record. They had no idea if it was a man or a woman, how they had died, or even a person. if they had been reported missing. With no leads, time passed. Then, on March 29th, another discovery was made, this time in Drover's Lane, Wilmcoat. Someone found another travel bag.

Inside, wrapped in duct tape, was a plastic bag containing a left forearm, without an elbow or wrist. Two days later, on March 31st, a farmer in Ashford, Leicestershire, noticed that some dirt had been disturbed near a corral. At first, he thought his dogs had been digging, but when he inspected further, he unearthed the human head. He immediately called the police, and the entire area was sealed off. Forensic inspectors arrived, along with officers from various departments. The farm was swarmed with law enforcement, and, of course, the press. The head was unidentifiable because the killer had removed all distinctive features. The eyes eyes, nose, ears, tongue, skin, and lips were gone. However, they had overlooked the teeth,

a crucial detail. Experts determined that the skull structure suggested it belonged to an adult male. The precision of the cuts indicated that the killer knew exactly what they were doing. The incisions were clean and deliberate. It seemed like they had done this before. With this grisly discovery, the media went wild. In October of that same year, the sixth installment of the Saw Movie franchise was set to be released. This fueled speculation that the case was inspired by the films, or that the murderer was playing a game, assembling a human puzzle. The press dubbed it the TIGSaw case or the Th puzzle case.

All of the UK knew there were more body parts yet to be found. And sure enough, on April 7, the next piece appeared. A man driving along the A10 Road in Puckridge, Hertfordshire, spotted a travel bag on the side of the road. As soon as he saw it, he knew it was another piece of the puzzle. He stopped his car, walked over, opened the bag, and found a right leg. The final discovery came on April 11th. A green suitcase was found in a ditch in stand-in, Hertfordshire.

Inside with a right arm, the upper part of the left arm, and the torso. But there was no sign of the victim's hands. Despite this, investigators finally had enough to move forward. First, the victim was confirmed to be an adult male with no criminal record. DNA analysis revealed he was of mixed descent, with partial Asian ancestry. Second, the body parts have been separated by a professional, a doctor, a butcher, a forensic expert, or a killer with experience in dismemberment. Third, with more of the body recovered, they could determine the cause of death, two stab wounds to the back. One of these punctured a lung.

Fourth, the killer had done everything possible to prevent identification. The eyes, ears, tongue, skin, and lips were removed. The hands were missing. But the teeth remained, and they would prove to be critical. At a press conference, police released details about the victim, his ancestors. history, height, and other characteristics, asking the public for any information. Tips began to flood in. Families of missing persons called in, hoping for closure.

Among these calls, one stood out, someone claimed the victim was Jeffrey Howe. Some sources say it was Jeffrey's mother who called, while others say it was his brother. Jeffrey Howe had been reported missing on March 16, 2009, just days before the first body part was found. Howe was born in 1960 and was 49 years old at the time of his murder. He was a successful businessman who sold kitchens. Before that, he had traveled across the U.K. and even worked as a chef in Italy. He loved football, was a Manchester United fan, had been married twice, and had no children. According to his brother, he was a cheerful, sociable man with many friends.

But his neighbors had a different view of him. They described him as aggressive and unpleasant, someone who didn't like children. When police arrived at his apartment in Southgate, London, they expected it to be empty. But when they rang the doorbell, a couple answered, Stephen Marshall and Sarah Bush. Stephen Marshall, 38, was a former bodybuilder, personal trainer, and ex-doorman. His last job was owning a gym, but it had gone bankrupt. He then met Sarah Bush, a 21st. one-year-old escort. The couple had been living in Howe's apartment since late 2008.

Initially, Howe had taken them in out of kindness when Marshall lost his business. But over time, they took advantage of him. When Howe asked them to contribute to rent, they refused. Instead, they killed him. Marshall was the one who dismembered the body, distributing the parts across the countryside. Surveillance footage later captured them disposing of the remains. The motive? Greed. After the murder, they spent house money on luxury items and sold his belongings, including one of his cars on eBay.

At trial, Marshall initially blamed Sarah, but later admitted to the killing. He also confessed to disposing of bodies for a crime family in the 1990s. In January 2010, the jury convicted both of them. Marshall received a life sentence for murder, while Bush was sentenced for assistance for assisting in the disposal of the body. And thus, the jigsaw case came to a close. We begin. Today's story begins with a woman named Tamara Michelle Douglas, better known as Tammy.

Tammy was born on May 4, 1970, in Pasadena, California, the daughter of Phyllis Cooper and Ronald Douglas. It is said that she had quite a few siblings, and all of them, without exception, were accredited members of the gifted students at Cerritos High School. At the age of 13, she moved with her family to Springville, Utah. She played the drums and the clarinet in the high school band and was also the editor of the senior yearbook. She loved writing and reading, and at home, she had a small library. She collected all kinds of books and loved playing librarian, something she did practically her entire life.

She lent books in a very peculiar way. She had library cards, due dates, and if you missed the deadline, she find you. Over time, she became the secretary of the Springville Parks Department. And it's at this moment that I must introduce something very important, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, also known as the Mormon Church. Apparently, Tammy was raised in this religion and it was within it that she met the man who would become her future husband, Chad Guy Daybell. They liked each other, started dating, and in 1990, they decided to get married. Over the years, they had five children, and Tammy became a homemaker.

And now, we must get to know Chad. Within his church, this man was very well known, known and respected. Chad was a highly successful man, completely devoted to his beliefs. He always went to church, fulfilled every obligation, and was said to be a very hardworking man, so everyone saw him as a good catch. In 2004, they founded a publishing house together, Spring Creek Book Company, and there, Chad published a total of 25 books. On top of that, he created a religious podcast. He started giving talks, lectures, everything in his life revolved around religion, and his five children were also deeply

involved. In 2015, the entire family moved to Salem, Idaho, where Tammy became an assistant librarian at Central Elementary School in Sugar City, Idaho. Everything in her life was perfect. She was friendly, kind, had friends everywhere, everyone loved her. She was the perfect wife and mother. And according to doctors, she was in perfect health. She led a healthy life, exercised, had no health issues, everything was perfect. But on the morning of October 19, 2019, she was found lifeless by one of her children. Apparently, Tammy didn't wake up. The night before, she had supposedly had a coughing fit, but no one in the family thought much of it. She coughed in front of everyone, drank some water, went to bed, and then the next morning, she didn't wake up. As you can imagine, everyone was

devastated. She was only 49 years old, with her whole life ahead of her, and both her children and husband were completely shattered. They didn't understand anything. They didn't know what to do. And when the coroner suggested an autopsy, everyone said no. In fact, her death was ruled natural. And that's where her case seemed to end. One, two days pass. Two weeks. And then her husband does something odd. Everyone thinks he's disconnecting, that he's so heartbroken he needs to escape, get away, change the air. But when he returns home, he does so with a new wife, a woman named Lori Vallow. For more than 20 years, he had been with Tammy. They were married, happy, had five children. Their life was seemingly perfect. And in just two weeks, he had a new wife.

A new wife whom he was calling, the love of my life. So, of course, his children decided to investigate, discovering that this woman, Laurie, had a life very similar to Chats. Just a few months earlier, her husband had also died. But that's not all. The year before that, her previous husband had also died. This is where today's intriguing case begins. Lori Cox was born on June 26, 1973, in Loma Linda, California, the daughter of Janice and Barry Cox. Lori had four brothers, and her family was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

In fact, they were very involved in those beliefs. They never missed church. And something interesting is that the family dynamic was quite closed. For the children, their day-to-day life was normal because they were. were born and raised in that environment, but to outsiders, it might have seemed extreme. Barry wanted to follow the biblical precepts to the letter and believed his family was the true future. The rest of the world didn't matter.

They were superior to others, in intelligence, beauty, values. The Cox family was perfection, and social norms made no sense to him. What's more, he believed the world was lost, and the proof was his absolute opposition to the government, and and, of course, to paying taxes. For decades, he and his wife had legal battles with the IRS, accumulating a debt of over $300,000. In fact, according to Barry, the problem was this. The federal income tax is illegal, and the IRS is a dishonest agency.

Barry was even reprimanded by an Arizona judge in 2018 for acting as a lawyer without qualifications. So, as you can see, this man always thought he was above of everything in everyone. Above others, above the law, and according to some sources, he may have had narcissistic traits, which one of his daughters, Lori Cox, allegedly inherited. It said that she loved being the center of attention, loved being admired and adored by everyone. She was always very popular, and boys were always chasing her. After graduating in 1992, she married her then-boyfriend Nelson James.

But the marriage didn't last long, and three years later, she married her second husband, William L. Lejoya, with whom she had her first son, Colby. But in 96, the marriage ended. The following years are silent. She moved with her son, moved on, and her family says she was the perfect mother, loving, attentive, and a hopeless romantic. Which she proved in 2001 by marrying for the third time, to Joseph Rine. John. Joseph was a member of the military and served for several years. According to those who knew him, Joseph, better known as Joe, was a charming guy. He was kind, warm, cheerful, and with him, she had a daughter, Tiley Ryan. People also emphasized that he was a good father, attentive, dedicated, loving. A present father. He loved children and eventually adopted Colby as his own son. However, at some point, everything changed.

Reportedly, Joe became violent, and in 2004, Laurie filed for divorce. From there began a legal battle for custody of the two children. For the divorce, she claimed abuse. And after that, the long custody battle began. At first, she didn't bring up anything else, but sooner rather than later, she claimed this man had sexually abused her two children. In Tiley's case, we don't have proof. But in 2020, Colby confirmed that it was real, that he was a victim.

Be that as it may, the point here is that the judge said there was no proof, and therefore, Joe was acquitted. From there, the tension grew. At this point, it said she began spending a lot of time with her brother, Alex. And the more time they spent together, the more disturbed they seemed. They spoke openly about wanting to kill Joe. At first, it seemed like jokes, offhand comments. But these conversations intensified, they made plans, picked dates.

People didn't take them seriously. But in 2007, when Joe went to Lori's house to pick up Tiley, Alex Cox lunged at him and attacked him with a taser. And that's when all the alarms went off. Lori and Alex had planned to kill Joe. They planned how to do it, Alex was going to use the taser, take him to a field, shoot him, and then bury him. Well, Alex tried to use the taser, but it didn't work. Joe called the police, and Alex went to jail.

Joe spent some time in the hospital, and Alex spent 90 days in jail. But according to witnesses, he served that sentence with his head held high, believing he had done justice. But this story didn't end there. Lori told everyone she was furious and publicly admitted they had planned it. Laurie said she had hired her brother to kill Joe for what he had done to them. She said people don't get away with things like that. She claimed she lost her mind over what he had done. Statements from Angeline Lowe, a close friend of Lori Vallow.

After divorcing Joe in 2006, Lori got married again in Las Vegas, this time to Leland Charles Anthony Vallow, who according to witnesses, was the ideal husband for her. Charles had a fairly normal life. He was married for 12 years to a woman named Cheryl, with whom he had two sons. He was very charming and always dressed well, definitely a salesman. He helped a lot of people and had many good friends.

He came from a large, very united family. And here was this interesting guy from Louisiana who ended up in Austin. And as a father, according to Cheryl, he was always a ten. He took them fishing, camping, to the Boy Scouts, he loved doing all that. Charles was athletic, but his kids didn't even like baseball or football. They played rowing in soccer, and he supported them a lot. The marriage was good, but at some point, they divorced and went their separate ways. She rebuilt her life, got married, and Charles did the same. However, Cheryl never liked Lori. There was something about her that seemed very strange, suspicious.

And she sensed that Charles was witnessing everything Lori was doing in court over the custody battle with Joe. Lorry was fighting Joe in court, and the whole process seemed to excite her, she loved the attention, playing the victim. In the courtroom, Laurie played a role, and when she came out, she was someone completely different. Two-faced. A complete actress. It was very strange, but Charles loved her. That's when I realized she doesn't do what she's told, she does what she wants. I saw that many times in court.

So I asked the judge to please review the situation. Her sons would be going to that woman's house, because now Lori lived with Charles. They installed cameras, reviewed everything, but apparently, Lori didn't do anything wrong. Yes, she was strange. Yes, she had a suspicious, sinister vibe, but aside from that, she was a good mother. The cameras were removed. Time passed. And suddenly, Lori and Charles moved to Arizona.

Cheryl's sons now had to travel a lot, and every time they did, when their father was working, Lori would leave the house, even though she didn't have a job. She said she was busy, had things to do, but never said what those things were. Everything was very strange. But on the outside, the family seemed happy. Normal. To be continued. But outwardly, this family appeared happy and normal.

In 2014, Charles and Laurie adopted Joshua Jackson Ballot. The little boy was diagnosed with autism, and they did everything possible to make his life easier. In fact, Chaz spent a lot of money on a service dog, and outwardly they were the perfect parents. They gave him special codes, were very dedicated to him, and truly loved him. Joshua was a charming and very intelligent boy. On social media, they always seemed very happy, family outings, meals together, all smiles, and happiness. But in 2015, Laurie began to change.

At that time, she became interested in the series of books Standing in Holy Places by Chad Guy. In these books, the author expressed. his beliefs about religion, particularly regarding the end of times and the apocalypse. These were radical ideas from the author, and everything revolved around the apocalypse, which became an obsession for Laurie. She read book after book, absorbed the concepts, and became obsessed. She became a fanatic of Chad, and as time went on, the only subject of conversation for her was him, his books, his beliefs, his way of thinking. Chad DeVell was her only topic of conversation.

In 2018, two very interesting things happened. The first was in April of that year when Joe, her ex-husband, passed away, supposedly from a heart attack in Arizona. The story Lori told was very intriguing. According to a friend of hers, April Raymond, she said the following, if I remember correctly, what she told me is that they hadn't heard from him for a month, so she entirely went to check on him, or to see him, because I suppose Tiley had a key or something like that. When they got there, they found him dead. However, according to the Phoenix police, it was a neighbor who found him.

A strong, unbearable smell emerged from his apartment, so the neighbor called 911, and that's how the police found him dead. So, in reality, Lorry didn't find him, or at least, not officially. Joe's death, according to Adam Cox, Lorry's brother, was very convenient because now Lorry would receive a lot of money. It's strange that Joe, her ex-husband, supposedly died of a heart attack just when they were desperate for money, and it's strange that he left $50,000 to her, and $2,000 to Tiley. Nevertheless, the police assured that his death was due to natural causes, and therefore,

they didn't investigate it. The next event that occurred that same year was in October, when Laurie and two of her friends attended a conference by Chad DeVell. Initially, they went just to listen as an audience, but when it was over, Lorry went to look for the man, and according to her friends, the spark flew immediately between them. They flirted, exchanged numbers, and from that moment on, they became inseparable. They spoke every day, chatted, did video calls, and as time passed, the connection became more. more and more intense. They didn't hide it, didn't try to disguise it. Soon, Lori started saying things that didn't make sense. She told Charles that Chad had told her that she had a gift, that she had a special power, a goddess inside her, and that she had probably had other lives,

which to Charles were blasphemies. He warned Laurie and told her that what she was saying made no sense, that this man was brainwashing her. And the truth was, what she was telling him was just a small part because the full story was much darker. What Charles didn't know was that it wasn't just that she had a gift or was a kind of goddess, what they had came from past lives. Chad told her that she was a goddess and that in past lives, they had been married several times. He also told her that people were either represented by light or darkness. People of light were authentic, true, pure, and those of darkness were possessed. In some cases, possession turned you into a zombie, and the only solution was death because you were no longer yourself, you were a

demon. This detail would later become crucial. He also told her that her great mission was to save 144,000 people because the apocalypse would come in 2020. They kept getting closer, talking more, calling each other, sending messages, becoming lovers, and appearing together on his podcast called Preparing People. In every episode, they talked about the apocalypse, visions they had, their gifts. From here, the decline began. In January 2019, Lori told Charles things that made no sense, and by February, she was completely unhinged. She told him she was the reincarnated wife of the founder of Mormonism and that she no longer cared about him or their son Joshua. She looked very serious, convinced, with a lost look. At that moment, Charles knew he had

lost her. He went to court, filed for divorce, and also requested a restraining order, because he believed Lorry had become dangerous. He saw her as capable of anything, of hurting them. So, he asked the courts to protect them. Unfortunately, it was too late because Lorry had made a decision, Charles had to disappear. On July 11th of that year, Charles went to pick up his children, and then Alex Cox, Lori's brother, pulled out a gun and shot him, killing him instantly. According to Alex, it was in self-defense. He said Charles had come at him with a bat, and he had just defended himself. Charles bled out, and they waited 43 minutes before calling 911.

When the police arrived, they questioned Alex, who spoke of self-defense. They also questioned the daughter, who also said it was self-defense. Finally, they questioned Laurie, who almost laughed, remained calm, and acted as if it wasn't important, as if Charles wasn't anyone to her. And as incredible as it may seem, the case was closed as self-defense. They left the police station, went home, and Laurie took out her phone and sent the following message in the family chat. Hi, guys, I have some very sad news.

Your father passed away yesterday morning. I'm working on the arrangements and will keep you updated on what's going on. I'm still not sure how to handle things. I just want you to know that I love you, and your father loved you too. After Charles's death, Laurie received a large sum of money, and yet, the following month, she went online to sell her son Joshua's service dog. So, for the family, it made no sense. After Charles's death, everything started downhill. In early September 2019, Lori, her brother Alex Cox, and her two children, Ty and Joshua, moved to Rexburg, Idaho, coincidentally very close to where

Chad DeVal, her lover, lived. On the 8th, the four of them went on a trip together to Yellowstone Park. They took very happy photos, smiling and enjoying themselves, but after that day, Ty disappeared, and Laurie didn't call the police. next morning, on the ninth, Alex Cox's phone was located at Chad's house. A few hours later, he returned home with Lori, and just as he left, Chad sent his wife a message saying that he had found a raccoon in the backyard and had shot it and buried it in his pet cemetery. That is, he basically buried it in the backyard. His wife responded not to worry. Days passed, and on the 22nd, Lori received a new visit from her niece Melanie Gibb and her partner David Warwick, who decided to

stay at her house for a few days. As soon as they arrived, they saw Joshua, but the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. When they asked about him, Lori said that he had been behaving like a zombie and that Alex had taken care of him. While saying this, Alex's phone was located at Chad's house. A few hours later, Lori called the school and said that Joshua would now be studying from home. After that, no one saw him again. People started asking about the children. She didn't respond, kept evading questions. Joshua's grandparents called constantly, but Lori never answered. Tiley's family, the same. And her older son Colby asked where the children were, why no one called. But this woman said she knew nothing. When the police searched, they found that the vehicle

belonged to Charles Ballo, Lorry's deceased husband. The first thing they did was investigate Alex Cox, Lorry's brother, and they found his location matched the time and place of the shooting. He had been searching for ways to kill someone online, and most infuriating of all, Lorry had been texting him about it before and after the event. They were both accomplices. Until now, the victims of the case were relatives of Lorry, but now, the focus shifted to Chad DeVell. On October 9, his wife, Tammy DeVell, was shot at with a paintball gun by someone wearing a hood. The person entered the house, called the police, and by the time the police arrived, that person

was already gone. At first, they thought it was a prank, an attempt to scare her. But on October 19th, Tammy didn't wake up, and Chad requested that no autopsy be performed because he was convinced her death was due to natural causes. The family was devastated. In appearance, he seemed devastated, very sad, distressed. But two weeks later, he went to Hawaii and married Laurie Ballo, which caused an immense public outcry. No one understood what was going on, and no one believed it. Joshua's grandparents reported the child's disappearance.

They appeared on television, attracting attention, which prompted Tiley's family to report the disappearance of both children. The case became a media spectacle, and Laurie Bowler, said nothing. The cameras came looking for her, asked her questions, but this woman never opened her mouth. It was such a strange case that the police began unraveling everything. They discovered Joe's death, Charles's death, the issues with the children, the shootings at the ex-husband of Laurie's niece. Alex Cox was always involved in everything, but unfortunately, they couldn't do anything about him because on December 11th, he died suddenly at the age of 51,

from natural causes. Alex may have escaped, but Chad and Lori weren't going to. The next day, Tammy's body was exhumed, and the coroner considered her death suspicious. On January 3, 2020, Chad's house was searched, but nothing strange was found in the first investigation. They examined phones, locations, messages, and emails, and demanded Lori immediately reveal where the children were. But she refused to say anything. They gave her until January 30th to say where they were and turned them in. But when that date arrived, she did nothing.

Little by little, the police started putting things together, and on June 9th, they searched Chad's house again, this time including the garden, and unfortunately, they found the lifeless bodies of the two children. It was from this moment that the trial began. On May 25, 2021, Lori and Chad were charged with first-degree murder of Tiley, Joshua, and Tammy. The prosecutors said they killed them not only because of their religious beliefs but also to be together. Another motive was to collect life insurance money. From this point on, they were tried separately. On May 12, 2023, Lorry was found guilty of all charges,

and on July 31st, she was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. On May 30th, 2024, it was Chad DeVell's turn, who was also found guilty of all charges, and on June 1st, he was sentenced to death. However, I must tell you that the case doesn't end here, as this month, March 2025, two more trials will take place. Each crime occurred in a different state, and this month will focus on the crimes in Arizona, the murder of Charles Ballot and the shooting of Brandon Budrosh. The first trial will begin on March 31st of this year, but the next one still has no date. So, now it's your turn. What do you think about the case?

Do you believe the sentences were just? End. Can't believe I'm updating after all this chaos. I thought I would put it all behind me, just not the way my sperm donor wanted, but alas, they would never learn to let go for their own sakes. I looked through every one of your advice and blocked my sperm donor and Martha from my social media. I also went with my grandparents to the police station to have a restraining order placed against sperm donor and Martha as well as their family with the messages they had sent me

as evidence. They understood their assignment and said that the courts would grant me one very soon. Grandpa sent a warning message to sperm donor and Martha that if they tried to come near me again, he'd make them regret it. You think all this will stop them? Fuck no. You see, in one of my classes, a classmate named Blair, 27F, comes from a family where she has very strong values and beliefs about being there for your family, no matter what happens and all that. Believe me, I appreciate her worry, but sometimes, some boundaries do not need to be crossed. When she asked me about my family during a greet-and-meat when I first got into college, I only told her that my father, though still alive, abandoned me and that my grandparents are my

only family now. She did not like that answer and started to badger me to reconnect with my sperm donor and find peace. I told her firmly to drop it, and that, along with a few instructors, got her to stop. I thought that would be the end of it, but boy, was I wrong? For the next few weeks, I thought I saw a familiar-looking car a few blocks down from the buildings where I take my classes, they can switch between online and in-person, I forgot to correct that in my last post, down at the local grocery store my grandparents and I go to, even at the public library. Everywhere I go, I see that car, and I know for sure that sperm donor's car. I could tell by the color and the model of that.

Before class online started, the instructor asked me in private if I was all right. I was in early, so I told him about what was happening, and he told me he would get to the bottom of this. Before the lecture ended, he explained to the class what I told him and pressed for someone to speak up and answer now. I noticed Blair trying to act calm during all this and asked her if she had something to do with it, which got the instructor and the whole class's attention. She tried to deny it, but eventually, after being pressed by the instructor, she broke down and admitted she told sperm

donor and Martha the location of the college I go to as well as where I usually go on certain days and at certain times. When I angrily asked her how she got in contact with them, she tearfully answered that she found them in the face of books. She would not stop defending herself and saying she wanted me to have a happy family again. I was honestly disgusted and panicking at the thought of sperm donor or Martha or maybe both snatching me in the open and taking me back by force because someone would not mind their own business. The instructor was quick to dismiss everyone for the day but not before sternly telling Blair that they were going to have a serious talk. Later on, he sent an email to me and my grandparents

regarding the incident. He explained that Blair's actions would lead her to be expelled since breaching someone's privacy and putting them in complete danger without even considering the consequences are considered serious crimes. He ended the email by apologizing for what I had gone through and told me he was proud of me for stepping forward. My nana and grandpa were furious, not at me, but at Blair and Sperm Donor and Martha for going too far and overstepping boundaries. I was able to get a hold of the college office to not let Sperm don't earn Martha in under any circumstances and that they are a danger to my well-being.

I'm grateful they took this seriously and made sure they were blacklisted from entering the building. Can't leave out Nicole as well, better safe than sorry. Good God, I hope this ends here. If not, I will update as soon as possible. For the sake of background, I, 20F, was 15, nearly 16, when the incident happened, so this was five years ago. I will be using fake names for privacy protection. My step-sister, who I will call Nicole, was 17, so now she's 22, my twin stepbrothers, Kyle and Chase, were both 14, now 19.

I was around 5 when my birth mother passed away. She was sick for a while now. She died ten days after my fifth birthday. Now you're all wondering where my father was during all this. He had been out and about cheating on my mother with his mistress now wife who I will call Martha, not even caring how scared his young daughter was and that his beloved wife was dying slowly from a sickness I had no idea about at the time. It wasn't a few months after my mom died that my sperm donor married Martha, and that's when my life went down to hell. The second my step family moved in, it was as if my mother never existed,

to begin with. The things that reminded my father of her existence were luckily put in storage by my paternal grandparents' insistence near the town they lived in. Nicole and her brothers had instantly my father wrapped around their fingers, even from the moment he started cheating on my mom. You see, he wanted an obedient daughter and sons to keep his family name going. I was not an exception to his desires. For ten years, I was left on the sidelines, trapped in the shadows, while my step-siblings received all of my father's attention and love, things I never got to have as a kid. When they had competitions, hobbies, or educational pursuits, he was there.

But when I had mine, he wasn't there. If any of my step-siblings made one tiny mistake, it was met with, it's fine, it's all good. Me? I was instantly punished and yelled at. Achievements? My step-siblings received pride and praise for my father and stepmother, I never, heard a simple, good job, or even an acknowledgement. Nicole and her brothers soaked up all the attention and love from their parents, and they

took pleasure in seeing me treated poorly just for existing. Thinking this was fun, they chose to make my life a living hell. From elementary school through high school, they ensured I felt isolated, alienated, and hated by everyone, except for a few friends I managed to keep, by spreading rumors and bullying me to the point where I had to change schools to avoid being in the same classes as them. When I was fifteen, things went from bad to worse. I was busy doing homework from one of my classes when Martha suddenly burst into my room, screaming like a banshee.

Before I could even ask what was going on, she was instantly hitting me in the face, slapping me in leaving scratch marks on my cheeks and near my eyes, which could have blinded me. I was able to get her off me just when my father stormed in with Nicole secretly smirking beside him. Seeing that smirk on her face told me she had come up with something dark, and when I was confronted, I was right. My father and Martha were yelling at me, saying how I was such a disgusting thief and that they did not raise a, harlot, to steal from this family.

Some of these things didn't make sense to me, but I knew what they were talking about. My father kept the family money in a safe in his office and only used the money for real purposes. He even had this safe locked up and had a pin only he knew and that I never asked for, so I had no idea where they got that idea from, aside from Nicole, who was still smirking. When I finally got the chance to ask them what gave them that idea, they had claimed that Nicole said she had seen me sneaking into the office and taking some of the money while they were out of town a few days ago and had hard proof that it happened. As a student studying in art class, I could tell her evidence, was all edited to make it

seem like I did it and all bullshit. No matter how many times I tried to tell them I never did that, my father and Martha would not listen to me, trapped in anger at my supposed sins. One day later, I was kicked out with my things, essentials, and clothes forcibly packed in my duffel bag and a couple of suitcases and warned to never come back if I didn't want to get arrested for financial theft. I was heartbroken, lost, and confused. I had to take the bus to head to my grandparents' place in their town, which is like a one, journey. The second my nana saw my face covered in dried bloodied scratches and bruises, she was horrified, but not as horrified and disgusted as my grandpa when I told them how I ended up like this. The next thing I knew, my grandpa was calling for a family lawyer to have me put in their custody while my nana comforted me as I cried.

The legal process didn't take long, since my father had me legally disowned from his family and wanted me gone and out of his hands. To be fair, the fact that my father had never been there for me or my mom when she died was painful, but the fact that he had refused to listen to me when I had been telling the truth and never even wanted to hear me out hurt me the most, even today. For the next five years, my grandparents helped me get ready for the next stages of my life while guiding me and healing from the unforgiving hurt I've gone through. They paid for my education, which they helped me transfer from the school in my former town

to another better school, and for my therapy. My grandpa even helped me find my own car for my sweet 16 birthday, which is used but still works. I was so grateful to them, given how I was scared of how they would react if I told them what had happened to me, but I was desperate and looking for another option. You're our granddaughter, will always love you and hear you out, they'd tell me every time I'd thank them for how they helped me. Now five years later, I'm already in college classes, studying for an art major, still living

with my grandparents since they are getting old and need help with everything. Because they had been there for me every step of the way, I figured I'd return the favor. Now here's where everything falls into place. My father and Martha came over one day after five years of no contact, wanting to speak with me. At first, my grandpa was hesitant to let them in and was ready to call the police on them, but I told him to at least hear them out on what they wanted before doing anything. It took some pressing, but they explained what they were really here for. Nicole had made all of the story about me stealing money from the family office safe up to get

me out of the picture, just as I had suspected. It was revealed that a party she and her brothers were having at my old home while they were out of town. A classmate I was not exactly close with had managed to record the moment when Nicole was laughing with a friend of hers when she was asked about me. She had boasted that she made up that story to, teach me a lesson for being a snobby bitch. and that she was doing her father a favor by being rid of her for good. That classmate uploaded the video to the internet, exposing Nicole and her lies soon crumbled

down. Upon realizing what they had done, my father and Martha decided to send Nicole away to try and save face, but that pushed her over the edge even further. Not even the night before they were going to send her way, Nicole broke into the family safe and took half of the money before fleeing town. My father then begged me to come back home so that we could put this all behind us and be a happy family again. I suddenly burst into laughter at the mere thought of that. My father had me thrown out with no way to prove my innocence, cut me off, leaving my heart into several pieces that my grandparents had to pick back, and now he is asking me to come back. All for what? So he could pretend he never broke my heart and abandoned me for his precious family from the beginning?

I told him and Martha they must be so delusional to even think I would ever want to come back after they accused me of something I would never do and then pleading for me to return after their golden child daughter robbed them blind. I said they got their wish, they got rid of me five years ago, so it's best they continue to think they only have one daughter and two sons. My father and Martha were close to yelling at me, but my grandfather cut them off and told them to leave or he will call the cops on them for trespassing. Since then, I've been getting messages and frantic voicemails from my father and Martha, switching between begging for my forgiveness and to come back and calling me names that would make Ozzy Osbourne blush,

saying that I owe them. As far as I'm concerned, I do not. I do. not owe them anything. They had made their choices, so they need to live with it. What's the worst thing you've ever seen or heard someone confess? That's a question that leaves people uneasy because confessions tend to drag the darkest corners of humanity into the light. I've been a teacher for many years, and one confession from about ten years ago during a parent-teacher meeting still haunts me. A set of parents came to discuss their son, explaining that he was on the autism spectrum and often interpreted things differently. They were nervous, hesitant, almost desperate for understanding.

I reassured them that I had plenty of experience teaching students on the spectrum and could adapt to their son's needs. But the dad looked at me with a somber face and said, You don't understand. Our son is considerate, but he doesn't recognize when something is inappropriate. Then he shared a story that left me cold. When their son was six years old, he noticed the family's kitten was cold. The boy understood that microwaves make things warm. Tragically, the story ended as you'd expect.

The parents revealed he had been in therapy every week for seven years before coming into my class. By the time I became his teacher, he had a strong moral compass, but there were still massive gaps in his understanding. For three years, I taught him and saw firsthand that he excelled academically. In our extra time, I focused on helping him navigate socio-emotional challenges. We'd talk about hypothetical scenarios like, if you see someone crying alone at lunch, What could you do? Over time, he became more thoughtful and empathetic.

A few years after he graduated, he came back to thank me. His last words during that visit were, My parents told you about the cat, didn't they? I nodded. He said, I'd never do something like that again. I told him I knew. He's a good person with a deeply unfortunate past. Another confession took place in a completely different setting. Back when I was in college, I used to hang out at a biker bar.

One day, a Muslim woman pushing a stroller was hit by a car in a hit and run. Both the mother and baby didn't survive. Later that night at the bar, a man stumbled in, clearly drunk, boasting loudly about being the driver responsible for the accident. He must have thought the crowd of old, gruff white men would rally behind his disgusting actions. He was wrong. The atmosphere in the bar shifted like a thunderstorm rolling in.

The bartender discreetly called the police while the patrons made sure the man didn't leave. Some regulars disappeared out the back door with him, and I didn't see what happened between that moment and when the cops arrived. When the man was finally escorted out in a patrol car, he looked considerably worse than when he walked in. The speed at which the collective mood turned against him was shocking but reassuring. Even in the darkest places, there's a sense of justice. Volunteering at a city hospital during high school introduced me to another gut-wrenching confession.

I mainly handled quality control surveys and supply stocking, but there was a Vietnam veteran there who had severe PTSD. He was a tormented soul who alternated between shouting, crying, and mumbling incoherently. Over three weekends, he grew comfortable enough with me to share something harrowing. His unit in Vietnam had been led by a new commander who was a dangerous mix of arrogance and incompetence. The man's poor leadership put the entire unit at risk, and after days of deliberation, they agreed that the only way to survive was to eliminate their own officer. They drew lots, and the responsibility fell to this veteran. He carried out the grim task, knowing the officer's decisions would lead them all to certain

death if left unchecked. The guilt from this act haunted him, even though the decision saved almost the entire unit. He didn't deserve to die, the man told me. But he was going to kill us all through his incompetence. I did what I had to do. Hearing that story broke something in me. All the men in that unit were barely 25 years old, forced into impossible choices by circumstances beyond their control.

It was a sobering reminder of how war corrods humanity. Sometimes, confessions come from closer circles. Once, I attended a barbecue hosted by the parents of one of my son's classmates. The gathering was meant for parents to mingle and get to know each other better. The hosts were friendly, and I chatted with them a few times casually over the years. As the night went on, people drank more, and the conversations got louder. I wasn't much of a drinker, so I sat in a quiet corner watching the chaos. The father of the hosting family, visibly drunk, sat beside me.

At first, he rambled about what a kind person I was and how he wished he had a friend like me. The flattery made me uncomfortable, and I was ready to excuse myself when he suddenly said he had a confession to make. He proceeded to tell me that when he was 19, he killed his stepfather. His stepfather had been physically abusive to his mother for years, and after one particularly brutal incident, the 19-year-old snapped. He went into disturbing detail about what he did.

and how he disposed of the body. For the past 16 years, everyone believed the stepfather had abandoned the family and disappeared. No one suspected a thing. The man's mother and sister even told people the stepfather likely ran off, leaving everything behind. After hearing this, I sat there stunned. What do you even say to something like that? I muttered something about how awful that must have been for him and left.

In the following weeks, I discreetly asked around in his social circle, and the prevailing story was that the stepfather had vanished one night without a trace. I didn't go to the police. Part of me felt like the family had already suffered enough, and the man himself had spent his adult life devoted to protecting women and children. He took care of his mother and sister, financially and emotionally. He never sought attention or praise for it. He just quietly lived his life. I'm not saying what he did was right, but I understand how years of pain and hopelessness could lead to such a breaking point. Then there was the time my ex-boss and close friend dropped a bombshell on me. He admitted to having an ongoing inappropriate relationship with his

adopted daughter. They had adopted her when she was 14, and he insisted that nothing happened until she turned 18. But his timeline didn't add up. I strongly suspected the relationship started when she was much younger. The girl bore the brunt of the blame when the wife found out. She was kicked out of the house at 18, while he and his wife stayed together. The wife claimed the girl had seduced him, as if that somehow absolved him. I couldn't stomach working for him anymore and eventually left the company. Over the years, I've crossed paths with his wife, who blames me for ruining their business and family. Meanwhile, I've moved on and built a better career.

I haven't seen the girl since, but I hope she's doing okay. That's one confession I'll never forgive. Family confessions can also be the most earth-shattering. After my paternal grandfather passed away, a cousin revealed that he'd been unfaithful to my grandmother for decades. Everyone knew about his mistress, but no one dared to speak about it. My grandmother, a type 1 diabetic, eventually overdosed on insulin. My cousin claimed it wasn't an accident but a deliberate act because she couldn't endure the humiliation anymore.

It painted a grim picture of a family's silent complicity in enabling my grandfather's behavior. Then there are the odd, almost surreal confessions that leave you questioning reality. Once, a guy I barely knew started telling me he believed he was part wolf. This was in the late 90s before the whole furry thing was widely known, so I just thought it was weird but harmless. He claimed his hairy arms were proof and started growling mid-conversation. That's when I decided I'd heard enough and walked away. Other confessions have hit me while working as a massage therapist.

Many of my clients are veterans or first responders. Their bodies often store trauma that surfaces during sessions. One man broke down on my table, recounting how he'd collected the remains of his friend, after a deadly explosion. Another officer described a raid on an abusive father's home that revealed horrors too awful to repeat. Both men cried as if the floodgates had opened. It wasn't the gruesome details that shook me but the raw emotion they finally released

after years of bottling it up. I've also had my fair share of morally great confessions. A friend once admitted he secretly baptized a deceased infant at a hospital where he worked. The baby wasn't even his patient. Hello everyone, I can't believe I am here telling this story. But I feel like I need to. This all came to a head early last year after the birth of my twins. We are still trying to deal with it all.

But progress is being made. So, let's start from the beginning. I, 27F, Ashley, met my husband, 28M, Sam while we were both in college. We actually met at the Chicago O'Hare Airport on our way back from winter break. I got to my gate, sat down and started reading my book. About an hour later a man came up and sat down next to me. He pointed out that we were both reading the same series. I was two books ahead of him, but that didn't stop us from chatting about everything we loved, hated, and wanted to come from the series.

We boarded the plane, he was in first class and I was in coach. But about 30 minutes into the flight he walked up and offered to switch seats with the person sitting next to me. She gladly accepted and he sat down. He was very handsome and charming. I was definitely blushing at this point. He said he really enjoyed talking to me, and wanted to continue. During this conversation we learned that not only did we go to the same college, but we actually grew up only an hour away from each other.

He was going to school for computer science and I was going for education. Throughout the whole flight our conversation just flowed so smoothly. I had never been able to converse with someone like this before. I was immediately taken with him. We arrived at our destination, he accompanied me to the luggage club. It was here that he asked for my number, and I gave it to him. We got our luggage, parted ways, and he promised to contact me soon. It wasn't long after this we started dating.

We had so much in common and even introduced each other to new interests and hobbies. I was really into astronomy and got him into it as well. We used to drive out of the city with my telescope and go stargazing. He got me into online gaming. He even helped me pay for and assemble my first gaming rig. It didn't take long before we said we loved each other. That first year just flew by. Before we knew it was winter break again, and it was four weeks long.

We were heading back to our homes and since we lived so close to each other we had made a plan. The first week we would go to our own homes separately. I would visit my mom and Sam, his parents. The second week he would come to me and meet my mom, and he would stay with us for the week. The third week I would go and meet his family and stay the week with them. And that last week we would just head back to school and relax. Growing up it was just me and my mom, Meryl. I never had a dad.

I guess my mom had a drunken fling one night in a bar and ended up getting pregnant. Sam's parents, Bill and Tammy, were a bit more traditional. But he always spoke very highly of them saying they were always very loving and supportive. Sam also had an older sister, Laura. I guess she was a little standoffish, but once you got on her good side, she was a sweetheart. So the first week was nice. It was great getting to catch up with my mom. She was my best friend and I absolutely adored her.

She made a lot of sacrifices for me to make sure that I had a comfortable upbringing with it just being the two of us. We weren't well off, but we were comfortable. Sam came from a bit more wealth. Bill and Tammy were high school sweethearts. Bill owned his own IT company and Tammy was a stay-at-home mom who had recently taken up painting. The second week Sam came and met my mom. When he first walked and I noticed a strange look on my mom's face, but it quickly faded and she just gave him a big hug. As usual, my mom was very welcoming, and they got along great.

She didn't even protest us sharing my bed. Sadly Sam said we would have to sleep in separate rooms at his parents' house. The third week we went to Sam's. We walked into the house and made our way to the living room where his parents were. His mom embraced me with a big hug and said how happy she was to meet me. His dad also gave me a hug, but when he pulled back and really looked at me, he just started giving me the strangest look. He said it was nice to meet me, but with hesitation in his voice. Laura arrived the next day. Just as Sam said, she immediately had a wall up with me. She asked

me a lot of personal questions. She was just trying to look out for her little brother, so I couldn't blame her or be upset with her. So I happily answered every question she had. By the end of the week, Laura had lightened up a bit, but was still keeping me at arm's length. Sam's dad, though, he was being almost hostile. He was always looking at me, and most of the time with a scowl. He wouldn't converse with me or really show me any kind of warmth at all. He seemed so friendly when we walked in, and his actions seemed contrary to how Sam described him. So what had I done? And his hostility was not lost on everyone else. During our last day there Sam finally confronted his dad in his home office.

From what I was told, his dad basically told him that he needed to end things with me immediately. That I was not right for him and he was better off without me. They ended up getting into a huge argument. It ended with us packing and leaving. We just stayed the night at a hotel by the airport. Once we were back at school, Sam and his dad spoke very little. And when they did, they just argued. Tammy couldn't seem to get a straight answer from Bill about why he didn't like me.

He would just say I wasn't right for Sam. That our relationship was bound to fail. Things went on like this for the rest of the time we were in school. So for six years Sam and Bill had a pretty rocky relationship. We still went and visited our families on breaks, but we decided it was best to just keep to our own families for now. Bill obviously did not want me in his house, and frankly, I didn't want to be around him. Every once in a while though we would still manage to get a lunch or dinner in.

Bill was never in attendance. Once we were out of school Sam proposed. I was elated and said yes immediately. My mom, Tammy, and even Laura were all so happy for us. Sam's dad on the other hand was furious. He said he refused to contribute to the wedding at all and wouldn't even come. Luckily, Tammy had her own savings and she contributed despite Bill's protests. Come our wedding day, as promised, Bill did not attend.

Tammy begged and pleaded with him to come, but he refused. Saying he does not consent to this, and refuses to accept our marriage as valid. Even Laura tried, but just more of the same. Sam and his dad's relationship became non-existent after this. Sam was hurt that his dad couldn't put his pride away on the happiest day of his life. At this point, they were basically strangers. Sam and I had decided that we wanted to make sure we were still. before we had kids. We needed a house, good jobs, and to have a comfortable cushion in

case of emergencies. We managed to achieve this in two years, mostly due to Sam's family. While Bill was still keeping no contact, and still refused to support us financially in any way, Tammy being the sweet soul she is, made sure that we were taken care of and helped us in any way she could. We did end up moving across the country to San Diego, which is also where Laura lived. Laura was a real estate agent and helped us find a wonderful home. I got a job as a teacher at a private school, and Sam took on a job as an IT specialist. While he and his father no longer saw eye to eye, Sam and Bill always did share a love of computers. At this point, we were both very stable and working towards our future.

We tried to be as frugal as possible those first couple years. So two years and we started trying for kids. And in three months I was pregnant. Again, the whole family was excited for us, especially when we learned we were having twins. But I guess Bill became very depressed to hear this. According to Tammy, he had started to get distant and short with them. He was neglecting work and just seemed to always be in a daze. This went on throughout my entire pregnancy.

Nine months later came Jacob and Tilly. They were just the most beautiful little babies. The family actually flew out to California to see the babies. Tammy even paid for my mom's ticket. But again, no bill. I had accepted early on that bill didn't like me. Which was disappointing seeing as I never had a father myself. Having Sam defend me and stand by my side made this easier, though.

But now I was offended that he couldn't even bother to come see his grandbabies. Who cares how he felt about me, these were his son's kids. Once I was out of the hospital I actually gave him a call. I was just so mad at this point and was finally just so mad at this point and was finally just, just going to confront him and find out what his problem with me was. But he didn't answer, which I guess is to be expected. I even tried a few more times over the week, but he never picked up. At the end of the week everyone went home and we transitioned into being parents.

It was a month later when everything changed. We were in the kids' room. I was nursing Jacob while Sam was holding Tilly. His phone rang and he saw it was from his sister. He picked up with a smile, but almost immediately went to panic. Laura was freaking out about something. He put Tilly in her crib and walked out of the room. I was obviously worried, but it seemed like they needed to talk in private.

About ten minutes later Sam came back and his eyes were red. It looked like he had been crying. I put Jacob in the crib next to Tilly, then gave Sam a hug and asked him what was wrong. He told me Bill had committed suicide. I couldn't believe it. This wasn't like Bill at all, and even I knew that. He was more of an old school man that I thought never believed in suicide. It was just so unexpected, and Sam was obviously distraught.

We both called into work and explained we had a family tragedy and needed to leave town for the rest of the week. We got some bags packed, got the babies ready, and left for the airport. When we arrived Laura was already there. She greeted us at the door, but for some reason she was acting strange. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something was off. She could barely look at the both of us. I attributed it to her morning, though.

Tammy had been crying for days. But I guess after finding Bill's suicide note, she just become even more distraught. But after we arrived, she collected herself enough to meet us in the living room. Still sniffling and shedding tears. So it was the whole family sitting in the living room, quietly. No one knew how to start this conversation. It was just so tense. Laura broke the silence.

He said that they had found Bill's suicide note. Tammy just started to cry harder at this. Laura told us that it was shocking, and that it was really important that we read it. Now this note, this damn note. Sam and I stared at it for so long that its words are etched into our memories forever. I have made an unforgivable mistake. And now I have allowed things to go too far. All because I could not own up to my failings as a man.

Shortly after Sam was born, I went to visit my brother to celebrate. We went to a bar that night. At the bar I met a woman. We drank, we flirted, and we had sex. I cheated on my wife. And even worse, that woman had gotten pregnant, but I refused to participate in a child's life or support her in any way. I had forgotten about that night, until Sam brought Ashley into our home.

I could see she was the spitting image of her mother. There was no doubting it, she was the result of my infidelity. She was my daughter, and Sam's half-sister. And now, because of my inability to come clean and take responsibility for my actions, I have allowed two of my children to perform an unforgivable act. I can no longer live with the guilt of knowing what I have allowed to happen. Knowing the pain this news will bring to my family. Knowing that I am responsible for all of this.

I love you all, and hope you can find it in your heart to not hate me one day. Ashley and Sam, I am so sorry. Sam and I could not wrap our heads around what we were reading. We asked if this was a joke. We said this was not funny. In our shock, we both lashed out. We couldn't accept what we had just read. This news was just too much to take.

To think that the bond we shared may have been due to some sort of sibling-type connection. To realize I had been sleeping with my own brother all this time. Needless to say, that night, Sam and I slept in different rooms. And it stayed that way until the end of the trip. By the next day we had calmed down, but not much. We both were still feeling very overwhelmed with what we had learned. We had a family meeting about what this meant. How we planned to handle this moving forward.

There were a lot of emotions. But this was new territory for all of us, and we didn't even begin to know how to navigate it. We were still processing. While we weren't sleeping in the same bed right at the moment, Sam and I had still been talking. Long talks on the phone at night from our separate rooms. conversations during the day around Tammy and Laura. We were very confused, but we were still trying to support each other through all of it. By the final day we agreed that our love

was not just a familial thing. We never even knew the other existed until that day at the airport. So why should it be any different now? We knew it was weird and in a lot of ways wrong, but we had children now, and that needed to be considered. On that last day we sat everyone down. Even my mom drove up and joined us. She had already been in informed of the situation. Bill and her never met after that night at the bar. Since Bill refused to come to any get-together. And they only talked on the phone once about the pregnancy, but Bill cut contact with her immediately. Tammy and Mom had always gotten along great before at our joint outings, but now there was attention in the room. My mom decided

to speak first and apologize to Tammy. That night she had no idea he was married. She said that she doesn't remember ever seeing him wearing a wedding ring, and that it had always been a habit of hers to check. And he never mentioned it when they spoke about the pregnancy. She never wanted to be that other woman. It was at this moment I remembered the look on my mom's face when she met Sam, and realized that she must have felt like Sam reminded her of someone, but couldn't tell who. It must have been Bill.

Tammy just sat and listened, and once Mom was finished, she spoke. I do not blame you for this." I loved Bill, but this is on him. There was still tension, but at least not all the bridges were burning anymore. After Sam and I informed the family we made a decision. We told the family that we had been talking seriously about our situation, and that we had done some research. Surprisingly, this is not the first time something like this has happened.

While not every case involved kids, most of these couples stayed together even after finding out they were half-siblings. And if they could make it work, so could we. We told them we would definitely be attending counseling, but we wanted to give it a try. While we could tell the family was not exactly thrilled about this decision, they chose to accept it. They knew that it was better for the kids. And they knew that we really did love each other, even despite all of this.

They agreed that therapy was a good idea, and Tammy even offered to pay. So that's where we are now. We sold our house in California and moved back to Illinois. We found a place that was equidistant to both of our families. Sam took over his dad's company, and with that I decided to take some time off and focus on our babies. We did get a DNA test and it did confirm Bill's claims. We have been in regular counseling since we found out, but things are going well.

We are dedicated to not letting this be a roadblock in our family's future. We obviously decided to keep this a public secret. We haven't decided though if we are ever going to tell the kids. I want to, but Sam is on the fence about it. All I know is since I am now a stay-at-home mom, I would prefer to homeschool them, just to be safe. But all and all we couldn't be happier. Sorry if this makes anyone uncomfortable, but this is just our reality. We just have to accept it and make the most of it.

This happened a few weeks ago, now that I'm fully sitting down to write it all out. As of writing this I've turned 18. Happy birthday to me. I really don't know where to begin. I guess at the start. I used to live somewhere in Maine, with my parents. But they weren't the best, and I couldn't live there anymore. It wasn't living at that point, it was surviving.

So one afternoon when my mom passed out, needle in her arm, I stole her keys, packed my things, then stole her car. I only had $36 that I had taken with the keys. But I didn't care, I wanted to leave. After a few hours, I needed gas, and so I stopped at a gas station next to a truck station. stop. I was hungry, so I bought snacks, peanut butter MNMS, and I forgot what else, then I filled my car up. I sat and ate the other stuff I bought, still can't remember, when I saw how dirty this trucker's truck was. It gave me an idea. I walked over to the trucker and told

him I was needing gas money, that I had lost my wallet going home, then offered to clean his truck for $30. Thankfully he agreed. Saying, good-looking out boy, I was planning on a trina hook a few lizards tonight. Hell, if you get it good I may give you a nice tip. I wasn't sure what he meant, but I quickly followed him to his truck. He said something else, then patted my back. I got to cleaning. It wasn't that nasty, or dirty.

Just a lot of empty containers. It took 30 minutes, and he was gone for an hour. But when he came back, he was excited about how clean it was. Damn boy, I haven't seen it this clean in years. You know what? Take it all. The trucker said to me, then handed me two $100 bills out of a stack as thick as my arm. I went to my car happy, and decided I wouldn't stop again until I needed gas.

To save the money. The trip was decent, but boring. It all looked the same, until I hit West Virginia. I decided to take a more scenic route through the mountains that my GPS offered. There had also been a sign for gas, and food. So I took the exit. After 15 minutes down a road full of curves and surrounded by thick forest I had made it to what once could have been called a town. It had a gas station that had pumps that were out of order, and three busted up buildings with more busted houses deeper into town.

I needed gas, so I stopped, not knowing the pumps don't work, I pulled into the gas station and parked right outside of the doors. As I went into the store, I could feel the cashier staring at me. I thought nothing of it, I have main tags in West Virginia. When I entered I went straight to the counter, then asked for $40 on whichever pump worked. Ain't any of them work. The cashier said, with a thick southern drawl. Where is the next gas station that has gas? I asked, kind of frustrated.

Well, if you take a right when you leave here, then go on down the road for ten minutes, take a left, then continue for another twenty minutes you'll be in the town next over. The cashier explained, chewing tobacco. All right, sounds good. I said, hoping I'd have enough gas to get there. You better get going, it ain't safe out here at dark for tourists. The cashier said, kind of harshly. Now I know he was just trying to scare me back towards the highway.

Why is that? I asked, smugly. These animals out here ain't like what you have up north. Nothing like it. Just take my advice. Maybe go back the way you came, but, the cashier said, spitting tobacco after his sentence. I think I will be fine, thanks anyways. I said, leaving the store.

I wish I would have listened. I took his directions, unknowingly I took the wrong left, and that turn took me on what seemed like an endless road, covered in forest. After 20 minutes of driving I took out my paper map, but according to the map I wasn't on a road, I was in the middle of nowhere. Same with my car's GPS device. After another 20 minutes I was almost out of gas, and decided to turn around. hoping I'd have enough to get back to the run-down gas station.

Ten minutes after I turned around, I was out of gas, and stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I either walked back, or waited for someone to drive by. It was also starting to get dark, and I had no flashlight. So I decided to stay in the car, and hope someone drives by. Once it got dark, I turned the car on to listen to music. Not like the battery dying would make my situation worse. After 30 minutes since the sunset, I started to hear things.

Nothing that would cause too much panic if I was in a different situation. There was a distant howl, from something I have never heard before or since. Leaves and sticks falling from the trees above onto my car, like something was jumping from branch to branch. After an hour the howls had stopped, but heavy footsteps off and on from the edge of the woods kept me from dozing off. I assumed it was a bear, or a curious deer. Regardless, I wasn't checking. Once the noises stopped being as frequent, I couldn't keep my eyes open. I started to doze off.

I fell asleep for what felt like 30 seconds when I heard the scrape of nails against my car window. Jolting awake, to see three long scratches next to where my head was. I jumped into the passenger seat, and screamed. Like a bitch, I'll admit it. But I thought it was a bear, but I was wrong. So wrong. After a minute of silence, I heard heavy breathing behind me, and whipped around to see some creature drooling, and breathing at the window where my head was again.

It was not a bear, I am not sure what it was. I can describe it. It looked like a giant squirrel, which now might make this story less believable. But I wish I was lying. The head was covered in blood, dried and fresh. Teeth yellow, and rotting. Eyes blacker than anything I have ever seen. I screamed again, of course,

and jumped into the back seat, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. I eventually found an umbrella. But before I could even think what I could use it for, glass shattered and the creature was in the car. I opened the door, and jumped out of the car, running into the road. The creature was digging through my car, looking for something. After a minute it had found it, my peanut butter MNMS. It ate the package hole, then coughed and choked a little. I was frozen, what could I do?

had my car, and I was in his territory. But by some sick luck, headlights began to shine from afar, and the creature retreated into the woods. The cashier from the gas station pulled up, yelling for me, but I was still frozen. Get the fuck in the car, that thing won't stop till the morning. You can stay with me. The cashier said, ushering me into his car. After a second I came back, and hurried into his car. He started to speak again, but I was still dazed. Before he could take the car out of park, his window busted, and he was ripped from the car. All I could hear was his body being violently ripped to pieces, then I jumped in the driver's seat, and began to drive. I felt a bump as I drove away, knowing for sure it was that cashier.

With no time to be upset, I started to drive as fast as I could, while stupidly staring in the mirror to see if the creature was following. It was faster than I predicted, then I crashed into a ditch because I was more focused on what was behind me than in front of me. I tried to move the car, hoping it wasn't too deep. But I had no luck, and then I heard a thud on the roof above me. I quickly scanned the car, for anything to protect myself. When I opened the glove box, a handgun fell out. I grabbed it and checked to see if it was loaded.

It was. So I fired two shots into the roof. As soon as the second bullet pierced the roof, the creature let out a horrible scream, the only thing I can think of that is close to the sound it made is an Aztec death whistle. the scream, it was silent. The sun was just starting to peek over the trees, and I decided it was now or never. I quickly scanned the trees, seeing movement far ahead of me. I decided to go for it. I let off three more shots in the direction of the creature. Another scream, then a loud thud, like it had fallen from the trees.

I quickly checked the trunk of the cashier's car, hoping maybe for gas, or food. I found gas, a full five-gallon tank. I quickly made my way back to my car, filled it up, and jumped into the driver's seat. Then drove away. It has been three weeks since this happened, I haven't seen anything on the news regarding the cashier, or a giant squirrel creature being found dead. I made my way to Illinois, far from any mountains. Just how I wanted to be until I die. If anyone has any explanation on what attacked me, please let me know. I can't find anything online. Maybe it's a worse squirrel. Back when I was in school, I worked as a research assistant. You'd think it was all textbooks and boring data entry, but my job was way more intense

than I ever expected. My main task was combing through police interrogation transcripts, tagging parts that were relevant to our research. Sounds dry, right? But let me tell you, some of those transcripts still stick with me to this day, and not in a good way. I remember three of them in particular. Three different women. Three totally separate cases. All of them tried to abduct newborn babies. I've read hundreds of these things, but those three still pop into my mind out of nowhere sometimes, like a creepy song stuck in your head that you didn't ask for. Let's start with the first woman. She was young, maybe 22 or 23. Her whole life was in disarray. She didn't have a stable place to live and

mostly got by through welfare, panhandling, and picking up the occasional odd job. She seemed very clearly mentally unwell. Her interrogation was hard to read. Not because it was graphic or violent, but because it was so sad and delusional. She kept insisting the baby she tried to take was hers. She believed with every fiber of her being that the hospital or the government or someone had taken her child from her right after birth and now she had finally found him again. She said she was rescuing her son.

The police and doctors found no records of her ever. being pregnant. No stretch marks, no medical visits, no birth records, nothing. Her friends and people who knew her didn't remember her ever being pregnant either. And the parents of the baby she snatched. They had everything documented, birth certificate, photos from the hospital, the whole nine yards. But none of that mattered to her. She genuinely believed the baby was hers. There was something hollow about her responses, like she was in her own world where she couldn't hear anything else. She didn't fight the cops. She didn't even seem to understand why she was being questioned. She was calm, weirdly peaceful, like she thought she had just completed some great mission.

It was heartbreaking in a way that didn't let me sleep that night. Now, the second woman, she was a whole different story. On the surface, she looked totally normal. Middle-aged, held a part-time job at a clothing store, lived with a couple of roommates. Nothing unusual or sketchy about her at all. She didn't have any major criminal background, just a few minor traffic violations and some decades-old incident involving alcohol and a teenager in her family. Nothing that screamed, baby kidnapper. When the cops asked her why she took the baby, her answer was painfully honest.

She said she couldn't have kids. She'd always wanted one, but never found the right person to settle down with. IVF was too expensive. Sperm donation. Same story. She said she tried hooking up with guys in one-night stands, hoping to get pregnant that way, but never found anyone she thought would make a good dad and who also was willing to go without protection. So she decided to just, take one.

Like picking up something at the store you forgot to pay for. She said she specifically picked a family with several kids because she thought losing one wouldn't wreck them too badly. Said she actually preferred older kids because they were easier, more independent. But she grabbed the youngest on purpose. Her logic. The baby wouldn't be as bonded to the parents, and the parents wouldn't be as attached either. Easier all around.

She said these things so matter-of-factly, like she was explaining why she picked a particular brand of cereal. It was chilling. She even said people hoard babies the way they hoard land. That the law was stupid. Compared baby abduction to smoking bans, yeah, you heard that right. She thought laws telling people not to steal other people's kids were just as dumb as laws telling people where they can or can't smoke. And then there was the third one. This one was grimy from the start. She was part of a very different kind of situation. She and her boyfriend were both deep into drugs. They hopped from one crappy job to another, living in motels with other addicts. The boyfriend came up with this brain-dead plan, steal a baby, adopted out, and

use the cash to score more drugs. She agreed. Just like that. She said the plan was to find a baby, take it, and sell it to someone who really wanted a kid. She kept saying they would have made sure the baby went to a good home. Like that made it all okay. When they asked her why she thought she had any right to do this, she snapped back that the real parents must not care much if their baby wasn't being watched closely enough to stop her. The most haunting part. When she was asked how she would have felt if the baby got hurt, or worse, because of what she did.

Her answer. That it would have been the parents' fault. not hers because according to her logic it's on them to protect their child from people like her unbelievable these weren't even the most violent or dramatic transcripts i read there were cases involving murder torture gang violence you name it but those three they're the ones that haunt me i think about them more often than i'd like to admit it's not just the crimes themselves it's the bizarre logic behind them. The fractured worldviews. The justifications that sound like something out of a surrealist play. It's like watching three separate glitches in the human operating

system. The first woman, I pity her. She was clearly sick, and it's terrifying how someone can live like that without ever getting help. No one believed her story, but she believed it with everything she had. That scares me. The second one. She makes my blood run cold. It's one thing to act out of desperation or mental illness, but she seemed so, rational about it. Calculated. Like she'd thought it all through and just decided that her knee trumped everything else. Her interview was a slow descent into some kind of entitled madness.

And the third one? That was just dirt and chaos. The bottom of the barrel. She didn't even pretend there was a good reason. It was about drugs and money and not giving a damn. I wonder what happened to them. The transcripts never include the full aftermath. Once the cops get their confession, the documents stop.

I don't know if they went to prison, if they got help, if they vanished into the system. I don't know if the babies they tried to take are okay now. I hope they are. Sometimes I think about how fragile life is. How one ran the moment, one twist of fate, one stranger's bad decision could change everything. A baby in a shopping cart. A stroller parked too far from the table. A mom glancing at her phone for two seconds.

That's all it would have taken. Reading those transcripts made me realize how thin the line is between normal life and total chaos. It made me think about all the people walking around with broken wiring and no signs on the outside. You pass them in the grocery store, sit next to them on the bus, maybe even work with them. And you never know. I don't really talk about those cases much. Most people don't want to hear this kind of thing. It messes with your peace of mind.

But I needed to let it out somehow. Maybe writing this will keep the memories from clawing at me tonight. Because those three stories, they're like shadows in my brain. They hide in the corners and come out when the room gets quiet. And no matter how many other things I read or how many years go by, they're still right there. Still watching. Still whispering. Still waiting to be remembered.

The end. Let me take you back to the winter of 1986. I was 16, hanging out with my mom, baby sister, and my young uncle at Union Station in Indianapolis. It was just around Christmas or a bit after, and we were getting ready to head back home to our quiet town in southwest Indiana. My uncle still lived in the city at the time, so it was kind of a little family get-together. Union Station was warm, too warm, actually. I was wrapped up like a burrito in my winter gear, thick coat, scarf, gloves, the whole thing.

My mom, bless her, had this gift or curse, of talking forever. I loved her to death, but the woman could talk a dead man into buying a timeshare. So I told her, it's getting too hot in here, I'm going to step outside for a minute. She nodded, still mid-story, and I stepped out the double doors. It wasn't snowing, no wind, just that's still cold where your breath fogs up quick, but your cheeks don't sting yet. I had barely been out there a minute when a white Chevrolet pulls up. Two huge dudes with military-style crew cuts were inside, probably six feet five inches, 280 each.

I figured maybe they were military or ex-cops or something. They looked at me, smiled way too wide, and the passenger leaned out the window. Hey, come here. I want to talk to you. I was polite to a fault back then. Raised in the kind of household where manners were gospel. So instead of just turning around, and going back inside like I should have, I tried to explain myself.

Oh, I'm sorry, this isn't what it looks like. I'm not a street girl, just cooling off for a sec. Sorry if I gave the wrong impression. They weren't listening. Kept smiling, kept insisting they just wanted to talk. Then the passenger opened his door and got out. Something in his eyes made me freeze. Not in fear, at first, anyway,

but in disbelief. He looked at me like I was a steak dinner. My brain finally kicked into gear, and I snapped, you don't have to get out of the car if you just want to talk. I can hear you just fine from here. That Scandinavian Irish temper from my dad sighed. Yeah, it came out hard. I bolted back into Union Station, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. My mom and uncle saw my face and knew something was wrong. I explained what happened. Uncle asked what they were driving. White Chevy, I told him. Mom didn't hesitate. Go get him. My uncle, barely older than me, ran out into the street yelling, you sons of, get out of the car so I can bust your teeth in. They took off like roaches under a kitchen light. He came back ten minutes later, out of breath.

Almost caught them at the traffic light, but they peeled out. Needless to say, the trip home was a quiet one. That whole experience haunted me more than I liked to admit. Moral of the story, don't let your manners override your survival instincts. No one wants to be polite to death. Fast forward a bit. I grew up in a decent-sized town with around 100,000 people. Played hockey, did the usual school grind.

Lived on a farm about 35 minutes outside the city. That meant driving in and out daily, which I didn't mind. Time alone in the car with your thoughts is underrated. One day, I was driving that usual gravel road, about two kilometers of bumps and potholes, heading toward the highway for a game. There was this busted tractor sitting in a ditch off the side of the road. Been there for weeks. But this time, I noticed something strange.

There was someone under it. Like, lying on the ground under the wheel. I thought maybe they were fixing it, but, they weren't moving. Just completely still. No shifting, no tools, no motion at all. I had a game to get to, so I kept driving. Kind of forgot about it until after the match when I met up with my mom. We were just about to head home when she got a call from my aunt.

You won't believe this, she said. They found a guy with his head chopped off under a tractor. Right by where you live. My stomach dropped. I had seen that body. The whole way home, I couldn't stop thinking about it. When we got to that spot, it was crawling with cops, ambulance, and crime scene tape. They hadn't moved the body yet, but someone had thrown a blanket over it.

Honestly, I was grateful for that tractor wheel. If I'd seen a headless corpse that morning, I'd seen a headless corpse that morning, I'd seen. I might never sleep again. Worse, my little brother was in the car with mom. One glance at something like that and his mind would have shattered. Now jump to 2019. I was 22, going to BYU in Utah, and Thanksgiving break was coming up. I had plans to drive home to California, a brutal 12-hour drive, especially through the Sierra Nevada's if snow hit hard. The weather reports were screaming about a massive storm rolling in the same day I was supposed to leave. My sister freaked out, bought a last-minute plane ticket.

Me? I decided I could handle it. Didn't want to drop hundreds on airfare, and I was stubborn. She let me borrow her Jeep Wrangler, though, with one condition, I had to drop her off at the Salt Lake City Airport first. I agreed. So I hit the road early, cruising north on I, 15, then west on I, 80. For the first chunk of the trip, everything was fine. Clear roads, just some cold air and a few clouds. But somewhere around 5 p.m., I saw one of those electric highway signs, I, 80 closed ahead due to storm conditions. Panic set in. I wasn't about to turn back. I made it to Reno and fueled up, trying to figure out what to do. I had two options, Stay the night or find another way through.

I chose the latter because, again, I'm cheap and dumb. GPS showed another pass through the Sierra Nevada's via Carson City. So I went for it. The storm had already started. Snow slammed the windshield, the roads were white carpets of doom, and the wind screamed like banshees. Road workers were stopping people, only letting cars with chains or all-wheel drive pass. Good thing I had both. I moved at 10 to 20 miles per hour, squinting through the blizzard.

Wind gusts over 30 miles per hour. The jeeps defrost was working overtime, and the wipers were maxed out. After an hour, I got fed up. I was crawling, and the dark was closing in fast. So, like an idiot, I sped up to 25 to 30 miles per hour. The jeep slid right off the road into a snow-filled ditch. I wasn't hurt, but the Jeep was stuck, wheels spinning helplessly. I tried gassing it out, no luck. Outside, it was freezing. I bundled up and stepped out, trying to see what I could do. No gloves. No shovel. Just bare hands trying to scoop out snow around the tires. After a few painful minutes, I climbed back inside, fingers frozen stiff. Tried moving it again. Nope. Stuck like a fly in syrup. Then came the real fear. No cell service. No other cars in sight. Just me, the blizzard, and a sea of black trees thrashing in the wind. I got out again, thinking maybe I could find branches or sticks to wedge under the tires. I didn't want to stray too far in case a plow or another car showed up. That cold? It's not just uncomfortable.

It gets into your bones, whispers that you're not going to make it out. The forest looked like a monster's mouth, huge trees swaying, snow biting every inch of exposed skin. I can't tell you how long I was out there, wandering in circles, half digging, half freezing. But at some point, headlights broke through the storm. A truck. Then another. One of the guys jumped out, helped me dig, and we got the Jeep free. If they hadn't come along.

I don't even want to think about that. That was the first time I really thought, this could be it. We spend so much time trying to be polite, trying to be tough, trying to save money, trying to do it all alone. Sometimes, it nearly kills us. All those moments, strung together, taught me something that sticks in my bones, survival isn't about being fearless or polite or stubborn. It's about listening to that quiet voice.

in your head when something feels wrong. It's about knowing when to speak up, when to say no, when to run, when to ask for help. And sometimes, it's about being just smart enough to wait for a snowplow instead of trying to be the hero in a blizzard with no gloves and a half-frozen jeep. Life has a way of smacking the sense into you. If you're lucky, you survive long enough to appreciate it. Back in 2017, I was living in Denmark, and I got my first taste of real independence when I moved into a study apartment. Now, if you're not familiar, these are tiny little one-room apartments meant for students or young folks who don't have much cash to throw around. Think of it as an IKEA-sized dream, just enough space for a bed, desk,

and a mini-kitchen, and that's pretty much it. These places are in high demand, so normally, you have to wait a while to get approved. But lucky me, after getting on the list, I somehow got one pretty quickly. The move happened so fast, I barely had time to realize what I was doing. One minute I was filling out forms, the next I was unlocking the door to my very own place. My new home wasn't in the best neighborhood. The area was mostly full of people struggling, folks on welfare, people with mental health issues, and the occasional sketchy neighbor who gave you the side eye for no reason. But hey, I was 21, full of energy, and way too excited to finally have a place to call my own. I didn't care about the surroundings. To me,

it was freedom. I had my own key, my own space, and I could invite friends over, hang with my girlfriend, play video games as late as I wanted. I felt like an adult for the first time. The world was mine, or at least, that cramped little apartment was. Most of the time, everything was fine. Quiet even. Well, except for one tenant, a crazy old lady who lived a few doors down. She was the stuff of local legend. She'd scream at people randomly, swearing like a sailor. If you pulled into the parking lot and saw her outside, you knew it was best to wait a bit before getting out. She wore a bicycle helmet all the time because she believed aliens were trying to steal her brain. Oh, and she refused to pay her electric bill, swearing that the

government was using the electricity to spy on her. My friend's girlfriend worked with the elderly and confirmed everything. The helmet, the paranoia, the whole deal. Despite that, I never felt unsafe. I was careful, I always locked my doors and made sure the place was secure before crashing for the night. You know, just in case she ever decided I looked like a gray a or something. Then one night, everything changed. It was around 3 a.m. I just finished a long gaming session and was winding down in bed. Lights off, eyes getting heavy. I was just about to drift off when, b.m. The doorbell rang. It was so loud, I practically levitated out of bed. My heart was thumping like a bass drum. I sat up, trying to figure out if I imagined it.

Then I saw it, the faint silhouette of someone standing outside my front door, visible through the paper I'd taped over the little window slots. Can I help you with something? I called out, heart's still racing. Please let me in. I need your help. Please. The voice sounded drunk.

But not genuinely drunk, more like someone pretending to be. What do you want? Who are you? Please help me. I swear I need help. Just let me inside. Hell no. I wasn't born yesterday.

Dude, I don't know you. Do you even know what time it is? Just let me in. I swear I'm not gonna hurt you. Yeah, because that's exactly what someone says before doing something sketchy. I grabbed my golf club from behind the door. I don't know what your deal is, but unless you tell me exactly what you need, I'm coming out there, and it won't end well for you. I'm looking for number 86. Please let me in. Bro, you're

at 64. You're not even close. Suddenly, he started banging hard on the door. I gripped the doorknob, ready for whatever might come next. But just as suddenly as it started, the banging stopped. I heard a phone vibrating. Then a voice, hello, okay, his voice changed, gone was the drunk act. Now he sounded sharp, focused. I don't need your help anymore, and just like that, he turned and walked down the hallway. I stood there, golf club in hand, confused and completely freaked out. I don't know if it was a case of mistaken identity or if he was just some lunatic trying his luck. But that change in tone, that switch from slurred speech to clarity, haunts me.

I stayed up for an hour after that, smoking nervously by the window, half expecting him to to return. He never did. Two years later, I left that apartment. I still have no idea what that guy wanted, but something tells me that if I'd opened the door, things would have ended very differently. Fast forward to a different story, another chapter in my life. I was 21, living in my first bachelor apartment in a neighborhood where you learned quickly not to ask too many questions. The building was right behind a bar. The kind of place where regulars stood out outside smoking all night, staring at everything and nothing at once. I grew up tough, so I knew how to stay low, mind my business, and avoid trouble.

Most of the bar folks never bothered me. A nod here, a polite hello there. That was it. Until one evening. I came home from work, walked past the bar, and locked eyes with this insanely tall guy outside having a smoke. He didn't smile, didn't nod back. Just stared, like he was sizing me up.

It creeped me out, but I brushed it off. An hour later, knock knock. Weird. You had to buzz people into the building, and I didn't know anyone well enough for a surprise visit. I hesitated, then shouted, who is it? It's Tom. I don't know any Tom. I think you got the wrong apartment.

He replied, You don't know me, but I know you. Open up so we can talk. that sent ice through my veins. I looked through the people. Yep, it was the tall guy from the bar. Get lost or I'm calling the cops. I heard him walk away. Thought that was it.

But a few minutes later, I peeked out the window and saw him in the parking lot, muttering to himself. I called my landlord. He lived next door and said he'd go check it out with his brother. Meanwhile, I called the police. For my window, I watched my landlord and his brother walk up to the guy. He looked at them, then ran. Took off like a bat out of hell. They tried chasing him but couldn't keep up.

Cops showed up five minutes later. I gave them the full run down. After hearing my description, the officer looked serious. Good thing you didn't open the door. We've had reports of a man matching that description assaulting women. A few days later, I got a call. Turns out, the guy came back to the bar and the cops nabbed him. Just like that.

But it doesn't end there. For years ago, I was sharing a crappy apartment near a crime-ridden road. Not the worst place, but definitely sketchy. As a woman, I learned fast that nighttime walks weren't smart. I didn't even have a car yet, so I walked everywhere, and paid the price in catcalls and creepy encounters. One night, around 3 a.m., I was on my computer, headphones on. My roommate was asleep. Then, knock. Just one. I took off the headphones. Waited. Another knock. Then, a pattern. Slow, steady, like a heartbeat. I froze. Was it a drunk? Someone confused? I waited.

The knocking didn't stop. Just that same slow rhythm. It didn't speed up. Didn't fade. Then came the sound of the doorknob rattling. I was terrified. I tiptoed to the door and yelled, Who is it? Silence.

I looked through the people. No one. I backed away. Knock. Knock. Knock. My roommate woke up, freaked out. I explained.

We called the police and locked ourselves in the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the cops arrived. We peaked out. A young guy, maybe 18. They cuffed him and searched his backpack. Inside, drugs and a knife. He lived across the lot from us. Never seen him before.

Wouldn't say why he knocked. But the cops told us he probably meant to drug us, assault us, or worse. He got locked up, for a little while. After release, he ran off. We moved out soon after. To this day, I can still hear that slow, dreadful knocking. I'll never forget it. Never forget. The end. The day my sister saved my life, this event lasted less than five minutes, but it was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. When I was around nine years old, my aunt and uncle, both addicts, moved into our house. Although I admired my aunt a lot, I always felt uncomfortable around my uncle. He was, to put it kindly, the embodiment of everything

negative one could imagine, extremely thin from drug abuse, with a shaved head, poorly done vulgar and racist tattoos, and rotten or missing teeth. He was always high or drunk and clearly not fit to be around children. One night, my mother went out with my aunt, leaving my uncle at the house. Although he usually wasn't the one to watch us, my twin sister Cass and I were already used to taking care of ourselves and our younger brother, so we didn't think much of the situation. Cass and I were in the living room while our brother slept in his room. Suddenly, my uncle stumbled out of his room, which was right next to the living room. He looked at us with a confused expression, as if he didn't recognize us. Although we weren't afraid of him, we weren't about to obey him either.

He tried to kick us out of the living room, but since we didn't have a TV in our room, I probably said something that made him angry, likely that we didn't have to listen to him and that he already had his own TV in his room. He went back to his room, and I thought that was the end of it. But he came back with a pillow in his hand. Before I could understand what was happening, he crossed the room with determined steps and pushed me onto the couch, pressing the pillow over my face. Even now, as I write this, I can feel my heart.

and I struggled to catch my breath. I couldn't breathe. I remember waving my hands frantically trying to pull his hands away, but I had no nails because I used to bite them as a kid. I felt like I was running out of air and losing consciousness when I heard my sister scream, just before I passed out, the pressure eased, and I managed to push the pillow away, gasping like a fish out of water. Cass had jumped on my uncle's back, and he threw her off with a sharp motion. He looked at us with a cold expression as he staggered backward, then walked out of the house cursing. She and I quickly locked the sliding glass back door. We hugged each other and cried, sitting in the middle of the living room. We fell asleep there, wrapped around each other,

and woke up when we heard the front door open a few hours later. We ran to meet our mom and aunt, but they were both drunk, laughing and stumbling as they came in. We knew they wouldn't be much help, but Cass explained what had happened. My mom, who was strangely affectionate when drunk, hugged us and started crying, saying how much she loved us, something very uncommon for her. That night, they stayed with us watching a horror movie. Surprisingly, they gave us a sip of liquor. I know it may sound absurd, but at only nine years old, we weren't going to say no. At 4 a.m., my uncle came back and started banging on the sliding glass door. My aunt, still staggering, went to the door and yelled at him to go sleep outside.

That night, he didn't come back for three days. When he finally did, he acted like nothing had happened and avoided us completely. So please, never trust someone to take care of your children just because their family, especially if your family is like mine. You never know what someone is capable of, especially in a moment of rage. While this may not seem terrifying to some, to me it remains one of the scariest experiences of my life. If my sister hadn't stepped in, I'm convinced my uncle could have killed me. More than ten years later, I still wake up sometimes gasping, feeling like it could be my last breath.

The day we survived a devastating tornado, this happened when I was 17. I'm 22 now, and it still haunts me. It was a Friday night, and I was home alone because. my mom was out of town visiting some friends, so I had the house to myself for the whole weekend. That night, I invited my friend Dan over to hang out, and we decided to watch a horror movie. We prepared some snacks and sodas and put on my favorite horror movie, Drag Me to Hell. It's the story of a lone officer who denies an elderly woman's extension request and ends up cursed, with only three days to break the spell before literally being dragged to hell.

About an hour into the movie, Dan and I were having fun and laughing at some of the absurd parts of the plot. I paused the movie because I needed to use the bathroom, and when I went in, I noticed the sky had a strange green color. I knew a storm was coming, but I didn't think much of it. I did my business, washed my hands, and went back to continue the movie. When we finished watching, we both got an alert on our phones. There was a tornado warning until seven 45 p.m. We were told to seek shelter immediately due to the extreme level of threat. We ran out of the house to the storm shelter in the trailer park where we lived. Just as we reached the shelter, the siren started blaring and the wind turned violent. The park owner unlocked the shelter, and all the neighbors rushed in. We headed to the basement and huddled together.

About ten minutes later, the power went out. We could hear the wind growing louder, like the roar of a freight train, and the entire building began to shake. It was so violent I thought the shelter was going to collapse. I started crying, convinced we were going to die. Dan and the others started to panic too. Outside, we heard five loud crashes, like something slamming into the ground. The roar of the wind continued for about ten more minutes, and then suddenly everything went silent. We got the signal that it was safe to come out. When we We exited the shelter, I couldn't believe what I saw. The damage was incredible.

Several cars were flipped over, trees uprooted, and three houses were severely damaged. Two were completely destroyed, and another had a car embedded in its structure. Dan and I hugged each other, crying with relief that we were alive. It took us about fifteen minutes to calm down before we returned to my house. Luckily, my house only had some minor damage on one side. Dan lived in the same trailer park, and his mom and sister discovered that the roof of their house was damaged. I invited him to stay at my place that night, and he accepted.

His family agreed, considering how scared he was. I know this isn't your typical stalker or paranormal story, but it was a terrifying experience I'll never forget. The burglary that uncovered a hidden horror. I'm from Nashville, Tennessee. Before I go on, I want to clarify that I deeply regret the things I did when I was younger, and I do not condone breaking the law or the actions I committed back then. When I was about 13, I used to sneak into other people's homes or garages to steal whatever

I could, food, money, or anything I wanted. I lived in a very dangerous part of Nashville and spent weekends with my grandparents, who had custody of my older brother. One particular weekend, I was snooping through backyards looking for unlocking. cars or garages when I noticed a back door was slightly ajar, about four inches, and there were no lights on downstairs. Being a 13-year-old kid, I decided to go into the house. As I tiptoed around looking for things like TVs, game consoles, or computers, I heard

a high-pitched scream, but it was muffled. That froze me in place. Then I heard what sounded like a slap, followed by someone saying, don't bother screaming, No one can hear you down here. Fear gripped me, but I followed the sound. I found a door slightly ajar leading to the basement, where I saw a light on. I lay on the floor and looked down the stairs. From there, I saw a man and a woman tied to chairs, both gagged.

The man's head was slumped over, and there was blood all over his chest. He didn't seem to be breathing. The scene terrified me, and I ran out, making noise. I was sure the intruder heard me because he started chasing me. I ran to the front door, burst through it without bothering to unlock the screen door, and sprinted to a neighbor's house, a man I knew was a firefighter. I banged on his door, yelling for help and saying someone was trying to kill me because they'd already killed the neighbors.

I think he died instantly because he made no sound after that. The firefighter called the police and went to the neighbor's house. He found the woman barely alive, but the man had already died. Later, it was discovered that the attacker had lost his wife in a car accident caused by the man who lived in that house. This had driven him into a state of madness, consumed by alcohol and drugs, until he decided to take revenge. That night, the intruder tortured the couple for hours, killed the man, and left the woman severely injured, until I interrupted. Fortunately, the paramedics managed to save the woman's life. So kids, don't break into other people's homes.

You might stumble upon something you can't escape. The end. I was 15 years old when this wild, terrifying experience hit me like a truck. I'm a girl, by the way, and that night started off super normal, me and my two sisters just wanted to hang out, talk about dumb stuff, and have a chill night in the living room. you know how that goes i took the reclining chair my little seven-year-old sister amelia was on an air mattress right there on the floor and my oldest sister claire who was twenty at the time snagged the couch we were talking about literally everything school drama boys we had crushes on dumb rumors random tiktocks the usual it was late like super late and one by one we all passed out right in the middle of the fun I must have dozed off mid-sentence.

Sometime later, I woke up. At first, I had no clue why. It wasn't like someone shook me or anything. Then I heard it. A tapping. Soft at first, like the sound of fingernails against glass. My body froze. I glanced over and saw the curtains over the living room window were still drawn,

but the way the recliner was angled let me see through the small gap. and that's when I saw someone just standing there motionless my heart dropped into my stomach I wasn't sure they could see me with the lighting being so dim but the worst part was when they crouched down and stared directly through the crack in the curtain an eye just an eye

looking right at me I had no clue who this creep was I couldn't even make out a face most of them was hidden by the curtain and the shadows but that I. That was burned into my memory. I panicked silently. I didn't want to wake anyone yet because maybe it was nothing, right? Maybe it was just some nosy neighbor or a peeping freak who'd eventually get bored. So, I rolled over and pulled the blanket up over my head like a coward. Honestly, I thought if I ignored it, he'd go away. That illusion shattered, literally.

Bam. A loud, horrible bang slammed into the window. I whipped back around and saw the silhouette still there, now pounding with both fists like they were trying to smash their way inside. This wasn't quiet. This wasn't subtle. This guy didn't care who heard. I froze again. My brain just locked up. Then I heard Amelia rustling on the mattress and suddenly crying. She must have seen him too. Her crying was like a switch flipped inside me. Big Sister Mode, On. I leapt out of the chair and ran to scoop Amelia up. My hands were shaking. I just knew if that window broke, she'd be the first one hurt. I ran to Claire on the couch, Amelia bawling in my arms. The problem?

Claire was sleeping right next to the same window. Fantastic. I should probably mention something important here. here, Claire has a sleep disorder, same as our dad. She takes these hardcore sleeping pills every night, and once she's out, she's out like a rock. I still tried. I whispered, then shook her, then tugged on her arm. Nothing. Finally, I yanked her hair. She grumbled something like, Go away. That's when I heard it. The cracking. That horrible, sickening sound of glass about to give way. I spun around just in time to see the glass shatter completely, and the intruder dove

through like a human missile, landing in a crash of shards on the living room floor. I screamed. Amelia screamed louder. Claire, still asleep. The man stood up slowly. Blood trickled down his face and neck where glass had embedded itself. His face was impossible to read, like he was either in shock or too deranged to feel pain. I had no time to think. I grabbed Amelia tighter and ran. Where do we go? The basement.

I don't know why. It wasn't the safest option, and there was only one exit, but panic does weird things to your brain. We sprinted down the stairs and ducked behind a half wall that split the room. I was shaking so hard I could barely hold Amelia. We stayed quiet. The shuffling upstairs seemed to go on forever. Then, silence. Minutes felt like hours.

Then we heard sirens. The sweetest sound I've ever heard. Finally, two police officers found the basement door and came down with flashlights. Claire had woken up after the glass hit her somehow. She was cut up but alive. The man? Gone. The cop said someone down the street.

had seen a suspicious guy limping down the road and called it in. That's probably what saved us. To this day, no one ever caught the guy. And I still wonder if he was someone who lived nearby. Someone we maybe smiled at in passing. Someone we never really knew. Now let me take you back in time. This one happened when I was about five years old.

Early 80s. Different era, totally different vibe. I lived in a small Texas town not far from Austin. Back then, crime was like this mythical thing that happened in big cities. Kids stayed in cars while parents ran into stores. No one thought twice. We had this big old Buick LaSabra, cream-colored, two doors, brown vinyl top. Real beast of a car.

It had electric locks and windows, which, spoiler alert, actually mattered a lot that day. One afternoon, my mom and I went to the grocery store. My older brother stayed home, glued to the TV with his Atari. If I had known what was coming, I'd have begged to stay, too. Anyway, I decided to stay in the car while Mom ran in for a quick trip. She cracked the windows halfway and left. I was chilling in the front passenger seat, just watching people go by. Then this small red truck with a camper pulled up next to us.

I didn't think much of it, until the guy inside just sat there. Didn't get out. Didn't look like he was waiting for someone. He kept looking at me, then scanning the parking lot, then back at me again. My stomach knotted up. I was five, but even then, I knew something was off. I tried to roll up the window, but I didn't have the keys. That feeling of helplessness hit hard.

The man suddenly stepped out of his truck, never breaking eye contact. He looked around like he was making sure no one was watching. I freaked and jumped into the back seat. I figured if he tried anything, I'd make it as hard as possible for him. Smart move for a kid, right? My little heart was pounding like a drumline. I planned to dive out the other door if he unlocked this one.

He reached for the lock. And then I saw my mom coming out of the store. I bolted, flinging the door open and running straight into her arms, crying. I looked back and saw the red truck tearing out of the parking lot like he'd been caught. If she'd taken another minute, or if I hadn't remembered the Stranger Danger lessons from school. I don't even want to think about it. That day changed something in me. I never stayed alone in the car again.

And when I had my daughter years later, I became that mom who triple checks every lock. People call me overprotective. Whatever. I'd rather be safe than sorry. Let me tell you about another night, this once from when I was 14, living in a small town in Vermont. Our house was this huge place on a hillside, surrounded by woods. Pretty but creepy at night. It was December, right around my birthday.

I had this yearly tradition of inviting my best friends over for a sleepover. That year it was Jay, hunter, Eli, and Samuel. We were obsessed with this game they made up called Evil Cat Mafia. It was like a mix of mafia and manhunt. One person secretly played the Th Mafia and hunted the rest down in the dark. If you got tagged, you joined the Mafia. We had a code word to stop the game in case something real happened. That night, we were deep into round three, snow falling lightly, everything dead quiet except for the crunch of our boots. Eli and I moved toward a clearing near the neighbor's place when he suddenly stopped.

Do you see that? He whispered. I looked. Between two small trees, something stood. A figure. At first, I thought it was just someone out for a walk. But no. It wasn't right. It was pitch black. Like a void. It had no eyes.

no face. Just, nothing. It moved. Not like a person. It moved in these weird jerky steps, like bad stop-motion animation. Run. Eli shouted, and we bolted. Behind us, I heard this low, creaky sound. I turned for a split second and saw it chasing us. It was changing, growing. It's arm stretched long, its body bulging unnaturally. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. We ran until the garage was in sight. Jay, Hunter, and Samuel were already there. What's going on?

No time. Get inside. We slammed the door shut and tried to catch our breath. Eli and I explained what we saw. The others didn't believe us. Dude, how could you see it if it was so dark? Because it was darker than the dark. Like, a shadow that swallowed light.

Then it came again. A deep, bone-chilling moan from the woods. My dad opened the door then, confused by all the chaos. We tried to explain, but he thought it was just our game. I didn't hear anything. Stop fooling around. We never saw it again, but I'll never forget that show. shape. That darkness. That feeling. And sometimes, when I'm alone at night, I swear I still hear

that moan in the distance. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe it isn't. Either way, I sleep with the lights on now. And I always check the windows. Always. All right, so this didn't happen to me personally, but it happened to one of my closest friends, and he told it to me in such detail that it still gives me chills. Just to make it easier, I'm going to write it as if it happened to me, from his perspective. This all went down several years ago, when I was about 14 years old. My family had planned a Christmas weekend getaway to visit my uncle who lived in Maine. His house was pretty small, so the plan was for us to stay in this cabin nearby that we rented

for a few days. We got there on a Thursday night and were planning to stay until Sunday. It was Christmas Eve when we arrived. Now, the cabin wasn't anything fancy, a single-story, ranch-style little place with two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, a balcony out back, and one bathroom. We unpacked our stuff and got settled in. That night was pretty uneventful. We were all just tired from the drive.

The next day, we went to my uncle's place and spent basically the whole day there. helped prepare a big Christmas dinner, hung out around a fire outside, opened a few early presents, that kind of thing. It was a nice day. But by the time we got back to the cabin, I was exhausted. I washed up, got into bed, but the moment I stepped out of the bathroom, I felt something shift in the air. This overwhelming feeling of dread settled in my stomach like I was suddenly being watched.

I'm not kidding, it was instant and intense. Now, just so you know, I've always believed in the paranormal. I try to stay skeptical, but I've seen and felt enough weird stuff to know when something's off. So I slowly walked toward the dining room, which had a big window at the back that looked out into the woods. The moon was out and casting this eerie silver light into the room. When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw something that made my heart stop. There was a tall, dark figure standing completely still in the corner. And it had glowing red eyes.

Not like little reflections or anything. Like, actual glowing eyes just staring right at me, like it wanted to do something awful. You'd think I'd scream or run, right? But no. I did something that still freaks me out to this day. I just turned around, walked to the bedroom, and went to bed. No panic, no questions. It was like my brain just flipped a switch into autopilot.

I can't explain it. Then, at exactly 2.17 a.m., I woke up to the sound of slow, heavy footsteps in the hallway outside my room. Not fast. Not quiet. Just slow and deliberate, like whoever it was new I could hear them and didn't care. My first thought was maybe it was one of my parents getting a drink or something, but it didn't feel right.

The footsteps stopped right outside my door. Then came the slow, awful sound of the door creaking open. I couldn't bring myself to look. I just ducked under the covers, thinking maybe if I ignored it, it would go away. But no. Something sat at the foot of my bed. I felt the mattress dip. And then, this low, inhuman growl filled the room.

It didn't sound like anything I'd ever heard before. I shot out of bed like a firecracker had gone off. and screamed for my parents. I ran out of the room and into theirs, hyperventilating. They woke up panicked and tried to calm me down, asking what was wrong. I told them everything, but of course, when they checked the room, there was nothing there. No footprints, no weird shadows, nothing. They chalked it up to a nightmare. But I know what I saw. That thing was real. I wasn't dreaming. I could still feel where the bed had been pushed down. We stayed until Sunday, but I didn't sleep a single night after that. And I swear, I will never go back to that cabin again.

Now let me tell you about something that happened to me personally. This was in 2019. I was 12 years old, and it was Christmas again, which used to be my favorite holiday. That year, my family and I spent Christmas at my cousin's house. It was a great time, we played games, ate a ton of food, and just had fun being together. We decided to sleep over since it was getting late, and we were all pretty tired. I was in the guest bedroom with my parents, knocked out cold until about 4 a.m. when I woke up to weird noises coming from downstairs. Against every good instinct I had, I got up and tiptoed down the stairs to check it out. I peeked through the wooden rails of the staircase into the living room, and I swear to you,

I saw someone dressed as Santa Claus crouched under the Christmas tree. My little 12-year-old brain was like, Santa came back. So I ran upstairs and woke up my dad, whispering, Dad, Santa came back. He's downstairs. My dad looked confused and a little spooked. We went back down together, but by the time we got there, the living room was empty. My dad told me it was probably just a dream and sent me back to bed. But the next morning, when my uncle went down to the basement to grab drinks, he saw that one of the windows down there had been shattered.

That kicked off a full-house search. After checking every room, they were about to tell us everything looked fine when there was a loud crash from the attic. They hadn't checked that. My dad and uncle rushed up there, and suddenly we heard shouting. We all ran outside while someone called the cops. When they showed up and went inside, they came back out about 15 minutes later dragging a man dressed in a Santa suit. The guy had a knife on him. Apparently, our house wasn't the only one he'd broken into.

Police said there were reports all over the block that night. And get this, they also mentioned something else. There had been a string of attempted kidnappings at the local mall, all involving people dressed as Santa. And here's another creepy one. This one happened to me a few years later, in 2016. I was finishing college and living alone in this small apartment with my dog, a tiny Yorkie. That Christmas, I decided to visit my dad who lived two states away, about a six-hour drive. My mom flew in two, and for a few days, everything was cool.

It felt like old times. But the day before Christmas Eve, my mom found out that my dad had been cheating on her, and it just completely exploded. They fought non-stop, and it got so bad that on Christmas Eve morning, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I packed up my stuff, put my dog in the car, and left. It was snowing but manageable. I was about two hours into the drive when I decided to stop at this super-isolated rest stop

so my dog could pee. I got out with him, flashlight in hand, and waited while he did his thing. Suddenly, he started growling. Not barking, but that low, threatening growl that dogs do when something's really wrong. He started kicking up snow and acting totally freaked out. I looked around and saw someone in the distance. A human figure just standing there, not moving. I wouldn't have noticed if my dog hadn't reacted.

No other cars were in the lot. I picked up my dog and started heading back to the car. He kept growling, squirming, clawing at me like he was trying to look behind us. I got to the car, and when I looked back again, the person was sprinting at us. I freaked, threw my dog into the car, and jumped in. I locked the doors, but of course, that's when my car decided not to start. The guy reached the car, slamming his hands on the window, yelling something about needing a ride. He looked homeless, torn clothes, scruffy hair, beard, the whole.

whole look. He kept pounding, asking to be let in. I lied and told him I was calling a tow truck and that he could get a ride from them. But he didn't stop. My dog was going absolutely ballistic in the back seat. He was barking and growling like a demon, which, for him, was super weird. Finally, after what felt like forever, my car started. I didn't wait. I slammed it in to drive and sped out of there as fast as I could. I didn't stop again until I was home. Ever since then, Christmas hasn't felt the same. Not after all the weird, terrifying things that have happened around that time of year.

And trust me, if you ever feel like something's watching you or something's not right, believe that that gut feeling. Because sometimes, it's not just your imagination. To be continued. I had no idea Christmas Eve would turn into a full-on horror movie. Let me take you back to that freezing night, me, my dog, and a broken down car at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. My dog, always friendly and calm, was absolutely losing his mind, barking like he was trying to summon the devil himself. I tried to calm him down, shushing him, placing my hands gently over his mouth.

Then this man showed up, just popped out of nowhere, wild-eyed, angry-looking. He asked for help. Something about his car, or maybe he needed a phone. Honestly, I couldn't even make out the words. I told him I couldn't help, and he did not like that answer. The dude immediately tried to open my car door. I nearly choked on my heart. Thankfully, the door was locked.

But the sound of him yanking at it made my dog slip out of my hands and go absolutely feral again. That's when I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. The second he saw what I was doing, he backed off fast and ran straight into the restroom building. As soon as he disappeared, my dog calmed down like someone flipped a switch. I explained everything to the 911 dispatcher. She was super nice and stayed on the phone with me until a cop showed up. But then the man came out of the bathrooms. My heart dropped.

He started walking toward my car again. I freaked out, but then I know. noticed he was watching me talk into my phone, and maybe he realized I was still with the dispatcher, because he suddenly turned and took off in the direction he came from. The officer arrived about 15 minutes later. He agreed with me that calling a tow truck on Christmas Eve would cost a small fortune. So, I ended up calling my dad. He had a pickup and managed to borrow a trailer from his co-worker.

While we waited, the officer let my dog warm up in his cruiser and even followed the man footprints for a bit. But the guy had vanished like smoke. Two hours later, my parents showed up. My dad got my car onto the trailer, and I figured I'd just say the car broke down, no need to stress them out. But the cop told them everything. They were horrified, blamed themselves for letting me drive out alone. They decided to quit fighting, at least in front of me. The next day, my dad fixed the car, but the whole thing freaked them out. so bad that they traded my car in for a new one. They called it a late Christmas gift and early graduation present. My mom insisted she fly out of my city with me when break ended. I never heard

from the police about that man again. Hopefully, he learned to stop creeping around rest stops. Now, that should have been the end of my holiday drama. But no, life had another story lined up. See, when you sell a house, you're legally required to disclose if anyone died in it within the last three years. In my case, that was pointless. Everyone within 50 miles already knew about Victoria Teller. Her story was a local legend wrapped in tragedy. She had a baby, beautiful boy. No one ever figured out who the father was.

That baby died a few months after he was born. Some said it was illness. Others whispered darker things. A year later, Victoria took her own life. That much was fact. What wasn't clear were the details. Some claimed she went crazy after losing her child and started buying baby dolls to replace him. Rumors said she would treat them like real babies until, in her mind, they died too.

Then she'd bury them and buy another. Teenagers used to make it a Halloween ritual to hunt for buried dolls in the woods behind her house. But nothing ever turned up. The house sat empty for six years. When I bought the place through my family, I wasn't too worried. Tragic backstory? Sure.

But no hauntings, no devil marks on the walls. Nothing. It was just a house with a weird reputation, and I got a killer deal on it. First few months they were boring, actually. had to chase off some looky-loos who didn't know someone had moved in. But otherwise, it was fine. By Christmas, I'd all but forgotten Victoria Teller. My son Caleb was finally old enough to get hyped about more than just presents.

We went all out, lights on the roof, wreath on the door, decorations on the lawn. The tree was massive, and Caleb was over the moon, especially since we'd been hinting about a puppy. That joy didn't last. About a week before Christmas, my wife opened the closet where we'd been storing presents, only to find the wrapping paper shredded. Not just torn, a shredded mess like rats had gone wild. But none of the boxes were touched. At first, we thought maybe Caleb snuck in and tore the paper out of excitement,

but he was too young to hide something like that. We moved the gifts to the attic. Then the noises started. At first, it was just scratching in the walls. Then clothes thrown around the bedroom, the fridge left open, food scattered across the kitchen floor. Caleb cried one morning because all his toys were dumped out during the night. My wife got nervous. Said it was Victoria's ghost.

I laughed. I shouldn't have. Christmas Eve. We put Caleb to bed, told him Santa wouldn't come if he didn't sleep. After he finally passed out, I picked up the puppy for my mom's place. Golden Retriever, Pure Fluff. We let him run around for a bit, played with him, then tucked him into his crate. Eight the cookies Caleb left out and went to bed.

I woke up to screaming. Caleb's scream. Blood curdling. My wife and I bolted down the hall and into the living room. He'd snuck out to see his present. Instead of a cute little puppy under the tree, he found a scene straight out of a nightmare. The crate was twisted metal, covered in blood and fur. The puppy was, gone.

My wife took Caleb to another room while I checked the house for intruders. Nothing. I came back to clean up and was kneeling on the hardwood floor when I heard a soft sound, like bells. I looked up at the tree. Big blue eyes stared back at me from the branches. A porcelain doll. Before I could move, she fell. Three more followed.

Old-fashioned dolls in tattered dresses, covered in dirt and blood. They stood up. On their own. I backed up as they began walking toward me, their heads jerking in unnatural movements. That's when I heard my wife and Caleb scream again. I tore up the stairs. They were on our bed, surrounded by a swarm of porcelain. dolls. Some were missing limbs, others had cracked faces. All of them were reaching for my family.

I charged into the room, kicking dolls out of my path. But they fought back. For everyone I got passed, more swarmed me. They scratched, pulled, clawed. I was being dragged away. I yelled for my wife to run. She jumped off the bed, but fell. Caleb's head hit the floor, hard. His cries turned all their attention. My wife tried to scoop him up, but they reached him first. I saw them tear into him. She tried to fight them off, screaming, clawing, kicking. They turned on her next. I watched it happen. Frozen. Helpless. A doll with black hair and a torn gray dress bit her throat. She stopped moving. They were gone. Just gone. The dolls focused on the bodies. And me? I ran. I sprinted down the stairs,

barely stopping to open the front door. Just as I stepped onto the porch, I heard it, a woman's voice, gentle, sweet, floating down from the second floor. That's right, my children, fill those bellies. Grow big and strong. I vomited. Right there on the steps. Turn to look back. A cracked window framed a pale face, smiling down at me. Not a doll, Victoria Teller. The police didn't believe me. Of course they didn't. There was no blood.

No bodies. Just an empty house. But I know what I saw. And I know they're still there. Waiting. Growing. The end. The shadow in the crops.

It happened the night I was the designated driver. among my group of friends after a party. My friends were Michael, Edy, and Daniela. We lived in the countryside, so whenever we wanted to go to bars or parties, we had to travel long distances. That's why it was always a big deal for one of us to be sober enough to drive. We were driving along Route 513, a highway with no lighting, dotted with houses here and there but mostly surrounded by forest. The road leads to the town where most of the bars are. This story takes place on the way back from town. Daniela started crying because she really needed to use the bathroom.

I told her she would have to wait a little longer, but I won't lie, I also started to feel the urge. That, combined with the fact that Daniela was screaming in her drunken state, made me think, why not pull over and pee in the woods? Daniela got out first and disappeared into the crops on one side. I went to the opposite side of the road, a little into the woods, because of the same. I'm the kind of person who can't pee with people watching. I finished first and went back to the car. Eddie and Michael were singing with the music blasting while I just sat silently, impatient. My two drunk friends didn't seem to find it strange that she had been gone for five

minutes. So I got out again to call for her. Michael has a much louder voice than I do, so when he shouted her name, it would be impossible not to hear it. But still, there was no response. I didn't want to go into those crops, but I felt I had to, she was my friend, and I was the most aware of the situation at that moment. I had Michael come with me because I was too afraid to go alone. Eddie stayed in a car, he was too drunk. With the flashlight from my glove box, Michael and I ventured into the thick crops, walking in the only direction we could think of, away from the car. Michael kept calling out Daniela's name while laughing hysterically. I understood why he found it funny, given his state, but I just wanted to make sure she was

okay and get home. Above the sound of our footsteps pushing through the crops and Michael's laughter, I heard something else, closer. I placed my arm on Michael's chest to stop him. Now the only thing we could hear was the night breeze blowing through the crops. What's that? I whispered. Shoo, I replied.

Michael shouted Daniela's name again. I joined in, thinking it was just her trying to scare us. And again, the footsteps stopped. We walked a bit farther into the crops. That's when we reached a small narrow clearing. I don't know much about crops or agriculture, but it looked like a small path where people could walk, probably as wide as two people, just enough to pass through.

I looked to the left as far as the light allowed, then to the right. I heard three footsteps and then crops being pushed outward until something came into view. At first, it only lit up the legs, so I assumed it was Michael. But the light revealed it wasn't him, but a man, a stranger I had never seen before. His facial features weren't clear enough to give a good description, but he didn't seem friendly. I ran in the only direction I remembered, back to the car. I guess I ran so fast it only took me about 10 seconds to reach the car. Eddie was already asleep in the car, so I didn't try to ask for help. I started hunking, hoping to get Michael's attention and, hopefully, Danielas.

That man's presence had unsettled me. I didn't know if he was the owner of the land or not. I kept hunking until finally Michael came out of the crops dragging Daniela, who looked unconscious. I got out of the car to help him get her in and place her on the seat. Michael pointed to the wound on her forehead, as if she had been hit with something heavy and sharp. Michael seemed to be sobering up quickly due to the situation. He suggested I drive to the nearest hospital, which was ten minutes away. The ride there was anything but pleasant, filled with panic and screams. We took Daniela to get her wound treated as quickly

as possible. That's when Michael explained, to the nurses, not to me, that he had seen a man dragging her collapsed, unconscious body before running off into the crops once he noticed Michael had seen him. He had never mentioned that in the car, but now it all made sense. That man in the crops that night had done this. Daniela woke up after getting stitches and didn't remember anything from the night, from the moment we arrived at the party to the moment she was hit on the head. The shadow in the darkness, I was driving back home for my night shift at the pharmacy. It was around 1217, according to the green dashboard clock in my car. The light shone brightly, I still remember that number.

Driving that road at that time is dangerous. No lights, usually no other cars, and deer often come out onto the road. You wouldn't notice them until it's too late if they crossed right in front of you. That's why I always drive slowly, at a max of 50 kilometers per hour. When the road curved left, a clear line of reflective lights appeared on the horizon. I quickly realized it was a line of traffic cones with reflective tape and a flashing blue light. In the distance, it looked like the reflective material of a safety vest. I was so confused trying to understand what was happening that I didn't realize I should have

braked until it was almost too late. The car stopped with a screech, and the man in the reflective vest started walking toward my car with his arms outstretched, apparently signaling me not to move the car. As the man approached, I could see what looked like a police uniform under the vest. He tapped my window with the tip of his index finger, I understood I should roll it down. I did, and I could see his face more clearly to give a good description. He was a black man, about 1.80m tall, slim, with slight facial hair and an earring in his left dear. He looked young, maybe about 25. He spoke in a low, non-authoritative voice, especially for a cop. He asked for my license and registration. I stayed quiet for a moment and asked if I had done

anything wrong because I definitely wasn't speeding. He also paused, looked slightly to his left, and then back at me. Sir, this is a sobriety checkpoint, he said in the same low voice. I asked why he needed my ID and registration if he hadn't accused me of anything. He stepped away from my car and asked me to step out of the vehicle to begin the test. I opened the door and got out. I immediately noticed the cop was taller than me. He pulled a roll of tape from his pocket and laid it on the ground, stretching it out. He asked me to step on the end of the tape and extend my arms while walking a straight line on the tape. I did it without issue, while the cop walked right behind me, uncomfortably close. When I reached the end of the tape, I could see the flashing

blue light more clearly. It wasn't on a police car, it was on a small, old sedan. I looked back and asked him to show me his badge. He just stared at me with a blank look. That's when I started to realize, I could literally feel my heart sink. This guy wasn't a cop. He said something I couldn't make out at first, but as he approached his car, I guessed he said, I'm going to get it. He was bent over inside his car looking for something. While he was distracted, I ran back to my car. When he looked at me and raised a gun, I didn't hesitate, I floored it. The car surged forward, smashing through the traffic cones. I saw the headlights of the man's car turn on as I was already several hundred feet away, but by that point I was going over 100 kilometers

per hour, there was no way he could catch me. I took the next exit and when I saw street lights, I turned off my headlights to avoid attention. When I got home, I only regretted not having a camera in the car to record it. I swear it would have made the news. The shadow on the road, I was driving from Mina, New York, northbound to spend the week with my family. I left right after work around 5.30, so I didn't expect to arrive until after 1 a.m. I had the top off my Jeep Wrangler to enjoy the warm weather. I was somewhere in Vermont past midnight when the fuel light came on and the car started beeping. Unfortunately, the gas gauge was broken, so I had no way of knowing how much fuel I had left. My brother, who had driven the car the day before, told me he had

filled the tank, but clearly, he was wrong or lied, because I hadn't used even half a tank. I saw a service sign with a gas station symbol, so I took the exit onto a deserted road that surely led to some sort of civilization. But I wouldn't find out soon, the car started acting strange, making weird noises. Seconds later, acceleration stopped, and the car completely shut down. I couldn't believe it, I had run out of gas. I got out and called AAA to give them my exact location. They told me someone would be there in 20 minutes, which I appreciated.

But at the same time, I was annoyed that I'd have to wait so long. For about 15 minutes, I walked around my car, looking at my phone, messaging my friends about the situation, and checking social media. Everything was so quiet, no traffic, no cars passing, just the sound of crickets and other nocturnal animals in the woods. Then I heard something walking in the forest. The footsteps were heavy, so I thought it might be a deer or something similar, but the possibility of a bear wasn't far-fetched since the area was known for them.

I walked to the passenger side of the car, toward where the sounds came from, hoping to see a deer or some other harmless animal. Suddenly, I heard two claps, like someone clapping. I stepped closer to hear better, this time it was three claps. I called into the forest, hoping someone would respond, but after that, the clapping stopped. I stood there waiting, but there was only silence. I went back to the car and kept waiting. Then I heard footsteps again, this time approaching me, but suddenly they stopped. I looked outside and saw a head peeking out from behind a tree.

It was like the head was completely still, the eyes looked empty. I couldn't tell if it was looking at me or not. I was so focused on those details that I didn't even think to scream, which horrifies me now. I quickly rolled up the windows on both sides and turned off the car lights. But hiding inside didn't give me much safety, the top of the car was completely open. Without the lights, I was in complete darkness, I couldn't see even two centimeters in front of me, but I was surrounded by the forest's nighttime noises. I crouched under the dashboard with the doors locked, still completely exposed to the outside,

praying I wouldn't hear a sudden sound like footsteps. My stomach sank when I heard someone grab the car door handle. I tried not to move or make a sound, hoping no one would start banging on the window or try to open the door. I was so exposed it wasn't even funny. Then I felt a hand grabbing me aggressively from behind. I lost control, I screamed at the top of my lungs. But suddenly the hand let go, and like magic, light started to fill the area, and the sound of a truck approaching on the road was music to my ears. I sat up and looked back to see the headlights of a truck. I sat up and looked back to see the headlights of a AAA truck. But the person who had touched me was already

gone. I ran out of the car to greet the man who got out of the truck, a big guy in his forties. I basically cried to him, explaining what had just happened, taking big breaths between each sentence. Something about his personality and presence calmed me down and made me feel safe. He filled up my car with gas and we both went on our way. But the memory of that night still haunts me, the image of that lifeless head peeking out from behind the tree is burned into my mind. And that's how these three stories end, each with its own mystery and darkness, each in its own way making us wonder about what might be lurking out there in the night. The end. I was just 15 years old when I learned monsters were real. That day, a Tuesday,

I recall, I was a little later than usual coming home from school on account of joining the science clout. I just recently watched Donnie Darko for the first time, and had become enthralled with the idea of time travel. As I walked home, backpack weighing me down, I realized I was going to miss the start of my favorite documentary series, and had to do something drastic if I intended to change that. There was a shortcut that ran through one of the yards in the neighborhood, but I rarely used it for fear of being caught. The old man who lived there was generally belligerent, and if he caught anyone cutting through his property he'd yell and chased them away, threatening to get his gun. No one had actually seen his gun, mind you,

but no one wanted to either. Perhaps I was feeling brave, or the thought of missing my favorite show was too much, but that day I decided the time I'd save was worth the risk. After jumping the old fence, I made my way along the side of the house and into the backyard. I cursed myself for wearing my Triforce hat and orange vest, as high visibility an outfit as one could find. I was about halfway across the yard when I heard a loud splash behind me, like someone jumping off a highboard. I vaguely remembered the old man having an above-ground pool which he likely never used, letting the water fester and bloom. The idea of old man Williams splashing around in that fetid water was both ridiculous and disgusting. And yet, something was in the pool.

I watched the dirty water royal and churn, waves of it flowing over the sides. It looked as if an animal were drowning, and I stood frozen to the spot, not knowing whether I should run away from a place I shouldn't have been in the first place or run forward and help it. Time seemed to be rushing forward anxiously, the late-day sun arcing toward the horizon. The sight of the writhing thing that clawed its way out of the pool changed me forever. One look at its twisted formation of limbs and bones and organ, familiar things twisted into new designs, murdered my innocence in an instant.

Its grotesque face, with bloodshot eyes nearly popping out of its broken skull, fixed on me in one, chilling instant. And then it was chasing me, bones popping and cracking, shuffling and rearranging its hideous form. And it screamed, too, screamed a single sound at me, a word like, nah. The voice bloody and raw, the word sounding as if it had been turned inside out. My legs, heavy with the flow of cortisol and adrenaline, forgot how to work properly. I only ran a few feet before I got tangled in myself, tripping and falling to the cold ground, dirt and grass catching me,

backpack crushing me as time seemed to slow down. I fumbled from my stomach and flipped over onto my back to see the monster bearing down on me, a maneuver that felt as if it took a month to achieve in the new flow of time. I prayed for the monster to be gone, a prayer that went unanswered. The creature was still stumbling and crunching after me, each moment twisting it into new and increasingly painful configurations. Each anguished step it took slowed down the seconds even further, until it was nearly on top of me and I swore time was going to stop altogether.

It only gave me more time to stare at its disgusting form, to take in the track of it. details of its painful existence. And then, it was gone. Like a blanket vanished from above me, nothing left but a wisp of black ash carried off by the breeze. It took me a minute to gather myself and stand, but when I did I noticed the sun was lower, moving toward the damp chill of night. Hey! Someone shouted, and I jumped, afraid the monster was back. But it was old man Williams, standing in the back door of his house. I ran from that place so fast I didn't even hear his threats. I was so happy to be alive, I took my punishment for coming home late with a hidden smile.

It took two years to see another monster. So much had changed in that time, from the divorce of my parents to the loss of most of my friends. I'd been politely asked to drop out of the science club, following my third attempt to recruit my fellow students in risky experiments. One of them, involving lasers and a gas-powered generator, nearly blinded my former friend Paul in one eye. Over time my experiments became one-person jobs, either because no one wanted to risk getting hurt by being around me, or because their parents forbade it. High school graduation was a strangely emotional time for my fellow students, a reaction I never quite understood. They were either sad to be leaving each other or excited to be moving on, and sometimes both at the same

time. I saw it for the necessary step it was. I'd been accepted to Stanford, and other than looking forward to using its state-of-the-art laboratory for advanced materials, I knew that one place was the same as any other. The only brief sadness I allowed myself that day was when I learned my father wouldn't be attending the ceremony. My mother assured me it had to do with a delayed flight on his return from a business trip, but a quick search of his flight information told me the truth. The plane had arrived on time. He simply didn't want to attend. As I sat through the valedictorian's mind-numbing speech, the afternoon sun baking us in our dark red graduation gowns, I recalled the principal's speech to me as we sat in her office, explaining why I hadn't been

chosen to be valedictorian despite my higher grade average. She nervously explained the other students various accomplishments, including everything from event planning to community outreach, and I sat patiently through it all. She was relieved when I told her it meant nothing to me, that my parents either didn't know or didn't care. After the ceremony, it took me 15 minutes to find my mother in the crowd. She was wrapped up in a conversation with one of the gym teachers, and she seemed surprised to see me, as if she'd forgotten why she'd come in the first place. I told her I needed to use the bathroom. She wasted no time returning to her conversation with a man who hadn't said three words to me in four years.

Only a few people were walking around inside the school, mainly teachers gathering their things, or janitors preparing the building for summer break. The boy's bathroom was empty, which I very much appreciated on account of my shy bladder. I picked out a urinal at the far end, hiked up my graduation gown, and prepared. to unzip my dress pants. My hair stood on end before I got the chance. Time slowed to a crawl as the toilet stall behind me came alive with the noise of something struggling inside, something with popping bones and twisting flesh. Tie, it screamed in agony. Before I knew it I was running again, running from the things that haunted me. With each step time moved faster

and faster until it felt like a blur, a gushing river carrying me out of the bathroom and down the half-empty hallway, back to the beating sunlight, where the river slowed and returned to normal. The crowd was gone. All my fellow students and their families, everyone had left and gone home, including, as I soon found out, my mother. I walked the 12 blocks home looking over my shoulder, checking every shadow, every corner and swimming pool for twisting, deforming shapes. My mother and I didn't speak about my disappearance, or much else for that matter. Each time I encountered one of the creatures, I became more sure of their effect on time. The closer they were to me, the slower time progressed.

The further I ran, the more distance I put between them and myself, the faster the seconds moved, until eventually they returned to normal. This wasn't some subjective experience based on my fear response, but a legitimate phenomenon, corroborated by the time on my watch. As if time itself were bending around the creatures. For years I thought about nothing but the creatures and their strange influence on time. I became convinced they were either from another time or existed outside of it. And so I learned everything I could about time and one's potential traversing of it.

Black holes, wormholes, curved spacetime, infinite cylinders, I left nothing untouched. When most teenagers were in a parking lot drinking beer, I was in my room reading Carl Sagan. When they were arguing about whose football team was better, I was arguing about the Novikov self-consistency principle, or the Blinovich limitation effect. I breathed Einstein and devoured Hawking. Time spent in anyone else's company was time wasted. In Stanford, I had my first breakthrough with a rudimentary tachianic anti-telephone, though the machine melted before I could reproduce. the results. The resulting fire got me expelled from the university outright, no matter how much I argued and pleaded for the sake of the research. It wasn't the first time I'd been kicked

out of an organization, and it wouldn't be the last. By the time I transferred to Caltech my father had died, leaving me a substantial college fund, which was helpful since my mother no longer wanted me at the house. I ended up staying in one of the dorm houses, not the best environment for study, though it did offer the advantage of being a five-minute walk from the math and physics hall. My roommate, I didn't catch his first name but everyone called him Akins, was an environmental engineering student with an interest in both oceanography and watching horror movies at high volumes late at night. One particular night, as he was blasting a Spanish-language movie about a man with bloody bandages around his face, he told me I would probably like

the movie if I paid attention to anything other than textbooks. He practically had to had to shout for me to hear what he was saying over the film. I looked up for my textbook to tell him there was nothing worth knowing a movie could teach me, especially a horror movie. But just as I did, as I opened my mouth to speak, a face appeared inches in front of my own. It wasn't just mutated, but in fact still mutating. Like a puzzle box it shifted and snapped, the mouth contorted into an impossible angle, an angle that let out a single sound. A pained, gurgling, Nret, I screamed, and the sound slowed down in pitch and length until I could hear and feel each reverberation of my vocal cords. A moment later the disfiguring face disappeared,

blinked out of existence, like it had never been there. My scream modulated back to normal pitch, and I found myself screaming directly at my horrified roommate. Aiken stared at me, What the hell is your problem, he asked. My heart thundered adrenaline through my veins. Eyes dilated and sweat beating on my face, I stared back at him. I don't think it's a problem, I replied after a moment. I think it's a puzzle. Just before I was kicked out of my third and final university, this time from MIT for disruptive

outbursts, a classmate stopped me after class and told me she'd very much enjoyed my argument with our particle physics professor. He doesn't know what he's talking about, I told her flatly. I think he knows what he's talking about, she said, but not as much as you do. She smiled, and suddenly I realized she was very pretty. Beautiful, even. I offered to walk her to her next class, which she accepted. She told me her name was Yvette, and as we walked we discussed some light quantum theory, at her suggestion.

Energy disperses, objects equilibrate, she said, because of us. of how elementary particles become intertwined when they interact. Entanglement, I replied. Exactly. When two particles interact they can no longer be described by their own pure states. They almost become as one, like two people talking, I pointed out. Or even kissing, as suddenly as I'd realized she was beautiful, that was how quickly I realized what she'd done. She'd baited me into speaking about entanglement so she could flirt with me. She was clever and cunning, and I knew in that moment, as we stood smiling at each other in front of the library, that she would be the one I would marry. I asked her for her phone number, the way I'd heard

people do. To my surprise she took out a pen and paper, wrote the number down and handed it to me. I glanced at her hand as she did, and noticed a bit of string looped around her finger. What's that? I asked her. She glanced down, then back. Oh, that. Just a reminder about something I have to do later. You've never tied a string around yourself before. Her word struck me hard, like an apple falling on my head. In that moment an idea was born in my mind, fully formed and raging to be free. An idea that would push me toward the brink of discovery. It was an idea so electrifying, in fact, that I almost didn't notice the mass of bloody limbs running toward us.

The humanoid creature stumbling and slipping across the great lawn that stretched out in front of the University Library. Screaming in the daylight, the seconds racing by like a panic attack. I didn't look this time. Didn't want to see it. Tahn, it screamed, the voice slightly more human sounding than before, yet no less anguished. Do you see it? I asked Yvette, my voice titan.

in my throat. She looked, scanning the lawn with a concerned expression. See what? I grabbed her arm, to pull her with me, to take her away from the danger lurching across the grass. She stiffened, the fear pooled in her eyes. By the time I looked at the great lawn, scared to see how close the creature had gotten, it was already gone. The seconds returned to normal, but the air had changed. Yvette looked at me differently now. She waited for an explanation, waiting to give me the benefit of the doubt, but all I could do was leave. I'm sorry, I said, running off to the university lab. A future with Yvette had become an impossibility, but something greater was waiting for me ahead. The idea that was born in my mind

that day became the new focus of my life, brought about by something as simple and elegant as a string tied around a beautiful girl's finger. A reminder from her past self to her future self. A bridge between them Cosmic Strings Narrow tubes of energy Left over from the formation of the cosmos They contained huge amounts of mass And therefore could warp space time around them

I'd tried them before Looking to the stars for double images of background quasars Knowing I'd find a cosmic string joining them If I could just accelerate atoms fast enough To outrun a light beam around a cosmic string the theory went, I could outrun time. The problem was, no one had found one yet. They existed only in the realm of theory.

But I had a new theory for where I might find one. A different kind of cosmic string, located slightly closer than 8 billion light years away. And so, I started building my machine. It went through so many versions I stopped numbering them. Variation after variation after variation. I borrowed and spent every dollar I could get my hands on, using up my inheritance and my credit in the process. I secured funding from the kind of people you don't make the mistake of not paying back. If I was successful, I told myself, I would have more than enough money to pay them back.

And if I wasn't successful, nothing would matter anyway. When the machine was finally done, I found the scrap of paper I'd been saving in a drawer and dialed the number written on it. Yvette? I asked. Yes, who's this? It's Alex. Alex from particle physics. There was a pause on the line, then, hey.

How have you been, working? And you? Are you still at the university? Another pause. Alex, I graduated two years ago, right. Right, of course. Time had gotten away from me. If she'd graduated two years earlier,

graduated two years earlier. How many had it been since I'd seen her? Three. Four. Did you switch schools? I lost track of you after. Her voice faded out. I'm on my own now. I couldn't stand having to answer to people who didn't understand the work. She laughed softly. Yeah, that sounds like you. You're too smart for your own good, you know. I'd never been a skilled conversationalist, nor was I one for indirectness. Since I didn't know what the decorum was for this sort of situation, if the situation had ever come up before, I decided to be as blunt as possible. I need you, I said. Your help, I mean. With an experiment, asking her for help was a long shot, but she was a fellow scientist, a seeker of truth, and we'd shared a connection once.

That made her my best choice even if it was my only choice. What kind of experiment, she asked, sounding curious. I'd rather talk about it in person. Are you still in Massachusetts? Can you come tonight? I'm only an hour or two south. But Alex, it's two o'clock in the morning. Time.

It had a way of getting away from me. After we finished our conversation, I sat in the dark for some time, going over the calculations again and again. Just as I turned off the computer, ready to. find my mattress and get some sleep, I felt the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. I didn't look. I closed my eyes as the creature materialized behind me. I didn't have to see it reaching out for me, I could feel the dilation of time as it did, seconds becoming minutes becoming hours as it cried out in its inside-out language I'd come to know so well. Cried out a painful

and haunted syllable. A bloody, choking, oared, my eyes opened. They had to see it. The reflection in the darkened computer monitor, it looked almost human, a twisting silhouette of wet, snapping bone reaching out in the dark. Reaching out with rearranging fingers. And then, it was gone. I worked through the night, preparing the machine. Human beings moved through time like an arrow. I believe that, as we do so, we gather time-space energy about us, not unlike a static charge gathered from carpeting.

In doing so we form a string through time that should, for all intents and purposes, act exactly like a cosmic string loop. I turned to face my guest and added, I call it a time string. Yvette stood in front of the machine, admiring its simple design as I explained how it detected topological defects. I appreciated not having to simplify the science or be too succinct, as she had a firm grasp on the subject, and in fact asked all the right questions. But do you really think you can find an anomaly as small as a proton, she asked. Not to mention, once a loop is formed it's essentially doomed. It oscillates, radiates gravitationally, shrinks, and eventually, evaporates, yes. But if my theory is correct, they should behave more like Vortons, she pondered at a moment.

A stabilized loop, correct, she looked from me to the machine. It looks pretty cramped in there, she said with sudden finality. I hope you're not claustrophobic. There's no room for phobias in science, I replied. I built the machine to my exact dimensions. Nothing other than my physical body can be allowed inside. I paused. Not even clothing, she nodded, understanding my meaning.

I guess there's no room for modesty in science either, she said with a smile. I showed her how the operating program worked, taking the time to explain every command and function as we sat in front of the computer. I told her what to do in case of an emergency, however unlikely. As I did so, I tried not to think of the reflection in the monitor the night before. Then I undressed completely, laid my clothes carefully on the floor, and ducked inside the machine. Seeing it that way, about to be powered up with me standing inside, made me see the machine. as if for the first time. A hundred dark panels were aimed directly at me, each one containing a thousand sensors

running a hundred million scans. The machine was like the child of an MRI machine and a deep space telescope, though a masochistic one, as an electric current was required to hyper-excite the energy field. I attached the adhesive patches to my body as Yvette watched from behind the computer. Maybe after this we can revisit the conversation about entanglement, she said. There's going to be an enormous amount of data to process, I replied. Then, realizing what she meant, added, but yes. I'd like that.

I talked her through the startup sequence once more, then told her to close the machine door. There was no room in the design for an interior handle. She walked over, gave me another smile, and gently shut the door. I gave her a thumbs up through the observation window. Then, a few seconds later, the sequence began. The only sound I could hear was the hum of the generator as the sensor panels powered up to full. A chill moved through my body. I thought it might be the unexpected effect of an oscillating magnetic field coursing through

my nervous system, though I was aware that the much simpler explanation was nervousness. The fear response was an unwelcome though nevertheless predictable factor in self-experimentation. As I stood shivering inside the cramped machine, waiting for the current of electricity to be introduced to my body, I was overcome with the strangest sensation. The dark panels surrounding my body suddenly felt like a hundred eyes staring back at me. Pitch black irises of an unimaginable being, passing judgment on me. Naked, shivering, I was laid bare under its intense, unblinking gaze. I pushed the thought aside, ascribing it to the effects of the electrical. magnetic field, a fear cage stimulating my mind, then prepared for what came next. The generator

was pushed to its limits as the next phase of the sequence began. An energy transfer of nearly one and a half gigawatts per second course through the machine's energy cells, drip-feeding the current down the wires and into my skin, a carefully measured, non-lethal shock meant to act like time space tracer ink. My system was with flooded with electricity for just a few seconds, but it was enough to send into agony. Every muscle tensed at once. My jaw locked shut and my body stiffened. Knuckles and knees popped from the intensity of the squeeze. And then it was gone, and I could breathe again. My head swam and my eyes closed. I felt a rising ball of flame in my gut and then a sensation like fire ants crawling through my veins. I became aware of distant screaming, and I considered

whether it might be my own cries until I realized it was a woman's voice. I thought then of Yvette. Why she should be screaming, when it was me disoriented and riddled with pain, made no sense. I opened my eyes. Opened them to utter darkness. Had the fuses blown? Was the machine and the lab beyond it experiencing a power failure? It was a confusing development. The generators had fail safes in place to avoid such interruptions from occurring, so what other explanations were left? Had I gone blind? Lost all sense of sight.

Had I done to myself what I'd nearly done to that childhood friend so many years earlier? But then I became aware of a shape in the darkness just ahead of me, blocking a source of light. There shouldn't have been anything there except a wall of sensors. Then the shape moved, letting me see the light source. It was a computer screen My computer screen I glanced around and realized

with no lack of confusion that I was standing on the other side of my lap The shape in front of me, sitting at the computer, was it Yvette? As I reached out to touch it, the skin on my fingers peeled back, as if they were being punished for moving closer to the shape.

It felt like dipping my hands in flames. Then my arms began to peel back, too, the fire spreading across my body as the flesh curled and tore away. I tried to scream but the sound lodged in my throat. Then the screen went dark and I saw the image in it. The reflection of the shape in front of me. My own face. Terrified of the sight of me.

Locking eyes with myself. I was back. Back in the night before. In one terrible moment I realized the truth, the explanation for the monster that had been visiting me throughout my life. I knew what they were. I had to warn myself away. Stop the experiment.

Tell me what was waiting the next day. I gathered my breath and opened my bloodied lips, already feeling the teeth shift and the jaw dislocate. Due, blinding light attacked me. I stumbled forward, slipping on grass, my feet wet with my own blood. I was in front of the University Library at MIT. Across the Great Lawn, Yvette was talking to me.

Me of a few years earlier. Not. I screamed out in the daylight, though I could see by the look of terror on my face that I wasn't going to look. A moment later the sunlight cut out, and I was looking into my own, younger face, sitting on my college dorm bed with a book in my hands. I felt my body mutating, reconfiguring, like a puzzle box shifting and snapping into new, unrecognizable angles. With my mouth contorting, I struggled to keep speaking, to warn myself. I let out a gurgling, turn, as my younger self screamed back at me. Then he was gone, replaced by a dirty, metal wall. Locked inside a toilet stall, my arms and legs were crushed and reshaped like

crumple paper, an origami animal of popping bones and twisting flesh, and I knew, knew I was out there, my younger self, wearing a graduation gown and a look of terror. It, I screamed in agony, my insides erupting out of me. And then suddenly I was choking on dirty water, drowning in it. I thrashed to be free, fighting to reach air. I burst free of the rancid water and clawed my way out as best I could with my new, twisted configuration of limbs and bones. With bleeding eyes I stared out at myself, a boy of fifteen standing across the yard in an orange vest, scared for his life. I had to finish it. Finish the warning. I ran after him, me, the boy, my bones popping and cracking, shuffling and rearranging my form, every nerve alive with pain, and I screamed, screamed a single

sound at him. On, he, me, the boy, fell to the ground, backpack on top of him. I took the last few steps, barely able to move anymore, as he fumbled from his stomach and flipped over onto his back to look at me, to see the monster bearing down on him. The terrified boy prayed for me to be gone as I stumbled and crunched toward him, toward me, each step a new torture on my broken body. Then I was nearly on top of him. I looked down on his young, innocent face, taking in the tragic details of the painful existence that waited for him. Then I felt it. felt my body erasing, an error corrected, the covering up of a path not meant to be taken. The pain was gone first, then any feeling at all.

Sites and sounds drifted away, back to the void, the nothingness, the never-ending darkness. I work at home for a call center, I usually answer calls and help customers navigate the product and I resolve their issues. I have been doing this for a year and I like it. Recently, I have been pulled to help train the new agents coming on board and at first I liked it. I felt like my work had been noticed plus I could take phone calls after the class ends so I could get overtime pay. I and another agent, let's call her Brooklyn was called in at the 1st of December to help another trainer. We will call her Megan and everything was good until it wasn't.

One day the trainer just disappeared and me and Brooklyn were left to train the class. 32 adults and one of them was very disruptive, let's call him Dave. I am not sure what Brooklyn was doing, but I know that I tried to get in touch with Megan to let her know what was going on. Anyway, nothing was done and one day the class erupted like a volcano. I was messaged by some of the agents telling me that the trainer said she would drop me from her class because Dave said I was rude to him. Other agents were threatening to quit because they felt like Dave was hindering their learning.

Megan decided not to do anything but said that she would be present in her class. Another week goes by and she messages me and told me that she would be training another class and wants me to take over, which I appreciated because I never had a chance like this before in my life. I took it as a chance to show the others that this job can be fun. I stayed up Thursday and came up with a pretty decent lesson plan and was excited to show them. Let's just say, it did not go well. Because the other agents did not want to participate, I had to use Dave as an example. Him playing the role as a customer and the other agent playing the role as an agent.

We use role-playing to coach the agents on things like their closing statements and guiding them through the tools needed for the job. While role-playing, I would coach the agent on where she needed to go and Dave, wanting to be the center of attention, disrupted the class. Brooklyn, upset, was trying to get him to be quiet and before an argument started, I pulled Dave into a breakout room and spoke with him about his actions. I did call the trainer and DM her, but I got no response. I went on to continue for the most part and I was pulled into a breakout with the trainer, someone from HR and Brooklyn. Brooklyn was upset because she was told she was getting dropped from the class, but I was to stay but I would only be helping one agent and that someone else was going to take over. I don't only blame myself for what happened, I mostly blame the trainer because she was not doing her job and did not do her due diligence when it came to Dave. I also noticed how she put that mess in my lap and I led her, and when it was all over, I lost the confidence to hold that position and also I lost someone who could have became something close to a friend.

Also, I did go to HR and make a complaint about the trainer and what happened Friday. I'm going to ramble so this is for people who like to read. I'll provide some bulleted contexts as consideration. Last January 26th, his father died. So today, he flew from the U.S. to the Philippines for the funeral rights, etc. Even at the reunion and during our more than an hour-long conversation, he kept, humbly, downplaying his job there, unless he wasn't being truthful. But I knew that he finished his engineering program there and now works as an engineer, but he always said he works there as a janitor, a prideful job regardless. so I didn't understand why he kept using this as an example as his job.

While I was biking, a car stopped me and told me that I dropped something in front of the Lady Traffic Enforcer after I gave her some bread for Marienda, a random act of kindness on my part, I'm not a good person, trust me. So I turned around and I saw him there, walking. We immediately recognized each other. Automatically, I offered him my sincerest condolences and shook each other's hands and he asked about what the man in the car told me then we walked together back to the traffic enforcer to get my thing. I thought I dropped my money, turned out it was my wireless earphone.

I thanked the lady, and since he said he was just going for a walk which I understood, probably to be alone with his thoughts, unwind his mind and see how things changed in a place where we grew up. I offered him company because he lives alone in the U.S. so I thought he could use a company for a change even though I'm probably the last person on earth he wants to be within a moment of grief. And also, I know what it's like to lose a parent and when I lost mine, I didn't have someone with me to process what happened. So in that moment, we were sharing a space with the same pain losing a parent, and despite having different experiences in life, in that moment in space, we were the same. So we walked. We walked and I

offered him a place where they make Takoyaki. I said I'd treat him. He didn't vocally agree but yeah. So we walked. In terms of social status, he was always on the wealthier side. His family has two houses. His mom, who became my science teacher, in seventh grade is a master teacher. They own a car. And he, together with the rest of his seven siblings are all professionals now. As for me, my college life, 2018, was cut off because I got incarcerated during the second semester of my sophomore year due to bad decisions. I'm almost 30 now and I hadn't planned on continuing or finishing my degree.

All my life, I have always dreamt of becoming a teacher. An educator. But, not anymore. When we were deployed to schools for demo teaching and stood in front of a room full of kids, I literally felt that dream leave me. I couldn't feel it anymore. It's like I lost a soul. I was literally and figuratively crashing there.

It's like going through an existential crisis in broad daylight. I lost my dream. I've spent a lifetime trying to get an inch of opportunity to be able to pursue it and now I don't want it anymore. It was painful to experience that in front of pupils who just wanted to learn about verbs and even though I wanted to cry so bad and walk out, I chose to be a professional and finished the lesson. I was like, you have no right to feel things like this.

You have no parents and have no money as a safety net. Existential crises like this is a luxury that you can't afford. But I'm only human. So now, I'm almost 30. And I'm still not a professional just like him. Just like almost everyone from our batch. I thought I've already made peace with the fact that I have my own timeline. And that I can always go back to finishing or taking a new course whenever I want to,

in my own time and pace. That I do not have anyone to impress. That even before Binnie came up with Buhei I. D. Kara. Slash life is not a race. I have long abandoned the rat race and not a part of it anymore. But when he learned what I do for a living, I'm a virtual assistant, VA, and sporadically do tutorials on kids,

while we were waiting for our Takoyaki, he started asking me if I was really happy. If I'm not planning on finishing my academic degree. I am the listener type. The therapist, of those close to me. And it's been a long time since I spoke to someone who actually wanted to listen to me. Someone who is willing to wait for my answer and hear what I have to say, without interrupting me.

Someone who seems genuinely interested. So even if I was the one who offered him company, I slowly became the major subject of our accidental meetup. I gave in because I wanted to feel hurt and he had this quiet aura similar to mine however as hours passed by after we interacted. Why do I feel like he interrogated me more than he tried to reconnect with me as his high school classmate. That I didn't like that after being a sole observer in conversations for so long, I suddenly became the focus of the spotlight.

And now I can't stop freaking out that I suddenly got pulled into the picture. Am I being unreasonable? Am I just being overly self-aware? Because while waiting for our Takoyaki, I paid for it, it's just less than 200 pHP slash dollar two, he suddenly offered that I become his scholar. He called it an offer. He offered to pay for my He said Kasi Sayong Ka, which I tried so hard to decode as him saying, you had slash have so much potential and it be with such a shame to let it go to waste. But I took quite a slight offense even though he didn't mean it like, you're a failure. I didn't answer anything final to his offer.

But he told me to think about it. I was torn between being afraid of letting go of a potential opportunity and being conflicted by the fact that after all these years, he still sees me as that, poor, loud gay kid who was annoyingly competitive, in high school. Because I was so far removed from that person now. So far removed from who I was in high school. And so far far removed from the adult he met two years ago at our reunion. That the disparity and disconnect from those past versions of me is so huge now. That I didn't know I was gay before. I was just feminine. That I am asexual now. That I don't like sex when he asks what it's about. That when he told me he finds it hard to believe

I wasn't gay because I have long curly hair, wearing a mustard yellow beanie and a beige sweater similar to what Chris Evans wore in knives out, I failed to tell him a man can wear all of these and not be gay. That all these things he's saying were stereotypes. That I am no longer that loud person anymore because I discovered that I actually am an introverted person. That I just wanted to fit in so badly. Even though I haven't finished college and have no degree yet, I am happy with my life. That I am happy but not content yet which I think is fair. That even without a diploma, I have managed to build a house of my own after working as a BPO employee for years without financial aid from anyone. That I have my own room now. That I can actually

book a flight now and go to Japan or Baggio if I want to. That I can go to the cinema now. That I can buy anything I want as long as I can afford and need it. That even though I am not successful yet by society standards, I'm doing pretty well for myself after my incarceration. that I am not as helpless as he thinks I am. But I wasn't able to voice out all of these because it would be too much for a random interaction with a person who just lost his dad, and of course, it's okay to live a life others don't understand. After all, I was the one who offered him company.

My goal was to make him feel less alone. But at one point, I couldn't help but tell him even though living in a small town can get pretty lonely and could feel like being imprisoned, sometimes, I enjoy having a slow life. that a place like Manila where everything is fast-paced is not for me. I have a feeling he probably didn't like that input because he lives a fast-paced life in the US. And even though he agreed for me to treat him to Takayaki Place, he probably just wanted to put me in my place and remind me that he doesn't need someone paying for his food.

So he offered to pay for my education to let me know that between us, he's the one glowing financially which doesn't matter to me at all. The feeling was there. It was just subtle, but I felt it. The problem is if I'm just overreacting or being overly self-aware. That because I'm not used to people showing me kindness, I took his genuine concern for my well-being as a weapon. That all the sympathy coming from him in those moments were knives.

And I felt like an open wound. Am I the only one who has experienced something like this? After not seeing your classmate in so long, you bump into each other then have a conversation about this section of life. I want to hear your thoughts. I heard a man say once there are no mysteries anymore. and I would say he's right, not about the world but about humanity's knowing of it. These days we believe everything can be understood, explained.

Maybe not by us, but by someone. As long as we find the right expert, we believe, it'll all make sense in the end. A comforting thought, I'll give it that. I used to be a cop. I'm not one anymore, and the story I'm about to tell is the reason why. There just wasn't any more used to it. When you've seen what I saw, and pondered over it, you can't be. but come to the conclusion that the world is an unimaginable place, and no experts going

to make a lick of difference. The only two things experts sell are opium and snake oil. It started with a supposed murder. Victim in his thirties, no rape, body intact save for his tongue cut off. Found in a swamp. I remember the night I got called out there because I was about to sit down to a warm supper when the phone rang. Well, supper was cold by the time I got back home, not that I had the stomach for it anyway.

I slid it off my plate into the garbage and watched the mess glide slowly down the side of the black plastic bag like a man's innards might if he got them pushed out his body. I saw that two once, down in Mexico, and the whole time I kept thinking about the dead man's eyes. They looked like they'd seen God right before it ended for him, and the image stayed. It stayed so that when we looked we ourselves had to look away because it was too bright and too black, too bright and too black at the same time, the distorted reflection of some shining blinding void. It was only a missing tongue, gruesome, but we'd all seen worse,

yet there was an anvil gloom to it, a nether fog hanging over the swamp in whose every drop of moisture was potential of a word suspended, a putrid word none of us could understand, but even so we knew, that if these words were ever spoken it would be the end of all. I couldn't sleep that night. The peace had been broken. Not the peace of a comfortable life in good country, nor my inner peace, but the existential peace of a million years passed down generation to generation, the peace of covenants making possible the hope of human progress. What are we without that, as a species? Rodents running in wheels, powering the unknown.

How long had we been fooled into thinking this road we travel lead straightly somewhere, when in fact it is a loop, leading nowhere? But when one takes instead a cosmic perspective, that's when the line of the horizon becomes the wide and subtle curve of a planet, and our understanding shifts. I gasped, doubting it was murder at all. I think the man had cut off his own tongue and drowned himself, because what if whatever it was he'd seen had got it into his mind to say the words that cannot be said. I'd have drowned myself too, I imagine, for it's better to be filled with swamp water than non-existence. What shook me finally from my ponderous tossing and turning was a sound, of rattling, followed by a wet scrape.

I grabbed a flashlight for my night table, turned it on and let the beam of light guide me down the hall, empty, undisturbed, and stairs, stepping carefully, quietly, as the same. The sound grew ever louder and the fear in my chest became a pounding, until I had crept into the kitchen and saw, rendered by the harsh light, a cat with glowing eyes lapping greedily at the cold, dead supper in my trash with its pink and hideous tongue. For a while I let it feast then clapped my hands and watched it scurry out the open window through which it had no doubt come. Although we didn't talk about it, it was clear to me that the dead man in the swamp had affected us.

We skulked about in the weeks that followed, skittish as wounded animals that had for the first time realized their place in the world and were naturally terrified, except our wounds were not physical but spiritual. Physical wounds kill you or heal, spiritual ones fester, draining your essence until madness sets you free. It was midsummer and on the thermometer the temperature read high, but the days felt cold. The world felt cold. About three months later we got a call about a disturbance at the local mausoleum.

This happened from time to time, the usual cause being wildlife where kids trying to prove themselves by spending the night, but from the moment we got there, my partner, schoonmaker, and I knew this was different. The mausoleum doors had been assaulted but had apparently withstood because they remained locked, and instead a nearby window had been shattered and the glass mostly cleaned out. Mostly, because a few pieces were still attached to the frame, jagged and pointed inward, these were coated in drying blood. We radio dispatch, announced ourselves, the words echoed within the mausoleum, but no answer came, and entered. The interior was dusky, it's so much, Soul illumination being stray moonlight filtered through unclean windows that painted the darkness

in variations of gray, but even in this dismal light we saw that the tombs had been ransacked. Schoonmaker went first, I followed. Every few steps, I called out into the deepening silence amidst the desecrations on either side of us. Bodies in various stages of decay had been pulled onto the floor, the entire limbs of some becoming detached in the process. Cracked bones jutted out. The inhuman faces of the dead gazed at us as if in awe at their own disintegrating brittleness.

When I paused to look at one, I noticed that its tongue was missing. Just then, a deafening sound, bang! Schoonmaker and I took cover. More banging. Slowly and without exchange of words we moved forward toward the source, communicating by gestures and the panic on our faces until we came upon him, human but frenzied, wielding a heavy sledgehammer and wrecking crypts with it. We trained our weapons on him.

Bang! Thundered the sledgehammer. cracked. I yelled at him to stop, to lay down his hammer and put his hands behind his head, but he didn't obey. It seemed as if he didn't hear or didn't care. Schoonmaker screamed at him. No response.

I screamed at him. Still nothing but the methodical rising and falling of the hammer. Bang. Bang, crack. Bang. Bang, crack. Finally Schoonmaker stood up, arms unsteady in front, gun ready, and approached. Police.

Stop, he yelled so loudly his faltering voice filled the entirety of the mausoleum. Bang! Bang, crack! I fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Perhaps that got his attention, or perhaps it was mere coincidence, but he lifted his face then, caked with dry human slime, and stared at us, the heavy sledgehammer held in both his hands and his chest heaving. Put it down, Schoonmaker said.

He dropped the hammer and darted, at Schoonmaker. I fired. The bullet caught him in the shoulder, pushed him backwards but only temporarily. He growled, gargled bubbles rising in his throat, escaping his dark lips, and came at us again. My hands were shaking. I was shaking. I fired, and missed, but Schoonmaker got him in the chest and this time he fell backwards, hissing as he tried to scuttle away on his backside, but Schoonmaker was on him, pummeling him, smashing his face with the gun. I was frozen to the spot.

It was so dreadfully cold, so impossibly cold. I thought Schoonmaker would kill him. Stop! I yelled, at Schoonmaker, at him, at the both of them fighting on the mausoleum floor, when it happened, he grabbed Schoonmaker somehow by the head and pulled Schoonmaker's face close to his own, ear to mouth, and after I strained to hear just the faintest trace of something said, Schoonmaker's body stiffened, he scrambled backwards, lifted his gun and shot himself in the head.

Screaming, I unloaded. Then, silence. Broken only by the gentle pattering of brains dripping from Schoonmaker's exploded skull. I lurched forward to look at the man, the thing, lying before me, vomited, wiped my mouth, and kicked at it to make sure it was dead. Its chest no longer heaved. No bubbles escaped its lips. Killed, it looked like any other man, but I noted two particular details, its tongue was missing, and stuffed into its ears were bits of rotting human flesh. Next I kneeled beside Schoonmaker. One of his eyes had been

projected from his head. Although still attached to him by some vein or sinew, it rested peacefully on the floor, gazing with the same black brightness as had the eyes of the dead man in the swamp. I don't remember much of the immediate aftermath. Flashing lights, a trip to the hospital, interviews and debriefs, being told to take my time and explain exactly what happened. Well, I couldn't. That's when I understood that what they wanted wasn't an explanation at all but a sequence of events. No one was after the truth. They were after the facts, and once those had been compiled they brought in an expert, a clinical psychologist, who made a series of post-mortem diagnoses that added up to an illusion of

comprehension. They also identified the dead man. He was an academic, and found among his papers was a series of notes, written in erratic handwriting, in which he made mention of speaking in tongues, of being in communion with dead language, and of belonging to a cult whose goal was the destruction of the Encologlossiacs. He was also in possession of an ancient tome on the topic of elinguation, removal of the tongue. I was placed promptly on paid leave, apparently because I was recovering, I had, after all, killed a man and see my partner kill himself, but also, I believe, because it was obvious I would not adhere to the official story. When I returned to the force, the only officers who spoke to me were those who

had been with me in the swamp and seen for themselves the dead man's eyes. With them I maintained cordiality, for we were mutually haunted. Everybody else kept their distance, and I gained the reputation of being mentally damaged goods, a cuck, a suicide waiting to happen. It happened one night maybe six months later, dead of winter, that I got a telephone call from a farmer who lived outside of town, a woman by the name of Cat Wilhelm. She'd called me, not the police, and was frantically pleading for help. Someone had broken into her barn, she said, and sliced the tongues off her cattle. She said she remembered the incident at the mausoleum.

When I assured her I'd get a couple of officers over to her, she nearly shrieked that she didn't want them, she wanted me, because it wasn't the slicing that had gotten her spooked, she said, her voice breaking up as I listened, but what she had seen after that, the tums themselves scrambling about her property. Some of them single-like, but others having joined up together, into a, in. The line hadn't gone dead. Her voice had ended, as if dispersed into sudden nothingness. Hiss. Then back, no, no, can you hear them? They're talking to me. No, no. They're talking and I can't stand it.

I can't stand it. The things they're saying. I cannot. Do you understand? Get away. Do you understand? Away, now I dropped the receiver and ran outside to my truck. It was snowing.

The engine turned, and I roared out my driveway towards the Wilhelm farm. Arrived, I got out, noted the silhouette of the barn through the falling snow, and headed for the farmhouse, where the downstairs lights were on. The front door was locked, but a kick got it down, and together with the blizzard I entered. Looked left, stillness, right, the muted flicker of a television. At the stairway I heard no sounds coming from the upper floor. I crossed into the kitchen and saw Cat Wilhelm dead, fall into the floor, the telephone receiver lying beside her in the flow of blood running along the uneven floorboards from

where she'd stabbed a screwdriver into her ear to where alone, severed human tongue was lapping it up. Her tongue. I tried to stomp it, but to no avail. It scampered away. I was about to follow, when through the kitchen window I caught a flash of movement. Something big. Bigger than a tongue. Back to the front door, where the blowing snow was already accumulating like so much static,

and out, into the winter night and through, in the direction of the barn. No call for backup. No second thought. Just fear, and the human desire for knowledge. I remembered the swamp, the mausoleum. I remembered the moment schoonmaker detonated his own head. But was it the bullet that did it, was it the bullet or was it what the thing had spoken into him?

And what about the swamp man's eyes? What if the black brightness continued in them not because he'd experienced, but because he continued to experience? What if death was no end? Straight roads terminate. Loops infinitize. My boots crunched in the snow, like walking upon a field of bones. Here I was, my body shedding sweat.

My mind expelling itself, it was upon me. From the dark sky it had fallen, from a snow-covered tree branch, draping me. How hideously warm it was! Covering my body like a blanket, heavy in squirming, inslimbing me in its excretions, which ran into my eyes, burning them, and passed my lips and down my throat, tasting of unfathomable saliva. I punched. My God, how I punched its inner side.

It felt like punching a tenderized. slab of meat. But the worst, the worst were the sounds, the utterations and disarticulations, spoken in a universe of voices, foreign, inhuman, some terrible, imploding my sense of self, my implicit point of reference, but others sublime and beautiful, imploring me to stop and sit and listen to their unworldly harmony forever, comforted by this steaming cloak of lingual flesh in the coldness of the enveloping snowstorm. What else is there but to listen? What point to act, to be? Why even am I? What should I have ever been. I opened my mouth, willingly, and licked it, tasting of its moistures. In response

it purred, and its multitude of tongues fluttered in excited unison, massaging me, guiding me as down a cosmic gullet. Licking, I became a descending bliss. Walls of organic velvet, I rubbed myself against them. How they caressed me, welcoming me, their docile pre, it gagged, an image into my mind, infernality from which there could be no escape, why? The symphonic melody ruptured into a continuous screech of broken strings and I felt that while I was sinking the tip of my tongue remained secured atop unnaturally extended and itself now vibrating, adding to the cacophony I tried to will to cease lest I go mad. Now upwards I shot, propelled from within the cavity, along the same oozing orifice through

which I'd fallen and, melting of snowflakes on my cheek. The whirl of frigid wind. I was free. I was, consciousness, speeding toward its focal point, my human body, gasping for air just outside the Wilhelm Barn, an impact, a self-returned to its physicality in space-time, I became reoriented, and perceived before me the familiar perspective of everything, including the lingual beast itself, like a twirling, inverted cone of writhing tongues, upon which I saw also my savior, a common cat, screeching as it clawed at the abysmal

despicability. The beast was perhaps 15 feet tall, rendered violently pink in the sweeping snow drifts, and the cat rode it, ripping at its tongue limbs. The beast reverberated, a living, or more waveform in three or more dimensions, and yet this cat, was it, I wondered, the same cat who so long ago had lapped greedily at my garbage, did battle with it. My gun lay on the white ground. I picked it up and fired. The bullets hit the beast with dull thuds, but nothing more. Unaffected, it began instead to gyrate so that its rose upon rows of tongues flared outward like the ruffles on a spinning flamenco dancer's dress, ejecting the brave cat and spraying the surroundings with sticky strings of vile saliva's, which turned varicolored as they dissolved.

The cats scampered off. The beast stilled. Unspun, it stood. Only it and I were left, facing each other, if one can ever face a thing that has none. There was no expert in the world who could have explained this to me, only those who would dismiss it as the fiction of a troubled mind, yet I swear to you it was true. Everything I've told you has been the truth. I have presented it chronologically and in detail, the way your ankylo-glossiac mind

prefers. Then like the cat the beast scampered off, although perhaps glided would be the more accurate term. Like a mess down the side of a black garbage bag, into the woods, into night-time it went, and mercifully I was left alone, collapsed in a cold accumulation of snow and mystery, frightened, cowering like a primitive animal in the fragmentary presence of a god. I quit the police force after that. Like I said, there wasn't any more used to it after what I'd seen. Every child one day walks away from the sandbox. Officially, it was one unsolved murder, a mentally ill academic shot by the cops and two suicides, all unconnected. Everyone put stock in what the clinical psychologist said. No one took at face value the academics' writings or my own experience. My life

since has been quiet. I moved into a cabin in the woods and keep generally to myself. I try to keep my sleep shallow. Whenever I fall too deeply into dream, it comes back to me, the bliss, the terror, the language and the sounds, bursting as bubbles above the decaying surface of reality. I wake then with my hands covering my mouth. Because they're in me, these words. I have heard too much. I struggle to suppress them. When I look at my reflection, I see the beginning of a bright blackness in my eyes. I keep a knife on me at all times, as should you. Don't be afraid. When the time comes you'll know what to do. Let the experts die forever knowing finally they know nothing. Let the expert suffer. Hey everyone. Today, I'm bringing you a video that's probably

one of the most requested topics ever on this channel, the true story behind the Blair Witch. But before we dive into the spooky details, I want to give you a quick heads up. First, if you notice anything strange around here, don't freak out, it's just Shadow's feet, yes, my cat's little feet playing with Clash Royale. No creepy dolls moving by themselves, no paranormal entities. Also, if I seem a bit tense or on edge, it's because something pretty surreal happened to me recently. I'm still processing it and am a little in shock. There's actually a scar on my finger that, honestly, I have no idea how it even happened. You'll hear the full story in a future paranormal vlog, but let's just say it's wild, and yeah, I'm still in shock.

All right, no more stalling. Let's dive into it. So, back in 1999, the Blair which probably project hit theaters and quickly became a massive hit. It was an independent psychological horror film with a simple but terrifying plot. The story follows three young people who set out into the creepy Black Hills forest to find out if the Blair Witch Legend is real or just a myth. They want answers, but, well, we all know how that goes. Despite many people brushing it off as fiction, it turns out there's a real Blair which legend. And today, I'll be giving you the backstory.

This macab tale actually began in February 1785, in a small town called Blair, located just two hours from Washington, D.C. According to some historical accounts, Blair was a deeply religious town, a tiny place where everyone knew each other. It was a community of farmers, villagers, and people who mostly just wanted a peaceful life and to see the town prosper. But there was one outsider, a woman everyone shunned, despised, and feared. Her name was Ellie Kedward.

Now, Ellie was known to be very strange, with an unfriendly, almost sinister presence. She was old, lived alone, and had no family, no siblings, husband, or children. She existed entirely on her own, practically an outcast. Whenever she appeared at social gatherings, it was almost like an omen. After her arrival, something horrible would follow, a suicide, a murder, a disappearance, or even ruined crops and dying livestock. was basically considered a bringer of bad luck, and everyone avoided her. But even with all the fear and resentment, the townspeople didn't there confront her.

They wouldn't throw rocks at her house, insult her, or try to get rid of her. No one wanted to be the one to anger her, fearing her, curse would befall them. So, she was left to her own devices, until children began disappearing. At first, they'd vanish for a few hours, but over time, they'd be gone for days, sometimes weeks. And when they eventually returned, they were different. They seemed empty, like hollow shells, silent and withdrawn. Their parents asked them repeatedly what had happened, where they had been, but no one would talk.

That is, until one little girl finally spoke up. She told her parents that she had been locked up in Ellie Kedward's basement, where the woman drew her blood once or twice a day to make strange potions, supposedly to make herself young again. This girl's testimony encouraged other children to come forward, each one confirming Ellie's role in their traumatic disappearances. They described bruises, scratches, and marks on their bodies, as well as having their blood taken. The townspeople were horrified and quickly held a trial for Ellie, charging her with kidnapping,

practicing witchcraft, and, oddly, with being Catholic in a Protestant town. It was the first case of witchcraft Blair had ever seen, and rather than hanging her, as they did in Salem, they decided on a different punishment. They tied her to a cart and took her deep into the Black Hills forest, abandoning her at night in the coldest part of winter. The strongest men dragged the cart to a spot rumored to be close to Wolf Denz. They read Bible verses aloud, hoping her soul, even if undeserving, might find peace. After that, they went home, celebrating the end of Ellie Kedward's curse, assuming she wouldn't

survive the night. For an entire year, Blair experienced an unusual calm, a peace and prosperity they hadn't known before. But by November 1786, their relief was shattered. The children who had once accused Ellie of witchcraft began to disappear again. On the first snowy night, the daughter of the magistrate who had sentenced Ellie vanished without a trace. A week later, the magistrate himself went missing.

And from that point on, every child who had spoken out against Ellie vanished one by one, seemingly swallowed by the Black Hills forest. The townspeople began to suspect the witch had somehow returned from the dead. Fearing her vengeance, they started to abandon their homes, leaving Blair until it was entirely deserted. The town's name wouldn't resurface until November 1809, when a book called the Blair which cult was published. This book told the story of a cursed town haunted by the ghost of an evil witch. But the ending was completely fictionalized, according to the book, the townspeople had ultimately burned the witch at the stake, supposedly putting an end to

her terror. As the years passed, the real events of Blair faded from memory, and by January 1824, a new settlement called Beckettsville was established on the land once known as Blair. The town's founders were clueless about the old legends. But soon enough, the stories would return. In 1825, residents started claiming they'd seen a ghostly, skeletal hand reaching up from the water at Tapie East Creek. Each person saw the hand differently, some were frightened, others felt a strange sense of peace, but none could find who it belonged to, though they swore it had been there.

Shortly after these eerie sightings, a ten-year-old girl named Eileen Treacle went missing. last saw her near the creek, and though they searched, she was never found. After her disappearance, the creek water became foul, the fields that relied on it withered, and the locals started to fear a curse had fallen over their town. Now, fast forward to 1866. An eight-year-old girl from Bucketsville disappeared into the Black Hills while chasing butterflies. It's the kind of disappearance you'd see in a movie, a young, innocent girl wandering into danger without a clue. Rescue teams searched day and night for weeks. Strangely enough, she eventually returned by herself but had no memory of her time in the forest.

She thought only a few hours had passed, while in reality, she'd been gone for weeks. To her, the townspeople's desperate search was confusing and shocking. While she returned, one of the search parties did not. More rescue teams were sent, and eventually, they discovered the first group's remains at a place known as Coffin Rock. The bodies were tied hand and foot, laid out in a Pentagon shape, and had been brutally mutilated. Panic said in once more, and with it, the dark legends of Blair resurfaced. Parents warned their children to stay away from the forest, and mentioning the woods became a sort of unspoken taboo.

After a long period of calm, Bucatsville was rocked again at the end of 1940 and beginning of 1941, when seven children from the town went missing. In March 1941, Rustin Parr, a local hermit, arrived in town shouting, I'm finally done. I've finished, authorities questioned him, and when they searched his secluded cabin. in near the Black Hills, they found seven freshly dug graves in his backyard, each containing the body of a child. During his trial, Rustin claimed a voice in his head had instructed him to commit the murders, a voice that promised to leave him in peace if he obeyed. Rustin explained that a few years earlier, he had begun to notice a strange figure in the depths of the forest

during his long walks. Whenever he called out, the figure never turned, only coming closer her each time. As time passed, he realized it was a woman dressed in dark, flowing clothes, with long black hair. Rustin sensed she was curious about him but would disappear whenever he approached her. Then, one winter, he began hearing a voice, a whisper at first, barely there. The voice grew louder, transforming into full sentences and eventually demands. Rustin described it as the voice of an old woman, speaking strange languages at times, often repeating the same word over and over, echoing in his mind.

Soon after, Rustin lost his sanity. The voice dominated his thoughts, ordering him to sleep in his basement for a week, go without food, steal things from the town. Then in November 1940, the voice commanded him to kidnap two children from Bucketsville, and he felt an inexplicable desire to obey. Over time, he kidnapped and killed a total of seven children, sparing only one, Kyle Brody. was forced to stand in a corner of the basement, witnessing each murder without being able to help. After killing the seventh child, Rustin woke to find a woman from the forest standing at the foot

of his bed. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he knew it was her, the woman he'd seen in the woods, the woman whose voice he'd heard. She told him his work was almost done but that he needed to release Kyle, return to town, and confess. She promised that if he did this, she would finally leave him alone. The next day, Rustin marched into town and surrendered. Kyle Brody, the sole survivor, was traumatized and would spend the rest of his life in

and out of psychiatric institutions, tormented by visions, nightmares, and the sound of a woman's laughter echoing in his mind. The tragic story of Rustin Parr revived the eerie legends surrounding Bucketsville. But these tales were thought to be just that, tales, until a group of college students, obsessed with proving the Blair which legend, ventured into the Black Hills Forest. The group was led by three films. students, Heather, Josh, and Mike. They'd heard whispers, local stories, and accounts of eerie experiences from Butkittsville residents, but none were truly prepared for what they would

encounter. They disappeared, leaving behind only their footage, which would later become the Blair Witch Project. Though their film sparked a global sensation, locals still argue the truth of the Blair Witch. But if history tells us anything, it's that this story is far from over. On June 17, 2009, two British tourists, Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne had gone missing while vacationing on the east coast of South Africa. The two young men had come to the country to watch the British and Irish Lions rugby team play the world champions, South Africa. Although their last known whereabouts were in the city of Durban, according to their families in the UK, the boys were last known to be on their way to the center of the Quasulunatal

province, 260 kilometers away, to explore the abandoned tourist site of the Battle of Rourke's drift. When authorities carried out a full investigation into the Rourke's drift area, they would eventually find evidence of the boy's disappearance. Near the banks of a tributary river, a torn wales rugby shirt, belonging to Reese Williams was located. Two kilometers away, nestled in the brush by the side of a backroad, searchers would then find a damaged video camera, only for forensics to later confirm DNA belonging to both Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne. Although the video camera was badly damaged, authorities were still able to salvage footage from the device. Footage that showed the whereabouts of both Rees and Bradley on the June 17th, the day they were thought to go missing. This is the story of what happened to them, prior to their disappearance. Located in the center of the Quasulunatal province, the famous battle site of Rourke's drift is better known to South Africans as an abandoned and supposedly haunted tourist attraction.

The area of the battle saw much bloodshed in the year 1879, in which less than 200 British soldiers, garrisoned at a small outpost, fought off an army of 4,000 fierce Zulu Warhol. In the late 90s, to commemorate this battle, the grounds of the old outpost were turned into a museum and tourist center. Accompanying this, a hotel lodge had begun construction four kilometers away. But during the building of the hotel, several construction workers on the site would mysteriously go missing. Over a three-month period, five construction workers in total had vanished. When authorities searched the area, only two of the original five missing workers were found. What was found were their remains?

Located only a kilometer or so apart, these remains appear to have been scavenged by wild animals. A few weeks after the finding of the bodies, construction on the hotel continued. Two more workers would soon disappear, only to be found, again scavenged by wild animals. Because of these deaths and disappearances, investors brought a permanent halt to the hotel's construction, as well as to the opening of the nearby Rorke's Drift Museum. To this day, both the Rorke's Drift Tourist Center and Hotel Lodge remain abandoned. On June 17, 2009, Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne had driven nearly four hours from Durban to the Rourke's drift area. They were now driving on a long, narrow dirt road, which cut through the wide grass plains.

The scenery around these plains appears very barren, dispersed only by thin, solitary trees and onlooked from the distance by faraway hills. Further down the road, the pair passed several isolated shanty farms and traditional thatched-roof huts. Although people clearly resided here, as along this route, they had already passed two small fields containing cattle, they saw no inhabitants whatsoever. Ten minutes later, up the bending road, they finally reached the entrance of the abandoned tourist center. Getting out of their Jeep for hire, they make their way through the entrance towards the museum building, nestled on the base of a large hill. Approaching the abandoned center, what they see is an old stone building exposed by weathered white paint, and a red, rust-eaten roof supported by old wooden pillars. Entering the porch of the building, they find that the walls to each side of the door are displayed with five wooden tribal masks, each depicting a predatory animal-like face. At first glance, both Reese and Bradley believed this to have originally been part of the tourist center.

But as Reese further inspects the masks the masks, he realizes the wood they're made from appears far younger, speculating that they were put here only recently. Upon trying to enter, they quickly realized the door to the museum is locked. handing over the video camera to Reese, Bradley approaches the door to try and kick it open. Although Reese is heard shouting at him to stop, after several attempts, Bradley successfully manages to break open the door. Furious at Bradley for committing forced entry, Reese reluctantly joins him inside the museum. The boys enter inside of a large and very dark room. Now holding the video camera, Bradley follows behind Reese, leading the way with a flashlight.

Exploring the room, they come across numerous things. Along the walls, they find a print of an old 19th-century painting of the Rourke's Drift Battle, a poster for the 1964 film, Zulu, and an inauthentic Isolangu War shield. In the center of the room, on top of a long table, they stand over a miniature of the Rorke's Drift Battle, in which small figurines of Zulu warriors besieged the outpost, defended by a handful of British soldiers. Heading towards the back of the room, the boys are suddenly startled. Shining the flashlight against the back wall, the light reveals three mannequins dressed in

redcoat uniforms, worn by the British soldiers at work's drift. It is apparent from the footage that both Reese and Bradley are made uncomfortable by these mannequins, the faces of which appear ghostly in their stiffness. Feeling as though they have seen enough, the boys then decide to exit the museum. Back outside the porch, the boys make their way down towards a tall, white stone structure. Upon reaching it, the structure is revealed to be a memorial for the soldiers who died during the battle. Rees, seemingly interested in the memorial, studied down the list of names. Taking the video camera from Bradley, Reese films up close to one name in particular. The name he finds reads, Williams. J., from what we hear of the boys' conversation,

Private John Williams was apparently Reese four-time great-grandfather. Leaving a wreath of red poppies down by the memorial, the boys then make their way back to the Jeep, before heading down the road from which they came. Twenty minutes later down a dirt trail, they stop outside the abandoned grounds of the Rourke's Drift Hotel Lodge. Located at the base of Sinkindy Mountain, the hotel consists of three circular orange buildings, topped with thatched roofs. Now walking among the grounds of the hotel, the cracked pavement has given way to vegetation. The windows of the three buildings have been bordered up, and the thatched roofs have

already begun to fall apart. Now approaching the larger of the three buildings, the pair are alerted by something the footage cannot see. From the unsteady footage, the silhouette of a young boy, no older than ten, can now be seen hiding amongst the shade. Realizing they're not alone on these grounds, Reese calls out, hello, to the boy. Seemingly frightened, the young boy comes out of hiding, only to run away behind the curve of the building. Although they originally planned on exploring the hotel's interior, it appears this young boy's presence was enough for the two

to call it a day. Heading back towards their Jeep, the sound of Reese's voice can then be heard bellowing, as he runs over to one of the vehicle's front tires. Bradley soon joins him, camera in hand, to find that every one of the Jeep's tires has been emptied of air, and upon further inspection, the boys find multiple stab holes in each of them. Realizing someone must have slashed their tires while they explored the hotel grounds, the pair searched frantically around the Jeep for evidence. What they find is a trail of small bear footprints leading away into the brush, footprints appearing to belong to a young child, no older than the boy they had just seen on the grounds. Initially believing this boy to be the culprit, they soon realized this wasn't possible,

as the boy would have had to be in two places at once. Further theorizing the scene, they concluded that the young boy they saw may well have been acting as a decoy, while another carried out the act before disappearing into the brush, now leaving the two of them stranded. With no phone signal in the area to call for help, Reese and Bradley were left panicking over what they should do. Without any other options, the pair realized they had to walk on foot back up the trail and try to find help from one of the shanty farms. However, the day had already turned to evening, and Bradley refused to be outside this area after dark. Arguing over what they were going to do, the boys decide they would sleep in the Jeep

overnight, and by morning, they would walk to one of the shanty farms and find help. As the day drew closer to midnight, the boys had been inside their Jeep for hours. The outside night was so dark by now, that they couldn't see a single shred of scenery, accompanied only by dead silence. To distract themselves from how anxious they both felt, Reese and Bradley talk about numerous subjects, from their lives back home in the UK, to who they thought would win the upcoming rugby game, that they were now probably going to miss. Later on, the footage quickly resumes, and among the darkness inside the Jeep,

a pair of bright vehicle headlights are now shining through the windows. Unsure to who this is, the boys ask each other what they should do. Trying to stay hidden out of fear, they then hear someone get out of the vehicle and shut the door. Whoever this unseen individual is, they are now shouting in the direction of the boy's Jeep. Hearing footsteps approach, Rees quickly tells Bradley to turn off the camera. Again, the footage is turned back on, and the pair appear to be inside of the very vehicle that had pulled up behind them. Although it is too dark to see much of anything, the vehicle is clearly moving. Rees is heard up front in the passenger seat, talking to whoever is driving. This unknown driver speaks in English, with a very strong South African accent. From the sound of his voice, the driver appears to be a Caucasian male, ranging anywhere from his late 50s to mid-60s. Although they have a hard time understanding him, the boys tell the man they're in South Africa for the British and Irish Lions Tour, and that they came to Rourke's drift so Rees could pay respects to his four-time great-grandfather. Later on in the conversation,

Bradley asks the driver if the stories about the hotel's missing construction workers are true. The driver appears to scoff at this, saying it is just a made-up story. According to the driver, the seven workers had died in a freak accident while the hotel was being built, and their families had sued the investors into bankruptcy. From the way the voice is sound, Bradley is hiding the camera very discreetly. Although hard to hear over the noise of the moving vehicle, Rees asks the driver if they are far from the next town, in which the driver responds that it won't be too long now.

After some moments of silence, the driver asks the boys if either of them wants to pull over to relieve themselves. Both of the boys say they can wait. But rather suspiciously, the driver keeps on insisting that they should pull over now. Then, almost suddenly, the driver appears to pull to a screeching halt. Startled by this, the boys ask the driver what is wrong, before the sound of their own yelling is loudly heard. Amongst the boys panicked yells, the driver shouts at them to get out of the vehicle. Although the audio after this is very distorted, one of the boys can be heard shouting the words, don't shoot us.

After further rummaging of the camera in Bradley's possession, the boys exit the vehicle to the sound of the night air and closing of vehicle doors. As soon as they're outside, the unidentified man drives away, leaving Reese and Bradley by the side of a dirt trail. The pair shout after him, begging him not to leave them in the middle of nowhere, but amongst the outside darkness, all the footage shows are the taillights of the vehicle slowly fading away into the distance. When the footage is eventually turned back on, we can hear Reese at Bradley walking through the darkness. All we see are the feet and bottom legs of Reese along the dirt trail, visible only by his flashlight. From the tone of the boys' voices, they are clearly terrified, having no idea where they are or even what direction they're heading in.

Sometimes seems to pass, and the boys are still walking along the dirt trail through the darkness. Still working the camera, Bradley is audibly exhausted. The boys keep talking to each other, hoping to soon find any shred of civilization, when suddenly, Reese tells Bradley to be quiet. In the silence of the dark, quiet night air, a distant noise is only just audible. Both of the boys hear it, and sounds to be rummaging of some kind. In a quiet tone, Reese tells Bradley that something is moving out in the brush on the right-hand side of the trail.

Believing this to be wild animals, and hoping they're not predatory, the boys continue concernedly along the trail. However, as they keep walking, the sound eventually comes back, and is now audibly closer. Whatever the sound is, it is clearly coming from more than one animal. Unaware what wild animals even roam this area, the boys start moving at a faster pace. But the sound seems to follow them, and can clearly be heard moving closer. Picking up the pace even more, the sound of rummaging through the brush transitions into something else. What is heard, alongside the heavy breathes and footsteps of the boys, is the sound of animalistic whining and cackling.

The audio becomes distorted for around a minute, before the boys seemingly come to a halt. By each other's side, the audio comes back to normal, and Reese, barely visible by his flashlight, frantically yells at Bradley that they're no longer on the trail. Searching the ground drastically, the boys begin to panic. But the sound of rummaging soon returns around them, alongside the whines and cackles. Again, the footage distorts, but through the darkness of the surrounding night, more than a dozen small lights are picked up, seemingly from all directions. Twenty or so meters away, it does not take long for the boys to realize that these lights are actually eyes, eyes belonging to a pack of clearly predatory animals.

All we see now from the footage are the many blinking eyes staring towards the two boys. The wines continue frantically, audibly excited, and as the seconds pass, the sound of these animals becomes ever louder, gaining towards them. The continued wines and cackles become so loud that the footage again becomes distorted, before cutting out for a final time. To this day, more than a decade later, the remains of both Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne have yet to be found. From the evidence described in the footage, authorities came to the conclusion that whatever

these animals were, they had been responsible for both of the boys' disappearances. But why the bodies of the boys have yet to be found, still remains a mystery. Zoologists who reviewed the footage determined that the wines and cackles could only have come from one species known to South Africa. African wild dogs. What further supports this assessment, is that when the remains of the construction workers were autopsied back in the 90s, teeth marks left by the scavengers were also identified as belonging to African wild dogs.

However, this only leaves more questions than answers. Although there are African wild dogs in the Quasulunatal province, particularly at the Schlushlaue-Imfilosi Game Reserve, no populations whatsoever of African wild dogs have been known to roam around the warks' drift area. In fact, there are no more than 650 wild dogs left in South Africa. So how a pack of these animals have managed to roam undetected around the warks' drift area for two decades, has only baffled zoologists and experts alike. As for the mysterious driver who left the boys to their fate, a full investigation was carried out to find him.

Upon interviewing several farmers and residents around the area, authorities could not find a single person who matched what they knew of the driver's description, confirmed by Reese and Bradley in the footage, a late-50-to-mid-60-year-old Caucasian male. When these residents were asked if they knew a man of this description, every one of them gave the same answer. There were no white men known to live in or around the Rorke's drift area. Upon releasing details of the footage to the public, many theories have been acquired over the years, both plausible and extravagant.

The most plausible theory is that whoever this mystery driver was, he had helped the local residents of Rourke's drift in abducting the seven construction workers, before leaving their bodies to the scavengers. If this theory is to be believed, then the purpose of this crime may have been to bring a halt to any plans for tourism in the area. When it comes to Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne, two British tourists, it's believed the same operation was carried out on them, leaving the boys to die in the wilderness and later disposing of the bodies. Although this may be the most plausible theory, several ends are

still left untied. If the bodies were disposed of, why did they leave Reese Rugby shirt? More importantly, why did they leave the video camera with the footage? If the unknown driver, or the Rorke's drift residents were responsible for the boys' disappearances, surely they wouldn't have left any clear evidence of the crime. One of the more outlandish theories, and one particularly intriguing to paranormal communities, is that Rourke's drift is haunted by the spirits of the Zulu warriors who died in the battle. Spirits that take on the form of wild animals, forever trying to rid their enemies from their land. In order to appease these spirits, theorists have suggested that the residents may have abducted outsiders, only to leave them to the fate of the spirits.

Others have suggested that the residents are themselves shapeshifters, and when outsiders come and disturb their way of life, they transform into predatory animals and kill them. Despite the many theories as to what happened to Reese Williams and Bradley Cawthorne, the circumstances of their deaths and disappearances remain a mystery to this day. The culprits involved are yet to be identified, whether that be human, animal, or something else. We may never know what really happened to these boys, and just like the many dark mysteries of the world, we may never know what evil still lies inside of Rourke's drift, South Africa. Greg stood awkwardly near the bus stop, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was trying to make himself invisible.

Ponds were sweaty, his fingers twitchy, his entire body humming with anxiety. Downtown was not his natural habitat. Every car that drove by, every voice that echoed off the buildings, felt like it was aimed directly at him. Across the street, a well-dressed woman in heels and a designer purse gave him a fleeting glance. That single second of eye contact was enough to send Greg's heart racing. His brain immediately jumped into overdrive, wondering, did she recognize me?

Is she judging me? Following me? Even after she turned the corner and disappeared, his paranoia clung to him like a second skin. He tried to tell himself it was fine. He wasn't in danger. But it was hard to believe it. This was supposed to be a good thing. He was here to meet someone.

Someone who might finally get him. Greg closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly like his therapist. had taught him. Ground yourself, Greg. Focus. You're just meeting a guy from Reddit. Yeah. That didn't help much. He had first talked to this guy, Vic, in a subreddit for their city. Greg had been lurking around, not really contributing much, just soaking up posts and occasionally spiraling into arguments when his mind got the better of him. He'd posted a few times about being lonely, struggling with his mental health, and about wanting to try psychedelics as a last ditch attempt to fix whatever the hell was broken inside him.

Vic was the one who replied, saying he got it. Said he had access to stuff. Said he understood. That simple message had meant more to Greg than he'd admit. He didn't get replies often. And Vic? Vic had actually sounded cool. Unstable maybe, a little too chill, but cool.

Greg was still trying to decide if this meeting was the best or worst decision of his life when a hand clapped down hard on his shoulder from behind. Greg nearly leapt out of his skin. Whoa, man, it's just me. Vic, the guy said, laughing as Greg flinched. Didn't mean to give you a heart attack. Greg clutched his chest, trying to slow his breathing. H. Hey. How are you? He managed to choke out. Vick gave him a lopsided grin.

Oh, you know, another Tuesday being a world-class criminal. Actually, hold up. You're not a cop, are you? Greg blinked, panicked. No. God, no. Vic burst out laughing. Dude, chill. I didn't really need to ask. You look like if someone tried to mug you, you just curl into a bar. and cry. No offense. Greg winced but also kind of laughed. There was something weirdly comforting about Vic. Maybe it was the mushroom-cover t-shirt, or the beat-up green converse with a shoelace dragging behind him, or maybe it was just the way he didn't seem to give a damn what

anyone thought. They started walking. Vic did most of the talking, regaling Greg with stories about acid trips, sneaking into abandoned places, and a string of ex-girlfriends that all seemed to hate his guts. Greg, desperate to seem cooler, made up a few stories of his own. Nothing major. Just a few tweaks to reality to seem more, seasoned. But Vic didn't press. He just kept nodding, laughing, occasionally glancing into parked cars like he was window shopping. That was when they reached a green Kia. Vic pointed at the front seat with a mischievous grin. Check that out. brand new iPhone, still in the box.

Someone left it just sitting there like a moron. Greg stared at it, uneasy. Yeah, people are dumb. Before he could say anything else, Vic smashed the passenger window with his elbow. The sound made Greg's heart leap into his throat. But Vic didn't even flinch. He reached in, grabbed the box, and tucked it into his backpack like it was nothing. Nobody saw, Vic said calmly, turning back to Greg and handing him the box.

For you, my dude. Welcome to the friendship. Greg blinked. You're, giving this to me. Vic shrugged. Call it a trust exercise. Greg clutched the phone like it was a golden ticket. His nerves were still jangling, but also, it felt good.

Someone was giving him something. Trusting him. Including him. They kept walking. Greg started talking more. Letting his guard down. He shared things he'd never told anyone, not even his therapist. He carefully edited the worst parts, but still, he was being honest. And Vic listened without judgment. That was rare. Eventually, they wandered toward a Starbucks. Vic offered to grab them both coffees. Greg, riding the high of his new friendship, decided it was time to show off a little. He wanted Vic to know he was more than just a shy weirdo.

Watch this, Greg said with a grin, after they ordered. He strolled toward the bathroom where a woman in yoga pants was standing with her back to him, scrolling on her phone. And right there in the open, Greg brushed up against her, clearly and deliberately. Vic watched, unamused, checking his watch and muttering under his breath. this fucking guy. Greg came back like nothing had happened. They drank their coffees and kept talking, swapping stories about illegal shit they'd done, some real, some wildly exaggerated. Vic didn't seem to care which was which. But eventually, time caught up to them.

Vic said he had to bounce. Other stuff to do. Greg tried to hide his disappointment. Before I go, Vic said, fishing a little plastic bag from his pocket, a parting gift. Inside were two tiny squares of paper. Greg's eyes lit up. Are you serious? Vic nodded. You earned it. They said their goodbyes. Greg headed off to catch his bus, the new iPhone and the acid burning a hole in his pockets. He couldn't believe his luck. This was turning into the best day he'd had in ages. Vic, meanwhile, turned around and casually walked back toward the green Kia. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and pressed the button. The car's lights blinked, and the doors unlocked. He opened the door, grabbed a brush, and swept the broken glass off the seat.

Then he climbed in, adjusted his seat, and pulled out his phone. He made a call. Yeah. Just wrapped up. sketchy as hell. I'll give you the full report back at the station. But in the meantime, get the security footage from the Starbucks on Elm. Time stamps around 1217. Also, I'd bet good money he's going straight home to drop all that acid at once. He reached over to the glove box and pulled out a piece of paper. A phone number scribbled across it. He read it out loud. That's the number for the iPhone I gave him. Let Pegasus know we'll be tuning in soon. Might be fun to scare the crap out of him later, courtesy of the Patriot Act. He ended the call, lit a cigarette, stared out the windshield for a second, and muttered under his breath, God, I hate this job. Then he put

the car in drive and rolled off into the city traffic, already mentally writing up the report that would eventually get Greg flagged, tracked, and maybe, if things went bad enough, institutionalized. All in a day's work. Meanwhile, back at the bus stop, Greg couldn't stop smiling. He felt seen. Understood. Connected. He had no idea.

The end. The time was ticking forward, and Tracy Roberts began appearing everywhere. She was on the radio, the TV, in magazines, and newspapers. Practically everyone saw her as a hero. Here was a mother of three who had found strength in the most desperate of situation. to save her children's lives. A mother willing to pick up a gun and shoot a man who likely intended to harm her kids. But the police?

They weren't so sure. This story, the one that captivated the nation, had some puzzling parts that just didn't add up. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the beginning of the incident. It all started on the evening of December 13, 2001, in Iowa, USA. For the Roberts family, that evening seemed like it would be just another ordinary day. Michael Roberts, the father, was away on a business trip. Tracy, his wife, was at home with their three kids, Bert, aged 11, Noah, three, and Baby May, just one year old. Around 6 p.m., Tracy and the kids went upstairs.

Bert and Noah settled into a room to watch cartoons, while Tracy carried May to the bathroom for a bath. About half an hour later, Tracy heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. At first, she thought it was Michael back early from his trip. She called his name, once, twice, but there was no answer. The footsteps, however, continued. That's when a cold realization hit her, these footsteps didn't sound like Michaels. Could it be an intruder? Acting swiftly, Tracy dried off May and bolted down the hall to Bert and Noah's room.

She placed May on the bed and instructed Bert to lock the door and not open it no matter what he heard. What happened next would spark one of the most controversial stories in recent American history. hashtag hashtag the attack. As soon as Bert locked the door, Tracy was attacked from behind by a stranger. She never saw his face, only felt his grip as he dragged her down the hallway. Thinking quickly, she used her body weight to slam him repeatedly against the wall. After several hard hits, he released her. But in the struggle, Tracy lost her glasses, leaving her vision blurry.

Desperate, she bent down to retrieve them, only to feel a pair of stockings being wrapped tightly around her neck. The man was strangling her with all his strength. Everything went black. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the fight for survival. Tracy doesn't remember how long she was unconscious. When she came to, she was greeted by the sound of heavy pounding, three loud bangs followed by silence. She followed the noise and discovered two men, one taller than the other, attempting to

break into the room where her children were. Their intentions were clear, and Tracy knew she had to act fast. Running to the master bedroom, she opened a safe. But this wasn't for money, the Roberts family didn't store cash there. Inside were two guns. If Tracy could get to them, she might be able to save her kids. Her first attempt at opening the safe failed. So did her second.

On the third try, she managed to unlock it. But before she could grab a gun, the same man wrapped stockings around her neck again, attempting to strangle her once more. In a moment of panic and desperation, Tracy flailed her arms, reaching into the safe. She grabbed one of the pistols, placed it over her shoulder, and fired three shots. Her attacker dropped to the floor, gravely wounded. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the aftermath. Shaking with fear, Tracy dragged herself to a wall and sat with her back against it.

She then witnessed two critical moments. First, the second intruder, whom she described as tall and wearing a specific outfit, ran past her down the stairs. She couldn't see his face but was convinced he was the man who had tried to break into the children's room. Second, the first attacker, who was still alive, began to move. Consumed by terror, Tracy reached back into the safe, retrieved the second gun, and fired one more shot, killing him instantly. When the police arrived, the house was in chaos.

Tracy's story painted her as a brave mother defending her children, but certain details didn't align with the evidence. Hashtag hashtag-h-h-h-htag inconsistencies begin to surface. The police found no signs of forced entry, no broken windows or damaged doors. And nothing in the house appeared to be stolen. This didn't look like a robbery but rather an intentional attack. When asked if she knew anyone who wanted her dead, Tracy didn't hesitate. Yes, she said.

John Pittman, my ex-husband, according to Tracy, John had been fighting for custody of their son Bert for years. She claimed he would stop at nothing to win. Michael Roberts, upon returning from his business trip, was also questioned. Surprisingly, he gave the police a completely different name, Dr. Joseph Lasbeza, a former employer of Tracy's and a man with a troubling history. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the ex-husband and the former employer. Dr. Joseph Lasbeza was a dentist in Chicago, where Tracy had once worked. According to Tracy, their professional relationship turned dark when she underwent a cosmetic dental procedure in his clinic. She claimed that when she awoke from anesthesia, Lasbeza was touching himself while staring at her.

Tracy sued him, and on December 10, 2001, just three days before the attack, Las Bezo lost his license and was ordered to pay Tracy $6,500 in damages. The timing made him a plausible suspect. Meanwhile, John Pittman, Tracy's ex-husband, had his own reasons to be viewed suspiciously. Tracy had accused him of abusing their son Bert and fought relentlessly for sole custody. She had even requested $5,000 a month in child support. hashtag hashtag the neighbor. As the investigation progressed, another shocking discovery came to light. The man Tracy had killed wasn't a stranger. He was Dustin Weed, the Roberts' 20-year-old

neighbor. Dustin had a learning disability and a troubled past. He had been bullied throughout his life, had few friends, and often retreated to his basement to play computer games. His mother, Mona Weed, worked for the Roberts family and had a close relationship with Tracy and Michael. But Tracy didn't trust Dustin. She claimed Mona had once confided that Dustin was unstable and could be dangerous. Tracy even forbade Michael from spending time with him. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the diary. The night of the attack, the police discovered a pink notebook in Dustin's car. Inside was a diary entry detailing a sinister plot, John Pittman had allegedly hired Dustin to kill Tracy and her son Bert. The entry outlined specific plans and

motives, seemingly providing the missing link in the case. But something about the diary didn't sit right with investigators. The handwriting didn't match Dustin's, and his mother insisted he didn't write much because of his learning disability. Could the diary have been planted? Hashtag hashtag hashtag a closer look at Tracy. As suspicions around Tracy grew, her past was scrutinized. Born in 1966, Tracy had married John Pittman at a young age. According to John, their marriage was tumultuous. He claimed Tracy drained their bank accounts and once threatened him with a gun during an argument.

Tracy, however, painted herself as the victim, alleging that she was only suicidal, not homicidal. After divorcing John, Tracy married Michael Roberts, whom she met online. Their marriage seemed solid at first, but cracks began to show. Neighbors described Tracy as volatile, with frequent screaming matches echoing from their home. Michael even spent a night in jail after Tracy accused. him of domestic violence, only for her to later drop the charges.

Hashtag hashtag hashtag the truth unfolds. In 2008, the case landed on the desk of special agent Trent Valletta, part of the cold case unit. Veletta found numerous inconsistencies in Tracy's story. For one, forensic evidence showed that Dustin had been shot nine times, not four as Tracy claimed. The bullet trajectories suggested he had been shot while lying on the ground, defenseless. Valetta also investigated the infamous diary. Handwriting experts concluded it wasn't written by Dustin. The entire plot seemed fabricated. Hashtag hashtag-h-h-tag-conclusion.

The evidence painted a chilling picture. Tracy had likely orchestrated the attack to frame her enemies and paint herself as a heroic mother. In 2011, she was convicted of first-degree murder for the death of Dustin weed and sentenced to life in prison without parole. Today, Tracy Roberts remains a divisive figure. To some, she's a mother who did what she had to do. To others, she's a master manipulator who went to horrifying lengths to maintain control. Hi, guys, this is, like my first story so please if you may give constructive criticism after you completely read the story in joy.

Once upon a time, there was a daughter. Who thought that she was neglected, after her mother died her father had started to take care of her? She absolutely hated him and would refuse to respect him. She would act nonchalantly when addressing him it was her way of saying, that she doesn't know him nor does she recognize him as her parent. She despised him so much, so just to get away from him she studied and studied to finally leave him and live her life, once she became a young adult at the age of 18 years. Her father worked as a bartender at a bar. One day after her mother had

died and about five months had passed, he came home drunk and brought home a woman from the bar saying she was his co-worker. Her heart sank, the thought that her father had already gotten over the death of her mother even though she died because of her father's mistake, disgusted her. The woman was trying to talk to her the whole time she was there, bringing up any conversation starter she could think of to talk to the little girl. Her father had gone ahead and passed out drunk in a separate room later once it was late at night the woman left after preparing food for the kid. She tried to call her grandparents, Mom sighed.

They told her that they couldn't talk to her now as they were out to travel the country on a pilgrimage she was only seven at the time. About a year later her father remarried to the woman, the daughter did not like this. One day when the woman was trying to help the girl change clothes, the girl accidentally pushed the woman and the woman had a hot pot that she was cooking fall on her. She was immediately hospitalized and was all okay, but that was the last she saw of the woman. About two years later, she realized what had happened properly and that the woman had divorced her father then.

But he girl was weirdly happy as she thought that it serves her father right for trying to replace her kind mother with some nobody. Later when the girl was in high school one of her friends asked her whether her father will be coming for her graduation ceremony, she doesn't reply and ignores her friend for saying that. At that point the person she hated most wasn't some school bully of some scary teacher like most high schoolers. It was a person that had been at home her very own father, but it was justified as after all, he was the one that caused her grief. At the day of the graduation, her day was going fairly well for her until her father showed up saying he heard from a guest

that today was her graduation. He was wearing some shabby casual clothes for someone coming for a graduation. Her friends later kept teasing her about the clothes her father wore at her graduation. Even the teachers reprimanded her about it. Later the girl got a law degree and became a famous lawyer by the young age of only 25 she was known as a genius lawyer that could win any case. After fixing her life with saving money up, she found someone he was what many would call a corporate slave working overtime for months and working hard. He was working in a well-known company as a head so he had a sense of responsibility for his work. He met her in a bus returning from a Water Park on Sunday they sat in the same row and got to know each other and they kept contact

for about a month and decided to start dating after dating. The kept dating had quarrels broke up, got back together and repeat for three years after they decided to get married they booked a nice banquet hall. Over the years the girl's father had tried to keep contact with her, but she wouldn't pick up any calls made by him. She did not like even the sight of him, both her and her husband to be new of his wrongdoings and they decided to not to invite him to their wedding, as it was their day and they didn't want anyone unpleasant there, but they invited her grandparents to the wedding. On the day of the wedding the girl's father showed up with her grandparents when the couple saw him trying to enter saying that he wanted

to meet his daughter, they went up to him and before he could say a thing they told him to leave the place as he wasn't invited to the wedding after a minute of silence he tried to say something but saw his daughter's look of utter disappointment and left when he got to the road his daughter shouted at him that he ruined her childhood and now her wedding and that she hated him very much and that she suffered so much because of him. He stopped and looked back and was about to say something when. I'm sore dash, thud, a truck with a sleeping driver rammed over him, everyone was in shock. Someone called the ambulance and he was immediately hospitalized, the doctors did the best they could and saved his life, but due to damage to his brain he fell

into a deep slumber, a coma. His daughter visited him once to see how he was, but she just couldn't forgive him after all her dear mother passed away because of him she had lost her and her childhood was ruined all because of him she just could not feel any sadness for his accident. The doctor came to her for asking for blood as she had O-plus. She thought that her father was now paying the costs of everything he made her go through. Later that evening she went to her grandparents to talk to them about caring for, the guy in coma, but. Then her grandparents decided that this couldn't go on any longer, and first told her to care for her father herself, but she quickly refused, then they asked her why she hates her father so much. Then suddenly

she received a call from the hospital and dropped her phone in shock and with an expressionless face asked her grandparents who was her father and that she received the call from the hospital that said that the DNA reports don't match. Then her face contorted in anger as she angrily asked them, to tell her with tears in her eyes and thoughts of why she suffered. Then her grandparents said you. You're the one that suffered. And she suddenly hit a realization that her kind loving mother had to suffer that man so she replied, no mom suffered more than me marrying that my dash. The grandparents cut her off as they say, that man, is the one that suffered the most, with your mother being the reason.

The daughter shouted and said that there was no way that what they said was true and that he was the reason for their child's death so they avoided him as well, she said. Then the grandparents replied that they couldn't bear it how much he was suffering because of their daughter's faults, but still not once did he make you repay him for what your mother did to him, he loved you dearly when you pushed him away, they told her. She said that at the graduation ceremony. Then they replied to her that she said it herself that he had to come in a hurry because she didn't inform him. And that he was just a worried father and she was the one at fault. Then

in denial she said, What about the death of her mother? How was that not his fault then? Then the grandparents started. To explain this to you let's go 28 years back before you were born. Your mother had confessed to your father one day, but he was already in a relationship and he was happy, so of course he rejected her but due to that the we came into contact with him for the first time. Then one day suddenly our daughter, story is from parents' perspective, came home and told us that she was pregnant and that she couldn't abort it anymore as the date for that had passed and saved to why she didn't say anything before. She was just scared of our reactions, and what we would do. We of course yelled at her and said a lot of stuff, we locked the

house and installed a tracking app on her phone just in case, she in the middle of the night left a note, saying that she couldn't bear it anymore and that someone rejected her and now she was pregnant and her parents didn't support her, at all. They called the boy that was proposed to as she was at a bridge near his house, probably about to jump. They called him and he ran there as fast as he could even injuring his leg in the process, and when he saw her he stopped her from jumping and by racking his brain he got the idea of stalling her by talking to her. She surprisingly calm replied to him that she would come down to him, only, only if he said that he loved her and proposed to her. In shock, thinking about the unborn baby he decided,

then he let go of his happiness his friends just to stop her from falling to save not one but two lives that, the woman had put in mortal danger. Later in the hospital it turned out that one of the babies had died. She was going to have twins. Because of the mental state of the mother the baby boy had passed away without a sight of day, but miraculously the daughter survived. Then while her parents and the boy were talking, the woman had set the boy as the father of her child without informing anyone and after that. The boy's world truly was destroyed. He tried to maintain friendships, but his girlfriend had told everyone that he was unfaithful, and now he was even a father for some random girl's child.

They, of course, didn't know he wasn't a father and broke all contact with him. He was sad, but just then he couldn't pursue further studies as he wanted to be a good father to, his child, so he started working as a bartender and slowly climbed up the ranks he had actually wanted to be a writer, so he was good at storytelling. And became famous as, Bardovhtabar. Then suddenly the married daughter listening to the grandparents' story exclaimed that her mother died because she, the grandparents shut her up and continued the story with a pale expression, they said that she died when she went scuba diving with someone not your father.

But your father thought about how much you liked your mother and decided not to tell you that your mother wasn't faithful and was cheating on him with some rich scum. She accidentally let go of the rope she was holding onto while going over a cliff face she didn't even know how to swim, so she just went down and down and down. Later the people actually found her within the time period where she should still have plenty of air to spare, but she had decided to pull the plug herself thinking she didn't want to suffer. Then the grandparents told their granddaughter to leave and to never return to their house nor was she welcomed to visit her father, she deserved that after all, she was

the reason he was in a coma. All his pain, but he still loved her to the end. She was outed from their family. Then someone had come for a visit. The next day the news of the father waking up got to the grandparents and they went to see him but, upon seeing him he had lot his memories and not any memories but memories of the last 28 years with close to no chance of recovering it. I woke up and immediately knew something was wrong. You know that weird that feeling you get before your brain even catches up to what's happening. Yeah, that. The bed was too still. Way too still. Usually, when I wake up, the first thing I notice is the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Jenna always breathed deeply, even in sleep.

Sometimes it was almost like a lullaby, you know. That steady rhythm was comforting. But this morning? Nothing. Just stillness. Unnatural, heavy stillness. I didn't even want to open my eyes at first. I think some part of me already knew, deep down.

But habit won out, and I turned my head slightly, reaching out. My hand found her arm. Cold. Not just a little cold. like she'd kicked off the blanket. I mean cold. Like basement floor in the middle of winter cold. My fingers recoiled on instinct, like I'd touch dry ice or something equally wrong. My heart stuttered, and I sat bolt upright. Jenna? My voice cracked like it hadn't been used in weeks. No answer. She always mumbles or grunts or something when I wake her up. But she just lay there.

Limp Still Her head tilted back at a weird angle, her mouth a little open, eyes half-litted like she'd been caught in the middle of a blink. I said her name again, louder. Still nothing. I shook her shoulder, gently at first, then harder. Her whole body moved in this sick, puppet-like way, no resistance. Just, flopping.

I started babbling then, nonsense stuff. No, no, no, come on, Jenna. Don't do this. Wake up, please. You always wake up. I don't remember pulling out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it the first time. Picked it up, somehow managed to get to the emergency screen.

I think I pressed 911 like five times. When the operator answered, I was already sobbing. trying to explain something I didn't understand myself my twin she's dead i think no she's not breathing and we look we're conjoined okay i need help i need someone now ma'am please stay calm help is on the way stay calm i was literally stuck to a corpse you ever try to stay calm when the person who's literally part of your body has died. Because I promise you, it's not possible. I could already feel something was wrong inside me too. Like our shared organs, those beautiful, weird miracles that kept us alive together, were starting to glitch. My heartbeat was out of rhythm. My breath

came in shallow gulks. I was dizzy. Everything felt, slow. Every second dragged. I tried to sit up, tried to get away from her, but our body didn't work like that. Our torsos were fused from ribcage to hip. We each had one lung, one kidney, one liver, and we shared a heart. One heart. That's what the doctors always said. That was the miracle and the curse. One heart between two people.

And now half that equation was gone. Was the heart still mine? Still working? Or just whining? down. I could smell her. It wasn't strong yet, but it was there, the tiniest hint of death. Something sour and metallic. A smell I instinctively recoiled from, even though it came from her. From us. The paramedics burst in finally. I must have screamed when they opened the door, but I don't remember doing it. I just remember their faces, the shock, the confusion, the pity.

They were trained for trauma, but not this. Not a living girl sown to a dead one. They surrounded me, careful, clinical. One of them placed a hand on my shoulder and said something, I don't remember what. I just kept saying, please, don't let me die too. I don't want to die, but they didn't promise anything. How could they?

They couldn't separate us, not right then, not without major surgery, and we didn't have time. My body was failing. Our body was failing. That one, overworked heart could only do so much. I felt it, every weak beat, every pause that lasted just a little too long. It was surreal. My vision swam, and the room tilted.

One of the EMTs shouted something about blood pressure. They were moving fast, doing what they could, but I knew. I knew I wasn't going to make it. I closed my eyes. Not because I was giving up, but because I didn't want to see their faces anymore. The mixture of horror and pity. I didn't want to remember Jenna like that either. Cold and slack, her lips parted like she tried to say something before she died.

We'd always talked about what would happen if one of us died. It was one of those morbid twin jokes we used to make as kids, you better not die for. first, if you go, I go, that kind of thing. But we never really thought it would happen. Not like this. Not suddenly. Not without warning. I used to wonder what it'd be like to be alone. Just me. My own body. My own space. But this? This wasn't freedom. This was horror. This was being marooned on an island made of your own skin, tethered to someone you love who isn't there anymore. They kept trying. I-Vs, oxygen, heart monitor pads. I felt the jab of a needle in my arm, but it was distant, like it was happening to someone else. Everything was

distant. Like the world was receding from me, inch by inch. I remember a voice. A woman's voice, soft and close. Maybe a paramedic. Maybe someone I imagined. She said, you're not alone. We're here, but I was alone. Jenna was gone. And without her, what was left of me?

My thoughts drifted. I started thinking about stupid stuff, like the time we switched places in sixth grade to mess with our teacher. Jenna couldn't stop laughing and got us caught. or the time we cried so hard at Titanic that our dad threatened to ban movies forever or how she used to hum in the shower she was terrible at singing but it made me smile every time i didn't want to go i didn't want to die but i could feel it the heart our heart was quitting they said my name over and over i wanted to answer i really did

But my mouth wouldn't move. My lips were heavy. My body, heavier. I thought maybe I'd see her again. Wherever people go when they die. I hoped I would. I hoped she'd be waiting. Then, nothing.

But somehow, that wasn't the end. I woke up in a hospital bed. Alone. Alone in a way I'd never been before. It took me a minute to understand what had happened. My chest hurt like hell. My side felt like it was on fire. There were machines beeping.

Tubes. Bandages. A nurse standing over me. You're awake, she said, smiling. Like it was good news. Like it wasn't the end of the world. I didn't say anything. I just reached to my side.

Nothing. Just me. They told me later that. they managed to do an emergency separation. That the surgeons worked through the night. That it was a miracle I survived. A miracle. I didn't feel lucky.

I felt hollow. Half a person. Not in a poetic sense. Literally. My body had been restructured, rebuilt. I had new organs now, donor pieces from people I'd never know. But they weren't ours. They were mine, just mine, and I hated it.

The silence was the worst part. The absence. Jenna had always been there, physically, emotionally, spiritually. She was the anchor to my every moment. And now she was just, gone. I couldn't hear her breathing. Couldn't feel her shift in sleep. Couldn't reach out and know she was right there.

The hospital offered therapy. Counseling. All the usual steps. I nodded through it all. Said what they wanted to hear. But inside, I was screaming. I started dreaming of her. Every night.

Sometimes she was alive, laughing, joking. Other times, she was like she was that morning, cold, slack, unreachable. I'd wake up sweating, gasping for break. half convinced I'd died too and just hadn't realized it yet. They eventually let me go home. Or, well, to a new place. Somewhere accessible. Somewhere healing. I didn't care. It was just a box with a bed. I didn't know who I was without her. People ask dumb questions. Do you feel different? Are you happy to be free? As if this was some Disney storyline where the print The princess gets to live her own life now.

But it wasn't a fairy tale. It was a horror story with a weird epilogue. I didn't feel free. I felt amputated. Sometimes I talked to her. Out loud. In the shower. In bed.

I know it's crazy. I know she's not there. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop. She was my sister. My twin, my other half, and I survived her. I don't know why, but I did, and I'm still figuring out what to do with that.