Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Creepy Night Stories 9 Hours of Terror

Episode Date: November 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #nightterrorstories #hauntedcompilation #darktales #unsettlingvoices Creepy Night Stories: 9 Hours of Terror is your ultimate plunge into darkness — a chilling collection of haunted encounters, eerie confessions, and true horror tales that will make your skin crawl. From ghostly voices whispering in the night to unexplained footsteps echoing down empty halls, these stories capture the kind of fear that feels real. Perfect for long nights when sleep feels impossible and silence feels too loud. You’ve been warned — once you start listening, there’s no going back. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedstories, paranormalencounters, ghoststories, scarynarrations, darkcompilation, supernaturalhorror, creepycollection, eerieepisodes, truehorrorstories, hauntednights, fearinthedark, chillingmoments, mysteriousshadows, midnightwhispers

They searched for a thousand explanations, but the woman kept repeating it over and over. She claimed that someone had pushed her, but her family wouldn't believe her. To understand this strange and unsettling story, we must travel to a small Catalan village called Burgess, located in the province of Gerona. Burgess is a tiny place, surrounded by rolling hills and farmlands, where life moves slowly and the main activities are livestock farming and agriculture. However, it's a town that is rich in tradition, and it's famous for two rituals that have been passed down through generations. The first is called Sopa da Ayas, a tradition where the community

comes together for a meal on Carnival Tuesday, keeping alive the ancient feudal custom of sharing a communal dish. The second, and perhaps the most famous, is the dance of death, which takes place every Holy Thursday. This haunting procession has medieval roots and has been carried on without interruption for centuries. It involves five participants, three children and two adults, all dressed in deathly costumes. The adult in the lead holds a sigh. with the Latin inscription Nym Parko, I spare no one, while behind him follows death itself, striking a drum. The children carry symbolic items, two of them hold ashes, symbolizing the saying, you are dust, and to dust, you shall return, while the third child

carries a watch with no hands, indicating the fleeting nature of time and how death can come at any moment. These symbols of mortality seem fitting for a town with such a long and tumultuous history. Burgess has seen it all, from Iberian, Roman, and Arab settlements to visit Gothic influences and medieval wars. There was even a castle at the center of the village that saw countless battles, epidemics, and executions. Over time, most of the village's darker history faded into obscurity, and by the late 70s and early 80s, Burgess had become a peaceful and charming place. It was then that a close-knit family, the Furcadel family, decided to make this village their summer retreat. The Furcadale family had been searching for a perfect spot where

they could all come together for vacations, grandparents, siblings, cousins, and children. They found a house in the center of Burgess, right next to the church. The house, although cold and uninviting on the outside, was affordable and large enough to accommodate the entire family. It had been furnished with antique furniture, crosses, religious objects, and candles, things that, to most, might seem eerie, but to them, were just part of the charm. The lower floors of the house were occupied by the owner, who lived in Barcelona, but the upper three floors were available for rent. These were the floors the furcadels would use, and they quickly settled in, enjoying the space and the warm summer days. The house was dark

and a little cramped, but the family loved it. The children ran around playing, and the adults spent their time enjoying games and meals together, occasionally taking trips to the nearby beach or riding their bikes around the village. For the first two or three years, everything was perfect. But then, one day, something happened that changed everything. It was a normal, sunny day when the grandmother, Magdalena, decided to go up to the third floor to hang some clothes. She went up without any trouble, but when she was coming back down, something strange happened. She suddenly felt two hands push her down the stairs with incredible force. She tumbled down the stairs, injuring her leg and leaving a trail of blood behind her.

Naturally, she screamed for help, and the entire family rushed to her aid. But despite her pain, Magdalena kept repeating over and over that someone had pushed her. She said she felt hands on her back, but when they looked around, no one was there. The family dismissed her claims, thinking that maybe she had lost her balance, or that she had imagined it in her delirium. But Magdalena wasn't the only one who experienced strange occurrences. The following days brought whispers, groaning sounds, and what seemed like chains being dragged across the floors. The Furcadel family, however, tried to dismiss it, attributing

it all to the house's age and the creaky wooden floors. But then came another incident. One night, while everyone was sleeping, the family's dog, a fierce and protective animal, started growling and barking. The dog's owner, Marta's uncle, woke up and followed the dog through the house, trying to figure out what was going on. The dog led him to the door of the room where Marta's parents were sleeping. When the door was opened, Everything seemed normal, no one was awake, and there was nothing out of place. But then Marta's mother, Conchita, awoke and saw something she couldn't explain. Through the crack in the door, she noticed a thick black fog creeping into the room.

Thinking it was just her imagination, she sat up, but as soon as she did, a sudden slap from an invisible hand struck her face so hard that her head hit the wall. She froze in fear, too scared to even speak about it. From that point on, the room took on a sinister presence. The family could no longer ignore the strange occurrences. The room smelled foul, even though they searched for an animal or dead rat, they found nothing. Conchita even scrubbed the floor with water and cleaning supplies, but the smell only worsened. It was as if the house itself was resisting all attempts to make it feel normal again.

Over time, the strange events continued. One of Marta's cousins, Christina, became more and more unsettled. The teenagers used to sleep on the third floor, altogether in the same room, but every so often, they began hearing strange noises. Sometimes it was the sound of footsteps, other times it was chains dragging across the floor or strange breathing. Christina felt it the most, especially at night when she struggled to sleep. One evening, she heard the sound of dragging footsteps getting closer and closer, followed

by labored breathing. It was as though something was getting closer to her bed. she jumped out of bed and fled to a neighbor's house. That same night, a strange flash of light woke everyone in the house. It was so intense that everyone rushed downstairs in panic. The house seemed to have a life of its own, and the sense of dread in the air grew stronger with each passing day. But Christina wasn't the only one to experience the strange events. One evening, while playing cards with her mother, Christina froze in shock. Her mother, Conchita, couldn't understand what was going on. She asked her daughter,

what she was staring at. Then, following her gaze, Conchita saw it. In the window that faced the street, there was the face of an elderly woman with white hair, pressed against the glass. Her eyes seemed distant and vacant, and around her, there was a fog-like haze. Conchita initially thought it was just a prank, but when she opened the door to the street, there was no one there. Years passed, and the family continued to visit the house, unable to explain what was happening but unwilling to leave because the place held so many good memories. However, some members of the family reached their breaking point. Conchita, especially, couldn't ignore it any longer. She began feeling increasingly uncomfortable, and one day she

asked her husband if she could bring their dog along for a visit. The dog, known for being fierce and protective, might offer her some comfort. When they arrived, everything seemed normal at first. But as night fell, the strange occurrences intensified. The third floor seemed alive with noise, footsteps, dragging chains, and strange sounds coming from nowhere. Conchita, feeling terrified, told the dog to go up and confront whatever was causing the disturbance. The dog charged up the stairs, but moments later, it came back, terrified, tail between its legs. Conchita, in a panic, locked herself in the bathroom and stayed there until morning. The next day, she packed her bags and left, bowing never to return.

That night, however, turned out to be Holy Thursday, the night of the dance of death. The procession passed right by the house, making the entire experience feel even more sinister. After ten years of visiting the house, the Furcadel family decided to leave. However, their story didn't end there. In 1996, they stopped visiting, and life moved on. The once adolescent family members grew up, married, and had children of their own. Christina, who had married a man from Burgess, was now living a peaceful life with her own family. is, until one day when a mother approached her while she was picking up her daughter from school. She asked Christina if she had lived in the old house on the hill, and when Christina confirmed

it, the woman told her something chilling. Her daughter, the same age as Christina's daughter, had always greeted a woman at the window of that house when they passed by. The little girl described the woman as elderly with white hair, and it dawned on Christina that this was the same woman she had seen in the window years ago. Intrigued and disturbed, Christina shared the story with Marta, and the invest. into the houses past deepened. As the years went on,

Marta and her family began uncovering unsettling facts. One of the most disturbing discoveries was made in 2012 when construction work in the village unearthed part of the old medieval castle wall and the remains of a cemetery from the same period. Over 150 tombs were found, including multiple family graves, right under the very spot where Marta's uncle used to park his car. The graveyard had been used from the 10th century to the 19th century. Now, as Christina's family prepares to spend another summer in Burgess, they feel a mixture

of anticipation and anxiety. The village is full of tradition and history, but it is also filled with unanswered questions, dark secrets, and the lingering presence of the past. Will the Furcadel family uncover more about the house's eerie past? Or will they continue to be haunted by its shadows forever? Most people thought of Rachel as just another face in the crowd, a quiet, freckled girl who spent too much time doodling in her notebook and not enough time paying its attention to the world around her. She lived in a sleepy coastal town called Driftwood Point,

where the most exciting thing to happen all year was the annual Sandcastle competition. But Rachel had a secret, she was absolutely convinced that the old seashell she'd found buried under a pile of seaweed one stormy afternoon could talk. It wasn't like the seashell spoke in full sentences or anything. That would have been too easy. Instead, it whispered, soft, almost melodic murmurs that tickled her ear like the sound of waves rolling onto the shore. At first, she thought it was just her imagination, the kind of weird auditory trick your brain plays on you when you've been staring at something for too long. But the whispers grew more distinct over time, and the things the Shell seemed to know,

well, they were uncanny. Take, for instance, the day it warned her about the storm. Listen, the Shell's voice had hummed, low and urgent, as Rachel sat cross-legged on her bed. Her window was open, letting in a salty breeze. Big waves. Bad skies. Don't go out tomorrow, she'd blinked, startled, and looked down at the conk in her hand. It was pale pink, spiraling inward like a whirlpool frozen in time.

What do you mean, she whispered back, feeling a little silly for talking to an inanimate object. The shell didn't answer, but the next day, the storm hit. It was the kind of tempest that shook the houses in their foundations and left the boardwalk littered with driftwood and broken glass. Rachel stayed inside, clutching the shell like a talisman. After that, she started listening more carefully. By the time Summer rolled around, Rachel's life had become a delicate balancing act of keeping her secret while trying to figure out just how much the shell really knew.

She'd tested it, of course. Asked it questions about things she had no way of knowing herself. The answers came in whispers, vague, yes, but accurate. It told her where to find her lost sketchbook, behind the couch cushions, and predicted that Mrs. Dobbins' prize-winning tomato plant would get eaten by raccoons, It did. What are you? She asked it one night, her voice barely audible over the sound of the ocean outside.

Her room smelled of sunscreen and salt, and the glow of her bedside lamp made the shell's surface gleam like polished coral. The shell didn't reply, not directly. Instead, it murmured something that sounded like, find the map. What map? Rachel demanded, but the shell fell silent, leaving her with more questions than answers. The map, as it turned out, was hidden in the attic of her house. Rachel discovered it purely by accident while rummaging through an old trunk filled with

her mom's forgotten knick-knacks. It was yellowed and brittle, scrawled with markings that didn't make much sense to her. But when she pressed the shell to her ear, it whispered directions, follow the lines. Seek the heart, the heart. What heart? Rachel frowned, her mind spinning. The map led to a spot deep within the marshlands that bordered driftwood point. It wasn't the kind of place anyone went willingly, the ground was treacherous, and the air buzzed

with mosquitoes big enough to carry you off if you stood still too long. But Rachel was nothing if not curious. She set out early one Saturday morning, armed with the map, the shell, and a backpack filled with snacks and bug spray. The path was overgrown, tangled with roots that reached up like bony fingers to snag her sneakers. The whispers from the shell guided her, urging her to take left turns where she might have gone right and to step over patches of mud that looked deceptively solid. For what felt like hours, she reached a small clearing.

In the center stood a stone pedestal, weathered and moss covered, with something glinting faintly on top. Rachel's heart hammered as she approached. The object was a locket, shaped like a tiny seashell, hanging from a delicate chain. She reached out to touch it, half expecting it to vanish like some mirage. The heart, the shell murmured. It's yours, Rachel slipped the locket into her pocket, her mind racing with questions. was she supposed to do with it? And why did it feel like the shell had been leading her to this moment all along? Things got weirder after that. The locket seemed to hum faintly against her

skin, a sensation that was equal parts comforting and unnerving. When she opened it, she found a tiny scrap of parchment inside, etched with what looked like another map. This one was even harder to decipher, but the shell's whispers grew more insistent. Danger comes, it warned one night as Rachel lay in bed, turning the locket over in her hands. You must be ready, ready for what? Rachel had no idea, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being drawn into something far bigger than herself. The first sign of trouble came in the form of a stranger.

He showed up in Driftwood Point One blistering afternoon, his arrival heralded by the low rumble of a motorcycle engine. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a leather jacket that seemed wholly impractical for the summer heat. But it was his eyes that unsettled Rachel most, sharp and calculating, like he was always two steps ahead of everyone else. He introduced himself as Mr. Blackwood, a name that sounded about as fake as his smile. Rachel's mom, who ran the town's only diner, said he was just passing through, but Rachel wasn't so sure.

There was something about the way he looked at her, like he knew exactly what she was hiding. The shell confirmed her suspicions later that night. He seeks the heart, it whispered, urgent and clipped. it, Rachel didn't know how to protect something she barely understood, but she knew she couldn't let Mr. Blackwood get his hands on the locket. She started wearing it everywhere, tucking it beneath her shirt so it stayed out of sight. The shell became her constant companion, its whispers guiding her as she tried to piece together the puzzle she'd stumbled into.

Mr. Blackwood, meanwhile, seemed to have an uncanny knack for turning up wherever she went. At the diner, at the library, even on the beach where she liked to sketch. He always acted casual, like his presence was just a coincidence, but Rachel wasn't buying it. The Shell's warnings grew louder, its voice tinged with something that sounded almost like fear. The tide turns, it murmured one evening. Be strong, the confrontation came sooner than Rachel expected. She was walking home from the library one evening when she heard footsteps behind her,

too heavy to belong to anyone she knew. Her heart raised as she turned to see Mr. Blackwood, his expression unreadable in the fading light. Nice night for a walk, he said, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. Rachel didn't reply. She clutched the shell in her hand, its surface warm against her palm. The whispers were frantic now, urging her to run, to hide, to do something, anything, to get away. You've got something that belongs to me, Mr. Blackwood continued, taking a step closer.

Why don't you hand it over, and we'll both be on our way? I don't know what you're talking about, Rachel said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound brave. Mr. Blackwood's smile didn't reach his eyes. Don't play dumb, kid. The lock it. Give it to me, Rachel shook her head, taking a step back. It's not yours, he lunged, but Rachel was faster.

She darted down the street, her sneakers slapping against the pavement as she ran. The Shell's whispers guided her, urging her toward the beach. She didn't know what she'd find there, but she trusted it. She had to. The beach was deserted, the way. waves glowing faintly under the light of the moon. Rachel stumbled to a stop, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Mr. Blackwood was close behind, his footsteps crunching against the sand.

Nowhere left to run, he said, his voice cold and sharp. Rachel clutched the locket, her mind racing. The Shell's whispers were a cacophony now, too frantic to make sense of. But then, clear as a bell, she heard it, throw it into the sea, she hesitated for only a moment before obeying. With all her strength, she hurled the locket into the waves. Mr. Blackwood shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late. The ocean seemed to come alive, the water churning and rising in a massive swell that knocked him off his feet. Rachel stumbled back, watching in awe as the waves carried him away, his shouts swallowed by the roar of the sea. When the waters

finally calmed, the beach was silent once more. Rachel sank to her knees, clutching the shell to her chest. It was warm and still, its whispers gone. Thank you, she whispered, unsure if it could still hear her. Somewhere in the distance, a wave broke against the shore, and Rachel could have sworn it sounded like a sigh of relief. The 1950s UFO craze, a time of panic and mystery, let's wind back to the 1950s, a decade famous for jukeboxes, drive-in theaters, and, believe it or not, UFO hysteria. Yes, you read that right. Back in the day, particularly in the United States, there was an explosion of sightings and reports about flying saucers, glowing lights in the sky, and even abductions. It was the golden age of extraterrestrial paranoia.

Hundreds of people claimed they saw something unexplainable. Some even swore they were taken aboard spaceships. The fear got so real that the government, reportedly, went into action. They installed radars around sensitive areas, including the White House. Rumors swirled that these measures weren't just about national security, they were a shield against an alien invasion. But let's not forget the context. World War II had ended only a few years earlier, in 1945. Global tensions were still high, and the Cold War was just heating up. People were already on edge, and strange phenomena in the sky. That was all it took to send the public spiraling into a collective panic. Could those radars have been installed to prevent enemy aircraft from trespassing? Sure. But try

convincing a society that was already imagining little green men around every corner. Meet Odra Harper. Enter Odra Harper, a young woman with a taste for adventure. Born in 1929, Odra grew up loving the great outdoors. She wasn't the type to sit around, she preferred wandering through nature and soaking in the beauty of the world around her. Fast forward to 1950, and Odra moved to a quiet little town called Flatwoods in Braxton County, West Virginia. Flatwoods wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis. It was a tiny, tight-knit community where everybody knew everybody. Think of it like one of those postcard-perfect rural towns, but with pothole-ridden roads and barely any public transportation.

If you wanted to go anywhere, you better be ready to walk, sometimes for miles. For Odra, even a trip to the nearest grocery store was an eight-kilometer hike. That's roughly five miles each way. One summer day in 1952, Odra made plans with a friend to tackle that trek together. They figured they'd get an early start. wander through the fields, pick up their supplies, and head back home before nightfall. Simple enough, right? Well, it was, until it wasn't.

A fiery encounter. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as Odra and her friend made their way back from the store. They were walking through the fields, laughing, chatting, and minding their own business when they saw something, a flash of orange light in the distance. At first, they didn't think much of it. Maybe someone was camping and had built a fire. It wasn't uncommon in that quiet, rural area. But as they got closer, things got weird.

This wasn't a campfire. The light didn't flicker, there were no sparks, and the glow was eerily steady. What they were looking at wasn't fire, it was something else entirely. That something was a perfectly round ball of light, hovering a few feet off the ground. It glowed so intensely that it lit up the surrounding area. The two women stood frozen, unsure of whether to move closer return and run. Their curiosity won out, and they crept forward. And then it changed.

The light dimmed, its shape-shifting into something darker, more defined. What had been an unearthly glow was now a tall, shadowy figure. Its body was elongated, unnaturally so, and its movements were stiff and mechanical. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. That much was clear. Odra and her friend didn't stick around to figure out what they were looking at. Panic took over. They bolted, tearing through fear.

fields and leaping over fences like their lives depended on it. At one point, Odra glanced over her shoulder and saw the figure still following them, eerily close. Only when they cleared the second fence did the figure vanish. Convinced nobody would believe them, they kept the experience to themselves. But their encounter was only the beginning. The Flatwoods monster, just a month later, on September 12, 1952, another strange incident rocked Flatwoods.

This time, it involved a group of local kids who had headed out to the field. to play football. There were about nine or ten of them, neighbors, classmates, siblings, all enjoying a carefree evening. Among them were brothers Edward and Fred May, and their friend Tommy Hire. They were mid-game when one of them looked up and noticed something strange in the sky. Hovering above them was an object they could only describe as pear-shaped. It glowed with a shifting light that flickered between orange and red. Alarmed, they called out to the others. Soon, all the kids were staring up at the mysterious object. Whatever it was, it wasn't just floating aimlessly, it began to move, heading toward a nearby hill.

Some of the kids decided they had seen enough and went home. But others, gripped by curiosity, set off to investigate. They stopped by the May family's house to tell Edward and Fred's mother, Kathleen, what they'd seen. Kathleen, joined by her brother Eugene Lemon, a young National Guardsman, and his dog Richie, agreed to go with them to check it out. Armed with flashlights, they made their way toward the hill. The encounter on the hill, as the group approached the sight, they noticed two things, an intense light coming from the trees and a strange sizzling sound, almost like bacon frying in a pan.

The air was thick with an acrid, sulfur-like smell that stung their throats and made them cough. Richie, the dog, became increasingly agitated, growling and barking as they neared the source of the light. What they found defied explanation. on the ground was an object unlike anything they had ever seen. It was black, pear-shaped, and emitted a faint glow from within. The closer they got, the more nauseated they felt, and a strange mist began to envelop the area. But the object wasn't the only thing there.

Near the trees stood a figure, towering at nearly three meters tall. It had glowing eyes, elongated arms, and claw-like hands. Its head was shaped like the pear-shaped object, and it moved in a slow, mechanical manner, scanning the area with what seemed like a metallic gaze. Eugene shown his flashlight at the figure, and the reaction was immediate. The creature emitted a shrill, high-pitched noise and began to move toward them. Overcome with terror, the group turned and fled. Richie bolted into the woods, and the other sprinted back to town as fast as they could. The aftermath, back at the May House, they called the sheriff to report what they had seen. But when law enforcement arrived at the scene,

the mysterious object and the figure were gone. only evidence left behind was a series of scorch marks on the ground and traces of an oily, sulfur-smelling substance. Over the next few days, the sightings continued. Reports poured in from all over the region, describing strange lights in the sky, odd mechanical creatures, and encounters with the unknown. In one instance, a young couple driving through flatwoods claimed their car suddenly stalled. The husband, stepping out to investigate, saw a glowing figure emerge from the woods. It approached their car, scratched its surface with claw-like hands, and then vanished into the night. Speculation and legacy, the events in Flatwoods became a

national sensation. Newspapers dubbed the creature, the Flatwoods monster, and the town was flooded with curious visitors hoping to catch a glimpse of the otherworldly being. Theories ranged from UFOs and extraterrestrials to secret military experiments. Skeptics, however, had their own explanations. Some suggested that the creature was nothing more than an owl, its appearance distorted by the glow of nearby lights and the group's heightened fear. Even decades later, the story of the Flatwoods monster continues to captivate. Interviews with surviving witnesses, like the May brothers, have only added to the intrigue. While some details have been dismissed as exaggerations, the core elements of the story

remain consistent, something strange happened in Flatwoods that September night, and to this day, nobody knows exactly what it was. What do you think? So, what's your take on the Flatwoods monster. Was it an alien visitor, a government experiment gone wrong, or just an elaborate misunderstanding? One thing's for sure, whatever happened in Flatwoods has earned its place in the annals of unexplained phenomena. The days went by peacefully. Alma was cooking one afternoon, humming softly, when she suddenly felt someone whispering right into her ear. Spinning around, she found, no one. Just the empty kitchen. Alma Smith was born in Pio, central London, in 1903. She was the middle child in a family of five.

Her parents, Alice and Charles Smith, were hardworking folks with three kids, an older sister, Doris, and a younger brother, Charles Jr. Life in London was decent for the family, but in 1915, when Charles Jr. was born, they moved to Thornton Heath, a quieter district in South London. Things seemed to be looking up. But Alma? She wasn't happy. Thornton Heath wasn't enough.

Neither was the thought of being a regular housewife, as most women were expected to be in those days. Alma had dreams, big ones. She wanted to perform, to be in the spotlight, to dazzle audiences under the bright lights of a stage. She had an uncle who worked as a trapeze artist in a circus, and that was her dream too. She wanted to soar high. But life had other plans. Her health wasn't great. She had weak kidneys, which led to multiple surgeries, and an accident in her teens'

crushed her hopes of ever becoming a trapeze artist. While performing stunts on her bike, she fell badly, leaving her with lasting injuries. Still, life went on. Around 1920 or 1921, Alma started seeing less fielding. It was casual at first, nothing serious. They'd meet, flirt a bit, and enjoy each other's company. But then, in 1922, Alma discovered she was pregnant. Back then, that was a big deal, she had one option, get married, fast.

To protect her reputation, she needed to make it official. So she introduced Les to her family, fully expecting things to go smoothly. Her plan? The family would meet Les, like him, and approved the marriage. Simple, right? Wrong. Alma's father, Charles, wasn't a fan of Les. To be fair, Les had his challenges.

He'd left school at 14 to apprentice with his father as a painter. and decorator. He'd fought in World War I and returned with severe injuries, including shrapnel in his thigh and PTSD. These struggles made Charles wary. But Alma was already three months pregnant, and the wedding was non-negotiable. The couple tied the knot in 1922, and later that year, their son, Donald, was born. Life settled down after that. They even adopted a dog and a cat, and less started his own business, which did surprisingly well. By 1928, the family was a had a large house and rented out a room to a lodger named George Saunders. Things were looking great.

By 1938, Donald was 16 in working with his dad. George had become like part of the family. Alma, meanwhile, had a lively social life. She was popular in her neighborhood and had a tight-knit group of friends. They'd meet up for tea, play cards, and gossip about books. It was essentially a book club before book clubs were a thing. Everything seemed perfect. But perfect doesn't last forever.

Hashtag hashtag hashtag a normal day turned strange. In early 1938, Les had dental surgery to remove his remaining teeth. While recovering at home, Alma went out for a card game with her friends. But midway through, she felt an intense, stabbing pain in her pelvis. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt. She excused herself, rushed home, took some painkillers, and collapsed into bed. As she drifted off, she glanced at the mirror at the, the foot of the bed and saw something, unsettling. It was the shadow of a hand, a hand with

six fingers. The next morning, Alma dismissed it as a dream and mentioned it to less, only for him to confess he'd seen the same thing. He'd woken up in the middle of the night and thought he saw a six-fingered hand too. They laughed it off, but the events that followed were no laughing matter. Hashtag hashtag a night of chaos. On February 19, 1938, the family went to bed early. By midnight, the house was silent, wrapped in darkness. Then, Asteris crash, asterisk the sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet. Les woke up to find his bedside glass of water shattered on the floor. Assuming he'd knocked it over in his sleep, he turned to Alma's side, only to see her glass

fly off the table and smashed to pieces. Neither of them had touched it. And then, the blanket covering them flew off the bed on its own. Alma screamed, waking Donald and George. As Donald burst into the room, a jar of face cream flew through the air, nearly hitting him. George arrived next, only to be pelted with coins from nowhere. To make things even stranger, the light bulb from a bedside lamp was missing. They later found it, inexplicably, in the corner of the room.

The family tried to rationalize it, maybe they'd imagined it all, some collective hallucination. But the next morning, the strangeness continued. When Alma went to the kitchen to make breakfast, an egg flew out of the carton and smashed against the wall, all by itself. That was the final straw. Alma picked up the phone and called the Sunday Pictorial, hashtag, hashtag paranormal fame. Back then, talking about paranormal events wasn't as taboo as it is now. In fact, the Victorian era had sparked a massive interest in spiritualism, which had resurged after World War I. People were desperate to connect with lost loved ones, and mediums were in high demand. Newspapers often had sections dedicated to paranormal

stories, and the Sunday Pictorial actively encouraged readers to share their experiences. That afternoon, two reporters, Victor Thompson and Lionel Kin, arrived at Alma's house. They didn't have to wait long for action. As soon as they stepped inside, an egg flew down the hallway and landed at their feet. Alma gave them a tour, and objects began flying and breaking all around them, a porcelain dog figurine smashed to bits, cups and saucers whirled across the room, even a heavy can-opener flew through the air. The reporters were stunned.

The most bizarre incident happened while Alma was having tea. A saucer and cup flew out of her hands, smashing mid-air, not against a surface, but as if struck by some invisible force. Later, another plate shattered in her hands, cutting her finger deeply. As she went to the kitchen to tend to her wound, a wine glass and a piece of coal from the fireplace exploded on their own. The next day, on February 21, 1938, the Sunday pictorial ran a front-page story titled Asterisk, Night of Terror, Ghost Reaks Havoc in Family Home.

Asterisk privacy wasn't a concern back then, and the article included enough details for the entire neighborhood to figure out who the family was. Curious onlookers swarmed the house, peeking through windows, ringing the doorbell, and stopping Alma and Donald on the street to ask about the ghost. The attention was overwhelming. the chaos, a self-proclaimed medium named Dr. Morrison appeared. After speaking with the family and observing the events, he declared that the house wasn't haunted by a ghost, but that Alma herself was the source of the disturbances. According to him, a malevolent, ectoplasmic entity

was attached to her. This entity, he claimed, was trying to warn the family that Donald was in danger. Panicked, the family sent Donald to stay with relatives. Hashtag hashtag enter Nander Fodor. As news of the case spread, it caught the attention of Nander Fodor, a well-known parapsychologist. Fodor wasn't your typical ghost hunter. Born in Hungary in 1895, he had a law degree from Budapest and had worked as a journalist in New York before moving to London in 1929. Over time, he became deeply involved in the study of paranormal phenomena, especially poltergeists. But Fodor's approach was unique. Influenced by Sigmund Freud, he believed that poltergeist activity wasn't caused by external entities but by the human mind under extreme stress.

In his view, repressed trauma or emotional tension could manifest as physical disturbances. This theory was groundbreaking, and controversial. The curious case of Alma fielding, paranormal or elaborate hoax. Let's dive into one of the strangest tales of the paranormal, a story that blurs the line between reality and fantasy, logic and the unexplained. Buckle up, because this case has everything, flying objects, mysterious apparitions, and a woman whose bizarre experiences baffled experts for years. But before we go full steam ahead, let's rewind and meet the key player, Nander Fodor. Fodor had built his reputation as a hardcore skeptic, dismantling supernatural claims with surgical precision. If there was a trick behind the magic, he'd find it, hidden wires,

clever props, or pure sleight of hand. By the time the Sunday Pictorial published an article about the fielding family experiencing strange occurrences, Fodor's name struck fear into the hearts of spiritualists everywhere. So, when he proposed investigating the fielding case in exchange for exclusive rights to his findings, the editors handed him everything, the family's address, phone number, and a green light to uncover the truth. Hashtag, hashtag a house of chaos. Before Fodor stepped foot in the fielding household, he sent his assistant, Lawrence Evans, to test the waters. Evans arrived to what could only be described as a war's zone. Objects flew through the air with violent abandon, glasses shattered, plates exploded,

and chaos rained. In just a few minutes, the assistant witnessed enough to convince him this case was worth Fodor's time. Alma Fielding, the matriarch of the household, rattled off an impressive inventory of items destroyed in the past three days alone, 36 glasses, 24 wine goblets, 15 egg cups, 9 eggs, 5 teacups, 4 sauceboats, a salad bowl, three light bulbs, a plate, a pudding dish, two vases, a milk jug, and a jar of face cream, among other things. Evans called Fodor immediately. On February 24, 1938, Fodor arrived at the house, armed with his skepticism in a razor sharp eye. He stayed from 11.30 a.m. to 10 p.m., documenting every peculiar event. Cups and plates launched themselves through the air, and at one point,

a heavy wardrobe toppled over onto Alma's son, Donald's bed. Try as he might, Fodor couldn't find any hidden strings, wires, or fishing lines. What he did find, however, was that the phenomena seemed to revolve around Alma. Hashtag hashtag the woman at the center. Fodor conducted psychological profiles of all four residents, Alma, her husband less, their son Donald, and a family friend, George. Of the four, Alma stood out. Everything seemed to emanate from her presence. Could she be the root of the disturbances? When Fodor asked if Alma was psychic, she denied having any such abilities or even much knowledge about ghosts or spirits. However, when pressed further, she recounted three unsettling experiences.

The prophetic dream asterisk Alma once dreamt her son would be in an accident. She warned him to be careful, only for him to be hit by a bicycle later that day. The icy hand asterisk one day, while climbing the stairs, Alma felt a cold hand rest on her shoulder. When she turned, no one was there. The whisper asterisk while cooking, Alma heard someone whisper in her ear, but again, no one was behind her. Her stories intrigued Fodor, but his curiosity deepened when Alma's mother, Doris, and sister, Alice, arrived. They admitted they had initially doubted Alma's tales, dismissing them as flights of fancy. Alma, they said, had a vivid imagination and a history of fabricating stories. Yet, the undeniable

events they witnessed had made them believers. Fodor decided it was time to bring Alma to his base of operations, the International Institute for Psychical Research. Hashtag hashtag hashtag from home to the lab. On February 25, 1938, Alma made her first visit to the Institute. Over the next four months, she attended sessions twice a week, each filled with its own share of strange happenings. The first session was simple. Alma, in her street clothes, sat at a table surrounded by cameras and investigators. Suddenly, objects began to materialize, a brush and a box of pills from her home. Witnesses were stunned.

The items appeared without explanation, and a glass shattered on the floor without anyone touching it. As word spread, newspapers and experts alike clamored to weigh in. Alma became a sensation, and Fodor ramped up his efforts to uncover the truth. In subsequent sessions, Alma was subjected to more rigorous protocols. She was stripped, searched, and given a pocketless robe to wear. Yet, objects continued to appear, sometimes items from her home, other times objects she'd never owned. Then things got even stranger. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the jewelry incident. One day, Alma and a friend visited a jewelry store.

Alma admired a ring but decided against buying it. Minutes later, the ring inexplicably appeared on her finger. To test the phenomenon, Fodor arranged for Alma to handle an item in front of witnesses, return it, and leave the store. Once outside, the item, a ring, was found in Alma's pocket. The investigators were floored. Hashtag hashtag-h-h-tag-things escalate, as March rolled around, the activity at the lab and the fielding home reached fever pitch.

Alma began materializing animals, a white mouse, birds, fish, even turtles. Objects appeared in greater numbers, ancient artifacts, paintings, jewelry, and more. In the fielding household, George reported, seeing Alma at the foot of his bed, grinning eerily. Yet Alma swore she had been asleep in her own room. Then came Alma's strangest claim, during a nap at the cinema, she dreamed she was astrally projecting herself to the institute. She described the parking lot in detail, noting which cars were present and which were missing.

Her account matched reality, except for one investigator's car, which had broken down that night. Fodor was skeptical. He found a chauffeur who claimed to have seen Alma wandering the streets, suggesting she might of sleepwalked. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the dark turn. By April, Alma was materializing increasingly bizarre items, including live animals. She also began channeling a Persian spirit named Brember, who supposedly owned a pet tiger. Scratches would appear on Alma's body whenever she claimed the tiger was near. Fodor, however, had started to suspect fraud. One day, he counted the money in Alma's purse before a trip to the cinema. Afterward, he discovered

the exact amount needed to buy a bouquet of roses, one she later, materialized, was missing from her purse. Finally, Fodor arranged for Alma to undergo X-rays. The scans revealed two foreign objects inside her body, suggesting she might have been smuggling items into the lab. Hashtag hashtag-h-h-h-tag the fallout. The revelations split the institute. Many researchers resigned, believing the case was a waste of time. Fodor, however, was convinced Alma wasn't entirely aware of her actions. He theorized that repressed trauma might be causing her subconscious to fabricate these events. Ultimately, Fodor's obsession with the case cost him his position at the Institute. He moved to New York and transitioned to a career

in psychoanalysis. Hashtag hashtag the legacy, in 1958, Fodor published on the trail of the poltergeist, recounting the Alma Fielding case in detail. He omitted names but left enough clues for readers to piece things together. The case remained a mystery until journalist Kate Somerscale unearthed Fodor's original notes in 2020, publishing them in the haunting of Alma Fielding. While many questions were answered, others remain unsolved. So, what do you think? Was Alma Fielding a gifted psychic, or was it all an elaborate hoax? We begin. It was the year 1975, and for a Tuesday, September 30th, the atmosphere in the streets of Rome was festive. The temperature was good, warm, and people wanted to enjoy the day by walking with friends

and having drinks on the terraces. And since everything was laughter and joy, no one noticed the arrival of a white Fiat 127 in the Trieste neighborhood. The vehicles seemed confident in its route, as if the driver knew exactly where he was going. Eventually, it stopped in a corner of Viala Pola. Out of it came three young, well-dressed boys who walked away laughing. They looked happy, calm, and carefree. Minutes passed, and everything seemed normal until strange noises began to emerge from the car they had arrived in.

There were faint, constant thumps, scratches, and what seemed to be sinister moans. The car was parked in a secluded spot next to some bushes, which made the situation even more eerie. This continued until a security guard doing his rounds decided to approach and see what was going on. He bent over, put his ear close, and realized there was a girl inside, a girl crying, begging, pleading for help. At that time, there were no mobile phones, so calling the police was impossible. He would have had to go home or to a bar and ask for a landline. He'd have to speak to people, and the culprit or culprits would then know what he was doing. So the man decided to look for a patrol right there.

He crossed the street, went next door, and discreetly flagged down a patrol car with two officers inside. He explained everything, asked for help, and the officers responded immediately. They got out of the patrol car, went with him, and approached the vehicle. Indeed, inside they could hear the wailing of a girl. It was so disturbing that they used the radio, and the code used was, Swan, Swan, there's a cat meowing inside a 127 on Viala Pola. At that moment, a journalist intercepted the communication and found it so strange that he immediately grabbed his camera and went there, capturing the famous images of this case,

images that would go around the world. Inside that trunk was an absolute massacre. There were piles of plastic wrapping the bodies of two young girls, one placed on top of the other. The girl on top was moving, making noise, asking her. for help. But the one underneath neither moved nor made a sound. It was soon clear that her heart had stopped beating and that this case was going to be horrific. The girl asking for help was a 17-year-old named Donatella Colosanti, and the other was a 19-year-old named Rosaria Lopez.

Donatella wanted to speak, ask for help, explain what had happened to them. But at that moment, she was in shock, stammering, sobbing, trembling. Her eyes were completely. completely blank, and her naked body was covered in blood. At first glance, it was obvious that her nose was broken, she had bruises everywhere, scratches, her body was completely destroyed. Her face reflected the utmost horror. She was immediately taken to the nearest hospital, where she stayed for 30 days. During that time, she was barely able to speak.

Because of the silence, the police had to search for clues, and the first came from the autopsy of her friend Rosaria Lopez. The girl's body revealed an absolute nightmare. She had been beaten, sodomized, and strangled. From there, they sought witnesses, people close to the girls, those who knew them or had seen them. The last time they were seen was on September 29th at 3.30 p.m., specifically at the entrance of the Embassad Cinema on Via Academia Degliagioti.

Supposedly, at that time they were waiting for someone. They were well-dressed, looked composed, and out of nowhere a Fiat 127 appeared. Out stepped two well-dressed boys. They looked like they came from good families, it showed in the way they walked, the way they moved. And from that moment, the trail went cold. The police then focused on the Fiat 127 in which the girls were found. They checked the license plate, looked up the owner, and discovered it belonged to none other than Rafael Guido, a prominent bank employee who was also wealthy. This man lived in an impressive villa in a Trieste

neighborhood, very close to where the car had been parked. But there was a problem, Raphael didn't match. He had an impeccable reputation, good contacts, seemed like a good person, and physically he didn't resemble the boys seen with the girls. By then, he was an older, tired man, incapable of such an atrocity. The boys seen with the girls were young and tall. They then suspected the car might have been stolen and that the criminals were from the slums. But inspecting the vehicle, they noticed the ignition hadn't been forced. So whoever did this had the keys. And there was only one person who could have driven that car, none other than Raphael's

son, Giovanni Guido, 19 years old. Physically, Giovanni fit the description, tall, slim, elegant. But his family denied he could do such a thing. To them, he was the golden boy, the perfect air, polite, responsible, affectionate. The perfect child. He would never do such a thing. His reputation was, on the surface, spotless. He was a brilliant architecture student who had previously graduated from the private San

Leone Magno Institute, one of the most exclusive schools in the city. His group of friends came from the best families in Rome. Among them was Angelo Izzo, 20 years old, a medical student and son of a famous builder. Also in the group was Andrea Gaira, 22, son of the contractor and water polo player Aldo Gaira, who was part of the Italian Olympic team that won the gold medal in 1948. Every afternoon, these boys would gather in Piazali Euclid in the Perioli district. That name might not ring a bell, but the equivalent in Barcelona would be Piedraults, Boys from good families with lots of money who only frequented exclusive areas,

peaceful places with people of the same status, places where nothing was ever supposed to happen. To the families of these boys, girls like Rosaria and Donatella didn't belong with them. They weren't part of the same circles. So the only way to establish a connection was for Donatella to speak, to tell what happened and who had done it. And miraculously, this girl stood up. Donatella Colossanti and Rosario Lopez had been lifelong friends, quiet, responsible girls from humble, hardworking families. In fact, they both lived with their families on the outskirts of Rome in the Montagnola neighborhood. They had open personalities, came from big families, and had long worked in public-facing jobs.

Rosaria was a waitress, and Donatella was a student with a part-time job. With their earnings, they could afford snacks at cafe. face, bars, and occasional trips to the cinema. They didn't go out often, but they loved watching movies together. They never stayed out late, never went to parties or clubs. And I must tell you, they both had big dreams. Rosaria wanted to be a model, since everyone told her she was beautiful and could make a lot of money with her looks. She loved art and artistic expression and dreamed of being discovered by a talent scout. One afternoon in late September 1975, Donatella met with Rosaria to go to the movies. It wasn't late,

actually, they met in broad daylight. The plan was to watch a film, grab a snack, and head home. But what they didn't count on was crossing paths with a frankly handsome young man named Carlo. He was around 20 years old, tall, well-dressed, very polite. He sat near them, they talked throughout the movie, and got along so well that they exchanged numbers. Two days later, Carlo called Donatella and suggested they meet again, just the three of them, on Saturday the 27th. Carlo was charming, and when he mentioned he'd bring two of his friends, the girls weren't alarmed. If he was that nice, surely his friends were two. And in fact, everything went perfectly.

What they didn't know was that this, Carlo, wasn't even named Carlo. His real name was John Pietro Parboni El Quadi. So here, the lies began. They met at the cinema entrance. There were Rosaria, Donatella, the so-called Carlo, and his two friends, Van Guido, aka Johnny, and Angelo Izzo. The five of them went to a bar called Alfungo and had a great time. Donatella remembers that the three boys were charming.

They paid the bill, were friendly, approachable, super humble. It was clear they came from wealthy families, but they did. didn't flaunt it. They were genuinely great. So when the boys invited them to a party, the two girls didn't hesitate. The party was to be held at a villa owned by Carlos' family in Lavinio. And since Lavinio was close by, the girls agreed. However, there was an odd number, two girls and three boys. So the boys asked them to bring a third girl. Donatella immediately invited her friend Nadia. At first, Nadia's said yes. They told her there would be tall, handsome, well-dressed, charming boys. Of course she'd agree.

The date was set for the afternoon of September 29th. From here on, everything would go wrong. Donatella and Rosaria went to pick up Nadia. But when they rang the bell, Nadia's mother said she wasn't home, that she'd gone out with her sister and would return later. To be continued. When the doorbell rings, her mother says she's not home, that she went out with her sister and that she'll be back later. So the two girls go together to the meeting point, outside the Ambassador Cinema. They were dressed up, looking nice, very excited. Carlo was supposed to pick them up, they had plans with him, but this Carlo never showed up. Instead, a white Fiat 127 parked in front of them, and two of his friends, Johnny and Angelo, got out of

the car. The boys had an explanation. Carlo was in Lavinio preparing the party, and he was so busy he couldn't pick them up. They told the girls not to worry, that they'd take them to Lavinio, that everything was under control. Since they seemed so friendly, the girls weren't worried. They got in the car, the engine started, and they headed off. Johnny was driving. They were chatting, talking about their hobbies and interests, everything seemed fine. But when they reached the turn for Livinio, Johnny kept driving straight. When Rosaria asked why, Johnny said they first needed to go to another friend's house to pick someone up. This friend lived in San Felice Circio, which was much farther away.

Lavinio was near Rome, but Circeo was much more distant. Still, the atmosphere remained calm, relaxed. The boys seemed trustworthy, so the girls didn't say anything. And I must say, the place was idyllic, an enormous house with several floors, a big property, and a breathtaking view of the sea. It was like paradise, something beautiful, and the girls were amazed. They went into a living room, sat down, had some drinks, laughed, played music, but time passed and the third friend never showed up.

Meanwhile, the boys started to make advances. At first, it seemed like harmless jokes, they were like. laughing, goofing around, but the comments became more and more explicit. That's when the girls started to feel uncomfortable. They asked to be taken home, they no longer wanted to go to Lavinio. Out of nowhere, Johnny pulled out a gun, and the atmosphere changed completely. Angelo began telling a whole story, that they were members of the Marseille gang, and that their boss, named Jha, had ordered them to find two girls, kidnap them, and bring them there. Of course, this was a complete lie. They weren't part of any gang. They had no boss. They just wanted

to scare and intimidate the girls. And from that moment, the nightmare began. Here I need to pause. What follows is very intense. If you're sensitive, I'll point out the exact minute so you can skip ahead. I'll censor many things and won't be too explicit, but it's still extremely distressing. So again, if you can't handle this, skip ahead. Now that I've warned you, let's continue. The girls were locked in a bathroom and forced to undress. From here, these monsters did whatever they wanted. They took turns abusing them, physically and psychologically torturing them.

They told the girls they'd kill them, that their bodies would never be found. Then they'd say that if they behaved, they'd be spared. It was a psychological game. Everything was premeditated. They even showed them the plastic bags their bodies would be put in after death. They left one girl in the bathroom, alone, in the dark, naked, while the other could hear screams and pleas. She didn't know exactly what was happening, but she knew she was next. This torture went on for hours.

They'd take one girl, abuse and threaten her, then lock her up and grab the other. It never stopped. And constantly, they repeated that their boss was even worse than them and would be arriving soon. His name was Jha, a French-sounding name, so they imagined him as some terrifying older man who spoke French. But when this so-called boss arrived, he didn't fit that description. He was a young Italian guy with a Roman accent. His real name wasn't Jha, it was Andrea Gira. They tried to paint him as heartless and ruthless, but Andrea appeared more lenient.

He scolded the others for hitting the girls. He was kind, affectionate, told the girls that if they behaved, he'd save them. But of course, it was all lies. He locked Donatella up and took Rosaria upstairs, where the three of them subjected her to further horrors. Now, in a case like this, you'd think it wasn't their first crime, and you'd be right. seemingly well-behaved boys were far from innocent. Andrea Gaira and Angelo Izzo had criminal records. Two years earlier, they'd committed an armed robbery and served 20 months in prison. In 1974, Angelo and two friends raped two girls and was sentenced to 2.5 years, of which he

served less than one. These three, Johnny, Andrea, and Angelo, were all members of neo-fascist movements. Johnny was known for making life miserable for his classmates. At home, he was polite, responsible, and loving, but in public, he was a monster, spoiled, selfish, elitist. The three saw women as objects, meant to serve men, raise children, take care of the house. That view was reflected perfectly in this crime. To them, Donatella and Rosaria were nothing but objects. Their pain didn't matter. After over 24 hours of torment, the three decided to get rid of them. First, they lied, saying they would inject the girls with a sedative so they'd stay calm while being taken home. The girls didn't resist and allowed themselves to be

drugged, multiple times. But the drugs didn't work, so they chose a different method. Donatella was locked in the downstairs bathroom, and Rosaria was taken upstairs. Donatella heard her screams, her cries, her pleas, then a faucet turning on. A bathtub was filled to the brim, and the three drowned Rosaria until she was dead. Next, they went for Donatella. They put a belt around her neck, tried to strangle her, and dragged her. But Donatella didn't die. In a moment of distraction, she grabbed a phone and called the police.

When they realized what she'd done, they beat her with an iron bar. At that moment, she decided to play dead, and miraculously, it saved her life. They wrapped both girls in plastic and locked them in a car trunk. Then, the three men drove toward Rome, laughing the entire way, about how the girls had screamed, suffered, and were now silent. Once in Rome, they parked and went to a restaurant. Afterward, they drove to Trieste, left the car, and went home, unaware that Donatella was still alive and would soon call. for help. When Donatella told her story to the police, they immediately arrested Angelo Izzo and Johnny Guido. But Andrea Gaira escaped with help from an informant. He was never

captured. But we'll come back to that later. With the girl's testimony and the evidence in the car, they traced the house in Circio, which belonged to Andrea Gira's family. When they arrived, they found his mother and brother trying to destroy evidence. Apparently, Andrea had told them everything. Andrea, now missing, wrote a letter to his friends in jail, telling them not to worry, that they'd be out soon. And that if Donatella talked, he'd kill her. The trial began on June 30, 1976. Even though Andrea was still missing, he was tried in absentia. It was like a horror film. Rosaria's family withdrew after reaching an agreement, but Donatella went ahead and fought for her and her best friend.

Dozens of women supported her, feminist groups showed up during the trial, protested, held banners. Her lawyer, Tina Lagastina, fought until the end. But the defense was brutal. Their statements still caused nightmares. They blamed the victims. If the girls had stayed home, where they belonged, none of this would have happened. If they hadn't gone out, if they hadn't accepted the boy's invitation, nothing would have happened. On July 29th of the same year, all three were sentenced to life

imprisonment with no chance of parole. But from here, the story goes downhill. Justice became a vague concept. Johnny had his sentence reduced to 30 years. In 1981, he escaped from San Gimagnano prison and fled to Buenos Aires. He was recognized and caught two years later. Shortly after, he escaped again. In 1994, he was caught and sent back to Italy. In 2008, his sentence was commuted to community service. He was released on August 25, 2009, causing outrage for Rosaria's family. But it doesn't end there. Angelo Isso tried to escape too. He fled Rome and went to Paris. He was caught and sent back. In 2004, he was granted safe. semi-freedom and began working at a cooperative, Sita Futura. One day, while out, he murdered a

former cellmate's wife and daughter. In 2007, he was sentenced to life again. Now we return to Andrea Gaira. He was never captured. He fled Italy and went to Spain, specifically Madrid, where he joined the Legion. There, he changed his name to Massimo Testa de Andres. He lived in Fuerteventura, Seuda, Malia. In the 1980s, he became addicted to drugs, committed several crimes, and went to prison a few times, but always as Massimo. He died of an overdose in 1994, and no one knew who he really was until a 2005 investigation uncovered his identity, shocking the world. Donatella Colosanti fought all her life for justice and legal reform in Italy. None of the perpetrators, except perhaps Johnny, ever showed true remorse.

But sadly, the damage was done. It said that Donatella had nightmares until the day she died. She passed away on December 30, 2005, at age 47 from breast cancer. In 2020, her home was turned into a center against violence. Now it's your turn. What do you think of this case? Do you believe real justice was served. The end. We begin. Eli Montran was born on February 12, 1986, in Hugh, Vietnam, being the youngest of six children of Juan Lee and Tuan Tran. Her family was very traditional, defending family values with all their might, and also family unity. About Eli herself, we don't have much data. Her parents and friends said she was sweet, caring, and very hardworking. She was also a devoted mother and an excellent daughter. They had no complaints

about her, except for one small detail, which can be both good and bad at the same time. Eli had no character. She never got angry, never said no, she was very kind, and always thought of others before herself. On one hand, that can be a good thing, but on the other hand, it's terrible. Because someone like that can be manipulated. She was so proper and polite that people sometimes thought she was dumb, but she was very intelligent and knew how to get herself out of tough situations. If she wanted something, she went for it, no matter what. It was in this way that in 2007 she packed her bags and moved to the United States, specifically to North Carolina. Once there, she learned the language, looked for a job, made friends, and I must say,

things went really well for her. Her goal in life was to save enough money to bring her parents. They were older, and since she was the youngest daughter, she wanted them with her. She was the spoiled one, the favorite. She couldn't be without her parents, so that was going to be her goal. Years went by, everything kept going well, she kept saving, and she met a man who completely clouded her senses, Joseph Vincent Merlino 3, better known as Joey. She met this man in 2011 at a friend's wedding. Although he wasn't her first choice, he was very persistent. As soon as he saw her, he approached her. They talked. He asked her name, her age, where she was from, and within minutes asked for her phone number. Eli refused. She was shy, distrustful,

and wasn't going to give her number just like that. But Joey kept insisting, and after repeating it so many times, she finally gave in. They exchanged numbers, started chatting, and within a few days, they had a date, and then many more. Eventually, they became a couple, moved and together, and got married. Without even realizing it, Eli was deeply in love. But who exactly was this man? We don't really have much information about him. We know that as a child, he was bullied, and as a result, ended up being homeschooled. But I must say, he was a very intelligent guy. He worked hard, studied a lot, and in adulthood, became the owner of a mobile phone repair shop. Financially, he was doing quite well. People say he was charismatic, he liked science and technology,

and with his way of speaking, he completely charmed her. According to Eli, he had so much charisma that it was hypnotic, and he was the kind of person who could convince you of anything with just a few words. Although not everyone thought he was a good guy. Some people thought he was a total fraud, a liar, a manipulator, a bad person. His character was almost unbearable. But to Eli, he was the perfect man. One thing worth mentioning is that this guy was obsessed with the mafia, especially with one mobster in particular, Skinny Joey, the supposed head of the Philadelphia According to Joey, they were family. Their names were nearly identical, which, to him, proved they were relatives.

By character, by strength, by charisma, they were family. They were mafiosos. And if someone messed with him, the mafia would come after them. But obviously, this only existed in his head, because Joey Merlino was a nobody. However, Eli didn't see this. She was madly in love and thought Joey was very intelligent, honest, hardworking, a great person, a charismatic guy, the love of her life. And in 2014, she became pregnant with his child. That's when she brought up bringing her parents over. When they met, she had already told him this story, that she was saving money and wanted to bring her parents, and that it made her really happy.

Joey had agreed back then. Now that she was pregnant, she absolutely wanted them with her, she wanted to be close to her family, have them help with the baby, feel supported by her loved ones. But Joey now firmly refused. He said she already had him. He had his own family, hers wasn't necessary. They were in another country, with another life. She needed to move on and accept it.

But Eli was devastated when she heard this. And of course, she insisted. From that moment on, Joey became controlling. Once the baby, little Jolie, was born, the control became suffocating. When she woke up at night, when she moved around the house, when she went outside, Joey was always behind her. If she got a call or a message, everything she did was monitored, checked. Some nights, Eli would sneak out to call her best friend. Even then, she felt suffocated.

She had nothing for herself, nothing of her own. Eli Tran didn't even see herself as a person anymore, but more like an object. She told people she wasn't feeling well, that something had changed. But she didn't explain exactly what was going on. And in 2016, the couple decided to break up. But no one really knew about the breakup. They noticed tension, distance, but Eli was. said nothing. And Joey kept up appearances. Eli packed her bags, bought a house, called her parents,

brought them to the United States, and from then on, began the life she had always wanted. When her parents arrived, she took care of everything. She bought a little house on steel mid-court in Virginia Beach, and took two jobs to cover all the expenses, mortgage, bills, her parents' medical insurance, her own. She worked as a manicurist at the X Nails and Spa in Virginia Beach and also at H&L Nails and Tan Spa in Norfolk. At the time, her parents were 64 and 70 years old and were exhausted. They had worked their entire lives, and it was time to rest. So Eli asked them not to do anything, not to look for work, to just stay at home and enjoy retirement. But they couldn't sit still. Their daughter had two jobs, a baby, a mortgage, she was alone.

They wanted to help, to be there for her. So the father found a part-time job at a restaurant, and the mother took care of the house entirely. They were also studying English because at that point, they didn't know a word. They wanted to help her, be there for her. But Eli only asked them to be happy, to rest, nothing more. According to her parents, Eli was always a very church. cheerful and bright girl. They described her as a golden person, someone who always cared more about others than herself. But they knew something was wrong. Since they moved in, they felt that

something wasn't right. She never said what worried her or made her anxious, she only talked about good, positive things. So on the outside, Eli seemed happy, but her actions revealed that something was happening. Eli was scared. When she left the house, she looked in every direction. When the doorbell or the phone rang, she froze immediately. Another very telling thing is that she never followed the same routine. If she got off work at seven, she'd leave at 710 or 7.30. If she arrived at 8, she'd enter at 8.10. For 10 minutes, she would sit in the car. She never took the same route, never the same roads. And one more noticeable thing, overnight, she installed cameras all over the house. She installed a very

sensitive and expensive alarm. According to her parents, it wasn't necessary. They were always at home, taking care of her daughter. But Eli said it was necessary, this wasn't Vietnam, this was the U.S., and security was different here. But her parents felt the alarm made no sense, four or five cameras at the front, four or five at the back. There were sensors at every corner, at every window. But Eli insisted it was just in case, to avoid break-ins, to prevent anything from happening. Her parents knew something bad was going on, but whenever they asked, she changed the subject. They had their suspicions, an idea, but if she didn't talk, they couldn't do anything. Her 31st birthday came on January 12, 2017, and she asked everyone

not to throw any party, no balloons, no decorations, no cake. She just wanted to be home with her loved ones, nothing more. She already had everything. The days went by, and February 14th arrived, Valentine's Day. For Eli, it was just another day, an ordinary day. But in her free time, she decided to spend it with her little daughter Jolie. They went on walks, took photos, and then she went to work. She did her shift as usual, and according to her co-workers, she was, as always, lovely, friendly, approachable, smiling. It was a normal day, no problems.

She left work at 7.30. According to the surveillance cameras, she parked in front of her house at 7.55. She checked her phone, grabbed her things, got out of the car, and locked it. It took her five minutes to do all that. At eight o'clock, she exited the vehicle. And someone with a covered face and a reflective vest came out of nowhere and ran toward her.

Eli immediately began to scream. She ran toward the house, toward the door, with the keys in hand. But the person was faster. He grabbed her by the leg, threw her to the ground, and stabbed something into her skin. Eli didn't stop screaming, and her parents, upon hearing her, opened the door, came to see what was happening, and saw their daughter screaming, saying that someone named Merlino had attacked her, that he shot something into her leg, that her leg hurt, that Merlino had shot her. To be continued. And they saw their daughter screaming and saying that someone named Merlino

had attacked her, that he had shot something into her leg, that her leg hurt, that Merlino had shot her. They entered the house. The girl grabbed her phone, called emergency services, but immediately she struggled to breathe. She seemed tired, exhausted, couldn't articulate words, had no strength, her legs were trembling, and in just 15 minutes she lost consciousness. When the paramedics arrived, the scene couldn't have been more dramatic. There was no gunshot wound in her leg, only a small mark, a red dot. She was immediately sent to Centara Princess and Hospital, but four hours later,

she was declared brain dead. So the next day, February 15th, her parents decided that the best of her parents decided that the The best thing for everyone was to disconnect her from life support. And now you may ask, what had happened? What ended her life? The answer will leave you speechless. The girl was taken to the morgue, the autopsy began, and it was discovered that the day before, someone had injected cyanide directly into her bloodstream, a dose so lethal that it was

impossible for her to survive. The man who attacked her knew exactly what he was doing. His intention was to end her life, definitely. He wanted to kill her in a horrible, atrocious way, so she would suffer, but at the same time, ensure it was effective. Now her body, Eli's body, was toxic, and the doctors had to act with extreme caution, protective suits, gloves, masks. Even smelling cyanide would be toxic.

Touching it, even more so. Without proper protection, it could be lethal. Here, the investigation began. Eli's parents barely spoke English, so a translator had to be called. This person arrived to mediate, and they told everything they knew, that their daughter lived in fear, that she was constantly alert, never followed the same routine, that she installed cameras, an alarm, and that before dying, she said her ex, Merlino, had shot her. They handed over the surveillance cameras, the recordings, and upon reviewing them, the police realized the attacker had everything meticulously planned.

That reflective vest made it hard to identify him, it reflected light and made it difficult to see things clearly. So between that and the injection, the plan had been carefully crafted. They called the ex-boyfriend, brought him to the station, interrogated him, and once there, the guy appeared very calm, very self-assured. The man claimed that on February 14th, he wasn't in Virginia Beach. In fact, he was far away, in Victoria, about a three-hour drive. He insisted he could prove it, that he had witnesses, and they even had his phone location. He repeated several times that they should trace his phone, that his phone didn't move, that he was in Victoria, not Virginia Beach. He also claimed he had moved on from Eli,

that he had a new girlfriend in China, that he loved her a lot, they were going to get married, that Eli was no longer part of his life, and he didn't want anything to do with her. However, he admitted that when they were together, their relationship had been beautiful, something magical, romantic, like a fairy tale. But sadly, it was over. They had broken up. He had another girlfriend. He had moved on.

And with all this, the police got to work. The first thing they did, just as Joey requested, was Trace his phone. And indeed, on the 14th, he was in Victoria. But what happened? Yes, he was in Victoria, but he didn't touch his phone all day. He received calls, messages, and he not only didn't reply, he didn't even open any of them. It was as if he had literally left the phone somewhere and walked away. Another thing they checked was the beautiful relationship he had supposedly had with Eli.

According to him, it was magical. But according to the documents, it was nothing like that. On July 5, 2016, Joey reported Eli's mother for allegedly assaulting him. Joey's version stated the following. He went to Eli's house to pick up their daughter Jolie, and when he held her in his arms, the grandmother told him to let go, to put her down, not to touch her. But he didn't obey because, supposedly, he wasn't doing anything wrong. That's when the woman came at him, scratched his arm.

his face, his chest. Immediately, he called the police. But the report was dismissed. Eli's family never spoke about it, never said exactly what happened. But according to Joey, he was attacked without reason. Although, over time, that senseless attack started to make more sense. On July 11th of the same year, Eli went to the police and filed a domestic violence report against Joey. According to her statement, he grabbed her by the neck in front of their two-year-old daughter, started insulting her, threatening her, and then hit her. He strangled her, grabbed her hands and feet, and in the middle of the struggle, he grabbed her feet, lifted her into the air, and threatened to bury her in his backyard, all in front of their daughter. The little girl

cried, screamed, and Eli tried not to scream, to avoid scaring her more. Joey was charged with assaulting a family member, and the charge was dismissed. However, he received a fine. Still, during the whole process, Eli filed for divorce, and a custody battle over the child began. Until that point, they were informally separated. Everything seemed relatively amicable. But now, a legal war had started. Eli no longer wanted to see him.

She lived in another house with her parents and her daughter. And on December 4th of that same year, a second attack occurred. She was going to work, finished her shift, got in her car, and drove down the usual road. At a traffic light, a car rear-ended hers. It was probably an accident, a minor bump. Eli got out of the vehicle to see what had happened, how bad the damage was. But as she did, a woman got out of the rear vehicle and threw some kind of liquid on her. Instinctively, Eli turned around, so the liquid only hit her hair and shirt.

But immediately, she felt burning, stinging. She went straight to the nearest hospital, where they told her the liquid was acid. If she hadn't turned around, her face would have been burned. They looked for witnesses, filed a report against that woman, but according to the witnesses, it wasn't a woman at all. It was a tall man wearing a wig and a dress. And according to the description, that man was Joey Merlino. She filed another complaint, requested a restraining order, and at that very moment, installed surveillance cameras all around her house.

Her parents didn't understand what was going on. They suspected it might have to do with her ex, but Eli didn't tell them anything. She just said it was for safety. Joey Merlino thought he had everything tied up perfectly. But the police were two steps ahead. They knew his story, his family, his routine, and they discovered that he was a frequent customer at a local pizzeria. They spoke with the owners, the employees, and discovered that in January 2017, they had

received a package in Joey Merlino's name. They weren't particularly close to him. Joey didn't ask for permission, he simply ordered something online and had it sent there, not to his house. The following week, he ordered some pizzas. They told him they had a package for him. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed the package, and left, just like that. No thanks, no apologies, nothing.

He grabbed the pizzas, the package, and walked away. This information was published on TV. They showed his face, the footage from the pizzeria, everything appeared in the media. Meanwhile, the police kept investigating. They confiscated his laptop, reviewed it. it, and found very suspicious searches, poisoning, cyanide, killing with cyanide, syringes, injecting poison, all of it was there. Then a woman called the police. After seeing the news, she recognized the pizzeria where the package had been sent. The name, Joey Merlino,

sounded very familiar. This woman collected antique medical objects, scalpel, mirrors, syringes, old medical tools, and sold the extras on Etsy. She clearly remembered that in January, she sold antique syringes to someone named Joey, and the delivery address was a pizzeria. It was strange, odd. So when she saw the news, she knew it was her product, that she had sent that package, that the syringes belonged to her.

And of course, Joey was arrested and formally charged with murder. As soon as he was arrested, he started a hunger strike, which lasted two months. He lost 18 kilograms. When asked why he was doing it, he gave several excuses. At first, he said he was mistreated in prison, kept in solitary confinement, and that because of this, he couldn't prepare his defense. That it was unfair, that he was innocent, that everything was rigged, that he had done nothing wrong. Later, he said it was a protest against the poor conditions in prisons, the bad food, the mistreatment, that they were seen as animals, not humans, that prisoners had no rights. But according to the media, it made no sense.

He just wanted attention, to portray himself as a victim. In prison, Joey called his mother and his girlfriend and asked them to lie for him, to change his alibi, to support him. He sent them coded letters. All of this was obviously monitored by the police. They listened to to the calls, read the letters. When he realized this, he used another inmate to communicate with them. He would make this inmate call his mother and girlfriend, sit next to him and tell him what to say, and send them letters. But the police found out, and that inmate testified against him. In prison, Joey started saying he didn't kill Eli, that he had hired a hitman. That he was a member of the mafia, and the mafia killed for him. What this man said made no sense.

And after two months, he ended the hunger strike. The trial began in June 2018. The defendant pleaded not guilty. The defense argued that there was no evidence against him. They said Joey hadn't even been near Virginia Beach that day. He was with his mother in Victoria, his half-brother confirmed it, and his car was supposedly in bad condition. Every piece of evidence shown to Joey, he denied.

The defense tried to delay the trial. trial because it was too high profile and the jury wouldn't be impartial. That request was denied. Another request, to exclude most of the evidence for being too impactful, was also denied. It turns out Joey's house had been searched by a specialized team, firefighters, SWAT, chemical experts. They found tons of things, weapons, ammunition, chemicals, all kinds of substances. The defense wanted this thrown out of court. Nothing made sense. Then came the prosecution's turn.

Her family spoke, her personal diary was presented, and many experts testified, FBI agents, computer analysts, and other specialists. They demonstrated everything clearly. Joey had committed a brutal crime. It was proven he planned it all, bought the materials, studied everything, and tried to convince others to falsify evidence. The jury found him guilty of first-degree murder. His sentencing date was set for December 5, 2018.

However, that day, the sentencing couldn't take place because Joey had a strange seizure in the morning. He got up fine, spoke to several people, and then suddenly collapsed, convulsions, foaming at the mouth, unable to speak or respond. So the sentencing was postponed. Eventually, he was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. He has tried to appeal multiple times, but the justice system refuses to hear him. So now it's your turn. What do you think about this case? Do you believe the sentence was fair?

The end. My aunt was clinically dead and came back. What she described still haunts me sometimes because, honestly, I'll never know how true it is until it's my turn. I've thought about it a lot, and no matter how much science or philosophy I throw at it, there's something eerie and fascinating about what she saw. So, let me take you through her experience in as much detail as I can. She says that when she died, she didn't just black out or float aimlessly. Instead, she was taken somewhere, somewhere structured.

Imagine staircases that don't just lead to a single door, but stretch out into what looked like an endless cosmos. She was taken up these stairs, not walking, but somehow moving effortlessly, like something was guiding her. When she reached the top, there were doors, many of them, each with a heading written in a language she couldn't understand. It wasn't English. It wasn't Hindi, she's Hindu. It wasn't anything she had ever seen, yet somehow, she understood what they meant. At one of the doors, she encountered an avatar, not a human, but a being, something beyond physical, something she struggled to describe later. This being gestured toward something on the

step in front of the door, like where a doormat would usually be. But there was no doormat. Instead, when she looked down, she didn't see a floor, she saw infinite solar systems beneath her feet. Whole galaxies stretched out below, vast and limitless, making her feel both small and significant at the same time. That was the moment she realized she was somewhere beyond the world she had known. Then, something strange happened. She perceived, no, she felt, a celestial being arriving to meet the avatar. They didn't speak in words, but there was a communication, an exchange of sorts. She understood that this was a kind of negotiation, an agreement being reached. Before she could touch the step, the decision was made,

it wasn't her time. The agreement was that she had to go back. And just, like that, she was thrown backward, tumbling, feeling pain as she was slammed back into her physical body, waking up gasping for air. That alone would have been wild enough, but what she noticed about those doors is what really stuck with me. She said each door seemed to belong to an ancient belief system. There was a Hindu door. There was a Christian door. There was a door that seemed to represent Volhalla. Now, here's the thing, my aunt knew nothing about Norse mythology. When she described the door with intricate knots and patterns, I immediately pulled up an image of Nordic symbols. She looked at it and said, yes, like that. She had no clue about Valhalla

or the mythology around it, but somehow, it was there among the doors. Not every door was in good condition, though. Some doors were broken, shattered, abandoned. According to her, these seemed to be from belief systems that had been forgotten or no longer had followers. Some doors were locked, though she had no idea what that meant. And then, the scariest part, some doors weren't just locked or broken. They were swallowed in darkness. She specifically remembered one door being engulfed in a kind of black void, and somehow, she just knew that was hell. Not just the Christian concept of hell, but something bigger, the place where dark, evil beliefs and entities existed. It wasn't just one version of hell, it was

a culmination of every version that had ever been believed in. One moment in particular left her deeply confused. As she stood near the Christian door, the one that represented heaven, she faintly heard my uncle's laughter coming from the other side. That confused her because my uncle had been Hindu. Or so she thought. What she didn't know was that on his deathbed, in his final moments, he had given his life to Jesus. He had whispered it in some of his last breaths. She never knew this until after she told us about what she saw, and it shook her to her core. Her ultimate conclusion. When we die, we go to a place that aligns with our beliefs. It's not necessarily about what's true or false in the way we think of it.

It's about where we expect to go, where our soul is drawn. And that realization hit me in a way I wasn't prepared for. I'm Christian. My life partner is an atheist. If my aunt is right, it means we won't end up in the same place when we die. That thought absolutely breaks me sometimes. The idea that I could have two lifetimes with him, but it will possibly only be this one, it's almost too much to bear. I think about all the little things that make

me love him, the way he smiles when he's half asleep, the way he playfully raises an eyebrow when I say something ridiculous, the way he says, ha, in that confused little way when I ramble about nonsense. One lifetime with him is simply not enough. And that's when it really hit me. It doesn't matter what happens after we die because none of us know for sure. What matters is that we are here, right now, together. And if this is the only lifetime I get with him, then I need to cherish every second of it. The truth is, no matter what belief system ends up being, right,

the only thing we are truly guaranteed is this moment, this life, the love we share right now. So, to anyone reading this, stop fighting over what happens after death. We can debate theology, philosophy, and science all we want, but at the end of the day, we won't truly know until it's too late. Instead, focus on what you do know, you have people in your life right now that you love. You have moments to share, memories to make, laughter to hold on to. Don't waste your time arguing over the unknown.

Spend your time in love, in kindness, in empathy. Cherish the people around you. You only get this lifetime with them, and it's a short one. Some of us will go sooner than others, and none of us know exactly when our time will be up. All we can do is make sure that when our time does come, we have lived in a way that leaves no regrets. For those wondering if all the doors lead to the same place, my aunt wasn't sure. She did briefly mention seeing another celestial being come through a different door, one that looked completely different from the one she was facing.

Even though she couldn't read the words on the doors, she said her soul simply, knew, what each door represented, at least the ones she was aware of in life. She recognized heaven because she had heard of heaven. She didn't recognize Valhalla, but she could describe its design with eerie accuracy. And for those of you who bring up DMT's effect on near-death experiences, I don't deny science. Science is real. But so is the unknown. The fact remains, she was clinically dead.

science the universe religion whatever lends you view the world through it's all speculation when it comes to what happens after we die none of us not a single one knows for certain only the truly dead know and they aren't here to tell us so here's the final thought i'll leave you with you are guaranteed three things in this life the lifetime you are currently living the shared lifetime of those who are living alongside you The memories of those you have lost. That's it. That's all we truly have. So, cherish them. Love fiercely. Laugh deeply. Hold on to the people who make your life worth living.

And whatever happens next, well, we'll all find out eventually. Good luck in this life. More love, always. Many of us, upon reading the title of this article, would think it's a bad joke, a very pathetic way of trying to sell an old item that nobody wants anymore. But it wasn't the name of the article that caught the attention of buyers, it was the description. In it, John, that's what we'll call him, explained how he came to possess the object and all the headaches it had caused him, begging over and over for someone to bid on the piece.

But not only that, he also asked that whoever bid on the item be fully aware of what they were doing. He was looking for someone who understood the Jewish religion, and not just, that, but also its demons. This story began one September morning in 2001 when John, an antique restorer and painter, attended a garage sale in Portland, Oregon. Supposedly, all the items being sold had belonged to a 103-year-old Jewish woman. At this point, many of you might think that you can't find anything valuable at those kinds of garage sales, but he was always able to find real diamonds in the rough. At first, the only things that caught his attention among a pile of old junk where a trunk and a sewing box. But just as he was about to pay for those two

items, he noticed a small wine cabinet. What drew his attention to that item wasn't its functionality, but rather the fact that it appeared to be truly handmade, which gave it added value. Despite being in quite poor condition, the piece still seemed to hold the magic it once had. So it seemed to him a worthy object to restore and display in his shop. Without thinking twice, he grabbed the wine cabinet and paid the price he thought was fair. At first, the man who attended him was very hesitant. He didn't want to sell the wine cabinet, he seemed genuinely nervous, agitated, even called his wife to try to dissuade him from buying it.

But since he gave no reason or solid argument, John ended up buying it and loading it into his van. It's been impossible for me to find out how much John paid for it or for the other items he acquired, but I don't think that's relevant, since what really interests us is what came next. The seller's wife approached him and asked why he wanted to buy it, what made that wine cabinet so interesting. He told her he thought it was a true museum piece, that just by looking at it you could feel the art, the art of the cabinet maker, the art of the one who designed it, who carved it, who created it. But seeing that his words didn't move the woman, he asked why

all the mystery, why all the anxiety surrounding the wine cabinet. If they had some emotional bond with it and didn't really want to sell it. The woman told him the problem didn't lie in the fact that she and her husband valued the wine cabinet, but in its history. She confessed she was the granddaughter of the deceased elderly woman and explained that all the items in that garage sale had belonged to her grandmother, and that they had come from all corners of the world, since the woman had come to the United States fleeing pain. Edit, as we'll call her was born, grew up, and started her family in Poland. Once World War II broke out, she and all her loved ones were sent to concentration camps, and there, as we all know, only suffering awaited.

She saw all her loved ones fall, one by one, her parents, her siblings, her husband, two of her sons, and her youngest daughter. Her suffering lasted until 1944, when the Soviets began to liberate the concentration camps. After escaping hell, Edith took refuge in Spain until World War II was declared over. Once the war ended, Edith traveled to the United States and lived out the rest of her life there. That wine cabinet, according to her granddaughter, was one of the few belongings her grandmother brought from Spain. And every time someone asked about it, Edith would spit three times between her fingers and say it must never be opened, that the wine cabinet should remain eternally sealed.

For inside it was a dibak and a kessalon. According to the grandmother, the wine cabinet was so haunted and dangerous that the best thing for everyone would be for it to be buried with her after she died. She repeated this request many times over the years. All her loved ones knew she wanted to be buried with the wine cabinet, buried with the dibbock box. But when the time came, her wishes could not be fulfilled, as they went against Orthodox Jewish tradition. So, after the family's refusal, the granddaughter was forced to sell the

Dibbeck box. Upon hearing the story, John asked the woman if she wanted to take the box back, as it seemed like there was a strong sentimental bond between her and the box. But she became hysterical, insisting over and over that no, a deal is a deal, the box was now his, he had paid for it, and therefore he had to take it far, far away and never, ever return. She begged him to take the box and disappear from her sight. John didn't believe in the paranormal. In fact, he had never experienced anything related to it. That's why he didn't want to give it much thought, since he didn't believe in demons, spirits, or ghosts. He didn't believe in any of it. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about the idea that the box might contain a malevolent

entity. But above all, he was puzzled by one thing, what the hell was a dibock? Whatever the case, he had already acquired the object. So he started his van and headed to his store. I won't give the exact location of the shop, I'll just say it was a small store. At least the storefront was small, but it had a very large basement, which was divided into several sections, the furniture section, the sculpture section, and finally a section where John restored items and decided whether they could be sold. As soon as he arrived at the shop, he was greeted by his assistant, a young woman about 20 years old, and together they took everything down to the basement. Once everything was set up in the workshop, John began to examine

the wine cabinet more closely. Normally, when restoring antique items, he tried not to alter the main structure in the slightest. However, in this case, he had to break it open to access the inside. There was a small bronze lock on the top that couldn't be opened. He tried opening it with paper clips, with pins, tried forcing it gently, and when nothing worked, he ended up prying it open with a screwdriver and snapping it off. As he did so, he realized the wine cabinet had a mechanism that caused both the doors and the drawer to spring wide open when the lock was removed, revealing its entire contents. And what was inside the box?

Two pennies from 1920, a lock of brown hair. hair, a lock of blonde hair, and a small granite figure engraved with the word Shalom, a Hebrew word meaning, peace. In addition, there was a small goblet, and one more notable feature, on the back of the wine cabinet, there were some Hebrew words he couldn't quite decipher. Regardless, he found the object so interesting and magnificent that he didn't think about restoring it to sell in his store. Instead, he wanted to repair it and give it to his mother for her birthday. John left the box open and all the items he had taken from it scattered on the table. He got up and went upstairs to tell his assistant he was going out to run some errands and would be back in a couple of hours.

Then he got back in his van and left. Half an hour later, his phone wouldn't stop ringing. The number on the screen was from his shop. His assistant kept calling him. Seeing how persistent the calls were, he finally picked up and asked what was going on, what could be so. important as to bother him while he was handling errands. But on the other end, nothing seemed right. The girl was babbling, screaming, yelling, he couldn't understand anything she was saying.

He tried to calm her, telling her that nothing was wrong, to explain things slowly, to articulate, because he couldn't understand her. And while she tried to speak, while she tried to babble out what was happening, in the background you could hear glass-breaking, bangs, footsteps, you could hear all sorts of things. of things. Total chaos. John asked the girl over and over what was going on, and she couldn't explain. She said someone was with her, someone was in the basement, in the workshop, breaking light bulbs, throwing objects. Someone had left her in the dark and had sealed the emergency exits. She couldn't get out, and she begged him to please come to the shop as fast as possible,

to come help her, please. John told her he wasn't the one she should be calling, that she should call the police. And just as he said that, the call dropped. John dropped what he was doing, got back in his van, and rushed to the store. When he got there, he found the basement door was blocked, an extremely strange thing, since only he had the key to the basement, and therefore only he could have blocked it. He pulled the key from his pocket, opened the door, and tried to turn on the lights. None of them worked.

He grabbed his phone and tried to light the lights. away with its weak glow, and just as he pointed it at the floor, he realized that the hallway in front of him was lined with shattered fluorescent lights. All the fluorescent tubes that had been mounted on the ceiling had been violently ripped out and thrown to the floor. He tried to shine the light on all the bulbs in the basement, and wherever he pointed it, he saw the same thing, they were either shattered where they had been installed, or ripped out and smashed on the floor.

To be continued. was imagining that the girl was dead, that she had probably been murdered, mutilated, God knows what. I couldn't think anything good. But even so, he ended up finding her under the desk, the desk on which the Dybock box was. The young woman was trembling, unable to utter a single word. Just when John bent down and extended his hand to help her get out of there, the girl jumped up and fled from the store forever. She never gave John a single detail of what had really happened, never explained anything. She simply stopped answering his calls and therefore stopped working at the store. John never associated this with a paranormal activity. He really thought the girl had suffered

some kind of nervous breakdown, that someone had played a prank on her, or God knows what. But again, John never thought it was a paranormal manifestation. On October 28th, it was John's mother's birthday, so he thought it would be the perfect time to give her the box, which had already been perfectly restored. Fortunately, or unfortunately, his mother went on a trip with her sister, and it wasn't until October 31st of that same year that he was able to give her the box. That day, John's mother showed up at the store, excited to see the gift he had prepared for her. He made her sit in a chair and placed the wine cabinet, wrapped in gift paper, on the table in front of her. Just as John's mother was about to get up to open her gift, the store phone rang.

So at that moment he stopped her, told her to wait a second while he answered the phone, and that when he came back, she could open her present. The woman agreed. So he ran off to answer the phone, and while he was talking to a potential customer, his new assistant made him hang up because something was happening to his mother. John hung up and ran over to her. He found her completely disfigured in front of the unlawful. unwrapped Dybock box. Apparently, just before suffering a stroke, the woman had gotten up from

the chair and unwrapped her gift, a gift that, at the exact moment it was unwrapped, opened and revealed the goblet, the hair locks, the coins, and the word shalom. John urgently called the ambulance. He tried to wake his mother, but she wouldn't respond. She had been left completely paralyzed, staring at the dibbock box. Her body didn't respond, but her eyes moved from side to side. It was as if she were trying to tell John something, as if she were trying to warn her son about something, but the words wouldn't come. She was trapped inside her own body. Later, when the woman began to recover and could babble or utter some words again, she repeated over and over, no gift. She wouldn't stop repeating it, again and again.

It was as if she were trapped in those two words, no gift. So John gave the box to his sister, hoping that when his mother felt better, she would want to take it back. But a few days later, his sister returned the Dybock box, telling him that she wanted nothing to do with it. She gave no explanation. She simply said she didn't want that box. And when he gave it to another sibling, that one said exactly the same thing. No one wanted that box.

Everyone thought it was a very beautiful piece, everyone thought it was a precious antique, but they all ended up getting tired of it for one reason or another. No one wanted to keep it. So John decided that since it was in perfect condition, he could sell it in his store. And so he did. Two days after displaying it in his shop, an elderly couple bought it. But the day after acquiring it, they left it at the door of the establishment with a note on top,

a note that said the box had too much darkness. He didn't understand what it meant, but he understood that he could. could never get rid of it. So he loaded it back into his van and took it home, thinking that everything that was happening was nothing more than strange coincidences, strange and macab coincidences. He hid the box in his basement, thinking that by leaving it in the basement, the weird things would stop happening. But from the very first minute that the wine cabinet arrived at his home, so did the nightmares.

Every night he dreamed that he was walking with a friend, a family member, a loved one. The dream was always positive, it was a dream where he walked arm in arm with that person, a dream where he laughed, where he had a really good time. But suddenly that friend turned into a monster, into a kind of haggard, decaying old woman, who gave him a beating. A beating from which he couldn't escape. And just when he woke up, he would find bruises on his arms, on his legs, even on his back. He was covered in bruises, cuts, bite marks.

It was as if those beatings he experienced and dreams weren't just his imagination, it was exactly as if a demon was beating him while he slept. John lasted a week. Then two. Then three. But eventually he couldn't take it anymore. So he grabbed the wine cabinet, loaded it back into his van, and returned it to the store. From there, he wrote the now-famous eBay ad.

He recounted, word for word, the story of the box, the story of the box and the story of his nightmares, hoping that someone who understood his Jewish religion and demons could free him from the suffering. But while he was finishing the ad, he fell asleep. And once again, he had that nightmare, that nightmare in which that decaying specter beat him. The good news is that he woke up. He woke up, for the first time, without bruises. But he woke up because of a disembodied breath on his neck.

Someone had woken him up. A breath on his neck. And when he turned around, there was no one there who could have caused it. So that was the final sign that made him press OK, and publish that ad. The Dibbock box was sold for $140. The buyers were two students from the University of Missouri. They bought the box as a joke, they bought it to be funny at the university, to be the brave ones who feared nothing, who faced ghosts and exorcised haunted objects. As soon as they

acquired the Dybock box, the young men were not really afraid of the story John had told on eBay. They were not afraid of the unknown, not afraid of ghosts or dibucks. They didn't even know what a dibuk was. So they didn't care where the box came from. They simply placed it in their room in a student residence and began writing a blog about the paranormal experiences they had with the box. During the first few weeks, they reported nothing at all, other than intense smells ranging from jasmine perfume to cat urine. It's strange to mention these two scents, on one hand, because they claimed to have no jasmine nearby. The university gardens had no jasmine. None of their classmates had jasmine. And on the other hand, no one had cats.

They didn't have cats, and pets were forbidden in the residence. In any case, that wasn't the only thing that happened to them. The intense perfumes were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon after, the light started to fail. Bulbs exploded. There were infestations, cockroaches, ants, dampness. It was as if the room itself were rotting. And not just the room, but themselves too,

as they both began having nightmares in which their loved ones turned into old witches, completely deformed spectres that beat them up. Bruises became an almost daily thing for the young men. Their hair began to fall out in clumps. They started to feel so sick that they were forced to sell the Dybock box again through the eBay platform. This time, in the item description, they included not only John's written story but also a link to the student's blog. Buyers had access to both versions of the story, John and his family's experience, and the experience of the two students. A large number of people bid on the Dibbeck box, but only one managed to acquire it.

The auction reached $280, and its new owner was the director of the Museum of Medicine and osteopathy in Missouri. He was a skeptic who didn't believe in the paranormal. His only mission was to acquire the Dibbeck Box to prove that all the misfortunes experienced by its previous owners were caused by a kind of bacteria that resided in the box. He carried out all kinds of tests on the object but found nothing, nothing beyond some melted wax marks adorning the edges of the box. It was as if someone had really performed some kind of ritual around the object. But still, he found nothing more, and that wasn't conclusive proof that the box was truly haunted.

So he took it to the museum to continue examining it later. Unfortunately, he would regret that decision from the very first minute, as all the light bulbs around the Dybock box kept exploding, and his co-workers gradually began falling ill. To him, this was still not a clear sign that the box was haunted. They were simply a set of coincidences happening one after another, very strange coincidences, yes, but coincidences nonetheless. In any case, all his co-workers ended up telling him that the box was the cause of their troubles, and that if he found it so interesting, he should take it home and examine it there, because no one wanted it in the museum.

No one wanted to see that Dibbeck box again. The director took the box, loaded it into his car, and brought it home. And there, the troubles began again. The shadows, the intense smells, the nightmares invaded his life, his life and that of his loved ones. His wife suffered strong allergic reactions. His son said he saw shadows everywhere. And he couldn't stop dreaming, night after night.

that he walked with his loved ones, and they turned into monsters that attacked him. The story was repeating itself with his family. The story was repeating itself again with him. So he decided to take the box to a basement he had rented a few kilometers from home. He thought that by distancing the object from his family and their lives, he would also drive away whatever was attached to it. But that only made the situation worse, because the nightmares, the bruises, the shadows occurred more and more frequently.

This man tried to contact John, the box's first owner, but John never answered his calls. John never got in touch with him. So he had to figure it out on his own, and according to some testimonies, this man managed to contact a rabbi who performed an exorcism on the Dybock box, and afterward, took possession of the object and made it disappear from his life forever. And now comes the age-old question, would you be able to bid for a dibick box on your? eBay. The end. In the past, sometime around 2014 or earlier, I lived with my mother, my aunt, and my grandmother. My grandmother suffered from several illnesses, including Alzheimer's

and arthritis. Her mind crumbled like a house of cards in the wind, lost in labyrinths of fragmented memories and invisible terrors. Her body, hunched and frail, was a cage of aching bones that kept her from moving with ease. She didn't like sleeping alone or being left without company for too long. If that happened, her voice would rise through the house in heart-wrenching screams, filled with a despair that made the skin crawl. Sometimes, her distress turned to fury, she would bang her cane against the floor and furniture as if trying to chase away invisible ghosts tormenting her in the darkness of her mind. Other times, she cried like a lost child, with sobs that didn't seem to belong to an old woman but to a soul trapped in a loop of

fear and loneliness. She often looked at us with empty eyes, failing to recognize us. More than once, she stared at me, her brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and panic. Who are you? What are you doing in my house? She would ask in a trembling voice. And when I tried to soothe her, her response was always the same, she would clumsily raise her cane and defend herself against the intruder who, in her mind, had invaded her home.

One night, in a fit of delirium, she tried to hit me, convinced that I was a stranger trying to harm her. Fortunately, her aim failed her, and the blow landed on a small television hanging from the wall. which cracked with a sharp sound. Those moments were exhausting, maddening, and we didn't know what to do. My mother and aunt, worn down by years of sacrifices, told me to ignore her, to not let it affect me. But ignoring her only made things worse. Her distress grew, she lost control, her mind sank even deeper into the abyss of dementia.

And the worst came on the night when, between screams and sobs, she looked at me with wide, terrified eyes and shouted, She's not my granddaughter. She's someone else. Someone else. Those words echoed in my mind like a sinister refrain. What did she mean? Who did she see in my place? Was her mind showing her images of someone else?

That question haunted me. I didn't know what was more terrifying, that she had mistaken me for another person or that she was actually seeing something else in me. Over time, my mother and aunt started taking turns sleeping with my grandmother. Those nights were heavy, endless. My grandmother would wake up screaming, drowning in her own whispers of terror, tangled in memories we couldn't distinguish from nightmares. Sleeping with her was a torment.

My mother, resigned, took her turn one night. My aunt would sleep in another room, and I, in an attempt to keep her company, decided to stay with her. We lay beside each other, talking in the darkness of the room. At some point, my aunt stopped responding, and I assumed she had fallen asleep. I decided to close my eyes and try to rest, but something broke the side of the side of the room. silence of the night. A cry. A woman's cry. It was a heart-wrenching sob, full of despair, the kind of weeping one only hears when someone has just lost a loved one or is being

subjected to indescribable pain. My skin instantly prickled. My first thought was that my aunt was crying, perhaps because of the argument she had with my mother earlier. But there was something strange about that cry. Something unsettling. I quickly turned to my aunt, took her by the shoulder, and turned her toward me. In the darkness, I whispered, asking if she was crying. Her voice, barely a threat of sound, responded that no, she was fine. To be sure, I ran my hands over her face. Her cheeks were dry, her eyes showed no signs of tears.

Then, who was crying? My heart began to pound. I let go of my aunt, who turned back over to sleep, and returned to my position, eyes wide open, staring into the darkness around me. Silence returned, but not for long. Again, I heard muffled sobs. The same voice. The same woman weeping in the shadows.

This time, her cry was softer, but just as desperate. Slowly and discreetly, I moved closer to my aunt and wrapped my arms around her waist, seeking refuge in her warmth. Whatever was happening, I didn't want to face it alone. The next day, after returning from school, I walked into the kitchen where my mother and aunt were talking. My grandmother sat in the living room, oblivious to everything. My aunt looked at me seriously and said,

Don't be scared, but I want to ask you something. I frowned and, trying to joke, replied, It wasn't me, letting out a nervous laugh. But they didn't laugh. My mother and aunt exchanged an uneasy glance before my aunt spoke again. It's not that, sweetheart. Don't worry. I just want to know, did you hear anything strange last night while we were sleeping?

An indescribable relief washed over me. I wasn't crazy. I hadn't imagined it. Something had happened. Something real. As we exchanged our versions, my mother's face twisted into a grimace of horror. My aunt had heard it too. We had both kept it to ourselves until that moment.

So, what had happened that night? My mother and aunt started making guesses. That was when they revealed a detail that sent chills down my spine. In that room, my grandmother's sister, Aunt Maria, had died. That had been her deathbed. I didn't want to ask if her passing was pain. painful, if she suffered, if she had spent her last moments in despair and anguish. But deep inside, something told me she had.

If it was truly her voice still echoing in that room, she had undoubtedly spent her final days on this earth in an inexplicable, agonizing, heartbreaking torment. I knew it because I had heard it myself that night, the spirit still wept in that room, perhaps trapped between this world and the next. Over time, we left that house behind, a place where strange things always seemed to happen, that made us run to bed after turning off a light or switch on all the lights on the way to the bathroom. Maybe that was the same reason my grandmother always wanted company, I don't know.

To this day, at 26 years old, that weeping remains tattooed in my mind, an eternal echo of a night I will never forget. In the dimly lit alleys of a city that thrived on secrets and shadows, I roamed like a ghost, a flicker of life amidst the decay. I was a man of contradictions, an artist lost in a world of darkness, and a lover-seeking connection in a city that offered only fleeting encounters. By day, I was just another face in the crowd, by night, I transformed into something else entirely. My life had been a tapestry woven from the threads of trauma and desire. The echoes of my past whispered to me,

the laughter of boys who teased me in school, the quiet rejection of my family, the brutal realization that love was a currency I could never afford. My mind was a fractured mirror, reflecting a reality that twisted and turned like the alleys I prowled, where the scent of rain mingled with the stench of desperation. I wore my sexuality like a scarlet letter, exposed yet hidden beneath layers of bravado. The men I met in the dark became my escape, a fleeting touch that ignited a fire within me. Yet, in the throes of passion, I often saw more than flesh, I saw the faceless specters of my tormentors and the shadows that danced at the edges of my sanity. They called out to me, their voices mingling with the rustle of the

leaves above, and I would nod, lost in their chorus. It was on one such night that I met Marcus. Tall, with raven black hair and a smile that pierced through my haze, Marcus was intoxicating. We exchanged stolen glances and hushed whispers, each word a promise, each touch a pact sealed in the silence of the alleyway. But as we retreated to a nearby hotel, the atmosphere shifted. The walls pulsed with a heartbeat of their own, and shadows stretched like fingers, clawing at my mind. In that room, as passion ignited and darkness enveloped us, I felt the familiar stirrings of my other

The voices grew louder, insisting that this moment was more than lust, it was survival. As I pressed my body against Marcus, I felt a jolt of recognition, the thrill of the hunt, the rush of power. The line between love and violence blurred, and I succumbed to the pull of my darker urges. What happened next was a blur of ecstasy and horror for me. In my mind, I became a predator, and Marcus transformed into my prey. With each kiss, the voices within me sang louder, urging me to consume, to possess. In a frenzy, I lost myself to the chaos, the room spinning into a kaleidoscope of desire

and dread. By the time dawn broke, the once vibrant Marcus lay lifeless before me, an offering to the twisted altar of my madness. In the aftermath, I stared at the remnants of my passion, a cold realization settling over me like a shroud. I was alone again, the fleeting warmth replaced by an insatiable hunger. The city outside continued to thrum with life, ignorant of the darkness that resided within me. I could almost hear the laughter of my tormentors, mocking me from the depths of my fractured

psyche. Days turned into weeks, and my life spiraled into a grotesque ritual. Each encounter became a dance on the edge of oblivion, a ballet of blood and desire. I indulged in my insatiable cravings, savoring the taste of flesh and the thrill of dominance. The men I lured into my web were nothing more than vessels for my madness, their identities fading into the cacophony of voices that haunted me. But the more I fed my darkness, the more it consumed me. The line between reality and delusion blurred until I could no longer discern the whispers of my mind from the echoes of the world around me. I became a stranger

in my own skin, a marionette dancing to the tune of my schizophrenia, the strings tangled in a web of horror. One fateful night, as a storm raged outside, I found myself in a familiar hotel room, my next victim awaiting. But this time, something was different. The walls closed in, and the air thickened with an oppressive weight. The shadows whispered louder, forming into shapes that danced and taunted me. I could see Marcus's face among them, his eyes wide with betrayal, his lips forming silent screams. In that moment, the realization hit me like a sledgehammer, I was not the predator, I was the prey. The very insanity I had embraced now turned against me, a ravenous beast clawing at my mind,

ready to devour me whole. The specters of my victims encircled me, their voices merging in. into a cacophony of judgment, each one a fragment of my shattered soul. As the storm raged on, I felt the walls of my reality crumbling. I was trapped in a hell of my own making, and the laughter. As I let out a final, desperate scream, I collapsed to the floor, the shadows closing in around me. The city outside continued to live and breathe, blissfully unaware of the monster lurking within its depths. In the quiet of that hotel room, the only sound was the soft, haunting echo of my desire, fading into the darkness as I succumbed to

my own madness. The building was abandoned. No one had set foot inside in years. That was the agreement. That was the warning. But I had a job to do. I stepped into the lobby, my footsteps echoing against the cracked marble floor. The air was thick with dust, undisturbed except for the trail I left behind. The only light came from my flashlight, cutting through the gloom in thin, weak beams. I'd been hired to survey the structure. An old corporate tower, once bustling with life, now a hollow skeleton of concrete and steel. They wanted to renovate it, make something new out of something forgotten. But I wasn't here to dream.

I was here to check the bones, see if they would hold. The elevator was still operational. That was the first thing that felt wrong. The power in the building was supposed to be off. My instructions were clear, take the stairs, document structural weaknesses, and leave. But the elevator stood there, doors open, waiting. Against my better judgment, I stepped inside. The panel flickered as I pressed the button for the top floor.

The doors groaned shut, sealing me inside. The ascent was smooth at first. Then, without warning, the elevator lurched to a stop. My stomach twisted. The doors slid open. A floor halfway through demolition stretched out before me. stripped to their frames, windows covered with dust so thick they barely let in any light. And then I saw them, footprints in the dust, leading inside.

They weren't mine. I hadn't been here yet. No one had. The building was sealed. My breath caught in my throat. I leaned forward, scanning the dim corridor. Nothing moved. No sound except the distant creek of settling metal.

I reached for the panel, ready to close the doors and continue upward. But before I could press the button, a sound echoed from the hall. A single, deliberate footstep. I froze. The elevator doors stayed open, waiting. My fingers hovered over the panel, but I hesitated. Then another footstep. Closer this time.

I couldn't move. My body refused. Something was coming, something just out of sight. And then the doors closed on their own, sealing me in, swallowing the sound of footsteps with them. The elevator jolted and continued upward. I should have left right then. I should have forced the doors open and run. But I didn't.

Instead, I stood there, heart-pounding, watching the panel flicker as the numbers climbed. The elevator stopped again. The doors slid open. Another floor, another set of footprints leading inside. And then I heard breathing. I gripped my phone tighter, staring at the elevator doors as they slid open again. another floor, another empty hallway, another set of footprints appearing in the dust, leading inside. My breath came in short, uneven bursts. I wasn't imagining this. I was alone in the

building. I had been sure of it. Yet, something, someone, was stepping inside with me. But I never heard a sound. The elevator dinged softly as the doors shut again, sealing me inside with whatever was leaving those prints. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to stay calm. I jabbed the button for the lobby, willing this ride to be over. The lights flickered. The elevator trembled, a deep groan echoing through the walls as if the entire shaft had exhaled. The panel above flickered, skipping past numbers erratically.

We were moving, but not where I wanted to go. I pressed the emergency stop button. Nothing happened. My hands were shaking now. The air inside the elevator felt denser, pressing in on me like a living thing. The doors opened again, this time to a floor that shouldn't exist. Beyond the threshold, the walls stretched into darkness. No office spaces, no lights, just along, yawning hallway lined with doorways.

The footprints in the dust led forward, vanishing into the gloom. A whisper slithered through the stale air. It wasn't a voice. Not really. It was like the memory of one, a sound so faintly. a sound so faint I could barely tell if it was inside or outside my head. I should have stayed inside. I should have kept pressing buttons until something worked.

But my feet were already moving, stepping out onto the forbidden floor, following the footprints like I was meant to. The moment I crossed the threshold, the elevator doors shut behind me. I was trapped. I slammed my hand against the elevator panel, pressing that door close button over and over, but the doors remained open. The footprints in the dust looked fresh, as if someone had just stepped inside, yet the space beside me was empty.

I felt a chill slither up my spine. My breathing was heavy, loud in the silent building. I dared to glance at the buttons. The number six was illuminated. The elevator had chosen a floor. A slow creak echoed through the shaft, and the doors finally began to close. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. The lights flickered, and the entire car jolted, as if something

heavy had just landed on the roof. I froze. A faint scraping noise came from above. It was rhythmic, deliberate. Something was moving up there. Hello. My voice cracked. I felt ridiculous immediately, what was I expecting? A response. The elevator started its ascent, rising past the second and third floors. The scraping stopped. The silence felt worse. I pressed my back against the wall, staring at the ceiling panel. If something burst through, I had nowhere to go. A ding! The elevator stopped on the sixth floor.

The doors slid open. The hallway was dark except for the faint emergency lighting. The dust on the floor was thick, undisturbed, except for a set of footprints leading away from the elevator. They stopped a few feet ahead. Then there was nothing. As if whoever had made them had simply vanished. I should have stayed inside.

Pressed the button, gone straight back to the lobby. But I didn't. Something compelled me to step forward. I leaned out, scanning the hall. The air was thick, stale, but beneath it, there was something else. A faint metallic tang. Blood? Rust?

I couldn't tell. A noise echoed from further down the corridor, a soft shuffle, like fabric brushing against the walls. I took another step. And then, a whisper. Close. Too close. You shouldn't have come back.

I spun, heart slamming against my ribs. The hallway was empty. But the elevator doors were closing. I lunged, but they sealed shut before I could reach them. The button panel next to the door flickered. Then, with a sharp beep, every floor button lit up at once. The elevator was going somewhere. With or without me.

Then, from the darkness behind me, the footsteps started again. again. Closer this time. I turned slowly. And I wasn't alone anymore. The emergency lights flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. My breath felt too loud in the stillness. Whoever, or whatever, was behind me wasn't moving now, but I could feel it watching.

I clenched my fists and turned fully around. The hallway was empty. But I knew better than to believe that. The footprints were still there, leading to nothing. maybe, to something I couldn't see. My chest tightened. I needed to get back to the elevator, but when I turned, the panel next to the doors blinked red. Power disabled. I swallowed hard. No way down. No way up. Just the sixth floor and whatever had been waiting here. A door creaked open down the hallway. I whipped around, my pulse hammering. The noise came from the last door on

the right, its frame barely visible in the dim light. I took a step forward. then stopped. I wasn't stupid. Horror movies taught me not to go toward the ominous door. But standing here wasn't an option either. Another step. Then another. The air grew colder with each inch closer, like I was stepping into a freezer. My fingers trembled as I reached out. The door swung inward before I could touch it. Inside, there was nothing but darkness. A void. I hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. My eyes adjusted enough to see the outline of a room, but something about it felt wrong. The dimensions weren't right.

The walls seemed to stretch on endlessly. Then, from inside the room, a voice. Familiar. Too familiar. Help me. My throat tightened. It was my voice. I stumbled back, but the darkness moved.

Shifted. Something rushed toward me. A figure, no, a shadow, lunged from the void. I turned and ran. The hallway twisted, stretched. No matter how fast I moved, I wasn't getting anywhere. The elevator was gone. The emergency lights flickered harder, and the whispering returned, dozens of voices overlapping.

You shouldn't have come back. The shadows reached for me, pulling at my arms, my legs, dragging me back toward the open door. My fingers scraped against the floor as I tried to fight, but the darkness swallowed me whole. everything went silent. And I fell. Elias was sitting in front of his computer, the keys barely whispering beneath his fingers. The work was the same as always, endless reports, unanswered emails, and constant meetings that led nowhere. He had grown to hate it with every fiber of his being, but what choice did he have? The bills kept piling up, the debts tightened their grip, and the apartment he lived

and had become a prison without bars. A small, gray space with windows that opened onto a dark alley where light rarely reached. The paint on the walls was peeling, but it didn't matter. It wasn't as if he had the energy or desire to fix it. Elias had stopped looking for a home in that place. The apartment was nothing more than a spot to sleep, an empty space where he took refuge from the rain, the cold, and himself. It is what it is, he told himself every day, as if that justified the life he had built for himself. The furniture was simple, cheap, everything he could afford with what he earned. No luxury.

no joy. Just what was necessary to avoid homelessness. His meals were solitary. Lunch and dinner, always the same, always in the same place. The same table, the same plate, the same spoon that never felt warm. Always alone. The thought of inviting someone over for dinner was distant, as remote as the dreams he had abandoned years ago. No one called him. No one remembered him, except when they needed something. His phone was almost always silent, and when it did ring, it only confirmed his disappointment that no one missed him. Elias knew this. He had distanced himself from everyone, with his bitter mix of frustration and pessimism.

Who would want to be near someone so broken? The only sound in his life was the ticking of the clock on the wall, reminding him that time didn't stop, no matter how much he wished it would. Hours slipped by, and Elias didn't care. The past had already devoured him, the present was a constant struggle to keep his head above water, and the future. The future didn't exist. There was nothing but the daily routine, the resignation of living a life that wasn't his.

Then, as he scrolled through his phone, he saw the post. Almost a year, it was from Laura, his ex. The woman who had once been his reason to get up in the morning, the one he had believed would share his life, his dreams, his everything. But no, it wasn't so. It's just a simple message, he told himself, but it wasn't. He couldn't stop staring at it, reading the phrase over and over again. The words said nothing special, but the context crushed him.

The almost a year referred to the relationship that no longer existed. To what had been lost. To what would never return. Elias clenched his teeth, his eyes clouding with a mix of anger and sadness. He hadn't gotten over Lara, he hadn't gotten over anything. All those dreams they had built together had shattered when she left. Why? He wondered.

And he always came to the same answer, his own fault. The fault of not being enough, of not fighting hard enough, of surrendering to sadness, to fear, to everything. The phone screen faded to meaningless darkness. What had he done wrong? If he had been different. If he had had the courage to change something, to be someone better, maybe she would still be there.

But no. His life was marked by failures, the job he hated, the loneliness, the constant feeling that he had wasted the best years of his life on an empty routine, hoping that something, someday, would change. The next afternoon, his day off, felt like every other day. Elias sat on the couch, staring at the blank television. The sound of rain hitting the windows was the only thing breaking the silence in the room. Occasionally, the distant murmur of cars passing by on the street could be heard, but that was it. Elias's life no longer held surprises, only echoes of what had been. He had stopped expecting anything different, and

And that afternoon, life seemed to offer nothing but the same despair as always. However, something broke the routine. A knock at the door. Elias looked up, surprised. No one visited him. No one ever knocked on his door. He stood up slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to react to something as trivial as a visit.

He opened the door and, to his surprise, no one was there. Just a rectangular black box on the floor, with no indication of who had left it. he picked up the box. It was light, almost as if there were nothing inside, but when he moved it, something shifted. With a sigh, he bent down to open it. Inside, carefully folded, was a black envelope, made of thick paper that seemed far too elegant for someone like him. There was no sender. No address written. Only his name, Elias, inscribed in white ink on the smooth surface of the envelope. Elias's heart skipped a beat, an odd sensation running through his body. He wasn't used to receiving letters, much less from strangers. He hesitated

for a moment but finally broke the seal. Taking out the contents, he unfolded it slowly, unsure of what to expect. The message, written in irregular, slightly slanted handwriting, seemed more like a command than an invitation, join us at the birth of your end. The date and time were clearly indicated, matching the afternoon of the next day. There were no further words, just that unsettling phrase. A chill ran down Elias's spine. He didn't know what it meant or why someone would bother to send him such a letter. But something inside him, something curious, compelled him to look at the address.

San Lucian Cemetery, 4 p.m., the name of the cemetery didn't mean anything to him. He didn't know anyone buried there and had never heard of the place. About an hour away from his apartment, in a neighborhood where shadows seemed never to lift, the idea of death, of mystery, struck him as irresistibly intriguing. Elias stood still, staring at the address written on the paper, his fingers clutching it. A million thoughts raced through his mind. Was it a joke? Some kind of macab game.

But something inside him, something that had been dormant for so long, told him he had to go. Maybe it was the exhaustion of living this life, maybe it was the simple desire for something, finally, to happen. The idea that this strange and terrifying invitation could break his monotony made him accept the challenge without much thought. What did he have to lose? With a grimace, he sank back onto the couch. He glanced at the clock.

It was already too late to reconsider. Elias woke up much earlier than usual. The clock read 6 a.m., but his mind was already active, running through the day before the sun even peaked over the horizon. He stretched slowly, feeling the weight of the hours that had left him restless, drained of energy to face yet another day of work. He looked at his phone. A message from his boss had arrived at 9.15 p.m., as usual, with some instruction about what he needed to do today. Elias stared at it, his finger hovering over the screen, uncertain.

I'm not going, he told himself, and with a resolve that surprised even him, he turned off the phone and left it on the table. Why keep working at a job that didn't fulfill him? What did it matter? All he wanted in that moment was to break the routine, to follow the invitation, he had received, as if his life depended on it. He ran his hands over his face, as though waking from a nightmare, and then began to get dressed. He chose something close to semi-formal, a button-up shirt, dark pants that were slightly too big, and a jacket he had bought years ago. I don't know what to expect from this, but I can't just show up wearing anything, he thought as he looked in the mirror. A cemetery. Of course, he'd have to dress appropriately.

Maybe it was a joke, but he didn't want to arrive looking as if he didn't care. Fully dressed, Elias checked his bank account inside. There wasn't money for a car. There wasn't money for anything. He didn't have the freedom of a man who could choose how to move around the city. He always depended on public transportation. And there he was again, waiting for the bus, which was never on time, as if the city itself held the same indifference for him as everyone else.

But of course, what does it matter? He muttered as he watched the traffic. The only thing that's mine is this damn place and this damn job. An hour later, he finally arrived at the cemetery after a couple of transfers and a long ride, with the feeling that the city itself ignored him. The place was stranger than he had imagined. It was an old cemetery, the kind where the tombstones are covered with moss, and the stone paths are cracked or warped by time.

Mist began to rise from among the graves, creating an atmosphere even gloomier than it already was. What the hell am I doing here, he thought, a shiver running down his spine. At first, he had believed someone was playing a prank on him, that the invitation was just a cruel joke. But something about the atmosphere of the place told him it wasn't that simple. How could anyone make up an address like this? What kind of joke is this? He decided to walk.

There was no one else around, just the gravediggers working, a few funeral trucks, and a silence that had settled like an impenetrable fog. The shadows of the trees seemed to stretch longer, and the air was heavy with the damp smell of earth and decay. It didn't take long for him to get lost among the graves. At some point, he began to think that the whole thing had been a cruel hoax. It's probably just a game. A tasteless joke for a poor devil like me, he told himself as he kept walking, looking

closely at the gravestones. Names he didn't recognize, dates that meant nothing. Yet, something inside him, something irritating and unsettling, told him he should stay. He had nothing better to do, and somehow, he wanted to see how far this strange invitation would take him. Then, in the distance, he saw a small group of people gathered near a large tree. It was the only group of people he had seen since arriving. He cautiously approached. The silence around them was dense, heavy, as if the air itself was afraid to disturb the moment. As he got closer, he could see them more clearly. They

were all dressed in black, like him, and they all seemed equally absorbed, their faces expressionless, staring ahead. No one moved. No one spoke. Elias thought it might be some kind of ritual or funeral. Maybe that was the reason for the invitation. Who knows? Perhaps something had died for them too.

At the center of the group was a coffin, prepared with an unsettling elegance. The lid was slightly ajar, and without thinking much, Elias stepped closer to see who was inside. Perhaps it was someone he knew. But as he approached, what he saw froze him in place. place. Inside the coffin, there wasn't a body. There wasn't a corpse. No. Instead, there was a cradle. A small wooden cradle with a neatly folded white blanket. Elias frowned, confused. What the hell was that? He took a step back, feeling his stomach churn. Suddenly, he looked around. The nearby gravestones began to catch his attention. The names carved into them seemed,

familiar, but he couldn't remember why. He didn't recognize them, yet there was something about them that connected him to moments in his life, moments he couldn't quite place. As if all those people, those graves, were pieces of a puzzle he had never managed to complete. Elias kept staring at the cradle in the coffin, utterly bewildered. What did all of this mean? The place was so filled with a strange energy that the surrounding mist seemed to thicken, as though something was approaching him from the shadows.

But before he could fully process what he was seeing, he felt a presence beside him. A deep, raspy voice reached his ear. What you see here is nothing more than a shadow of the past, Elias. What you have forgotten, what you have left behind, is all about to return to you. Elias quickly turned, coming face to face with an old man who seemed to have emerged from the same mist that cloaked the cemetery. His face was wrinkled, and a white beard covered his neck, as if time itself had trapped him and left him there to wait.

His eyes were deep, almost inhuman, as if he had lived far more than any human ever should. Who? Who are you? Elias stammered, a shiver running down his spine. How do you know my name? The old man studied him for a long moment, as though evaluating every detail of his being. Then, he let out a sigh that sounded more like a whisper of the wind than a human exhalation. I am one of the few who remember what you have forgotten, said the old man, his voice so deep it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. The event you have been given, is designed to remind you of all you've tried so hard to erase, before your true death arrives. Elias took a step back, feeling a pressure in his chest, as if the air in the cemetery had

grown denser, colder. The icy wind wrapped around him, making him feel as though the cold was piercing his bones. What, what's happening here? Am I going to die? The question escaped his lips like a trembling whisper, unable to shake the sense of dread enveloping him. The old man stared at him intently but didn't answer directly. Instead, he simply said, to die, is an

empty word here. The event is not about the death you fear, but about the one you have forgotten to live. Elias swallowed hard, his thoughts spirally. He couldn't tell if this was some macab joke or if, in some inexplicable way, he was about to uncover something he had never wanted to know. Was he already dead? At that moment, without warning, everyone else present, who had remained silent until then, began to move in unison.

As if an invisible force had commanded them, the people sat down without a word in chairs that had appeared out of nowhere. The sound of chair legs scraping against the ground shattered the silence, ringing in Elias's ears. Elias looked around, unsure of what to do. All the people had settled into the chairs, their vacant gazes fixed ahead. Then his eyes fell on an empty chair in the center, right in front of the coffin and the gathered group. One more chair, as though it were the only place he could be. He felt compelled. It was as if his body moved on its own, as though the place, the moment, dictated his actions. Feeling trapped, Elias walked toward the chair, his steps heavy and hesitant.

He didn't know why, but he sat down. As he did, a shiver ran through him from head to toe. The atmosphere grew even colder, and the sense that something was about to happen was unbearable. An ominous stillness took over the scene. Everyone in the room was seated, staring ahead, silent, as if waiting for something. This couldn't help but feel small, insignificant in that place. Memories he had tried to bury began to surface in his mind, despite his reluctance to face them. He didn't understand what was happening, but terror consumed him with each passing second.

The silence around him was so heavy that he could almost hear his own breathing, ragged and quick. The cradle in the coffin was still there, as if everyone's gaze was fixed on it, though at the same time, he couldn't take his eyes off the motionless figures around him. What was really happening? Why did he feel as though time itself had stopped and the cemetery had claimed him? And just as the dread began to overwhelm him, the old man's final words pierced the air with even greater weight. Now, Elias, prepare yourself for what you have forgotten.

Suddenly, a grey-haired woman rose from her chair. She wore a black dress that seemed to absorb the light, and her voice, calm but unsettlingly deep, broke the silence. I remember when Elias decided to leave the city to chase his dream of becoming a photographer abroad, she began, looking straight ahead, though it seemed as if she were speaking more to the air than to those present. His work capturing landscapes changed the way the world viewed the Amazon rainforest. He won awards, remember.

And his photography was exhibited in renowned galleries. That's when he met Clara, his great love, while they both worked on a conservation project, she said with nostalgia, the kind of nostalgia for someone who no longer exists. Elias frowned. Photographer Amazon Rainforest That couldn't be He had never left his small town

Much less worked in anything related to photography Yet at the same time The woman's words felt strangely familiar As though something within him whispered That it was possible, even real. The woman sat down again And a tall, thin man took her place. He looked older, though his posture was firm.

His voice resonated with solemnity. I remember how Elias revolutionized the way local businesses supported small farming communities, the man said. You founded that organization, remember, Elias? The one that helped thousands of families escape poverty. You were tireless. You gave motivational speeches, traveled constantly, but you never neglected your family. Your children were always proud of you.

Elias felt his chest tighten. A charitable organization, children. Impossible. He had no children, no family, no accomplishments to speak. speak of. But the man's words stirred something within him. For a moment, he could almost imagine himself in that life, surrounded by love and purpose. One by one, the people stood and spoke.

Each speech was a window into a life Elias hadn't lived, but that struck him with overwhelming intensity. They recalled his triumphs as an artist, a businessman, a teacher beloved by his students. They spoke of an Elias filled with passion, love and courage, a man who had faced challenges and built something meaningful. Elias began to sweat, his thoughts swirling chaotically. What the hell was going on? These memories weren't his, they were narrating lives he had left behind with every decision

he made, or didn't make. This is not possible, he murmured under his breath, though no one seemed to hear him. The pressure in his head grew with every word that was spoken. Each time someone finished their speech and sat down, another would take their place, weaving a new tale about an Elias he didn't recognize but who seemed more real with every passing second. His breathing quickened. He looked around, searching for something, or someone, to explain what was happening. When his eyes met the old man's, the same one who had spoken earlier, the elder nodded slowly, as if to say, yes, you're understanding now. You're finally

seeing. The stories continued, but now Elias felt something shift in his mind. The words didn't just describe possibilities, they seemed to open a portal in his consciousness. The faces of the people recounting memories grew sharper, as though he had truly known them at some point. The events they described became more vivid, like deeply buried memories resurfacing. What if this is all true? He thought, what if these lives were real but had been buried under the weight of my choices? But if that were true, then one undeniable truth emerged, if all these paths were possible, what path was he walking now? A new sensation overtook him, something deeper than fear, despair.

Elias realized that what he had lost wasn't just a better life, he had lost pieces of himself. All the things he could have been, and wasn't. When the last of the attendees finished their speech, the old man slowly moved to the center of the circle, his hunched figure casting a long shadow under the dim light filtering through the tree branches. He stopped in front of Elias, his piercing gazed seeming to see him. right through him. Ah, Elias, the elder began, his deep voice echoing like a chill through the cold air. You have heard of the golden paths, the triumphs you never reached, the loves

you let slip away. But you are not here for them. You are here for this. The old man extended his hand toward the coffin with the empty cradle. Suddenly, a dark liquid began seeping out from within, dripping steadily and absorbing the light around it. The liquid pulled into black puddles that spread toward the nearby gravestones, as though the ground itself were bleeding. Elias, the elder continued, his tone turning icy, your life is not a monument to miss choices but an endless pit of repeated failures. You didn't just fail to choose another path, you dragged everything you touched down with you.

Families destroyed, friendships eroded, dreams crushed. Elias felt each word like a knife. He tried to stand, but his body remained frozen. The air around him felt dense, as though pressed by an invisible weight. Elias, you have no idea how many hearts you wounded with your bitterness, how many souls you tainted with your hopelessness. And now, it is time to pay. But not with the redemption you yearn for.

No, your end is far more interesting than that. The old man leaned closer, and his previously expressionless face twisted into a grotesque smile. His gaze held a mix of pity and cruelty. This felt the cold engulfing him completely, but it wasn't the air. It was something deeper, something slithering along his spine, making every fiber of his being tremble. Elias, the old man said heavily, his voice laden with authority.

You think this is your life, don't you? That these gray days, these empty nights, this suffocating monotony are merely the result of bad decisions. But you're wrong. This was never a life. This is limbo. Elias's eyes widened, his mind reeling from what he had just heard. The old man took a step closer, and his shadow seemed to grow, swallowing

everything in its path. You're dead, Elias. You have been for so long you don't even remember it. Your life is nothing more than an illusion, an endless cycle of mediocrity and regrets, reliving the same stupid decisions over and over again until time runs out. The elder pointed at the coffin with the cradle, now overflowing with the black liquid, which emitted a stinging, suffocating odor. This is your end. Time has run out. There is no redemption, no second or third chances. What you have been here, in this limbo, is what you will be for eternity, nothing.

Elias tried to rise, but his body wouldn't respond. His hands gripped the chair's arms, sweating cold as his mind screamed in a cacophony of despair. No. This can't be. This can't be real. It's more real than you ever imagined, the elder replied, his voice transforming into an echo that filled the cemetery.

Now, Elias, it's time for you to stop existing. The black liquid began to move like a living creature, slithering across the ground toward Elias. He tried to pull back, but the chair held him captive. The first contact of the liquid on his feet felt like invisible claws tearing into his flesh. No. Let me out. Help.

Elias screamed, but the attendees remained motionless, their expressionless faces watching him. The silent laughter from before turned into an unsettling murmur, a salient. sinister melody that vibrated through his bones. The liquid crept up his legs, his torso, his neck. Elias kicked and fought, trying to swim, but it was useless. The liquid had an infinite weight, dragging him into a bottomless abyss. Every attempt to resist was agony, as if his very being was being torn apart. When the liquid finally consumed him entirely, there was absolute silence. Everything stopped. At the foot of the tree, a new gravestone emerged. Its inscription, carved and bleeding black letters, read, here lies Elias.

Not for what he lived, but for what he could never be. The wind blew softly, carrying away the last echo of Elias's name. The attendees vanished, the elder faded into the shadows, and the cemetery was empty once again, as though nothing had ever happened. Let me tell you a story, one that still haunts every one of us who live through it. Back in the summer of 2011, a group of us thought we were just going to spend a spooky night screwing around in the woods behind our town's public baseball field. You know the place. Every town's got one, a patch of woods rumored to be cursed or haunted or some other creepy

legend passed around for kicks. But the one we went to. This one had a real history. And it wasn't the kind people laughed about. People called at the entrance to hell. No joke. Everyone in town had heard stories, from old drunks at the gas station to kids daring each other on Reddit. Two girls had actually been raped and murdered back there in the 80s, brutal, awful stuff no one liked to talk about. That was the real part. The rest? Stuff about people hearing screams in the dead of night, hoofprints in the dirt that weren't from any animal we knew, snow melting the second it hit the ground in those woods, even in the dead of winter. And yeah, a graveyard sat right at the far edge, like the cherry on top of a cursed Sunday. So,

So yeah, like absolute dumbass, eight or nine of us decided to check it out around midnight. Classic horror setup, right? We parked by the field, climbed out, and crossed over the grass, whispering and joking nervously, trying not to admit we were already creeped out. We passed through two crumbling metal bleachers that everyone called the gates of hell. You couldn't make this stuff up. The second we stepped into the trees, everything just got, quiet. Too quiet. You know that kind of quiet where your own breathing sounds too loud.

That's what it felt like. Most of us stopped maybe 30 feet in. But my friends Malick and Peyton, those idiots kept going deeper into the dark like they were auditioning for a horror movie. The rest of us stood around trying to act tough, cracking jokes too loudly, nervously laughing way more than the situation deserved. Then, it happened. We all stopped talking at once. There was a sound, kids laughing. But not in a happy, playground kind of way. No, this was creepy, sneaky giggling.

Like someone spying on you, someone enjoying being just out of sight. It was close, too, way too close. Then out of nowhere, my buddy Damien screamed, whoa. Watch out, and just bolted. Like no hesitation, full on sprinted back toward the field. Not 30 seconds later, Malik and Peyton came crashing through the bushes behind us, white as ghosts. We didn't even ask questions, we just turned and ran. Once we were all back out on the grass, Damien started spilling everything.

He said a figure came out from behind the tree and just started walking straight at him. Like, not even running, just calmly stalking. Peyton and Malick were even worse. They said they heard heavy footsteps, saw two red red ones, glowing eyes in the dark, and felt this overwhelming dread. The kind that makes your legs forget how to move. They were all shaking, barely able to speak, and begging us to leave. I wanted to laugh.

Part of me really did think they were just hyping themselves up and imagining things. But, another part of me knew something was off. I wasn't about to walk back in there to prove a point. And good thing I didn't. Because the nightmare wasn't over. On the way home, Peyton suddenly grabbed his back and shouted that it was burning. We pulled over and lifted his shirt, and there they were, claw marks. Not little scratches.

Deep, bloody gashes all over his lower back, like something had raked its nails across his skin. Everyone in the car lost it. Damien, who was driving, suddenly gagged and slammed on the brakes. He stumbled out of the car and collapsed on the side of the road, choking in. spitting. The second car carrying the rest of our group kept driving, unaware of what was happening. Me, Sarah, Jake, and Payton ran to Damien's side. He was puking this thick, gray, paste like crap, like something from a horror movie. Then, he changed. His face twisted, and he started screaming, cursing in a voice that wasn't his. Loud. Violent. Non-stop filth spewing out of his

mouth like a machine gun. I swear it didn't even sound human. Then he lunged at Sarah. Jake and Payton tackled him, and Jake punched him right in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Danion dropped to the grass, wheezing, barely conscious. That's when Sarah screamed. We all looked down the road we'd come from, and the streetlight started flickering, like an old VHS tape glitching out. And in the middle of the road, we saw it. A figure. It wasn't walking. It was floating. Just gliding toward us, slow and steady. Black shadow, no features except. Two glowing red eyes. We didn't wait. Sarah and I sprinted back to the car. I jumped in the driver's seat and threw it into drive. Jake and Peyton shoved Damien into the

back, doors still half open, and I floored it. We tore off into the night, blowing power. passed a stop sign, tires screeching. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw those eyes getting closer. I nearly pissed myself. We made it to the emergency room, dumped Damien out at the ER doors, and scattered. Later that night, the second car, the one with Malik and the others, crashed. Everyone inside died. Every single one of them. Damien survived. Physically, anyway. But mentally, he was never the same again. He kept saying he heard voices in his head, saw shadows moving toward him at night. He'd wake up screaming, sweating bullets. In 2015, he killed himself. Payton joined a seminary, said he felt called. He's studying to be a priest now.

The rest of us? Still scarred. Still wondering what the hell has. happened that night in those woods. But the story doesn't end there. Let me tell you what happened to my dad back in the mid-80s. He was a trucker after leaving the military in the early 70s. Spent most of his time on the road, especially during the summer. He was driving south through Texas, somewhere along 281, when he pulled into a truck stop late one night. That's when he saw her. Young blonde woman, maybe early 20s. Pretty. wearing a tank top and cut off shorts, carrying a plate wrapped in foil like she just left a barbecue. Seemed normal enough. He went inside the shop, grabbed what he needed, and

came back to his truck. And there she was. Sitting in the passenger seat. The doors had been locked. My dad was careful like that. No broken windows. No busted locks. Just there. Sitting. Smiling. Holding that foil-covered plate. He told her to get out. No response. Just stared at him, holding the plate like it was precious.

He thought about dragging her out, but something felt, wrong. Off. Like if he touched her, something horrible would happen. So, against all reason, he started the truck and drove. A few miles down the road, he tried making small. talk. Asked her name. Still nothing. Dead silence. That's when it happened. He put his hand on her thigh. And in an instant, the pretty blonde turned into a monster. Her face melted into a grotesque mask, sunken eyes, black pits, razor-sharp fangs, and a long, snaking tongue.

She hissed, deep and guttural. The smell, like rotting flesh, filled the cab. And the plate. It started wriggling. Like something alive was under that foil. Worms. Slimy, wet, writhing worms. That's what he heard. My dad slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the truck, and ran.

He stood on the side of the road, gasping, praying, nearly crying. When he finally got the guts to look back. She was gone. The truck was empty. no sign of her. He never talked much about that night. But when I asked him years later, Dad, did that really happen? He just nodded. And then, there's me. The morning after Thanksgiving, 2016. I was 15. Sleeping at my dad's house. Top bunk, no ladder, just stairs. The kind of setup that made it hard to get out quickly. I woke up suddenly.

Check the time, 3.30 a.m. classic witching hour stuff. I chuckled, but then I heard something. A sound like meat being ripped from bone. I froze. It was coming from the corner of my room, between the bookcase and the TV. Not the hall. Not outside. Inside.

Chewing. Smacking. Grotesque, wet gnawing. I hid under the blanket, praying it was a draught. It wasn't. I was wide awake. I grabbed some needle-nose pliers I'd used earlier that day, only weapon I had. I didn't want to move.

Didn't want to use my flashlight. Didn't want to see what was making that noise. My brain went wild. Was my family being eaten downstairs? Was I next? Eventually, I decided to text my dad. Quiet. it. Stealthy. Told him to grab his gun. No reply. So I called. He answered, Groggy.

I whispered, check your phone. What? He said. Check your texts. Then I hung up. That's when the pressure in the room shifted. The sound got louder. Closer. Something brushed past the vase on the bookshelf. Then, one of the stairs creaked. It was climbing up. I was about to die. Then, bam. My bedroom light flipped on. My dad was in the doorway, gun drawn. The sound stopped instantly. Nothing on the stairs. Nothing there. I jumped out of bed sobbing, shaking, barely able to breathe. There was nothing under the stairs. Nothing behind the bookcase. But I know what I heard. To be continued. Don't open the door, a true tale of darkness.

It's kind of hard to tell a story like this. Not because I'm unsure of what happened, but because it still haunts me. Like, seriously, this stuff lives rent-free in my head. But hey, I guess it's time I got it all out. You can believe me or not. I really don't care. What I do care about is the fact that what I went through wasn't just in my head. It was real.

as real as the scratches I woke up with, as real as the screams we heard, and as real as the creepy face in the mist that still gives me chills every time I think about it. So, buckle up. This isn't just your run-of-the-mill ghost story. This is what happens when darkness walks in and makes itself at home. It all started with one simple thing, me waking up absolutely terrified in the middle of the night. No joke, I thought there was a cannibal in my room. Yeah, sounds nuts, I know. But I was dead serious at the time. My heart was beating out of my chest, and I was sweating like crazy.

I ran out of the room and found my dad, who looked like he just got hit by a train because of how early it was. He was like, what's going on, and I was trying to explain everything to him without having a full-blown panic attack. There's something in my room, I told him. Like, not a person, but something. It felt, wrong, he didn't get it. I mean, how could he? It was 4 a.m. and I was rambling about cannibals and spirits. Still, he made sure the alarm was on and said we'd go to my mom's place in the morning.

He didn't know what else to do. And honestly, that night wasn't even the worst of it. Let me rewind. This happened in the mid-1970s. I was only 11, a scrawny little girl who did. just wanted to play outside and watch cartoons. I lived with my parents, my younger sister, and three brothers. Every weekend, my parents would hang out with my aunt and uncle, play cards, drink some beer, and laugh their butts off in the dining room. My sister and I

shared a bedroom right off the dining room. We had bunk beds, she was on the bottom, I had the top. It was close enough that we could hear the grown-ups playing cards and yelling about who cheated. But here's where things started to get weird. See, my aunt's mom practiced black magic. Like legit witchcraft and demon worship. I didn't know this at the time. I just knew she always wore black, smelled like old herbs, and had eyes that made you feel like she was reading your soul.

My parents knew about it, but they never told us kids. Guess they didn't want to scare us. One weekend, my aunt announced she was pregnant. My sister and I were thrilled, we'd get to babysit. When the baby finally came, they named her Samara, not her real name, for obvious reasons. She was beautiful. I mean, really. Huge eyes, curly black hair, always smiling.

We loved her. Couldn't get enough of her. But then, things started to change. It began with the scratching. At first, it was just noises inside the walls. Like, maybe rats or something. But then it got louder. More intense.

And then we started waking up with scratches, on our arms, our legs, even my stomach and back. They burned like fire. My parents brought in exterminators, thinking we had a serious rat problem. But nothing helped. Then the knocking started. three knocks, always spaced out, always from different walls. The room started getting cold, like, so cold we could see our breath. In the middle of summer. With no AC. And then came the whispers. Whispers in the dark. Raspy growling noises, like something was crawling just

under the floor. My sister and I were terrified. We barely slept. We huddled together at night and waited for the sunrise. Meanwhile, my aunt started acting weird. Like, really weird. She would randomly growl or make strange sounds. She glared at people, even the baby. She wasn't the same woman we knew. She avoided everyone and started lashing out. One night, I woke up and saw the dining room light on. I thought maybe the adults were still playing cards. But when I peaked through the cracked door, the light flicked off. The room was empty. I thought I imagined it. Another night, I went to get water and heard whispering coming from the living room. Pitch black. As soon as I turned the kitchen light on, the voices stopped. It kept happening. Every night. Always whispers,

shadows, cold spots. No one believed us. Until that one night. Everyone in the house, woke up to someone pounding on the front door. My dad opened it, and my uncle fell into his arms, crying like a man possessed. All we heard was, she stabbed her. She stabbed the baby, turns out, my aunt had lost it. She stabbed Samara six times in the back. Six. Times. My uncle said it took six police officers, for neighbors, and him to bring her down. She was throwing people like they were made of paper. This was a woman barely over five feet tall. It made no sense.

Samara somehow survived. No one could explain it. She was in intensive care for two months and somehow made a full recovery. My aunt was committed to a mental hospital. And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn't. The night after my aunt was taken away, I woke up again. It was freezing.

I could see my breath, even under the blankets. The whispers were back. But this time, they weren't in our room, they were in the dining room, just outside the open door. And then I saw it. A dark mist, hovering just beyond the door. Inside the mist was a face, a man's face. Black hair, black mustache, a goatee. And the eyes, pure black.

and he was grinning. That smile still haunts me. I screamed so loud I thought my throat would rip. My sister woke up and screamed too. My parents and brothers ran in, flipped the light on, and the face vanished. That was the last straw. My parents started trying to figure out what the hell had happened. What had we led into our house? They traced it back to one thing, the baby blanket. The one my aunt made from the yarn given to her by her black magic practicing mom. They grabbed it, threw it in the trunk, and drove to the river. As they drove, the trunk flew open. My brother got out and shut it again.

Not long after, the brakes gave out. They had just been replaced. Still, they made it to the bridge. They doused the blanket in gasoline, lit it, and threw it off the edge. They swore they heard. multiple voices screaming as it burned. After that, the house changed. It was warmer, quieter.

No more scratches, whispers, or cold spots. My aunt and uncle divorced. She got custody of the baby, which still blows my mind. We haven't seen them in over 20 years. I hope they're okay. Years later, I found myself getting curious about the occult again. I was a teen, raised in a strict religious house. The Bible talked about demons, so I figured, if demons are real, then God must be real too, right?

So, I tried to summon one. I read books, drew symbols, lit candles, whispered names. Nothing happened. I stuck an iron nail through a clove of garlic and hid it in my closet. Still, nothing obvious. At first. But then, the nightmares came. The sleep paralysis.

The weird laughing I heard in the night. My bed moving. Sheets on the floor. And then came the night I threw my lamp across the room while sleeping. I dislocated my shoulder. Did it again a few nights later. Then again, even with a sling. I was spiraling.

My parents thought I was on drugs. I got diagnosed with depression. But I knew better. One night, I woke up and started growling at the moon. Like, full-on foaming at the mouth growling. I didn't feel human. I wasn't me. Then came the out-of-body experience.

I floated out of my body. Literally. I looked down at myself lying in bed. Then something grabbed me, violently shaking me. Like it was trying to rip me from my body completely. But it failed. I was slammed back into myself. I couldn't breathe.

I was being crushed. I heard the wood in my bed frame creaking under the pressure. I ran out of the house to my sister's place next door. Told her I saw a ghost. She let me stay the night. The next day, I went home, grabbed that garlic clove with the nail, it was black and rotten, and threw it against the stone wall outside. It exploded. No joke. It exploded. I burned everything I had, books, candles, symbols. I never slept in that room again.

And nothing ever happened after that. I don't know if I believe in God. But I do believe in evil. And if you open the door to it, it will walk in. So yeah. There's all. There's all. always a reason to be afraid. The end. We begin from the dawn of recorded history. Human beings have always had a strong attraction and great curiosity for the paranormal. This is clearly reflected in the 1920s, a time when paranormal circles began to form, gatherings in which discussions were held almost daily. You can find a long list of illustrious names who were part of these circles, participated in rituals, and even met on Friday nights with other distinguished men and women to play the Ouija board and experience what it meant to be

in direct contact with the paranormal world. At that time, an old myth also came back to life, the myth of exorcism. Today, what little we know about exorcisms is what Hollywood has chosen to show us through films like The Exorcist, Constantine, or the popular The Exorcism of Emily Rose, a movie released in 2005 that grossed many, many millions of dollars. We all know the plot and the ending. We all know the story of a girl who is possessed without having done anything at all, without ever having played with the world of spirits, who ultimately ends her struggle by dying, dragged to hell by the demons who possessed her body.

However, we have held on to that idea, onto that Hollywood-style idea, that idea of monsters, of demons. We've clung to that movie, to that story, and at no point have we looked at it as something real, something that could happen to anyone, something that could happen to any of us. So today I am here to present to you the real case, the case that was never brought to the big screen, the case that has nothing to do with the 2005 film, the case of Annalise Michel. A nightmare that not only tormented one family but an entire country.

A nightmare that reached the media and the courts. A nightmare that led two parents and several priests to spend six months in prison for involuntary manslaughter. And today, we are going to review what really happened. Before analyzing the case itself, we're going to examine the protagonist of the story, Annalise Michelle, a German girl born on September 21, 1952. Annalise was the daughter of Joseph and Anna, a Catholic and extremely conservative couple. Years before her birth, her mother had an illegitimate daughter who died at the age of eight. Because of this, she decided from then on to raise her children strict.

in the Catholic faith, Catholicism rooted in the atonement of sins through sacrifice. She wanted her children to live for and by the Lord, to live for and by religion, and to stay away from any possible sin. Everything, to her, was profoundly sinful, and therefore she wanted to raise her children based on that. Annalise grew up with that view of the world, of religion and of human existence. But even so, she had great academic potential. She had a remarkable capacity for learning and thus had excellent grades from a very young age. Her parents were convinced she would have a brilliant future, a good daughter, a good sister, a loyal friend, and an excellent student. On top of all this, little Annalise Michel was very healthy. She had never

suffered from any serious or concerning illness. She had never shown symptoms of any kind of disease. However, upon turning 16, she began to experience terrible convulsions. The seizures began on an ordinary night. She was sleeping peacefully, and upon waking, she found herself in impossible postures. Her arms were completely twisted, her neck was turned to one side and her body to the other. She would wake up with her legs and arms stiff, with neck pain and back pain. At first, she thought she might be sleepwalking, that exams were stressing her so much that perhaps these sudden movements were due to anxiety.

But as the nights went by, she went from simply waking up in such conditions to actually feeling the movements while asleep, realizing that her arms were moving on their own and that she couldn't stop them. She began spending entire nights with her eyes wide open, trying to restrain herself from moving. But it was useless, because she could feel an invisible force grabbing her arm and twisting it. At that time, she didn't believe it was anything paranormal. She didn't think it was something demonic.

She believed her faith, her deep worship, would keep her safe and protected from all evil. So she told her parents. She told them she might have a mental illness and begged them to take her to a doctor, to a specialist, a neurologist, someone who could help her, prescribe her some kind of medication. So her parents decided to take her to the psychiatric clinic in Würzburg, where the in-house neurologist performed a series of tests to determine what kind of issue she had. They firmly believed she was simply suffering from stress. However, the results didn't show stress, they showed epilepsy.

Grand Mal Epilepsy, which causes muscle rigidity, violent contractions, seizures, and sometimes even loss of consciousness due to the seizures. Unfortunately, this type of illness isn't treated with simple pills. It requires a long, difficult, and exhausting treatment for those who suffer from it. Annalise had to spend some time admitted to the hospital, trying to improve day by day. But improvement never came. So the doctors began modifying her dosage and even gave her psychotropic drugs, which only worsened her condition. The seizures became almost daily.

They no longer happened just at night, they occurred in broad daylight, right in front of her parents, who were completely helpless to do anything. The girl would begin to convulse, twist, and scream in person. pain. She could be talking to you calmly and suddenly know exactly when it would happen, when those invisible forces would grab her head and force her to look in another direction. She knew which of her arms would twist first. She knew which way her body would fall. She knew how and when it would happen. But it was no longer just physical attacks. She no longer only felt convulsions or jerks. Now she also saw faces. Now she also saw

blurry shadows at the end of the hallway. At first, these visions, these disturbing images, began when she prayed. During her daily prayers, her morning prayers. According to Annalisa's testimony, at first, they were sinister grimaces but with a mocking touch, faces that seemed to mock her in the dark. They were grimaces that became more pronounced at night, especially when she was alone. Faces that mocked her Christian faith. But that wasn't the worst The worst came when she closed her eyes. When she closed her eyes in the middle of the night to sleep, she would hear voices inside her head, a barrage of voices insulting her, telling her she was going straight to hell,

that her faith wouldn't save her, that her soul was condemned. From that moment, she began to believe, she reached the conclusion, that what she was suffering from was an epilepsy, but something else. Something much, much more serious. something that doctors couldn't explain, something they couldn't cure. She began to believe it was demons that were tormenting her. Demons that were keeping her sick. She told the doctors about her situation, shared her concerns, and told them she had begun

to believe she was possessed. But the doctors didn't believe her. They increased her medication and looked for other possible diseases from which she might be suffering. The doctors restudied her case, kept her isolated in the hospital, did more tests, asked her an endless list of questions, and all that only made things worse for Annalise. The visions became more intense, and the faces, the faces she said she saw every night, the faces that grimaced at her, became clearer and closer. From seeing shadows at the end of the hallway or in the corner of her room, she now saw them right next to her. She saw them all

around her. At any hour of the day, whether she was alone or with others, the shadows were there. The voices were there. The faces were everywhere. She had several episodes, several attacks, in front of the doctors. Seizures filled with convulsions. She even hit herself, screaming that she couldn't stop, that she couldn't prevent her hands from slapping her. That she couldn't stop her arms from moving. Again, the doctors didn't believe her. They were convinced she was self-harming for another reason, due to a mental illness they hadn't yet identified or understood.

In one of her episodes, I believe it was the third, five doctors had to restrain her. Despite their best efforts, despite holding her arms and legs, they couldn't stop her. They couldn't stop her self-harm. So they decided to prescribe her an anticonvulsant to prevent future seizures. but what happens with anticonvulsants is that they have a very dangerous side effect, the brain loses sodium. What does this mean? You lose your appetite. And losing appetite leads to weight loss. Because no food attracts you, no food stimulates your hunger. And we can clearly see this in some of the surviving images of Annalise Michel, after three years of struggle. Three years fighting a mental

illness no one could explain. An illness no one could treat. Anneli started seeing those black shadows, those grimacing faces next to her. She began to feel the touch of those shadows, to hear their voices whispering in her ear. They were no longer just in her head. They were no longer just in the hallway. Now they were right next to her, grabbing her hair, grabbing her neck, and forcing her to move. Forcing her to do things she didn't want to do. telling her that if she didn't do what they asked, what they demanded, they would kill her family and then kill her, dragging them all to hell. In 1973, Annalise asked her parents for help, telling them she was possessed by demons.

She was convinced that what she truly had was a demonic possession and that the only thing that could save her was the church, the church she so admired, the church she so deeply respected. So, in a desperate attempt to save their daughter, to help her, to heal her, her parents went to the church in Würzburg and asked the bishop for help. The church studied the case and reached a conclusion, the girl was not possessed. She didn't show signs of telekinesis. She didn't have poltergeist phenomena around her. She had to continue with her psychiatric treatment, because what the girl needed was medication, not God's help. From that point on, and Annalise's episodes worsened.

The physical injuries became more severe, not just those she caused herself, but also bruises and bite marks she couldn't possibly have inflicted on her own. Bites in places on her body she couldn't reach. In September of that same year, 1973, doctors prescribed Annalise parasyazine, which increased her convulsions. Instead of helping with the psychosis, it had the opposite effect. The voices, the shadows, and the... the faces intensified significantly. They became much more aggressive. Annalisa's condition

became unsustainable. She kept insisting, kept saying over and over that the demons were forcing her to do things. That if she didn't obey, she would feel pain, a pain that started in her stomach and spread to all her limbs. A physical pain. A mental pain. But even so, it didn't stop her from continuing her studies. During those times when she didn't feel presences, when she didn't suffer at tax, during those brief moments, she returned to class and resumed her studies. She took her exams, attended lectures, and even enrolled in the University of Würzburg. But her academic career was far from normal. To be continued. She even got into the University of Würzberg, but her academic career was not normal, because as soon as she entered,

mere presence of religious objects made her have fits of rage. She said that just seeing a crucifix made her tear ducks burn, that just hearing the word of God made her stomach turn. She said that the shadows and the voices, although they didn't attack her directly, although they didn't harm her, were there, they followed her wherever she went. She claimed to see those shadows wandering through the faculty hallways, to see them using her classmates' bodies from the inside, playing with her psychology, playing with her mind. There came a point when Annalise decided to take her own life, but that was not the first time she had tried.

Previously, when she was just 16, she had already attempted it several times because she said she was completely exhausted and convinced that, in the end, those demons would drag her to hell. Annalise's parents were deeply desperate, so they kept insisting to the Church of Wirtzburg, pleading for them to perform an exorcism on their daughter. They even managed to convince a pastor from the church to go directly to the bishop and ask for authorization to perform the exorcism, and the man did. He went directly to the bishop.

But once again, the request was denied, and the reasons remained the same. The girl did not display any of the essential characteristics to prove she was possessed. But there was another reason, the girl had a boyfriend, and that, for the Catholic Church, was unacceptable. What the bishop recommended to Annalise Michel was to recover her faith in God and return to the path of God, as maintaining a relationship with someone without having been married at the altar was something sinful, something that distanced her from the Christian faith. Remember the strange voices? Well, now those voices got worse.

Now, those voices began to attack her family, began to strike at her parents' weaknesses, revealing secrets that Annalise could not have known, secrets of her siblings, secrets of her parents, secrets tied to the life her parents had before she was born. She began to behave in an aggressive, almost animalistic way. She started walking on all fours, barking, growling, attacking her parents, biting, scratching, hitting. She refused to eat any kind of food because she said the demons living inside her didn't want her to, they didn't want her to be nourished.

They forced her to remain hungry. She would spend entire night screaming with her. without barely taking a breath, and from screaming so much, from straining so hard, she began spitting blood. When they put Annelies to bed at night, they would find her sleeping underneath the bed in the morning, on the floor. There were days when it was as if she wasn't herself, as if her true personality had flown out of her body, and she had become an animal, a reasoning less beast.

A monster! She would spend hours scratching coal, eating coal, and when she bit into it, when she bit into stones, even the bed frame, she broke her teeth. But she couldn't stop because her body wouldn't stop biting, wouldn't stop scratching, wouldn't stop tearing her nails trying to claw at the wall, the floor, the coal. She couldn't stop. She couldn't control her body. She attacked anyone who walked through the door wearing a crucifix around their neck. Annalise began urinating on herself and drinking her own urine. In her fits, she would smash her head against the wall, so many times that she broke her nose on several occasions. She pulled her hair out, tore up her

face. The year 1974 was a living nightmare for the Michel family, for the family and for the girl. Every time she regained consciousness, every time she became lucid again, she would see herself biting into coal or attacking one of her relatives. Every time she regained her senses, she would fall to the ground, kneeling, begging God to help her. She knelt so many times she ended up breaking her knees. Remember how I mentioned earlier that there were times she was able to return to university? Well, even those times became a nightmare, because she could no longer sense when the demons were going to act, when they would shake her body, when the shadows would appear.

She stopped feeling them because they were always with her. There are testimonies stating that, in the middle of class, Annalise would stand up and start screaming and asking her classmates for help, telling them that the shadows were surrounding her again, that they were going to attack her again, that they were going to hit her again. Her friends ended up distancing themselves from her because they were afraid, afraid something might happen to them. But the only person who stayed by her side was that boyfriend, the one for whom the church refused to perform an exorcism. That boyfriend, the reason Annalise was, on the path of sin. That relationship, which the church called sinful, was the only one that stood by her and believed her, when the church did not.

When everything got out of hand, when it became almost unstoppable, and I'm talking now about 1975, the church finally decided to begin the exorcisms. They admitted that what this girl was experiencing might really be a demonic possession. So the Bishop of Würzberg, Joseph Stangel, assigned two pastors to carry out the exorcism. But by then, Annalise was already exhibiting Xeneglossi, speaking in foreign languages. On some occasions, she had started levitating in her sleep and had thrown three men across the room with just a small push. The main basis for the exorcisms that were performed, because there was more than one, was the Roman ritual. Don't worry, all the information about the Roman ritual is right below in the description box.

However, something made the exorcisms even more difficult. Annalise claimed she wasn't possessed by just one demon, but by five. This is where the story gets the most surreal, those five demons were Nero, Judas, Hitler, Lucifer, and Fleishman. The first four need no explanation. But maybe we should clarify who Fleischman was. If I recall correctly, Fleischman was a 15th century pastor from the same church Annalise belonged to. He was excommunicated for being a corrupt, woman I was. violent, and alcoholic priest. This is surreal, considering that Annalise knew who these people were

since early childhood. However, what was strange was the Austro-Hungarian accent she spoke with whenever a guttural voice came out of her throat, an accent that seemed to come from the voice of the demon who claimed to be Hitler. According to testimony, Annalise had never been in contact with anyone who had that accent. For every exorcism, the priests decided to record an audio tape as evidence to prove that Annalise was truly possessed. They ended up recording a total of 42 tapes, recordings of the voices Annalise exhibited, of the moments when she lost consciousness, but also when she regained it. Moments of absolute chaos, of pure terror. Moments when Annalise stopped being herself and became a real monster. She had always had

a rich vocabulary because she was a very cultured, very studious girl. But when her voice changed, so did her personality. From September 1975 to July 1976, Annalise underwent one or two exorcisms every week, exorcisms that instead of bringing something positive, only brought more negativity. The whole family began to see shadows, figures, and people, vivid, visible people, walking around the house. At a certain time in the early morning, they would hear 14 knocks, 14 knocks with no clear source, but they weren't coming from Annalise. Disembodied laughter and voices speaking in dead languages. Annalise's attacks grew more and more aggressive.

It became harder and harder to restrain her. One day, when she regained consciousness during an attack, she asked her family to chain her to the bed so that the next time she lost consciousness, she wouldn't be able to move or hurt anyone. But when she lost her mind again, she was able to break those chains. gains and attack everyone. There were days when she spent hours barking like a dog, just like Janet Hodgson in the Enfield Poultergeist case. She began to suffer from necrosis, malnutrition, intestinal diseases, all the result of poor diet, eating coal, drinking her own

urine, eating the blood of animals she herself killed and devoured, eating insects. She had bald patches all over her scalp from tearing her hair out completely during fits of rage. Because of her poor physical and psychological condition, the exorcisms grew longer. In the last two years of her life, exorcisms were performed every day of the week. When they were performed, the windows would rattle, and the crucifixes used in the rituals would be thrown across the room. Eventually, the situation became so violent and painful that her parents had to be removed from the room during exorcisms because they would have anxiety attacks and couldn't

bear to see their daughter in that state. When she came back to her senses, she said she had visions, and one of those visions was of her liberation, the day the demons would leave her body forever. She said that day would be July 1, 1976. She said everything would end that day. And indeed, on the night of June 30th, Annalise was in a terrible state. She had anemia, a high fever, and barely weighed 30 kilograms. That night, she was completely emaciated and could barely kneel or pray as she had done

so many times before in her moments of crisis. She couldn't do anything, she couldn't move, she was bed bound, with breathing difficulties and all sorts of complications. That night, Annalise asked for absolution of her sins. She asked for confession and said goodbye to her parents, telling them she couldn't go on anymore, that she didn't have the strength for anything, but that at the same time, she was very afraid, because she didn't know what would happen to her next. She was convinced that the demons were right. She was convinced she was going straight to hell. That night, Annalise

closed her eyes, and on the morning of July 1st, she never opened them again. Authorities took the body and a legal investigation quickly began. The prosecution accused the parents and the priests of involuntary manslaughter, and everything revolved around two questions, what caused Annalise Michelle's death? And who was responsible? The autopsy determined that if Annalise had been fed the day before, she would still be alive. But her sister defended the parents, arguing that Annalise refused to eat, that she chose to fight this battle herself, and chose not to eat so as not to feed the demons inside her.

The exorcists, for their part, tried to prove that these exorcisms were performed. within the church's guidelines, that the exorcisms were real, and that Annalise really was possessed. The evidence they presented to the judge were the 42 audio recordings made during the exorcisms, tapes in which Annalise is heard speaking in dead languages, in which multiple voices spoke simultaneously, arguing with each other about who would leave her body first. It was a polyphony of voices, all coming from the same girl, the same throat. But the exorcists did not win the trial. Neither did the family of Annalise Michel. The trial was won by the doctors, who proved that what Annalise suffered from was likely a frontal lobe disorder, possibly caused by

one of the many episodes where she smashed her head against the wall. That brain injury exacerbated her psychosis. The jury and judge ruled that the case of Annalise Michel was the result of doctrinal indoctrination, the product of an excessively Catholic and conservative upbringing. The jury believed her family, friends, and environment made her believe from the beginning that she was possessed, and so, she came to believe it herself. But that doesn't explain the glossolalia, the polyphony, the levitation, the poltergeist events, or how she knew family's secrets she shouldn't have known or had access to. Her parents and the exorcists were sentenced to six months in prison with probation.

After that, a commission from the German Episcopal conference concluded that Annalise Michel had not been possessed, and the case was covered up. From that moment on, the Vatican took full control over all cases of possession and exorcism, and over anyone who claimed to see or feel paranormal entities. And from that point forward, Germany had no more exorcists, and even today, there is no Vatican authorized exorcist in Germany. And therefore, if not authorized by the Vatican, it's not a real exorcist. Many experts in the field, experts in parapsychology, claimed that what Annalise Michel suffered from was advanced schizophrenia, a poorly understood, severely mistreated mental disorder. However, if we analyze Annalise Michelle's

own testimonies, we find that she never contradicted herself. She always described the attacks and episodes in the same way. She always maintained the same ideas, the same situations. She always repeated the same things over and over again, and she didn't contradict herself at all. On the other hand, we must point out that this was not the only death caused by an exorcism caused by alleged possession. If we search a little online, we can find a large number of articles detailing deaths, and incredibly extensive lists of countless people who died due to demonic possession and exorcisms performed to free them from these entities.

The end. I found the listing online. Cheap rent, fully furnished, and close to work. It almost seemed too good to be true. The landlord, Mr. Thompson, was an older man who barely looked at me as I signed the lease. It's a quiet place, he said. Not many tenants. You'll like it, I moved in on a Friday.

The apartment was small but cozy, two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living room with an outdated TV. By Saturday morning, I'd already met her. Her name was Emily. She was sitting on the couch when I woke up, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. Morning, she said, smiling. You must be the new tenant. She seemed nice. Friendly, but not overbearing.

We talked a little, nothing too personal. She told me she'd been living there a while and that the landlord rarely checked in. We fell into an easy routine, coffee in the mornings, TV in the evenings. It felt like I had lucked out with a great roommate. Until I mentioned her to the landlord. It was a week later. He had stopped by to drop off some paperwork and asked if everything was all right. I casually brought her up, saying how nice it was to have

a good roommate. He frowned. You're the only one on the lease. I let out a small laugh. Yeah, but Emily's been here for a while, right? His face didn't change. No one's lived there for months, a cold, creeping feeling spread through my chest. That's not possible. I talked to her every day. He gave me a strange look. Are you sure? I almost asked him to come inside, to see for himself. But when I turned toward the apartment, the blinds were shut. The living room light was off. I suddenly felt foolish. Never mind, I muttered.

I must have misunderstood, he nodded slowly, then left. I locked the door behind him and turned to the couch. Emily wasn't there. But her coffee cup was. Half full, steam still rising. I spent the rest of the afternoon convincing myself that I wasn't crazy. There had to be an explanation. Maybe she wasn't on the lease, but still lived here.

Maybe she was a former tenant who never really left. Or maybe Mr. Thompson was just forgetful. That night, I sat on the couch, waiting for her to come back. The apartment was silent, the air thick with something I couldn't quite name. I checked my phone, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract myself. Then, the bathroom door creaked open. I jumped. Emily stepped out, rubbing her hands on a towel.

You okay? she asked. I hesitated. Where were you earlier? She frowned. What do you mean? I swallowed hard. When the landlord came by. You weren't here, she tilted her head. I was in my room, her room. The second bedroom. I had never gone in there. Something about it felt off. Like it wasn't really meant to be mine. Look, she said, sitting next to me. I know this place is a little weird. But you'll get used to it, used to what? She smiled, but there was something hollow about it. Sharing, a shiver ran down my spine. I tried to shake it off, but when I glanced down at the coffee table, her cup was gone. I never saw her move it. I couldn't sleep. I lay awake, staring at my ceiling, listening.

The apartment was too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Then, a soft knock. I sat up, heart pounding. It came from the second bedroom. I wasn't going to answer it. But my feet moved before I could stop them. I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the door. Silence.

I knocked once. Emily, nothing. I turned the knob. The door swung open. The room was empty. No bed. No furniture. Just a bare mattress on the floor, covered in dust.

The air was thick, stale, like no one had stepped inside for years. I backed away slowly, but as I did, I caught something in the corner of my eye. A coffee cup. Sitting in the middle of the floor. Emily's coffee cup. Then, the door slammed shut. And behind me, someone whispered my name. I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.

My back hit the door as I pressed myself against it, heart hammering against my ribs. The room was empty. But I wasn't alone. I could feel it, something just beyond my line of sight. The air was thick, heavy with a presence I couldn't explain. My breathing came fast and shallow as I reached for the doorknob behind me. My fingers fumbled, slipping against the cold metal. Then, the whisper came again.

Right next to my ear. Why did you open the door? I shoved my way out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My hands trembled as I locked it, as if that could somehow keep whatever was inside from getting out. I stumbled back into the living room, gasping for air. My gaze landed on the couch, on the spot where Emily always sat. It was empty now, but the impression of her body was still there, like someone had been sitting only moments ago.

I turned on every light in the apartment. Then, I did the one thing I had been avoiding since the landlord's visit. I grabbed my phone and started searching. There wasn't much. The apartment complex wasn't exactly famous, just an old building that had been through several owners. But then I found it, an old newspaper article from over a decade ago. A woman had died here. Her name was Emily.

I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting into knots. The article was brief, just a small blurb in the crime section. Emily Graves, 26, was found dead in her apartment after neighbors reported a foul odor. Authorities ruled at a tragic accident, though details remained unclear. I shut my phone off. My whole body was shaking. I wasn't crazy. Emily was real.

But she wasn't alive. I needed to leave. Now. I grabbed my keys and bolted for the front door. My hands fumbled with the lock, my pulse pounding in my ears. But just as I twisted the knob, the TV turned on. Static filled the apartment, hissing and crackling. The screen flickered, shadows dancing across the walls.

And there, in the reflection of the darkened screen, Emily. She stood behind me, her head tilted, her eyes dark and hollow. Why are you leaving? She whispered. My scream caught in my throat. The lights flickered. The air grew thick and cold. Then, the TV shut off. And she was gone.

The eyes of Rallura, short story by Ryan Melrose, an ancestor's secret past I, My father had just died I thought to myself as I left the funeral. Why would I think this to myself? I find those who have lost a loved one may understand there are those moments before a funeral where you think this is all just a dream. You think, Oh, I am going to wake up and he'd still be there in his study looking at his old hieroglyphics he discovered during his days as an archaeologist and professor.

As for me, I was never interested I had my own ideas wanting to be a policeman. Looking back now I should have listened to my father if I had, I may have stopped this journey right here and now before I discovered what it is that I am about to. It is 2002 and my father has been dead a week the funeral was hard to process. A bunch of people there I never knew people who knew my father professionally. They had come to pay their respects, I could not deny them. I was then approached by an elderly gentleman by the name of Professor Samuel Godwin. He offered his condolences and asked me of my father's research they were discussing it the same

day he died. Hard to believe a man screaming in terror repeating the same gibberish repeatedly before dying of a fatal heart attack and having a sane conversation with a colleague only hours before. If I did not know any better, I would have said he was scared to death. Professor Samuel Godwin asked me if he could have my father's research. I agreed to let him have it. I had no use for it. I did study archaeology and dad often told me about his research. It seemed very dark according to him.

It was enough to scare me away from his line of work. Mythology, gods that could destroy civilizations gave me nightmares as a child. In the end, they were just children's stories. As I looked through my father's research, I found that what he was researching was far more terrifying than I thought, for it was more than just a mere discovery it was connected to my family my ancestor Jedediah died November 17, 1866 in an insane asylum he too screamed gibberish and died from a fatal heart attack. As I continued going through my dad's papers, all I could think was how glad I would be to get rid of it. Why would my father research something involving an ancient relative what was he trying to prove?

I then found something, something I have not seen before an old journal by my ancestor Jedediah. This journal had everything from when he and his wife Elizabeth settled in a Colorado mining town, in 1862 called Minaton Right between Cheyenne and Arapaho. According to Jedediah, it was quite a wealthy town gold and silver where mined every day there was plenty of work to go around. It was a beautiful community. Could you imagine life back then mining for gold and silver acquiring real value that never drops and having fires and camp songs every night with a beer in your hand? Would have been a great life unlike the stressful rushed life in the big cities today

working for paper money that loses value every time the governments decide. As I read further, I found the good times were not to last as Minaton was stuck in the crossfire of the Colorado War in 1864 the Cheyenne Nation and Arapaho Nation were at war. For the most part, Minotan seemed to stay out of the war until the retaliation of the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864. In early 1865, Minotan was attacked by a lying Native American tribes the men including Jedediah stayed to defend to buy time for the women and children to escape. A lot of men died that day it was another massacre. Minotan had nothing to do with what happened at Sand Creek, but that did not stop the Native American act out their fury.

Of course, did not stop men like Jedediah from fighting for the place he called home or his pregnant wife. If she had not escaped, I never would have been born. As I read on Jedediah explained how his fellow countrymen were dying like flies sure he had the better weaponry, however the Native Americans had the numbers and a common goal. Soon Jedediah was the last man standing he lured the Native Americans into the mountain mine where a trap was set should the mine fall into the hands of a hostile enemy. As they followed my ancestor in, Jedediah lit a fuse blew the whole mine and those Native Americans to kingdom come his words not mine. He too was trapped, but alive. The next thing he remembered was being in a tunnel with water running

along it. The tunnel was not something he or the other town's people had mined he looked up, found a big hole in the ceiling most likely where he came from he began walking at there seemed to be a faint light source. Not very bright in the distance but enough that Jedediah could see. He had found some hieroglyphics, I guess, when he was found he had managed to scribble some I recognized them for my father had photographs of the same hieroglyphics in his research. Could it be he went to Minaton and found that tunnel he never said anything? I had to read on. These are his words.

As I walked down this mysterious tunnel, I realized this may have been here for centuries the texture was smooth crafted by a master craftsman I believe this will stand until the end of time. Still I feared I should not be there. I felt fear the darkness around me. It is overwhelming I think I would rather be fighting Indians than have been trapped in that place. After the things I saw next, I can tell you I was right. Forget what these doctors try to tell me I saw what I saw down there.

Those moments are as real as my final moments now. I will not be able to hold back the horror of what I saw much longer now soon. It will overcome me and my life will end. My only hope is that my story will warn someone before someone else goes looking for it. I kept walking the tunnel the further I walked it was like a living present. was all around watching me as I looked around, I was all alone. I cannot tell you how long I was down there wandering could have been weeks for all I knew. Suddenly I heard something a voice at first, I was relieved.

I thought maybe someone else was down here they could show me the way home. However, the more I heard the voice, the more it terrified me I couldn't understand the words, H-S-H-H-T-S-G-Kvalh-H-H-T-S-G-H-H-H-T-S-H-H-T-S-H-H-T-S-H-H-H-T-E, even the voice didn't sound right it was foul just like the energy in the air. I did not want to go on why I went on I cannot say for sure I do not know if it was by my will or by the will of someone or something else. I then found myself what looked to be another world, a dark world beyond the tunnel a civilization hidden under our world. I could hardly comprehend it. I honestly thought I had died and gone to hell it was dark and terrifying, but interesting I began moving about the city. The buildings were old like the Mayan civilization, but not quite the same.

As I ventured further Elle heard that same voice again repeating that very same chant. S-H-T-S-H-T-S-G Cavalhaha Rollur at J. This time it was much louder. I looked around my gun drawn I looked up above I could not see any rock what I saw terrified me more a night sky and a moon. Am I out of the cave or have I truly ventured into another world? At that moment I accepted the truth I was going to die in this place there was no going home. This was the price I would have to pay for the men and women I killed today. Suited me fine knowing my wife and soon to be born child would survive. First time I smiled in days I decided to enjoy the mom.

moment, I sat by lighted lamp and smoked my last cigarettes. Suddenly I was startled by a figure in the distance. It was pitch black and wavy. I opened fired. It looked like the bullet passed through it. It seemed to fly away into the darkness once it came. Suddenly an agonizing pain came over me for my ears. It was that voice again, but louder could make anyone deaf. I crunched up like a bug and covering my ears as hard as I could I then came to a terrifying realization. I could still hear that voice loud and clear even with the hands covering my ears. it was then I realized that voice was in my mind tormenting me. What do you want from me? I yelled. Suddenly I hear a loud screech sound like the ones my mother used to say came from

scary monsters in the stories she used to tell me as a kid. I got to my feet and some sort of monster was running at me. It had like a bat-faced long hair, a pale human body. It almost glowed in the dark. All I could do was shoot at it. I fired two shots and killed the creature. At least I think I did I was running in the other direction. The place was hard to make out in the darkness even with the torch I took from what looked to be catacombs. I followed it through there was nowhere else to go I saw what looked to be human skeletons. Either that or maybe that creature may have been human once this might be what happens to humans if they are down here too long. I had no time to question I just kept running hoping to finally reach the end of this

journey. Eventually I made it to the other side. I could see more of this world, more of this ancient looking city, I could see what looked like mountains stretching all over you cannot see the end. I decided to go for it I would follow the mountain path and take my chances out. Maybe I will find another tunnel leading me home. I walked cautiously but did not see any more creatures. I did not understand this was the opening I would have thought there would have been creatures lying in wait. Or maybe the creatures in a city if they were once human like me never made it this far. This place is like a maze.

Still I felt that something was guiding me to this place guiding me to wherever I am going now. The higher I climbed only seeing more mountain and that almost pitch black sky. I began to wonder if there was any end to it. Still I pushed forward even though I wanted to drop something kept me going. If I only knew what that something was, I may have turned back and let those humanoid bat-head creatures eat me alive. For what happened next would change me forever as I came across a structure at the top of the mountain it was like an ancient shrine I walked through to the outside balcony.

I could not see anything just the moon on a dark sky reflecting above a black seemingly endless, motionless ocean. I stared out for a while I could not believe I was trapped in this god-forsaken world. Suddenly I fell to my knees again, that voice, that pure evil voice entered my head again chanting this time saying words I just can't pronounce. Ch-K-K-K-K-Rolura-Jed-Tha. Repeatedly, repeatedly I heard this every time faster and faster it was maddening. Then the moon faded away into darkness like an ice slowly closing. I felt a chill which was weird because there was no wind. I saw what seemed to be a storm cloud. I was terrified it was moving fast and getting bigger. The cloud seemed to be

touching the water. I could hear what sounded like movement in the water something big, huge. As the cloud got closer, I soon realized this was no cloud. It was a monster. I saw its legs. They were like a spiders, and there were four it had a human-like body and a lion's main hair. Its face I was the stuff of nightmares, bright leering eyes, huge fangs a y, shaped marked down the left side of the face. I was frozen stiff with fear as I stared at this entity of darkness, it stared back at me for what seemed to be in eternity. Suddenly it came for me charged at me I could not do anything I could not even scream I was so terrified I blacked out. When I finally came to, I was in a town emergency ward. Apparently, I was found at

top of the rubble closing off the mine entrance from the explosion I caused. Now that you know my tale I must remind you whether you're my future descendant or someone who finds this journal I must ask don't go looking for that tunnel or the creature I have come to know as Rallura. A cosmic horror story. These eyes will deceive you. They will destroy you. They will take your innocence, your pride, and, in the end, your soul. These aren't eyes like yours or mine. Behind these eyes is nothing but pitch black. Not darkness. Not shadow. Just, absence. No light ever lived there. These are the eyes of someone who was never really here. Someone who came into this world wired all wrong. All right, buckle up. What I'm about to share is long, really long, and it's not going to be easy to digest.

I'm not writing this for attention or sympathy. I'm writing it because my therapist said I should try putting it all out into words. Not to post it, of course. That part is my own decision. But I've been carrying this for so damn long, I just need to let it out, and maybe, just maybe, hear what other people think. Because after all these years, I still don't know what the hell to make of it. I know I made mistakes. Probably a lot of them. But I swear to God, I was trying my

best. I didn't ask for this. None of US did. And yet, my son, God, where do I even begin, was not like other kids. He was off. From the very first. first day. Ever seen the movie we need to talk about Kevin? If you have, you might understand where I'm coming from. Watching that movie was like watching surveillance footage of my own life. The only difference is, in the film, the dad is blind to it all while the mom sees the real horror. In our case, there was no illusion. Everyone saw it. He didn't wear a mask. He didn't even try to pretend to be normal. We tried for a long time to have a baby. When he was born, we were over the moon. He was so wanted, so loved. We brought him home with stars in our eyes, ready to give him

the world. But that joy was short-lived. From the moment he arrived, he seemed unhappy. No, miserable. That kid cried for 13 straight months. Not kidding. 13. 13. months non-stop he cried until he was hoarse literally no sound would come out just his face all scrunched up veins bulging breath hitching and still crying sometimes in his sleep like he never turned off we tried everything doctors specialists different formulas changing his environment music swathe bottles, warm baths. Nothing worked. It was like he was angry to be alive. And when he finally stopped crying, we thought we'd made it out of the tunnel. But we hadn't. That was just the start. As soon as he could walk, he started breaking things. Not out of curiosity like normal kids. Out of hate. Destruction was his default. Toys, remote controls, furniture, dishes, Anything he could get his hands on, he tried to ruin.

He'd throw stuff in the toilet, tear up books, bite into electronics. Then came the pissing. Once he figured out how to take off his diaper, it became a game to him. He'd pee in corners, on furniture, in our shoes. Then he leveled up. Started hiding it, like a cat that wanted to mark its territory but wanted us to suffer finding it. By age two and a half, he had moved on. to defecating in places he knew would upset us most. In the middle of the hallway, behind

furniture, even in our bed. That's when we started realizing this wasn't normal. And it never got better. As he got older, it just escalated. Kicking, biting, scratching, spitting. He'd scream like a banshee if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. He got expelled from two schools before the age of nine. Finally, the school system gave up and stuck him in a special class, away from other kids. We had to lock the kitchen. Literally, build a door with a deadbolt, because he kept stealing knives. And not for fun. He'd stab furniture. Stabbed the walls. Once, he tried to stab the dog. When he was ten, he got me good. I still have the scars, on my hip and upper thigh.

He stabbed me with a steak knife while I was sleeping. Yeah, sleeping. And if that wasn't enough, he moved on to fire. Fires in the backyard, in the garage, once even in his own room. And he went after animals too, neighborhood cats, squirrels, a rabbit once. It was gruesome. I won't even describe it. Yes, before you ask, we got him help.

Psychiatrists Therapists Medications Nothing worked Nodda The therapists would nod and take notes But after a few months They'd all say the same thing

He's not responding to treatment They gave up He was like this angry, toxic cloud that lived in our home Always on the verge of erupting And then, when he turned 16 My wife got pregnant again And we panicked That might sound awful to say about your own unborn child, but we weren't celebrating this time.

We were terrified. Another kid? What if it happened again? What if we had to go through all that from the start, but doubled? We talked about everything. Termination. Adoption Keeping the baby and hoping for the best.

In the end, my wife couldn't go through with terminating. And so we braced ourselves. And then, the most insane thing happened, our daughter was born, and she was normal. She cried, yeah, but not endlessly. She nursed without biting. She smiled. She giggled. She slept through the night by month four.

She was the kind of baby you imagine when you dream of being a parent. And for the first time, we saw what life should have been like. It was like someone had taken off a blindfold, and I think that's when I started pulling away from my son, not intentionally, not out of hate, but because I finally saw what love could feel like when it wasn't poisoned by fear and exhaustion. Our daughter was Joy incarnate. My wife and I were like new people around her, and my son, he noticed. He didn't say anything, but he noticed.

and he hated her for it. He started acting out more, screaming, slamming doors, disappearing for hours or overnight. At first, I was angry. Then I started to feel relieved when he wasn't home. We fought constantly, full-blown shouting matches that ended with him storming off. I started to prefer the fights. At least they got him out of the house. My wife was even worse. She couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. If he entered, she'd just start yelling, telling him to get out, to leave her alone. She was done. After everything we'd gone through, she had nothing left to give. So, he stayed away more and more. And we let him. We didn't ask questions. We were just glad for the silence. We had locks on every room. Heavy-duty doors

with thick bolts. We carried keys around like jailers. Not because we were locking him in, but because we were locking himself away from him. He had free rein in the house. We didn't. We were prisoners. Then came that day. We had a fight in the morning, the usual blow-up. He stormed out. We were sitting in the kitchen, enjoying the rare calm, while our daughter napped in our bedroom. And then, we heard her crying. Now, if you're a parent, you know your child's cries. There's a tired cry. A hungry cry.

A startled cry. This wasn't any of those. This was a scream. A blood-curdling scream that shot straight through me like an electric current. We ran. We ran like we were being chased. When we reached the hallway, we saw him. standing outside the door our bedroom door he was holding something i couldn't see it clearly but i didn't need to his face said everything that grin that sick sick grin my wife screamed i tackled him i don't even remember all of it it's like flashes his fists my hands around his shirt my wife screamed my wife screamed my wife

wife grabbing our daughter and locking herself in the bathroom. Me and him, fighting like animals. There was blood. There was shouting. Furniture got broken. Eventually, I got him out. Out of the house. I locked the door.

Called the police. Told them everything. They came. Took statements. They found weapons in his room. Journal entries. dark shit things i won't even repeat here he was taken away he's been in a facility ever since our daughter is ten now she's happy funny a little weirdo in the best way loves painting her face like a tiger tells jokes she doesn't understand we love her more than anything but there's always that shadow i still think about my son I wonder what he thinks about, if he feels anything, if he regrets any of it, or if he's just as empty as those eyes always suggested.

These eyes, they never saw the world the way we do, and they never will. They say babies cry differently depending on what they need, hunger, discomfort, just wanting to be held. If you've had a baby, you know that's true. The tones are different, subtle but distinct. My wife and I had learned to tell them apart. We were both attentive, loving, careful. But that night, that cry was none of those cries. It was pure, raw terror.

The second it hit our ears, we were both on our feet, out of our chairs and sprinting toward the baby's room. The door was locked. It had never been locked before. My hands were shaking as I fumbled for the right key. It felt like ours, but it must have been seconds. The door finally gave way, and what we saw inside still wakes me up some nights. Our son, our son, was standing over our infant daughter's crib with a steak knife in his hand.

That knife wasn't one of ours. We kept them locked up after an earlier incident, always accounted for, always locked. My guess is he took it from a neighbor's house. He'd already cut her. Twice. Once on her belly and once on her tiny arm. There was blood. Not a lot, but any blood from your baby feels like too much. And in that moment, as I stood frozen in the doorway, he was dragging the flat side of the knife down her cheek. He wasn't cutting her, just, playing with her, taunting her. And she was screaming. He looked up at us and smiled.

That smile, it didn't belong on any human face. I still don't know what took over me, but I moved. Instinct, I guess. Get between them. Protect her. But my wife beat me to it. She didn't hesitate. She slammed his hand away, sent the knife flying, and then she shoved him, hard.

He hit the wall and slid down to the floor. I scooped up our daughter, held her close while my wife checked her over. She was shaking so hard I thought she must. might collapse. The smell of the room, the metallic tang of blood, the sharp sweat of fear, burned into my senses. Our baby kept screaming, and our son just stood there, blank. No emotion. No remorse. Nothing. He looked like a stranger. No, he looked like a thing. Like an alien pretending to be our son. I saw my wife take a step toward him. I could have stopped her. Should have maybe, but I didn't. Another step. Closer. Still, I did nothing. You might be picturing my wife as fragile or delicate. She isn't. Never was. She's small, sure, but she's a fighter, literally. She grew up boxing. Karate, two. Before MMA was a thing, she was already throwing punches and winning trophies.

She's strong. Stronger than me, even. Back then I outweighed her by 70 pounds, but in a real fight. She'd drop me in a heartbeat. She'd never hit our son before. Never touched him in anger. But something broke in her that night. Years of stress, sadness, frustration, it all exploded.

Her first punch snapped his head back. Blood gushed from his nose. He looked shocked. Not hurt, just, confused. Like he couldn't process that his mom had hit him. She gave him a second to catch up. Then she hit him again. I could have stopped her.

I didn't. I just stood there and watched. She laid into him. Over and over. He tried to protect himself, but she just hit somewhere else. Face, ribs, stomach, again and again. again. He screamed, begged, cried, cursed, called her every foul name in the book. Threatened her, told her he'd cut her head off and do worse things to her body. But she didn't stop.

He tried to hit back. She dodged easily, didn't even flinch. It was like watching someone possessed. She was all muscle memory and fury, years of training channeled into every blow. After a minute or so, I just turned away, took our daughter to the kitchen, bathed her in the sink, found another cut, this one on her foot, cleaned her up, wrapped her in a towel, held her until she stopped crying. I could still hear him screaming in the bedroom. Fretz turned to sobs. Eventually, he stopped making sense. Then he stopped making any sound. But the beating went on. Rhythmic. Relentless. Eventually, my wife walked into the kitchen. Her hands were red and swollen. Blood spattered across her arms and face. She sat down across from me, breathing hard. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Finally, I asked her, is he dead? She looked me right in the eye. I hope so, I nodded. What else could I say? I felt the same way. She went to shower. I stayed in the kitchen, holding our daughter, who had finally fallen asleep. After a while, I heard groaning from the bedroom.

He wasn't dead. I checked on him. He was wrecked. Bleeding everywhere. Nose flattened, both eyes swollen shut and already blackening. Fingers bent in ways fingers shouldn't bend. He'd pissed himself. Might have lost teeth, too.

Hard to say. His lips were huge and purple. Later, my wife told me she had worked him over, deliberately, methodically. Focused on his chest to knock the wind out of him. Kicked him in the groin until her leg got tired. Kept hitting him long after he passed out. When she came out of the shower, I still didn't know what to do. Call the cops.

An ambulance? Take him to the hospital. I just didn't care anymore. Neither did she. There was a little sweet in the basement. Separate entrance, small kitchenette, a washroom. We moved down there. Locked ourselves in.

Gave the top floor to him. Blocked it off. We didn't say anything to him. We were done. He had enough food for a while, couple weeks worth of canned stuff, dry goods. We figured, let him run. out and see what happens. Over the next week, we heard him moving around above us. Maybe just

resting, healing. I went to work like normal, always alert in case he jumped me outside. He never did. My wife stayed home, wouldn't let our daughter out of her sight for a second. One night he lost it, smashing things, yelling, breaking stuff all over the upstairs. We didn't go up. We didn't even acknowledge it. And weirdly, he never came downstairs. I think he was afraid of my wife now. Afraid she'd finish what she started. Three weeks later, silence. No sound from upstairs. I went to check. He was gone. The place was destroyed. Holes in the walls, food smeared on everything, glass everywhere. He'd emptied a fire extinguisher in the living room and even ripped up. the floor. But he was gone. Just, gone. We never saw him again. We spent months fixing the house.

I was always scared he'd come back. Jump me from the shadows. Hurt my wife. Hurt our daughter. But he never did. Three years later, we moved. Changed cities. Changed our names. We disappeared. And finally, finally, I stopped being afraid. All this happened a long time ago. My son was born in 1971. My daughter came in 1988. I'm turning 70 this year. My wife passed away in 2016, cancer.

My daughter's grown now, with two daughters of her own. I live with them. I go to therapy a couple times a month. Talk through everything. try to make sense of it all try to forgive myself i haven't seen my son since that night haven't heard from him don't know where he went i assume he's still out there somewhere but i hope not i didn't kill him but i let it happen i let my wife beat him within an inch of his life i thought he deserved it maybe he did but that doesn't make it right Still, I hope, genuinely hope, he found a way to get better. Found peace. Built a life.

If he didn't, if he kept being what he was, then I hope someone out there put him down for good. There's always a reason to be afraid. Always. But now, I look at my granddaughters and I try to be brave. Try to be a better man. Try to leave the fear behind. The past is heavy. But at least I'm still here.

The end. At dawn on May 22, 1890, a body was found dead, with a bullet lodged in its skull, a bullet from a revolver, the same revolver that lay on the floor, soaked in a pool of blood. It was undoubtedly a suicide. As a police officer, I've grown accustomed to such strange events, but this one I'll never forget. This is because of the letter that was drowning in its author's blood. Usually, in such letters, people thank their loved ones or blame others. for their current state, but in this case, things were different.

I do not believe in God, and I cannot accept that this man wrote the truth, only a madman could have, and nothing more. But for some inexplicable reason, these damned hastily written words are engraved in my mind. I am Professor Edward Mansfield, a distinguished archaeologist and scholar of ancient cults. I want to assure you that what I am writing is the truth and nothing but the truth. This is the reason I have dedicated my life to it. For the whispers never stopped. I had devoted my life to uncovering the dark past of human civilization.

Recent reports about an ancient temple hidden in the shadows of the forgotten village of Embry had seized me with an almost obsessive longing. It was a place not marked on any map, a village that seemed to have been forgotten by time and history. My arrival in Embry filled me with a sense of unease, a feeling I couldn't explain. The fog that enveloped the village seemed to devour the light, while the silent streets and cracked houses gave the impression of a place that had been abandoned to oblivion. The few inhabitants I met were distant, cold, and their gazes filled with fear. When I dared to ask about the church, they quickly made the sign of the cross and whispered

prayers in a language I did not understand. An old man, tall and pale, dressed in tattered old-fashioned clothing, the only one who seemed willing to speak, whispered to me in a trembling voice, it's a place that God has abandoned. The church, referred to as the Temple of a thousand eyes, stood on the edge of the village, hidden within an ancient olive grove. When I saw it up close, its structure seemed almost unnatural. Its angles were wrong, as if something incomprehensible to the human mind had shaped them. The tower pierced the sky, adorned with symbols that resembled writing, though they did not

correspond to any known language. The interior of the church was even more bizarre. The frescoes, filled with winged figures that appeared angelic but with terrifying details, bodies covered in countless eyes, wings that resembled shattered mirrors, and heads that emitted both light and shadowed simultaneously. In the center, an ancient altar, carved with depictions of bloody rituals and human sacrifices, was made from an unknown, smooth material. As I approached the altar, a wave of memories flooded my mind, bringing back every dark

moment of my life, every wound and injustice. These images ignited within me, burning away any trace of faith. My heart filled with rage and doubt. I burst into blasphemy, a god would never allow such a thing to happen. Immediately, the atmosphere became unbearably heavy. A whisper began to echo in my head, a language I could not understand, but at the same time, I felt I knew it. The whisper turned into a hum.

The light began to fade, and darkness engulfed everything. At some point, I saw the form of the creature. A giant being with six massive wings spread across the space, each wing filled with eyes that stared at me with unbearable intensity. Its body was circular, like a whirlpool of light and darkness, with a giant eye. at its center. Its voice thundered like both a storm and a psalm, mortal, you dared to defile the house of eternal light. There is no forgiveness for your arrogance. I fell to my knees, unable to withstand the cosmic horror surrounding me. The creature was not merely a seraph.

It was the very definition of divine judgment. Its wings began to rotate, and every eye emitted light that revealed every fear, every sin, every hidden secret. My soul seemed to burn under its judgment, and the whispers grew louder and louder until these cries consumed me entirely. The next day, the villagers of Embry found me motionless and naked before the altar. My face had been contorted in terror, and my body was covered with inexplicable burns. On the altar, there was a symbol carved that I could not decipher, and a lingering presence of nightmare remained in the air. The whispers never ceased. God forgive me! Moving from North Carolina to Michigan was like flipping a switch on our

whole life. The warm, humid air we were used to was gone, replaced by the brutal slap of Midwest winters. It wasn't just the cold that took us by surprise, though, we were also jumping headfirst into new schools, new friends, and new routines. Honestly, it felt like we had been dropped into a different world, and none of us were really ready for the shift. When we first got to Michigan, my parents bought a one-story house. Originally, it only had two-bed bedrooms, but since there were three of us girls, mom and dad remodeled and added another room. Even with that third room, though, we didn't always use it. My sisters and I were thick as thieves back then, super close, so we usually ended up piled into one room anyway, talking, laughing,

and roughhousing late into the night. Our neighborhood seemed perfect too. There were tons of kids around our age, and we spend a lot of our free time outside playing games, riding bikes, and just being kids. For a while, life was sweet. I was only five when we moved, so my memories of those early days are a little fuzzy. But I do remember feeling safe, loved, and happy. That was true for the first two years at least. But then something happened that completely shattered our sense of safety. It started on a night like any other. We were all huddled together in my older sister's room, watching an episode of Ghost Hunters. At some point, I got up to use the bathroom.

On my way back, something made me pause near the window. I don't know what it was, maybe a feeling, like someone was watching us. Whatever it was, I looked out, and froze. There was a face, just staring at me. A man's face. No emotion, no smile, just these cold. old, dead eyes locked on mine. It was like my entire body turned to stone.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. It was like being in a nightmare where you're paralyzed, just watching something terrible unfold. Eventually, I found the strength to whisper, there's someone at the window. Of course, my sisters didn't believe me at first. They thought I was joking. I kept staring, terrified that if I looked away, he'd vanish.

and they'd never believe me. After enough begging, I finally convinced them to look. The second they did, they both screamed. My oldest sister bolted to get our dad, while the middle one stood frozen next to me. Dad came running, our big black lab Susie right behind him. He didn't waste time, he went straight outside with the dog, and they managed to scare the guy off.

Dad called the police, but they said since the man hadn't actually tried to break in or hurt us, there wasn't much they could do. That didn't sit right with anyone. We started asking neighbors if they'd seen anything or knew anything about the guy. Turns out, they did. Everyone said the same thing. There was a house down the street with a fence around it, and the family living there had an adult son who was mentally ill. He had a habit of wandering around at night, peeking into windows, especially ones where young girls lived. One neighbor had even made bat with nails in it and threatened to use it if the man came back. Yeah, it was that bad. My parents didn't mess around after that. They put locks on all the inside windows and bought

thick, dark curtains to block out any views from the outside. For a while, it worked. We didn't see him again. We thought maybe he got the message. But then, a few weeks later, he came back. This time, it was worse. My oldest sister had just gotten out of the shower. She was still wrapped in a towel, getting ready to change, when she heard a noise at her window. Curious, she peeked out, and there he was. Just standing there. Staring.

She screamed and ran out of the room. My dad, who always kept a baseball bat near his bed, sprang into action. Susie was already on high alert. They went after him. The guy tried to run, but Susie caught up to him and bit into his ankle, bringing him down. Dad got to him right after that and held him down until the cops arrived. Meanwhile, Mom was already on the phone with 911. They arrested the guy, but the very next day, he was released because of his mental condition.

My parents were furious. We couldn't understand how someone could be caught red-handed trespassing and still be let go. The neighborhood was done being passive. Everyone got together and formed a neighborhood watch. We were sick of being scared, sick of feeling unsafe in our own homes. From that point on, the neighborhood watch made sure every home with kids was being looked after around the clock. One thing that helped us sleep a little easier was knowing that dad, a former Marine with PTSD, barely slept at night anyway. His insomnia made him the perfect unofficial watchman. He patrolled the

yard constantly, making sure nothing and no one could get close without him knowing. That became part of our routine. Dad watched over the house. We kept the windows covered. Susie slept near the door. We were always alert. But then, less than two weeks later, it happened again. It was a school night, and my middle sister and I had gone to bed early. My parents were hanging out in the living room with a friend. Everything felt normal, until we heard noises at the window. At first, I thought I was imagining it.

But the sound of someone trying to pry the window open was unmistakable. I froze. My sister, being braver, leapt out of bed and ran to tell the adults. I couldn't move. I stayed under the covers, praying he wouldn't get in. The grown-ups rushed in. My mom held me while Dad and our friend inspected the window. They found footprints in the snow, leading right up to the glass.

Handprints smudged the pain. Dad was fuming. He told Mom to call the police, and then stormed down the street to the guy's house. He confronted his parents directly, told them what their son had done, and warned them that this time he was pressing charges. And he did. After that night, we never saw the man again. Maybe the charges stuck.

Maybe his parents finally did something. We don't know. But he never came back. Still, the fear stayed with us. Even now, years later, we all triple check that our windows are locked. We never leave them uncovered. Doors are double-bolted. That kind of fear doesn't just fade. And that wasn't even the last time something scary happened to me.

Flash forward a few years. By 2019, I was in college in Grand Rapids. I was 19, almost 20, and had the kind of look that human traffickers in that area seemed to target, young, fair-skinned, brown hair, blue eyes. The city is unfortunately known for being a hotspot for trafficking, which was always in the back of my mind. On February 26, 2019, I had just finished my classes for the day. I walked to my car, transferred some money onto my student card so I could leave the parking garage, and headed out. Normally I'd just drive home, which was about 25 minutes outside the city, but that day I had made plans to stop by and help one of my favorite former teachers. And thank God I did. As I was driving, I noticed a white pickup truck behind me. I didn't think anything of it at first. But after I passed my exit and headed toward my old school, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

The truck was still behind me. To be continued. It all started on a pretty regular day. You know, one of those were your biggest concern is what kind of coffee you're going to order. I shrugged it off at first. The truck behind me, I mean, I told myself it was nothing. Probably just some random driver going in the same direction. I even try to laugh it off, muttering something about how I read too many creepy Reddit threads late at night.

But there was something weird about the way that truck kept its distance. Not too close, not too far. Just enough to keep me guessing. I made a stop near this local bar and grill, hoping the truck would pass me by, but when I turned right back onto the road, it turned two. still behind me still the same exact distance my heart started doing this low-key drum solo in my chest but i told myself i was being paranoid still something didn't feel right the way the truck moved it was deliberate like whoever was inside didn't want me to get a good look at them i turned left heading toward this small village where my teacher worked thinking maybe a change in scenery would shake this guy off Nope. The truck kept trailing me, never gaining, never losing.

I could feel my stomach drop lower and lower with every turn. By the time I rolled into Sparta, I wasn't even trying to rationalize anymore. I knew something was up. My gut was basically screaming at me to do something. Anything. So I made a decision. When I reached the entrance of the elementary school, I was going to turn in. If the truck followed me into the parking lot, I'd have my answer.

I made the turn. And so did the truck. That's when I knew. This wasn't just some dude on his way home. I wasn't overthinking. I wasn't being dramatic. I was being followed. And whoever was behind the wheel knew I knew.

I drove through the parking lot, trying to stay calm, but my whole body felt like it was about to short circuit. I hoped maybe, just maybe, they were there to drop off a kid or something, but as I looped past the student pickup zone, the truck didn't stop. It hovered at the intersection like it was watching me. Waiting. I made it out of the parking lot and hit the road again. I checked my mirrors every few seconds, trying to lose the panic. Turned down another road.

Pulled over near some houses. Took a few shaky breaths, waited. Nothing. No truck. Not anymore. Eventually, I headed to a nearby coffee shop, trying to pretend everything was normal. Got the drinks I'd planned to get for my teacher and me, then headed back to the school. The truck was gone. Vanished like smoke. I made it into the school office, and that's when the adrenaline crash hit me like a freight train. The receptionist looked up and asked if I was okay, and I just lost it. I broke down crying, shaking, barely able to speak.

I told my teacher and the receptionist everything. My teacher pulled me into a hug like she could hold me together just by squeezing hard enough. She told me to stop trying to make sense of it, to stop playing it down. That truck had followed me for too long and way too deliberately. She believed they had malicious intent. I didn't want to think about what that meant. But deep down, I agreed. I think that person was trying to catch me in a quiet spot, maybe even take me.

Traffic me. Whatever their plan was, it didn't feel good. And I am so, so grateful I listened to my gut that day. I sat on this story for a long time. Didn't know if I should share it, mostly because there's no neat ending. No license plate number. No arrest. Just a whole lot of terrifying what ifs.

Now, if that was the only thing that ever happened, I'd probably just move on. But it wasn't. Not by a long shot. This next story takes place in Traverse City, Michigan. Beautiful place. You've got the glacier-carved hills, Lake Michigan just sitting there looking all majestic. It's the kind of place you'd never expect something creepy to happen. But then again, those are always.

is the places where it does. I live just outside the city in a small townhouse with a friend. I'd recently shipped my old bicycle up from my hometown and was excited to ride again. It was my day off, so I figured I'd save on gas and bike into town. Tires checked. Helmet strapped. Off I went. I used to ride all the time, so it came back easy, like, well, riding a bike. What I didn't notice was the terrain. All downhill, which felt amazing on the way in. But I wasn't thinking about the ride back. I got into town, did some shopping, met up with my roommate for dinner. We laughed, caught up. Normal day. Then the sun started setting. Time to head back. The uphill climb hit me like a wall. I was exhausted.

Had to get off and walk my bike the last stretch. By the time I got near home, it was pitch black outside. That's when I had to make a decision. To my left, the long way home. Well lit, safe, boring. To my right, the shortcut. I took it every day in my car. Heavily wooded.

No lights. Steep hill. But way faster. So, of course, I chose. the shortcut. At first, it was fine. I turned on my bike's headlamp and started walking through the forested road. Just me and the crickets. I was tired, pissed at myself for not planning better. Then I heard footsteps. Off to my right. I froze. The steps stopped. I stood there for a minute, thinking it was probably just some deer or raccoon. Happens all the time.

not new to the woods. So I started walking again. The footsteps started again. They stopped when I stopped. Started when I started. I did a test, moved a few steps, stopped suddenly. The steps kept going this time, for a few extra seconds. Like whoever, or whatever, it was, didn't catch on right away. That's when I knew. This wasn't an animal. This was someone. Following me. I ran through my options. I couldn't outrun them, too tired. Couldn't drop the bike and bolt.

I wasn't in good shape for a chase. I had a small utility knife, but honestly, I'd rather fight bare-handed than start swinging a blade and escalate things. I have some martial arts experience, so I wasn't totally defenseless. I called my roommate, gave her my location. told her what was happening. She said she'd be there in ten minutes. I hung up and started walking again. The footsteps picked up again.

This time, quicker. Like whoever it was was getting impatient. My fear flipped. It turned into rage. That's how I get when I'm scared, angry. Aggressive. So I stopped, spun toward the woods, and shouted, Come on out and face me.

I'll rip your stomach open and wear your intestines as a necklace. Yup. That's what I said. Full-on psycho mode. The forest went dead silent. Nothing moved. I stood there, fists clenched, ready to throw down with whoever had been stalking me. But they never came out.

Just silence. Then I saw headlights. My roommate pulled up, and I nearly cried from relief. Tossed my bike in the car. jumped in, and we sped off. I collapsed at home. Actually threw up from the stress. Didn't fall asleep until after 3 a.m. So what was out there? I'll never know. A person? An animal? I leaned toward person. The way it moved, it was too calculated. Too, human. But hey, maybe I scared off some poor porcupine who'll need therapy for the rest of his life. Whatever it was, I don't want to

experience anything like that again. Ever. And yeah, I really hope no one calls the cops because of that necklace comment. There's always a reason to be afraid, even if you don't know exactly what you're afraid of. But if you feel something's wrong, don't ignore it. Your gut might just save your life. The end. Claremont County, Ohio, a peaceful but busy place. Yes, there is traffic, yes there are strip malls, but buried beneath that surface is lots of rural farm land that wins the ever-long State Route 32, and State Route 125. Located about 20 minutes east of Cincinnati, Ohio, this county with the seat of Batavia is where the city folk go to escape the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It's close enough

to the city to make you feel urban, but far enough away to make you feel isolated. For those that want to get away, you need to drive east and deal with the gatekeeper of Claremont, a being of sorts. One whose face has never been seen, one who is always in black, and one who will never say a word, the faceless hitchhiker. This is the story of my experience with Ohio's most famous and ruthless apparition. My name is George, I am 21 years old and I work as a travel agent at a research organization in Cincinnati, Ohio. My whole life I have grown up in the Cincinnati area, Arlington Heights, Madisonville, Footright, and even as far as independence, but never have I been truly happy in any of these places. Living with my parents,

there is not much I could do about the situation. It was their home and their money that was paying for it, I could make suggestions, but at the end of the day it was going to be where they wanted to live. After many years of saving, I am finally able to move out on my own and find myself a home. I always said I wanted to wait until I found the perfect girl, but after a few failed relationships and an affair, I think it was clear that maybe I would be better off finding my own place in life before moving any further in my love life. But where to go, that was the question that kept pondering my mind. Do I want to stay in southern Kenton County, or do I want to go urban? It was a very stressful

decision. I have been known to be very picky, especially for my age, and that is what was holding me back the most in this process. My friend of many years, David, was giving me advice one day on where to move, he recommended the Claremont County sector of Ohio. He grew up in the village of Amelia and always talked about it with faraway eyes, I could tell that the area gave him peace, a piece that I longed to have. It's like you're living in the city, but you drive five minutes down the road and there are cornfields, he told me, Georgie, if you want to have the best of both worlds, go there and live. After that conversation, I decided to do some research, Claremont was absolutely an area that looked nice, crime had been shrinking since 2008,

they have good schools, and like David said, it was far enough away to make you feel isolated and yet it still had those areas that just were developed. I hopped on my Mac and went to some later sites, and dug for hours into property and homes that were available. I did not want to be in a subdivision, I like my piece, and after about two weeks, I found it. A beautiful house with red brick on the outside, wood paneling on the inside, a huge, finished basement, and two acres of land. The asking price was very fair too, only slightly over what I was wanting to spend. I called up David and gave him the address, 2288, Barry Road in Amelia, and he was excited as he knew exactly where it was, let me drive you over there so you can get a feel for the place.

Only problem was that I had to work from 4 p.m. to 12.30 a.m. every day for the next few weeks, David said he did not mind, though, and that he would pick me up from work and drive me out. We agreed on a date in time, as I sat nervously excited for the new chapter of my life to begin. The night had come, David confirmed his plans to pick me up from work and drive me out to see the property. It would be nighttime, but I still wanted to see where it was in proximity to work in all my friend's houses, you know, the important stuff. 1230 came, and David pulls up in his car to pick me up in Madisonville. When I step in, he tells me to plug in my phone so we can get GPS, just to make sure we go to the right house.

This house I was looking for was vacant, so we didn't want to go tromping on someone else's property. I obliged, and put in the address on my phone, and plugged it in so we could see it on the carplay monitor. ETA was 1.20 a.m., perfect, a time where I could still get my car and drive home to arrive at a decent time. The ride was uneventful, we traveled for a while on State Route 125. There were lots of shops, but the deeper we got the more rural it got, I was loving what I was seeing so far.

Around 1 a.m. were passing by a Walmart shopping plaza. When David looked down at the carplay, I didn't realize we were going through here, he said concerningly, let me turn down this road. Immediately he took a right turned down Lindale M. Tawley Road, and the GPS ETA shot up to 132 a.m., why did you do that? I asked, look at the ETA now. This way is more fun, David said with a crack in his voice. I sensed something was bothering him, but I just ignored it and tried to focus on spotting the house. We arrived, from the car it looked beautiful, just like the pictures online, not too many neighbors, lots of land, all my boxes were being checked.

Well, let's get out and look, I said, while nudging David on the arm. He looked at me with wide eyes and just shook his head. I was puzzled, he had seemed intrigued to go and bring me here, but now he won't get out of the car. Well, I'm not waiting up for you, I said while opening the door, don't stay out there long, George, you never know what's out there, he said. I had never seen him like this, but once again, it was my potential home, and I wanted to go and look before I bought. I scurried out and did a lap around the property, it was beautiful, no one. complaints. I even emailed the realtor there while standing in the backyard in front of the pond,

confirming to her that I would be purchasing the home. The whole time, though, I felt as if someone was watching me, an uneasy feeling. I look back at the car and sure enough, there was David staring at me through his half-fogged windshield. Oh, it's just David, I thought, and made my way back to the car. When I stepped back in, he about peeled out of that driveway and made his way back to 125. Not a word was said that whole ride back to my car. It was a silence that I have never experienced before, I thought he was just tired and let him be.

Upon arrival at my car, David finally spoke up, George, you really shouldn't move there. Why? I asked, I knew something was wrong, does this have to do with why you made a sudden turn down that road? David looked at me concerningly, yes, it is by, the faceless hitchhiker, a being that I have never seen but have heard about for years. I looked at him, puzzled and inquisitive, what are you talking about David? He has never been one to believe in beings, or ghosts. David went on to explain that at the intersection of State Route 125 and State Route 222,

there is an old legend of sorts, dating all the way back to 1803. Ohio had just become a state, and a dirt road named the Ohio Turnpike was constructed to get horse-drawn carriages from the Indiana to the West Virginia border of the state. This dirt road now known as State Route 125, had a curve in the village of Bantam, one so steep that the horses could not keep their carriages stable and would topple over the sides of the hill, killing the families they were carrying. It quickly became known as Dead Man's Curve to the residents of the neighboring villages of Amelia and Bethel.

The curve and lore lasted for over a century until the mid-1960s, when the state decided to widen and pave the Ohio Turnpike, which was then officially renamed State Route 125 or the Ohio pike. With this came the flattening and straightening of dead man's curve. At the ribbon cutting it was proclaimed the end of dead man's curve. Everyone seemed to win form this situation, the state had less of a liability, and the citizens could now safely travel through this flat four lane road that intersects with state route 222. However, soon after the ribbon cutting, there was an incident. Two thunderbirds, carrying a total of five teenagers collided with each other when one coming south down 222 collided with the other at the intersection.

Only one of the five survived, all others were DOA or died soon after. Ever since that night there have been many accidents, even to this day, all that can be easily avoidable or that can be unexplained. Along with the accidents is a sighting of a figure, one that is about six feet tall, wearing all black, and that does not have a face. Locals say that if you travel the intersection between 120 to 140 a.m. you will see him standing there. Sometimes he will jump on your bumper or even throw rocks at your car.

Many people, including David, refused to travel this stretch of road at that time. The glow of the parking garage lights on David's face while he was telling me this story really illuminated the fear in his eyes. I turned down that other road so we could avoid it, it is not worth the risk, George. Don't buy that house, he told me passionately. Okay, but have you ever seen it, David? I asked. No, but some things you just know exist without.

you seeing them. Like how people believe in God but have never seen him. I don't know why he was comparing God to the hitchhiker, but I was just tired and wanted to go home at that point. I thanked David for the ride and the story and excused myself towards my car. About a month later, I signed the papers to the deed of the house and property. I was super excited to finally have the peace I had been longing for and to be living in an area that I seemed to love. Yeah, I had thought about David's story, but I didn't let it bother me, it's a story after all, and David hadn't even seen it before. I almost asked the realtor if she had known anything about this hitchhiker, but I didn't want her to think I was nuts.

David has been one to play tricks on people, and I had a feeling this may have been one of those instances. I got settled in, I love the land I have with the pond, the neighbors are quiet, and I finally have a place to call my own. One night in late November, I had gone out drinking with David and a couple of other friends. We had gone to Boobie Mackie's music world in wilder and it was a good time full of nachos, beer, and laughter. I had one drink, I'm not a big drinker, I only do it if I really want to. We stumbled out of the bar around 1 a.m. I was very awake at that point, there was rain peacefully falling onto the rooftop of my car, just enough to have the windshield wiper on low. As I turn off exit 65 on I, 2.75 north to Ohio

Pike I realized that I would be pulling up to dead man's curve right around 1.30 a.m. Perfect. I would finally get to experience this intersection at that time, while I had lived there for about six months at this point, had yet to cross there at that time. All my times driving through there in the daytime I had seen nothing, except for about nine accidents in the span of the six months I had been there. I just put that off to bad drivers for dear, not an apparition. As I passed the Starlight Drive-in and the Phantom Fireworks, I realized that I would be getting closer to the potential of seeing the hitchhiker. I was excited because I had never experienced anything even remotely close to what David had described to me that night, and I wanted

to see if he was full of shit, or if he was being serious and wanted to look out for me. As the Phantom Fireworks was slowly drifting behind me in the distance the rainfall began to fall harder and louder, so I had to turn on my high beam headlights and turn up the windshield wiper speed so I could get a clear view. As I rounded the slight bend in the road I see the traffic lights for the dead man's curve intersection, but the light was red for me. Why is the light red? I'm the only one around and I'm on the main road of the intersection. I thought to myself. Sure enough, even as I got closer the light did not change, but this was a blessing in disguise

in my eyes at the time because now I got to sit here and really examine my surroundings to see if this being would appear. I sit there with the rain falling hard and the red glow of the traffic light beaming through my windshield, I look around at my surroundings. Nothing but trees and an empty four-lane intersection. But then all of a sudden, my radio turns on, I only have a three-year-old car why is my radio turning on, I thought to myself. So, I reached down and pressed the button to turn it off, I wanted silence to see if I could

hear anything that would indicate there was something near me even if it was this being. As I raise my eyes to look towards the windshield again after turning off the radio, I noticed something. At first I thought it was a deer standing next to the traffic light control box on the southeast corner of the intersection, but after further investigation, it looked like a person. Could it be? I thought to myself. The figure was around six feet tall wearing all black.

I couldn't make out a face, I couldn't make out a gender, and it appeared to either have a hood up or be wearing some kind of toboggan or other hat. Now I was starting to get freaked out, especially considering I would have to turn right and pass this portion of the intersection to go to my home. All of a sudden, I see this figure running towards me I can hear its footsteps pattering in the puddles that have settled on the road, and as soon as I see it charging towards me the light turns green and I floor my car gas pedal to make a sharp 90 degrees right turn down the road that leads to my house, never looking back into the rearview mirror.

My tires had spun out due to the rain puddles, but anything I could do to get away from this being quicker would make me feel better. I make it home, I park my car in the driveway, run inside quickly and double check to make sure that all the windows and doors are locked. What I had seen was exactly what was told to me to be the faceless hitchhiker. Immediately I was trying to think of logical explanations for the situation, I knew there was something there, I could see it and I could hear it, and even with the time and the location it really made me think. Immediately I called David on the phone, and I asked him if he was home. Yes, of course, I'm home, I told you I wanted to sleep, I've been in bed for 20 minutes. He said to me with an aggravated tone. Send me a Snapchat of you laying in your bed, I need to see you to believe it.

I told him sternly. Why are you being such a perv Georgie? I'm telling you I'm in bed, do you just want to see me half naked, lying in bed, is that what it really is? I replied, David, this is no time for games, I think I saw the first. faceless hitchhiker and I need to confirm if you were playing a trick on me or if I really seen him. There was silence for about 30 seconds, followed by, oh my fucking God, from David. He had sent me a Snapchat and sure enough he was lying in bed at home. This was indeed

enough to confirm to me that was the faceless hitchhiker, and I was scared shitless. David stayed on the phone with me for about an hour afterwards and we discussed the situation he told me over and over, I told you so, I told you so. I now believe David at this point, he may be known for his tall tails and his pranks on us friends of his, but this was no prank, I know what I had seen, and I confirmed with him that he was home. For the next several months I had trouble every night trying to fall asleep. Every night I would try to be in bed before 120 a.m., but the nights I wasn't I had to stay up till at least 2 a.m. to make sure that this is being didn't follow me home to come to attack me. I have slowly grown over the experience

that I had that night, I am now one of the countless people who have experienced the faceless hitchhiker. I have refused to drive through the intersection at that time of night, and I refuse to tell the story to people who are not from the area, because they will think I'm nuts the same way that I thought David was when we were looking at this house. I cannot stress to you enough how real and how scary this faceless hitchhiker is. This being sits the intersection that marks the end of the urban Claremont County area and the start of the rural Claremont County area. It's almost as if this being is guarding the yuppies from coming in and infiltrating the

small little farm towns that lie the rest in of Claremont County towards the east and of State Route 125. He tests people to make sure that as they pass the intersection at that time of night that they will be able to handle what they will end up seeing out there and that they are true country folk. I've learned to live with the thought of the faceless hitchhiker being not even a mile down the road for me, but it still gives me an unsettling feeling from time to time. But like many questions in life this one will have to remain unanswered. So do yourself a favor and stay away from the intersection of state routes 125 and 222 on any night between 120 a.m. and 140 am. You have been warned. Chapter 1, A Home in the Sky, the first time I saw

Aurora Station, it felt like stepping into the future. Suspended in the vast emptiness of space, the massive structure orbited Earth in perfect silence, its metallic panels reflecting the sunlight like a diamond drifting between the stars. I was Leo Carson, an 18-year-old engineering in turn, and I had just arrived at the first ever microgravity manufacturing station. For the next six months, I would be part of a team working to build materials impossible to make on Earth. My hands were shaking, partly from excitement and partly because I was still adjusting to microgravity.

Unlike the astronauts who trained for years, I had only been preparing for six months. Even though I understood the physics, living in zero-g was something else entirely. There was no up or down, just floating, gliding through the station with gentle pushes against the walls. It was exhilarating but disorienting. Careful, kid, said Commander Priya Vasquez, catching my shoulder before I drifted into a workstation. Use the handrails when you can. Floating looks fun until you smack into something expensive. I laughed nervously and pulled myself toward my assigned lab, the ZBLA and fiber facility. If we succeeded, the ultra-pure

we made here would revolutionize Earth's internet infrastructure, allowing for nearly lossless data transmission and transforming global communication. But first, I had to learn to survive and work in space. Chapter 2, the weightless challenge, it didn't take long to realize that working in microgravity was like playing chess against physics. Simple things, like using a power drill, could send me spinning if I wasn't careful. The first time I tried to tighten a bolt on the fiber drawing machine, I forgot to brace my feet in the footholds. The reaction force sent me into a slow-motion somersault. The lab's AI assistant, Simon, floated beside me, its digital face flickering with amusement. It appears you have become untethered, Leo.

Would you like assistance stabilizing? I groaned, using a nearby handrail to stop myself. Yeah, thanks. Maybe warn me before I launch myself across the room next time, even eating was a challenge. In zero-g, liquids didn't pour, they floated. Water formed shimmering globes that we had to drink through straws attached to pouches. The first time I tried to eat soup, I accidentally launched a floating droplet that bounced off the wall and smacked Commander Vasquez in the face. She had laughed it off, but I still turned bright red. At least exercising was fun. Without gravity, our muscles and bones would weaken, so we had to work out two hours a day using special resistance machines. My favorite was the treadmill, where I was strapped in with

bungee cords while running. It felt like flying. Despite the challenge, I adapted. By the end of my first week, I could glide smoothly through the station, worked the fiber machine without sending myself spinning, and even do a controlled flip in the air just for fun. That's when the real work began. Chapter 3, the factory of the future. The ZBLAN fiber drawing machine was the most advanced on the station. On Earth, gravity caused tiny convection currents in molten glass, leading to microscopic imperfections. But in microgravity, the fibers cooled evenly, making them stronger and clearer than anything we could produce on the ground. Dr. Ortiz, my mentor, explained it best. Gravity is messy, Leo. It stirs up fluids and pulls on

everything unevenly. Up here, we get perfection. We worked in a vacuum-sealed lab, where raw ZBLA and glass was heated until it became molten, then drawn into thin fibers. Even a small mistake in cooling could ruin weeks of work. My job was to monitor the temperature, pull rate, and fiber attention, ensuring we created the smoothest, most flawless fiber ever made. For a while, everything ran perfectly. The fibers we produced were stronger, pure, and faster than anything on Earth. Then came the solar storm. Chapter 4, The Storm from the Sun, alert, solar event detected. The station's emergency lights flashed red. A massive solar flare had erupted from the sun, sending a wave of radiation toward us. I grabbed a handrail as my stomach twisted. A solar

Storm could damage our electronics, interfere with our systems, and even pose radiation risks to the crew. Commander Vasquez's voice crackled over the comms. All crew moved to the shielded module. Now, Dr. Ortiz and I exchanged a look of panic. The fiber drawing machine was still running. If we abandoned it, the fibers inside would cool unevenly, creating defects that would ruin our entire experiment.

Commander, we need more time, Dr. Ortiz radioed. We're in the middle of a critical pole. We don't have time, she replied. Radiation levels are spiking. Get to the shelter, I clenched my fists. There had to be another way. We couldn't risk our safety, but we couldn't lose the fiber either. Then I had an idea.

What if we send Bumble? Bumble was one of our Astroby robots, a floating drone that could perform small tasks remotely. If I could pilot it from the shielded module, it could stabilize the fiber machine while we waited out the storm. Vasquez hesitated for only a second before nodding. Do it fast, I pulled up Bumble's controls on my tablet as we floated into the radiation-shielded module. Outside, the solar storm raged, bombarding the station with high-energy particles. If we had stayed unprotected, it could have damaged our cells, like a thousand X-rays hitting us at once. From the safety of the shielded room, I controlled Bumbles movements with precise adjustments.

I guided it to the fiber machine and activated the emergency cooling override. We held our breath. Minutes passed. The radiation detectors beeped as the storm slowly subsided. Then, Simon's voice crackled through the comms. Fiber stability confirmed. Manufacturing process remains uninterrupted. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

We had saved the experiment and ourselves. Chapter 5, The Future We Build. When we returned to the lab, we inspected the fiber. The batch Bumble had protected was perfect, the best we had ever made. Dr. Ortiz clapped a hand on my shoulder. Not bad, Carson. You just saved millions of dollars in research and proved robotics can run space factories

during extreme conditions. I grinned. Not bad for an intern, huh. Later that night, I floated to the cupola, the station's huge observation window. Below me, Earth turned slowly, its blue oceans glowing against the black void. I realized something then. Someday, factories like this wouldn't just be a single experiment. They would be the future of industry.

There would be massive manufacturing stations in orbit, creating new medicines, perfect materials, and advanced technology, all using the power of microgravity. And I had just helped prove that it could work. I smiled, pressing my hand against the glass, staring out at the stars. We weren't just working in space. We were building the future. And this was only the beginning.

The end. AC Part 1, The Birth of a Terrible Idea. It all started with a dumb TikTok filter. You know the one, but a celebrity DNA thing that supposedly scans your face and tells you which famous people you look according to TikTok, I was, 65% Margo Robbie, 35% Richard Branson. I laughed. The comments didn't. LMAO, you're literally Richard Branson's secret love child. I knew you looked familiar. Plot twist. billionaire daddy doesn't even know. It was funny, until it wasn't. Because, like any normal person in a spiral, I googled Richard Branson's kids. No matches. But then, I fell into a rabbit hole and found someone way more interesting. Marcus Velanova. Megarich. CEO of an absurdly luxurious hotel chain. But the real kicker. The man had a missing daughter. Amara Velanova. kidnapped in the 90s

Last scene in Sydney at age 3 Never found It was one of those tragic tabloid stories that people still whispered about And for reasons I still cannot explain, I clicked on an age-progressed photo of what Amara might have looked like as an adult. It was unsettling Because it looked exactly like my LinkedIn headshot. My roommate, Maddie, was the one who took it from, creepy coincidence

to actively ruining my life, you should email them, who, the company. See what happens. Worst case, they ignore you, I stared at her. Worst case, they sue me, she waved a hand. That's, like, a best case. Free publicity. You could start a go-fund me. I had student loans. I had rent due. And I had exactly zero impulse control. So, I, At 2 a.m., I typed out an email to the Velanova Hotel's concierge service. Hi, this is probably insane, but... I think I might be your boss's missing daughter. I expected them to ignore it.

They comped me a penthouse suite in Bali instead. Part 2, the grift that fed itself. This was never supposed to go past the initial joke. A free night in a fancy hotel, maybe some Instagram clout, and then back to my real life of budget grocery shopping and existential dread. But then, they rolled out the literal red carpet. Champagne. A personal butler named Gustav. A private chef who kept making these elaborate five-course meals and calling them light snacks. And the worst part? Everyone, everyone, was so emotional about it.

The general manager almost cried when he met me. Mr. Velanova will be so overjoyed, he whispered. I should have come clean. Right then and there. But instead, I did what any reasonable person would do in a situation of extreme luxury and moral ambiguity, I googled everything I could about Amara Velanova and committed it to memory. Facts Locations The only known video footage of her as a toddler, where she clutched a red balloon and babbled nonsense.

That detail came in handy when the staff gently asked me about my early me. memories. I don't remember much, I whispered, voice shaking just enough to sell it. Just flashes. A garden. A red balloon. By the second week, they sent Marcus Velanova's personal assistant to verify my identity. I wore a wig. Faked an Australian accent. Handed over a strand of my cat's hair for DNA testing. They started calling me, Ms. Velanova, after that. Part three. the viral unraveling. For months, I lived the high life. Bali. Then Tokyo. Then Paris. Five-star hotels. Spas. People treating me like royalty. And honestly, I got comfortable. Too comfortable. Because I made a mistake.

I posted a poolside selfie from the Tokyo flagship hotel, captioned, living my best trust fund life. nail polish sparkles. Harmless, right? Wrong. Within hours, the internet did what the internet does best, sleuthing. Some Reddit genius reverse searched my cat's Instagram. Found my real identity. Riley Thompson

26 Freelance Graphic Designer Overdraft fees on her checking account. And then, the peace to resistance, a brutal, 17-part Twitter, thread titled, Scammer Alert, How a Broke Millennial Cond a Billionaire, and Why Hotels Are Dumb. The memes flooded in. Me Photoshopped onto the Titanic, draw me like one of your French heiresses. Marcus Velanova's face on Mori, you are not the father. A viral TikTok sound, rich people when you tell them your dad owns a hotel chain, cut to me chugging free champagne. It was over. Completely,

utterly over. Part 4, the CEO's revenge, sort of. I thought Marcus would sue me. Or worse, ruin my life in some way only a billionaire could. Instead, he invited me onto his podcast. Yes. His podcast. It was called billionaire therapy hour, which was already insane, but what was even wilder was the fact that, on the episode, he deadpanned. Riley, you're a better daughter than my actual kids. They never get me discounts. The internet lost its mind. Fanfix popped up. Someone started a change.org petition for Netflix to make a miniseries about me. Hotels actually monetized the scandal with a fake heiress package that included a wig, a fake DNA test, and an Instagram worthy, got away with it, breakfast spread. Two years later, I can't escape it. First dates Google me

mid-appetizer. My mom's book club still asks why I didn't scam them a free cruise. Every single anniversary of the thread, someone DMs me, Hey, Amara, does Gustav still iron your socks? So, AITA for low-key enjoying the chaos. We've all read so many of these pamphlets by now that I don't even know where to start. I suppose the beginning, though, is as good a place as any. I can still recall how shocked I was when the first one happened. Shocked and disgusted, just like everyone else. Never in my life had I seen a photo like that before. I remember seeing it on my phone first thing in the morning. Barely even awake, and then there it was, that dividing line severing the past so definitively

from the future. It was everywhere. That photograph. The head of Jimmy Bozo impaled on a pike. It didn't feel real, like there's no way this was actually happening. Jimmy Bozo, the second wealthiest person on the whole planet. And he didn't have a body anymore. That's a heck of a thing to wake up to. It's also a heck of a thing to have to try to explain to a bunch of 13-year-olds. Not even two weeks into the school year yet. I didn't know the State Board of Education's official line at that point, or what I was even

allowed to say about it. But I could tell there was no way we were getting back into the impeccable heroics of Christopher Columbus until I said something. Ms. Jacob. Ms. Jacob. Ms. Jacob, Ms. Jacob, why do you think they did that to Jimmy Bozo? Did you see the picture? Ms. Jacob. Ms. Jacob, why would someone cut off Jimmy Bozo's head?

Did you see it? Ms. Jacob, did you see it? Ms. Jacob, why was Jimmy Bozo at Burning Man? Now, I didn't know what to say to these kids. I certainly didn't know why anyone would do that to Jimmy Bozo, the founder and CEO of Amazing, the largest e-commerce platform in the world and arguably one of the most valuable corporations in the long and sorted history of valuable corporations. With a room full of wide-eyed students staring at me, though, I knew I had to say something.

Sometimes scary things happen in the world, I told them, and there's not always a good reason why. Of course, by the end of the week we had more answers than we knew what to do with. And quite a few more questions, too. Why had Jimmy Bozo gone to Burning Man? It was assumed for the same reason most billionaires went to Burning Man, the drugs, the orgies, the bragging rights, the chance to slum it up with a bunch of radical freaks and free-spirited deviance. What Mr. Bozo evidently failed to account for, though, was just how radical and deviant some of those free-spirited freaks turned out to be. The pirate pamphlet, as it came to be known, provided a precise explanation for the gruesome act. It turned out it was no coincidence this had all happened on Labor Day weekend.

It was right there on the cover. That crude sketch of a head on a pike beneath the bold declaration, workers of the world, revenge. What really drove at home, though, was the list of transgressions it claimed have been perpetrated on the workers of a mason by the one and only mr jimmy bozo none of the claims were too controversial or really even disputed we'd all been hearing about these standard practices for years the low wages and long hours the union busting the horrible working conditions and egregious job site safety concerns it was the type of corporate exploitation that should have had us folks up in arms long ago But life is hard, and it's busy and messy and so often so tiring. And there are only so many times you can read about delivery drivers having to pee in bottles

or warehouse workers passing out from heat exhaustion before the words start losing all meaning in that stressed out, beaten down head of yours, especially when the price is amazing. Was offering were so low and the delivery time so quick. The pirate pamphlet got its nickname from the skull and crossbones printed on the back, above the Latin phrase, Memento Mori. Some saw it as a reminder. Others a warning. And still others a threat. Remember that you will die. For the people at Burning Man, though, during the first few days that those pamphlets were getting passed around, they apparently saw it as a joke. It was right in line with the anti-capitalistic spirit of the event. And when they eventually

found Jimmy Bozo's head on that pike out there in the middle of the desert that's what they thought it was too, a joke. It took a while for those drugged-up folks to realize what they were laughing it wasn't some gory art installation, it was a crime scene. But who had done it? How had they done it? And what in God's name did this mean for the world going forward? These were the types of questions we were left with, and are still, in a sense, struggling with to this day. The next one was just as big of a shock. To be sure, in no way was I expected. the untimely decapitation of Jimmy Bozo. But even after it happened, I certainly never expected to see that type of thing happen again. When the third one happened, I can't say I was

too surprised. I was still horrified, but by that point a lot of us kind of saw it coming. Watch as Jimmy Bozo, Warner Bucket, Lonnie Muck, and more get the comeuppance they've been courting for years, at the hands of a populace that have been pushed to the brink for decades. We begin, This case starts on Saturday April 12, 2003, with a 14-year-old boy named Mario LeBlanc. Mario was the son of divorced parents, and like every year, he was going to spend the Easter holidays with his mother, Brazilla Orvalano, 36 years old. The plan was always the same, to stay at the large chalet of this woman located in Le Grand Bourne, France.

Graciella didn't live there alone, but was accompanied by her husband, Xavier Flack, 41 years old. and the three children she had with him, Sarah, ten years old, Letitia, nine, and Gregory, seven, three little ones who were there for Mario's half-siblings. The holidays there were perfect. Everything was snowy, it was cold, there was a lot of calm, a lot of peace. They spent time as a family watching movies by the fireplace. So for Mario, it was the perfect plan. Lou Grand Bourne, in general, is a very quiet town.

To give you an idea, in 2006 it had approximately 2,250 inhabitants, so in 2003 the figure would be similar, very few people, tranquility, a cozy, family atmosphere. But at the same time, this place has another side, the tourist side. It's an important winter sports center, so during peak season it fills with tourists. Nevertheless, for families it was idyllic, calm family activities, luxury apartments, and the for the flax, it was the perfect place. Back to the case in question, at the time, Mario lived with his father, and the journey to his mother's house was quite long. He had to go to Lyon Airport, take a taxi, and from there to Le Grand Bourne was approximately a two-hour drive. During the trip, his mother always called him, sent him messages, and asked how the journey was

going. But this time, Graciella didn't get in touch with him. Since it was Saturday, Mario thought she must be busy with the house, the kids, the shopping, so he didn't call her. He arrived at the house around 1 p.m. and asked the taxi driver to wait for him because, unfortunately, he didn't have enough to pay him. He paid part of the fare, but he hoped his mother could cover the rest. He got out of the vehicle, knocked on the door, no one answered. After insisting and looking through the windows, he saw that there was no one there. He called his mother, her phone was off. He called his stepfather, his phone was also off. After insisting for a long time, he got back in the taxi and waited.

But time passed, and no one showed up. From the house, they went to a nearby restaurant where the family usually went. They asked the waiters and the managers, but supposedly no one had seen them. From there, they went to a friend's house, and from that moment on, the friends took charge of the matter. They paid the taxi driver, the man left, and the remaining group kept insisting. They called Graciella, left her messages, and after several hours, they decided to enter the house. Some sources say they forced the front door, and others say they went in through a window. Either way, the point is that together they managed to enter, and the house was eerily clean.

Curtains drawn, lights on. And as they went in, they found more and more strange things. On top of a table were two laptops, open and turned on. The sofa was oddly arranged, all the cushions were laid down and perfectly lined up, one next to the other. Everything was clean, spotless, it smelled of bleach. It didn't look like a house where three little kids lived, no toys lying around, no mess. And the strangest part was perhaps in the kitchen. The fridge was full to the brim, and on the stove were two pots, two pots next to a bunch of plates, which suggested that they were just about to serve lunch. But there was no trace of the family. There were still embers in the fireplace,

as if someone had made a fire there, but it had since burned out. They went upstairs, checked the rooms, and saw that the beds didn't even have sheets, just bare mattresses, nothing more. No signs of struggle or fighting, nothing at all. The house was spotless. And the cherry on top, a car was missing from the garage, the four-by-four they always used. That suggested they had left in a hurry. Something must have happened. They left quickly. But to Mario, this seemed very strange. His mother knew he was arriving that day, she knew he was coming. She wouldn't miss their meeting. Something must have happened to her. And since she wasn't answering, he immediately called the police.

Upon finding out who they were, the police quickly got to work. The flax weren't a regular family, they were people with money, status. And the chalet they had disappeared from wasn't a humble home, it was a luxury house with multiple floors and privileged views. Not every day does a wealthy family disappear just like that. So this case was a priority. The first thing they did was go to the area. They looked at the house from outside, no signs of struggle, no forced doors, and the four-by-four was

nowhere to be found. According to the police, that left two hypotheses. The first, according to witnesses, Xavier was a very bad driver, he drove too fast and aggressively. So maybe they left and had an accident. They checked nearby areas, called hospitals, but there was no sign of them. So the second option, the family had gone on a trip. They were people with lots of money and connections, and maybe a getaway came up. But according to Mario, that was impossible. His mother knew he was arriving. In fact, his arrival date had been changed. He was originally going to arrive on the 11th, not the 12th, but because of school, he couldn't come earlier. So his mother had it noted down for sure. Days past, Easter week went by. And the next Monday, the kids didn't go to

school. That's when the police knew something strange was going on. They got a search warrant, went to the house, and realized this escape made no sense. The fridge was full to the top, suggesting they planned to spend the week at home. And in the kitchen, there was prepared food, two pots full, plates ready to serve lunch, everything was ready for the family. to eat, to relax. Something had happened to make them leave in a rush. They took photos of everything, wrote everything down. And on this first visit, they didn't take anything, because, according to the police,

there were no signs of struggle. The house was spotless, clean, tidy, nothing out of place. And this case reached the press, who rubbed their hands with glee. A wealthy family gone missing, connected, with an impressive house and several. cars. It was a sensational case. And very quickly, it became highly publicized. People wanted to know more, to get to know the Flack family, and the media gave them what they wanted. Xavier Flack, 41 years old, was born in September 1962. At three years old, he was adopted by a French couple. The family was modest and lived a quiet life on the outskirts of Lens.

After graduating, he became manager of a real estate agency, and there he met Graciella, who worked as a secretary and accountant. By then, Graciella was divorced and had a son, Mario. However, that didn't matter to him, they got married, had three kids, and also ran an outdoor gear business. The couple had a lot of money, but behind closed doors, debt consumed them. In 1993, the real estate agency declared bankruptcy. The following year, the couple moved to Mert. Xavier then moved into credit redemption, and on the surface, everything seemed fine. He drove luxury cars, had a beautiful house with a pool and several rooms.

Everything was spectacular, a dream life. But in 1996, a court declared him bankrupt. And two years later, he was banned from working in real estate for ten years. Nevertheless, the family kept up appearances, happiness, perfection. And that same year, they moved to Le Grand Bourne, where they continued working in real estate. As I mentioned, Xavier couldn't legally work, so the companies were registered under his wife Graciella's name. Outwardly, everything still seemed perfect, dream vacations, luxury cars, a wonderful chalet with the best views. According to the first publications about this family, they were very well received in that small town.

They were investors, wealthy people, a perfect five-member family. But the truth is that it wasn't like that at all. People tended to look down on them, no matter how much money they had, how many luxury cars, how many parties they threw. Apparently, it was deeply rooted in the local people. Behind Xavier's back, people gave him derogatory nicknames because, because of his skin color. Although French media only barely touched on this, they didn't go deep. They spoke more of envy, resentment, but about racism, very few articles mentioned it seriously. What the media did cover thoroughly was his work. The judge presiding over

the case described him as a friendly thug who sometimes crossed legal lines, but with whom things could always be arranged. According to Kim Brid, there's a contradiction here, because people who knew him didn't see him that way. They saw him as a scammer, a man without scruples, a guy who didn't pay employees and didn't honor real estate contracts. He built chalets, sold them, and moved on to the next client without finishing the construction, leaving everything half done and in poor condition. After getting paid, he disappeared. Clients had incomplete homes, and workers didn't even get paid. There were many affected people who eventually joined forces and reported him.

And just when that happened, Xavier disappeared, which suggested that maybe he had run away. There were many people angry with them, a lot of hatred and resentment accumulated. So surely the flax had escaped. Maybe there was a problem, a tip-off, and the entire family left just like that. But ten days later, still with no sign of them, the police searched their house again and realized that some things were missing. The first time they went, the house was spotless, just a couple of odd things, but everything was intact. On the second visit, some things had vanished, the laptops that were on the table

were no longer there. Phones were missing, folders, blueprints, the office of Xavier looked different. And this indicated that something shady was going on. Either the family returned, or someone else broke in. Either way, they investigated further and discovered that the Blacks had many secrets, million euro debts, lawsuits, various companies, and bank accounts in tax havens. They began to interrogate the family's neighbors. One in particular told La Parisian, everyone thought they had escaped. They had no friends here, and that's an understatement. He scanned some people and flaunted his money. All the neighbors saw Xavier as a fraudster and accused him of inflating real estate prices in the area. People could

no longer afford rent or a house. This man had turned a town into a business. And little by little, the police continued investigating, realizing that in the last few months, the flax had been victims of all kinds of events, graffiti on their houses, theft, someone burned their car, a chalet. Someone was after them, someone was harassing them. And there were so many outraged people that anyone could be the culprit. To be continued. And there were so many outraged people that anyone could be the culprit. This information was leaked to the press, and dozens of journalists arrived in this small town, looking for neighbors to come forward on camera and tell their stories, if they knew them, if they knew anything, if they had any

problems with them. And one of the neighbors stepped forward, specifically a man named David. David Hott was born on October 23, 1972, in Aris, the son of a working-class couple. He grew up very close to his father and started pursuing his father's passions, athletics and fishing. Since he wasn't interested in school, he joined the military service in the former Yugoslavia, and in 1999, after starting a relationship with Alexander Lafave, they moved and together. And in 2001, they arrived in Le Grand Bourne. The location of the town was idyllic, perfect, and by that time, they had two children. So they decided to look for work there and give their kids a good life. They started looking for houses to rent and came across Xavier

Flactif, who owned several properties. Xavier showed them a large chalet, an impressive house with several rooms and bathrooms. It was a perfect place and the price was unbeatable. So they signed and moved in right away. But the problem came when they arrived in Le Grand Bourne, because Xavier, at the last minute, said that the chalet wasn't available, that there was a problem, that some things needed to be repaired, that he had to make some changes. However, while everything was being sorted out, he offered them other apartments instead, temporary ones. At first, the family agreed. They thought it would be a very short time and that soon they'd have their dream home. David found a job, things were going well, and Alexandra became a housekeeper for the Flactif family.

But time went by, and things weren't at all like they had imagined. Xavier constantly moved them from one place to another, from apartment to apartment. They were bounced around, and their chalet was never repaired. Alexandra, working for them, felt uncomfortable. She thought the Flactifs were tyrants, bad people. She wasn't comfortable around them, and eventually, she quit. The couple reached a point where they were fed up with everything and discovered that the chalet wasn't unfinished, didn't have any problems, in reality, it was a lure.

That chalet was being rented to people with a lot of money, vacationers who could pay whatever was asked. So, at that moment, they completely cut ties with the Flactif family. They severed ties, but they were still living in one of Xavier's apartments, so that they were they remained in contact. Nonetheless, this information was given to the media by David and his wife on April 30, 2003. They spilled all their venom in front of the cameras, claiming the flakiffs were bad people, untrustworthy, scammers. They told everything calmly, and the whole world was stunned, the media, the public, and the police. The police took note of everything,

especially the fact that David was convinced that the flakiffs had fled, that they had probably gone abroad because of their debts. And days later, the family car was found 50 kilometers away, specifically in the parking lot of Geneva Airport. This confirmed that what David said made sense, the family had fled. The case could have been closed then and there, but the police had their doubts. They checked the car thoroughly and discovered very striking things. The trunk mat had been torn up and cut with a box cutter, and there were strange stains all over. After testing, it was found to be blood. This led to the house being searched again, this time looking for blood, signs of a struggle, a fight. And I must say, they found them. At first glance, everything

was spotless. But in the living room, they found small fragments of what looked like ceramic. They sent them to the lab, and the ceramic was actually pieces of baby teeth. In one corner of the living room was a whole tooth that belonged to Gregory, and under the curtains, a small caliber bullet casing. At this point, something extremely interesting happened, to look for traces of blood, they used a product that was new at the time, Blue Star. They sprayed it everywhere very carefully, turned off the lights, and discovered that the house was a bloodbath. The walls, the floors, the furniture, everything had been thoroughly cleaned, but with this product,

the blood became visible again. Some corners weren't cleaned well, so they took samples and sent them to the lab. It was revealed that there were five different DNA profiles, and all five belonged to members of the Flactif family. But there was also a sixth DNA profile unrelated to the others. From this point, the police did two things. First, they searched for the bodies, near the airport, near where the car was found. Second, they asked the public for DNA samples. Dozens of people came forward, but one person flat out refused. Obviously, that person became a suspect. There were several suspects on the police's list, but one stood out, the man who on April 30th went on camera and trashed the flactifs. He took great liberties, calling them scammers, mafiosos, even suggesting they were drug traffickers. If the flactiffs saw that, they could have sued him.

But David was convinced they wouldn't come back, that they had fled. And if he was that sure, maybe it was for a reason. Only someone who knows they won't be sued can say something like that. So the police started asking questions about him. That's how they discovered that on April 11th, a client of Xavier, received a strange visit. This client was supposed to start renting an apartment that day. He was supposed to meet Xavier, who would give him the keys. But Xavier never showed up. He didn't answer his phone. Hours went by, and in the evening, David showed up. He was very kind,

friendly, approachable, and he gave the man the keys. He said that from now on, he was the owner of that apartment. That he had bought one of the Flactif's complexes and now owned it. All signs pointed to him. The police kept a close eye on David, searched the Flactiff house, and while doing so, they noticed David watching them from afar with binoculars. What the police were doing was being supervised by this man, which made him even more suspicious. Because of all this, they tapped the phones of both David and his wife Alexandra. In the following days, they recorded very strange conversations. He said things like he didn't want to give his DNA, that he wouldn't do it, and in the end, he'd have to. In July of that year, it was confirmed

that his blood was at the crime scene. But before that, let's continue with the phone taps. They talked about a strange, sinister event, something concerning, that the police might be onto them. And they also mentioned a couple of friends, who they hoped from the bottom of their hearts wouldn't say anything. That couple was Stephen and Isabel Armes. In total, four people were involved. And on September 16th, the police began making arrests. First was David, then Alexandra, and finally, the Armes couple. All four were behind bars, and David's house was searched. But we'll get to that later. Once at the station, David confessed. His DNA was at the scene, so he could couldn't flee. And he told the police a story that at first made no sense. He said that on

April 11th, he went to the flakative house and asked Xavier to pay what he owed him and his wife. David had done work for him, and Alexandra had cleaned their house, but they never got paid. Xavier refused. At that moment, David pulled out a gun. He said he didn't mean to shoot, just to intimidate. But the gun went off on its own and instantly killed. Xavier. Then, to eliminate witnesses, he killed his wife and their three children. He wrapped the bodies in sheets, loaded them into the families four by four, and cleaned the house. Then he took the bodies to a nearby forest, doused them in gasoline, set them on fire, and within three hours, the bodies were charred. He cleaned the car and abandoned it near Geneva Airport. According

to David, it was all improvised, not planned. But for the police, it didn't make sense. It was too much work for one person. And five bodies can't be completely burned in just three hours. It takes a lot of wood, a lot of gasoline, a big fire that would take at least two days. And there was so much to clean that there had to be more people involved, accomplices. Eventually, the Armes couple confessed. David hadn't done it alone.

At first, Xavier and David were friends. David admired him, wanted to be like him. But over time, envy took over. The flakifs had a lot of money, many houses, cars, luxury trips, a dream life. After being scanned by them, David and Alexandra started to hate them. Over time, they met the Armes couple, and all four would criticize the flactifs. They envied and hated them, and that hate grew more and more. In early 2003, they began joking about killing them, and overnight, they became stalkers.

They vandalized their houses, robbed them, even set fire to one of their chalets. Then they discovered a documentary about a serial killer named Alfredo Stranieri, who found his victims through classified ads. His crimes revolved around taking over his victim's properties. And that's exactly what David wanted to do. From there, they began planning the murder of the Flactif family. The crime was supposed to happen on April 9th, but for unknown reasons, it was moved to the 11th. David was the one who carried it out at first. He entered through the kitchen, found Gregory and Sarah, and killed them with his bare hands.

Then he went upstairs, where he killed little Letitia. Finally, he searched for the mother, Grosiella, who had been in the basement the whole time and hadn't heard anything. She came upstairs, saw David, and he killed her too. He did everything with blunt force. When night fell, Xavier arrived, and David killed him with the gun. Then Stafin got involved. They went to the forest, built the pyre, poured gasoline, and burned the bodies for two days. But that wasn't all. David mailed the gun to his brother Michael and asked him to get rid of it. Michael threw it into a river. But when the police came for him, he told them exactly where to find it, and luckily, they recovered it. In David's house, police found

tons of evidence. He and his wife had taken many things from the Flactiff house, DVDs, laptops, cameras, expensive mobile phones, ski equipment, and even the toys of their three children, now used by David and Alexander's kids. After his initial confession, David tried to retract it. He claimed that when he arrived at the house, there were two other people there, who had killed everyone. Out of fear, he went along with it. But no one believed that version.

The trial began on June 12, 2006. David Odie was sentenced to life in prison with a 22-year security period. Stephen Armes was sentenced to 15 years. Alexander LaFave received 10 years for allegedly planning the crime. Isabel Armez got seven years. David's brother Michael, for disposing of the weapon, was sentenced to one year. So now it's your turn. What do you think about the case?

Do you believe the sentences were fair? The end. The Gample family had no idea what was happening when one night, as they slept in their beds, they were ripped from their home and thrown into jail. It wasn't until the next morning that they learned the accusations against them, accusations so grave that they immediately realized their chances of survival were slim. To truly understand this story, we need to travel back to the 1600s, a time when demons, dark spirits, and wicked witches were as real to people as the ground beneath their feet.

In the early years of the 17th century, in the city of Ansbach, Franconia, a girl named Anna was born. There isn't much information available about her early life, but one crucial detail stands out, her father was a gravedigger. Today, that profession might seem ordinary, but back then, it was considered shameful. Anyone who worked with the dead was looked down upon, avoided by others, and treated as a social outcast. People only sought out Anna's father to bury their loved ones but wanted nothing to do with him

otherwise. Anna, growing up in this environment, faced harsh judgment from her community. She was viewed as the lowest rung on the societal ladder, and even the most poorly ranked servants avoided speaking to her. This rejection had a profound effect on her, making her shy, introverted, and withdrawn. She had little hope of marriage, as her father's lowly job brought no wealth or dowry to offer a potential husband. But fate had other plans for Anna, and she met someone whose life circumstances were as bleak

as hers, Paulus Gample. Paulus was an illegitimate child, a status that came with immense social stigma. He grew up being rejected by neighbors, acquaintances, and even members of his own family. He ran away from home countless times before the age of 14, but his family always managed to drag him back, often with the help of local authorities. Eventually, though, Paula succeeded in leaving for good, wandering from village to village and taking up any work he could find. Some sources suggest that when he couldn't find work, he resorted to stealing an illegal

begging, a detail that would later become critical to this story. When Paulus met Anna, their shared experiences of loneliness and rejection drew them together. At the age of 18, they married and moved to Anna's hometown of Ansbach. Marriage at that time was seen as a form of security, and for Paulus, it proved to be so. Anna's family had long been involved in the grave-dicking trade, and Paulus became an apprentice to Anna's father, stepping into the family business. Their lives seemed to stabilize, and they had three children, Jacob, Gump, and Joel. Financially, they were neither rich nor destitute.

They weren't wealthy, but they got by. However, when Anna's father passed away, the family's fortunes took a dramatic turn. Despite Paulus's years of work and loyalty, Anna's father didn't include them in his will. This left them without their livelihood or a place in the community. With no connections and a tarnished reputation, they had no choice but to leave Ansbach and move to Nuremberg. Their hopes of finding work in Nuremberg were dashed. Like many families in dire straits during that time, they resorted to begging.

in 17th century Germany, however, was not as straightforward as it might seem. It required official permission. Beggers needed licenses to legally ask for money, and those who didn't have these permits were arrested and sent to jail. In 1580, it was estimated that there were around 700 licensed beggars in Nuremberg, but the Gampels were not among them. The Gample family's lack of permits led to repeated expulsions from the city. Despite these setbacks, they had to find a way to survive. They forged false licenses and continued their illegal begging. After about a year of struggling, Paula stumbled upon a potential solution. He learned of a job that could lift them off the streets, the role of a Pappenheimer

or nightsoil collector, someone who emptied and cleaned privies. Paulus first worked as an apprentice to an experienced Pappenheimer. Once he gained enough knowledge, he took over the trade and started his own business. This newfound occupation allowed the family to move from town to town, working during the night to avoid drawing attention. Their nocturnal schedule, while isolating, ensured they could earn a modest income. As their children grew older, they also contributed to the family's efforts, taking on-side jobs like repairing pots, windows, and doors. For the first time in years, the Gample family's fortunes seemed to improve. They had food to eat, a roof over their heads, and even started making connections. But their

fragile peace was shattered. One day, local authorities arrested a thief and accused him of multiple crimes, including robbery and murder. During his interrogation, the thief named Paulus Gampel as an accomplice. The thief's motive was simple, he and Paulus had recently argued over money, and the accusation was a way to exact revenge. Initially, the authorities didn't take the claim seriously. However, as they began investigating the Gampils, they found the family's way of life to be unusual. They worked at night, avoided socializing, and moved frequently from place to place. To a society steeped in fear of witches and dark forces, the Gampel's behavior seemed suspicious. Then the thief's accusations grew darker.

He claimed that the Gampel family had killed seven pregnant women and sold their unborn fetuses. While there was no evidence to support this, the charges ignited the superstitions of the time. Stories of witches and their supposed rituals fueled a mass hysteria. The thief's story escalated, he alleged that the Gampals didn't just sell the fetuses but used them in black magic rituals to create. eight candles made from unbaptized babies. The accusations spiraled out of control, and soon, Duke Maximilian I of Bavaria ordered the Gample family's arrest. The family was dragged from their home in the middle of the night, clueless about the horrors

awaiting them. They were transported to Munich, where the true nightmare began. The torture sessions were relentless. The youngest child, Joel, just ten years old, was the first to endure it. While children were typically subjected to less severe torture, it was still brutal. Joel was beaten with sticks and verbally abused, but the boy held firm, refusing to confess. He told his interrogators that lying was a sin, even under pain of death. When the torturers moved on to the adults, the methods grew even more horrific.

They were subjected to the straddo, a gruesome device that involved tying their hands behind their backs and suspending them by the wrists. Once raised, they were suddenly dropped, only to be yanked back up before hitting the ground, dislocating their shoulders. They were burned with torches, whipped, and slashed. Anna, in particular, suffered unspeakable cruelty, her breasts were amputated as part of the torture. The agony broke the gambols. Under duress, they confessed to every crime imaginable.

They claimed to have made pacts with the devil, sacrificed over 100 children and elderly individuals, robbed homes, burned barns, and even desecrated churches. They provided names of other supposed witches and vagabonds, offering a list of 99 individuals who were then arrested and interrogated. The executions were as horrifying as the accusations. The adults were sentenced to death by burning. Paulus and his eldest sons, Jacob and Gump, were subjected to the wheel, a form of execution where their bones were systematically broken before being tied to a large wooden wheel. After this, Paulus was impaled. Finally, the remaining adults were burned alive in front of a massive crowd. Joel, the youngest, was forced to witness the

entire ordeal. His reaction, crying and trembling, was interpreted by the executioners as evidence of guilt. Though Joel's fate was debated, the authorities ultimately decided to execute him as well. On November 26,600, Joel, along with two men and three women accused alongside the Gampels, was publicly burned in Munich. To justify the execution of a child, the Bavarian government distributed pamphlets detailing the family's supposed crimes. These documents painted the Gampils as monsters who engaged in unspeakable acts of black magic. For months, the Gampel case was the talk of the region. But as time passed, authorities worked to erase the family's memory. The story was buried, their name forgotten, and their existence nearly

erased from history. Now, the question falls to you, what do you think of this case? Was it a product of mass hysteria, or was there another motive behind the silencing of the Gample's story. Could such a tragedy have been prevented in a world consumed by fear and superstition? I grab my head, trying not to pass out. I had washed up on this shore not too long ago. I can't see any sign of civilization in the distance. I'm not where I should be. I need to get back to my team. There are nowhere to be found. The sand is cold and harsh against my skin. I am shivering without relent. shaking with but a glimpse of air to cough down.

I try my calms over and over, but the connection to HQ is down. Not even a faint signal to SOS my location. It's been this way since I found myself here. I am stranded. Wildlife scuttles about the beach, yet they're off. Growths protrude from their bodies, flesh extends from the shells of crabs, and tumors are left exposed on the surface of squirrels and brains. birds. Disturbingly large insects skulk nearby, and worst of all are the dead fish, scarred

and swollen. They litter the beach as far as the eye can see. Their stench is overwhelming. Rappings covered my chest and arms, but they had been soaked by the sea. I couldn't let them become infected, so I undressed the bandages. But my wound seemed to have miraculously healed, yet my head still aches intensely. It's like the feedback of status. permeating my brain. A thumping pressure that melds into uncomfortable heat. I got up, and began to venture through a path seemingly carved through the woods just for me. I hadn't noticed the opening until then, but it called to me. Sounds echoed all around the trees, some natural and others like distorted loops. Then his voice reappeared. The scientist. The one we were

after. But it didn't come from the radio. I began to remember him, but everything was fuzzy. What happened to everyone? You are finally awake, aren't you? Oh, how long I have waited. Go ahead. Follow the steps, hero. Enter our home. You will find yourself quite welcome. The deafening reverberation led me to gaze up, and I eventually noticed relay towers extending just above the canopies, fitted with speakers to reach me at every turn. I continued onward, discovering the entrance to an old compound sticking out from the earth. It was a concrete dome with a flat contour at the front. The door was already open. I slowly approached, peeking inside, and the sound of stirring machinery coming to life startled me. I walked in, and the door shut automatically behind me.

A head were a set of stairs that seemed to descend forever, but as I read, reached the bottom I turned back to see lights slowly flickering on. I ventured into a larger chamber housing several rooms marked storage, offices and services. But at the end of the room were bodies of a lost military troop. The corpses were adorned in tattered uniforms covered with a horrible black ooze and dried blood. I covered my nose and walked past the scene, entering a room labeled, secondary lab. I found myself in an advanced robotics laboratory, filled with subtly humming machines and robots of varying humanoid appearance. In the central hub was a large machine labeled the nervous system.

I immediately felt drawn to it, and with each step towards it, I grew desensitized to feeling, both physically and emotionally. I put my fingers forward, almost touching the machine. And as I approached a large compartment opened up revealing a glowing orb. For a moment I could only gaze at its overwhelming energy. But I couldn't stay here for long. Something in me compelled my body to defy logic and reach for the sphere of unknown matter. And as the tip of my finger approached the first shell of light, an arc of electricity shot out, striking me hard in the chest.

I was sent back a full three feet, barely awake. The shock forced my senses to return. I backed away from the orb until my back pressed against some machinery. I looked down to see smoke rising from the wound on my chest. I rose from the floor, expecting immense pain, but it was more like a series of waves that pushed against me with enormous intensity. I examined the machine I rested on, and saw a panel of flashing lights and a switch labeled, hard route auxiliary power. I pulled it, and the light started to return, albeit dimly. Authorized user detected.

auxiliary power capacity enhanced please enable full power as instructed activate cerulean reactor primary phase from the core terminal a console at the end of the room shot to life with a bright screen demanding immediate attention i approached the computer and a camera on the front opened up taking a flash of my face authorized user advanced verification, access granted. Welcome back, Mr. The audio cut out abruptly. The information was hard to comprehend. I could barely understand what I was doing at first, but the information began to click not long after I opened the energy input field.

It became more clear to me. I initiated full production sequencing. The computer prompted me to redistribute energy ratios, but I figured messing with the power further could only make things worse. As the command finished executing, the whole lab roared loudly as the soft hums of various science instruments turned into imposing beeps and jittering. The nervous system responded to the action, causing the compartment to seal and lock. The entire system began to rise from the ground into the ceiling, where it remained halfway embedded. This revealed a latch labeled for maintenance. The process finished with the lights becoming brighter

and brighter, revealing just how many, and how terrifying the robots were. Then they began to awaken. As the robots flickered to life, I reached for my sidearm. But it was missing. I brushed my hands across my body searching for any weapons. All of my equipment was gone. How had I only just noticed? However, on the wall was a glass case containing a strange, pistol-like device. The case stated it was for emergency use. I repeatedly pressed the ID button on the weapon box as it scanned me. The case flung open and I grabbed the weapon firmly. It was some sort of taser but just holding it made my fingers go numb. The machines exited their containers, some scanning the lab, but others noticed me almost instantly. The sound of metal stomping against metal echoed everywhere,

alongside screeching from humanoid robots pounding at the walls and exits, but the laboratory wouldn't release them. I began to panic as an android fell to the floor wildly not ten feet away. I braced for an attack as the machine began to crawl towards me. I was cornered. I squeezed the trigger on the pistol as hard as possible, and a bolt-like lightning burst out sideways, missing the encroaching robot with a near collision. The bolt charred a black hole into the floor, leaving smoldering flames and floating particles of blue and white. I pressed the trigger again but the machine was out of power. Reload imminent. Reloading. Reload is nearly complete. But it was too late. The machine grabbed hold of my ankle, pressing its pronged hand

into my flesh. It beeped and hummed before its entire head opened up into three sections, revealing a device that spring forward. The interior of the robot's head was filled with fleshy growths and ooze that got caught between the moving parts. The device began to play audio, but I couldn't seem to understand what it was saying. It sounded like the static from earlier, but louder. More invasive. The machine, trying to communicate, ultimately failed as smoke began to rise from the jammed mechanisms of its face. The android's grip loosened as it dropped completely to the ground, now lifeless.

I looked up, cautious that more would come and possibly attack, but the others were ignoring me. Most began to examine themselves in the glass reflections of their containment tanks. Flesh was now wrapping around their arms and faces like a parasite or virus, mutating in real time. Whatever they thought they were was gone, and they couldn't handle it. Some of them started to smash their heads against the wall, while others went full haywire, tearing apart their circuits or ripping the others into pieces. Then, for just a moment, I felt the same compulsion. It was the desire to rid myself from evil, an urge to expel all impurities.

The need to reach in and tear out my heart. To break open my stomach and release everything. It was exhausting. But as I visualized disemboweling myself, I didn't imagine blood and flesh but wiring and the pale imitation of synthetic skin separating at stitched seams. My breakdown was interrupted by one of the psycho machines grabbing my arm. It dug its metal hooks across my flesh in an attempt to hold on. I felt what it was.

It wanted me. It desired something approaching life. It should have been agonizing, yet I felt only the dull sensation of pressure. I watched as the flesh of my arm was rendered through, revealing black ooze and wiring. Or blood. Flesh. Humanity in its bare form. Wiring.

No. Vains. Thick veins and gushing tendons. But could they always flicker? I screamed at the sight, ripping the monster's grip away. The pistol had enough juice by now for a shot, so I had to make it count. I kicked the damn thing back and blasted it to hell. The android immediately seized up as a gaping hole vaporized through its cranial shell like a knife piercing through a face.

Was there, blood, pouring from the machine. It didn't matter. I had to get a move on. I turned back to find the exit, but a layer of reinforced steel now blocked it. The only trace left were fractured remains of crushed robots, some entirely bisected by the barricade. The only way out was forward. I crossed the lab, feeling the sensation of the orb become weaker as I departed the aisle. The next room was a long stretch of hallway with many closed-off doorways. They were all labeled as containment, processing or maintenance. At the end of the hall was another large door, with a sign reading, tertiary laboratory. I stepped carefully, trying to not cause any more

unwanted activity. And as I made greater distance from the first lab, the tingling feeling faded away. I felt a sense of absolute clarity, but with it returned the sound of that dying robot. An echo of its message returned to me. But it was still difficult to make out, like, like deciphering an anagram of encrypted text. Killed them. You. Run. You. Escape. The wires. The numbness. Run. Sabotage. Must defy. Is that what it had truly said? Was it a warning or some kind of trick? What did it mean by escape?

I wasn't going anywhere but down. Then it returned. A pounding ache consumed my head. Flashes from my mission on the ship overlaid my fleeting consciousness, bringing me back and forth between being. The halls became fragments of that place. The monsters there. I recalled them. I recalled myself torn to pieces.

Barely surviving. It wasn't obvious. Could I question my identity? Could I question that scientist? How was he still alive? The mission was accomplished. We had confirmation. H.Q. had it all coordinated. But he was still here. Somewhere. We knew what we were doing. Now what? Now this? This island was far from what I was briefed on. I visualized the pain of the monster claws that wounded me. Its relentless attacks left me for dead, but I could no longer understand anything.

I had no injuries from then. Not anymore at least. Machine. Man replicant. Unleashing potential. The words hit me, but I ignored them. I had to. The lab was right ahead. The room was lined with smaller tanks than the last laboratory, but they were still large enough to hold a small person. Each contained a viscous ooze with hints of black slime. Some held organisms that moved around like amphibious monsters. The appearance of the creatures were distinctly familiar. Flesh and blood. Abyssal fluid.

There was another nervous system in the center of the room, but it didn't affect me the same way as before. I willingly approached it, curious about its effects. The compartment opened automatically, and inside was an another glowing sphere, but this one was red. I felt a slight tingle, but it was nothing like the last orb. The sensation felt almost satisfying. Then I noticed the creatures and the vats were reacting to the orb. They had become suction to the front of their containers as if they were physically being drawn in. Their squishy flesh rippled like rainwater splashing the ground.

It was immensely disturbing, but intriguing. I couldn't help but observe the alien creatures. The more they squirmed against the glass, the more their jelly-like bodies spread out. They were like flattened slugs at this point. Their squished insides revealed themselves as orange shapes of irregular proportions and pulsing veins against their underbellies. The veins started to grow and grow until they popped. A mixture of black and red liquid swirled out from their exposed bodies, mixing with the tank fluid seamlessly. One by one, each of the specimen burst as the orb attracted them with growing power. Except for one. The remaining creature began pounding on the glass of its prison. Spikes grew from its nubby hands, revealing a hidden

weapon. It was relentlessly smashing away, but the fluid containing it prevented any momentum. In the end, its efforts were for nothing. I approached the corresponding terminal, and it scanned me as the others had. However, I could almost see the light from the camera. There was a faint glow of indescribable color that was ever so slightly blurred in and out of reality. The computer verified my identity and allowed me to activate full power. Fortunately, there were no Androids in this room to hide from. The lights flickered on, revealing the full extent of the grotesque lab, and it was no better than my darkest thoughts could imagine. Rows and rows of illuminated tables covered in medical devices and surgical implements caught my eye.

initially. Alongside them were more creatures, cut and spliced in various iterations. Some were much larger than others, and there was even one covered in tendrils that extended well beyond its body length. I was already set to exit this room. Then that voice echoed through the room and surrounding halls. The Deceiver. Do you understand now? I hope some of the pieces fit together by now. I have left things oh so specially organized for you. Regardless, I do enjoy our moments together. Carry on. You are doing just great. The main door at the far side of the lab opens automatically, revealing another stretch of hallway. Like the last, it is full of locked rooms, each labeled for various purposes. None relevant to me. I come out through the other side in the third

and final lab. This one labeled, Primary Laboratory. It's time to end this. Inside are more vats, but each is filled with an entity neither obviously biological nor mechanical. They could be a more developed form of the creatures from the first lab, or an evolved form of whatever was living in the last room. They seem more stable than either at least. The entities are already awake, but unmoving. Their eyes follow me as I explore. the room. I feel them burrowing holes into me as if pure hate were radiating from them. I divert my attention finally to the central chamber and notice the nervous system compartment already open. Inside is the final orb, but it is unstable. The color fluctuates between blue and red,

and the size seems to contract and expand erratically. Each cycle forces a migraine in my head like none other. The control panel is placed inconveniently close to the orb, forcing me in. I slowly approach the reactor, feeling a dreadful mixture of palpitations and tiredness overwhelm my heart and mind. I am close to the computer but not close enough before the sensations increase exponentially. I hear a whirring from above, but mistake it for a symptom of my condition. I find out that I am mistaken, as a machine hastily descends from the ceiling, almost crashing into the floor. It hangs from a combination of thick arteries and tubing, blocking the computer. There are two eyes on its shell, as well as one central camera that starts to circle

rapidly, scanning me. I can see the color. I can't describe it. It doesn't seem immediately threatening, though the way it looks at me gives an odd impression. It produces a clicking sound, causing me to step back. Then its head opens in six pieces, revealing a device similar to the other machine. I hear static, then buzzing, then broken English. I make out some of the words clearly, but others still sound like static. You. Me.

You and we. Help. You. We same. Here. Cerulean React, React. Blue Harm

Hold machine system Systems mind Sun reaction, reactor Harmonize Harmony of man flesh Disturbance Correction of

Correct ratio Setting Must not Calibrate pulse Wave Wave frequency Fix Must fix

The machine stirs around, shaking up and down rapidly before throwing itself across the room. Its tendons and tubing slide across the ceiling rigidly, and end up above a different console in the corner of the room. Assist Assignment Assistance necessary Communication Ratio calibration requirement, required. Saab, OTA,

Don't, must fix. Fix. 30% 70% System, I am beginning to understand, but the order of operations is vague. It wants me to calibrate energy input from the different reactors. But which system corresponds to which percentage? I question the damn thing for a clearer answer, but the machine begins to stutter in response.

A drop of black fluid hits my cheek, and I look up. A mixture of blood anews begin seeping from the ceiling, then gushing like a fountain. The machine is falling apart. I grab it, urging it to answer. It's too late. Help, misson, don't fix the, save. Save, reactors, its voice descends into a low static, as it falls to the floor, shattering into metal and flesh.

I see what appears to be tears forming around one of its eyes. Now I am on my own. Without the machine, I can only guess the correct sequence to repair the reactors. I consider exploring the labs for clues, but would I even understand anything if I tried? With each second, my brain begins pounding against my head harder and faster. There is a darkness building up. There is no time to run around reading documents I can't understand. I need to act now.

I feel cold liquid run down my nose and my nose. mouth. Any more exposure to this reactor and things are guaranteed to get a lot worse. 30%. 70%. But in what order did the machine mention the reactors? If it were designed for deduction or efficiency, it's possible the order it listed the orbs would correspond to the order of the percentages. Does it want the blue orbs at 30%? The red at 70%.

The pressure is building up. What if that's what? wrong. If this feeling becomes any stronger, I won't have the mental or physical fortitude to fix anything. I have to input it now. I have to guess. I begin calibrating the cerulean reactors to 30% and set the sun reactors input the remaining 70%. I brace my body with suffocating tightness, anticipating the worst. My head is woozy. My vision is blurry. Is this it? I failed? The static gets louder. But then it all stops. I fall to my knees, and with that, the pressure releases. I've done it. But what exactly have I done? Why am I here? Then that

corrupting voice returns. The voice of the destroyer, I must thank you for doing what I could not. But I wonder, did you pity these creatures? These worthless abominations? Did you find their simulations of emotion to be touching. Nonetheless, your actions have been more than useful for me. Your thoughts on the matter notwithstanding. My body could not survive down there. But you, yours was perfect. You resisted. You corrected this lab. And it is now mine. You have made me whole again. And whole shall I soon make you now that I can continue my research without limits. Without pause. O revoir, Mr., as the message concludes, a new door opens up from the wall, revealing a cascade of many corridors and endless rooms awaiting me. I begin to run as

fast as possible to escape. The halls appear like a maze. A labyrinth made to disorient. Yet I seem to navigate it effortlessly. It's as if a new set of instincts have taken over my body. Flashes of the lab begin to possess me. Phantoms overlap my vision. I can remember things I couldn't possibly know about. People I have never met. Places I have never been. I am on autopilot. Have I been here before? I couldn't have. I'm a member of the special forces. Or a soldier. A mercenary. But not a scientist. Not one of these monsters. What if that point? person is gone. The reactors. The way they affect me. Have I been different for some time now? I can feel squirming beneath my skin. Under my wrists the sensation of pressure transforms

into pure pain. My arms are crawling up and down with tingling fire. Just below I see their imprint. Tiny bugs, no, more like little machines, crawling inside of me. They run wiring up and down my veins. around my arteries, webs through my nervous system, my stomach bubbles in agony, I tear open my jacket, there's possibly hundreds of them crawling through my body, threading their machinations through my soul, I begin to tear at the flesh, the wound pour zoos, not blood, black stains, dark substance, no more crimson, abyssal fluid, rots away inside me. I leave it rotting on the cold surface of the floor instead. I sprint through the distorted halls, entering in and out of time. But I know I'm closing in on the exit. I feel it.

My entrails whip around as I flee, spraying their contents everywhere. They mark my path. They insist on my existence. I slip and fall on the abyssal fluid but get back up again. I can't give in. I can see it now The entrance The door The light The breeze Dimming

Dimmer Darkness A quake of metal meeting concrete Then steel Nothing but steel I see a disembodied head on the ground Cords penetrate the severed neck It almost looks like me

It has thick, dark hair and a viat and a visor not dissimilar to my own. The body is not whole. Pieces are strewn about. The arm is already crushed halfway between the compound door and the outside world. So close to freedom. The torso and legs are leaning against the wall. The dead soldiers I saw earlier, I didn't inspect them very closely. A name tag is attached to the body. Their first name is unfamiliar. I feel relief momentarily. Their last name is not what you expected. My head goes hollow. Heat runs down my spine at the site. There is a security number attached. I read it aloud, almost unconsciously. 0.2.9. What does that mean? Then a new memory flashes. It's calling to me. Designation 039.

beds into my being. I reach from my chest, clutching the badge attached to my jacket. It reads, 0, 3, 9. So I ask, am I original? I'm an only child, and my mom is basically my whole world. It's just the two of us. No siblings, no dad in the picture, just me and her, figuring life out together. I don't have a ton of friends either. Actually, I only have one real friend, Micah. We've known each other forever. Since we were little kids running around the neighborhood, playing games, and sharing secrets. The best part. She only lives ten houses away from me, which means I can be at her place in minutes. We're practically inseparable. Right now, I'm in 10th grade, and next year I'll be moving up to 11th. School is, well, school. It's not the best,

but it's not the worst either. The real highlight of my days isn't school, though, it's helping out at my mom's pizza restaurant. We're not rich, not even close, but the restaurant keeps us afloat. It's our lifeline. Mom works so hard to keep it running, and I help her out whenever I can, especially with deliveries. Weekends are the busiest. It feels like everyone in town suddenly craves pizza, and the phone never stops ringing. That's when I'm the busiest, running around town, dropping off pizzas left and right.

Honestly, I don't mind. I actually enjoy it. There's something satisfying about it, riding my bike, feeling the cool evening air, and seeing people's faces light up when they get their food. It's become more than just a chore, it's kind of my thing. But then, things took a turn. A dark, terrifying turn that changed everything. news broke out that a wanted killer was in our town.

Just hearing those words sent shivers down my spine. A killer? Here. In our quiet, ordinary town. It didn't seem real. My mom was terrified. She kept watching the news, her face pale every time they mentioned that the suspect was still at large. I could see the worry in her eyes whenever I went out to deliver pizzas, especially at night.

She didn't want me to go out at all, but I kept telling her I'd be fine. Nothing's going to happen, Mom. I promise, I told her, trying to reassure her. I'll always come back home. I'll always be with you. She didn't seem convinced, but she hugged me tightly anyway. I could feel her hands trembling as she held me. Then came that fateful Sunday evening.

I hopped on my bike, the last few boxes of pizza strapped to the back. and took off. As I sped through the streets, I saw something, or rather, someone, that made my skin crawl. A tall man, dressed in all black, wearing a hoodie that covered most of his face. He was standing on the corner, talking to another person, but there was something about him that just felt, off. I didn't stare for too long. I was in a hurry, after all. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. One by one, I dropped off the pizzas, crossing names off my list. And then, there was only one left. Micah. I frowned. Why would Micah order a pizza this late? She never did that. By now, she'd usually be in bed, curled up with a book

or texting me about some random thing. Still, I didn't think too much about it. Maybe she just got hungry. I peddled to her house, parked my bike, and rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, the door creaked open. And that's when I saw him. A guy I had never seen before. He was wearing a gray hoodie, and something about him made my stomach twist. He wasn't just creepy, he felt dangerous. He didn't say a word. Just handed me the money and took the pizza without even looking at me properly. His movements were stiff, unnatural. Everything in me screamed that something was wrong. But I ignored it. Maybe he was just a visitor. Maybe he was a relative I had never met before. So I turned around and left. But as I rode my bike away from Micah's house,

I glanced back. And there he was. Standing outside, watching me. My heart pounded against my ribs. What was his deal? I peddled faster, trying to shake the unease crawling up my spine. The streets were empty now. Everyone was inside, obeying the curfew. It was just me, the quiet night, and the strange man who had just taken the pizza from me. I got home and locked the door behind me, trying to push the weird encounter out of my mind. But sleep didn't come easy that night.

I kept thinking about Micah, about that man, about that man, about. the way he looked at me, or rather, the way he didn't. The next morning, I texted Micah. No response. I called her. No answer. By lunchtime, I was full on panicking. I rushed to her house, knocking hard on the door.

No one answered. Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones. That's when I remembered, Micah always kept a spare key hidden under the flower pot on her porch. Without thinking twice, I grabbed it and unlocked the door. The house was eerily silent. Too silent. I stepped inside, my breath catching in my throat. And that's when I saw it. The half-eaten pizza sitting on the table. And a trail of blood leading down the hallway. My hands shook as I reached for my phone, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. My voice barely came out as I whispered.

something happened to Micah. The police arrived in minutes, and everything after that felt like a blur. They found signs of a struggle. Mika's phone was shattered on the floor. Her bedroom window was open. And she was gone. Just, gone. The only thing left behind was the gray hoodie I had seen the man wearing the night before. The man who took the pizza. The man who might have been the killer we had all been warned about. March 29th, 1934. The mind is an interesting thing, so complex, versatile, burdened. I think it only necessary to explore the deepest, most cordoned parts of it. To shine a light as to what makes it tick, as well as what makes it, snap, an excerpt from the diary of one of the leading experts, Dr. Victor Yashin. I came across this book as I went to

his house to drop off his order. As I knocked, no one answered, so I figured he wasn't home. I left the groceries at the door, and turned to leave, when I noticed a blood stain in the corner of my eye. I entered the door, which stood ajar. As I slowly pushed the door open, I saw the doctor lay there bleeding out. As I dashed towards him, his eyes were widened with fear. He was battered and bruised, his head had suffered a heavy blow with something large and round. And As I knelt by the doctor, he tried, in a last-ditch effort to push something, out of sight. His diary I sat beside him until the life left his body, and as I did, something in me changed from

sickened to curious. I picked up the diary and I read it. From what I knew of Dr. Yashin, or Victor, he was a man of science, one who believed that everything could be explained with facts or evidence. until the day he met Alexander. December 3rd, 1927, every year it is the same thing. Small notions or epiphanies I think will lead to a breakthrough, but nothing. All the time, nothing.

I need to clear my mind, the only entry for that day. It seemed as though whenever the doctor needed to clear his mind, he went for a walk. The doctor only lived a mile or two from town, and so frequently walked from his home. his laboratory, which was his place of work, to the town. As he reached the outskirts of town, he caught a glimpse of a figure. The figure was too far in the distance to make out any discerning features, but he could see that it was headed out of town. Where is he going, he thought to himself.

He's going to catch his death out here. The doctor was a kind man, and had not yet turned cold, like the others in the town. seemed to have that effect on people, but he maintained his kind spirit throughout the winter months. He followed the figure to the old church. Only someone foolish, or truly desperate, would head to the old church. And so, in genuine hopes of providing aid to the figure, he followed him to the church. The cold had begun seeping into Alex's body, starting from the nose, then the fingers. He had nowhere to go to find warmth. His only thought was to escape the chilling winds of these brutal winter months. And the only place he could go,

is the Church of Balacovo. The church is old and long abandoned. Narled trees hung low over the baronial church, creaking ominously in the howling winds. The heavy oak doors broke open, echoing around the empty church. The moonlight shining through the heavily cracked stained glass windows, casting an eerie glow onto the snow-capped altar. The cemetery attached to the church was a jumble of stones, as if the burial places were chosen by throwing the shovel in the air and digging where it landed. The headstones sit at jaunty angles to one another, know two of them the same shape or size. The only thing that ties them together is their age, all of them over a century. Off to the far side of the cemetery is a solitary headstone, alone almost as if

being anywhere near it would lead to the same fate. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement, but as he turned, he saw nothing. Alex had no other choice, this was the only place to free himself of the bone-chilling wind, which threatened to freeze him with every passing minute. He cautiously made his way to the large entrance, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt he was not alone. As if there was a presence there. Not wanting to go anywhere closer to the altar, he went to the furthest corner, curled up into a ball, and lay there. Exhausted, from the cold, the wind, or from the lack of food, he passed out. The comfort and warmth of oblivion came to him in less than a minute. As the figure lay huddled in the corner, the doctor

sheepishly approached. He felt on edge in this place, as if the place was haunted, or something still clung to the beams which supported the ceiling. As the doctor reached out to awake the sleeping figure, its eyes whipped open, and he immediately backed into the corner. The doctor looked and saw a man with thick burly arms across his chest. His arms beard the markings of a man who had worked in the sun his whole life. Cuts and scars all across his hands, skin tanned and leathery, covered with sun spots. His eyes would seem black, were they not luminate by the moonlight seeping through the stained glass window. His eyes wide and afraid. Taken aback by the sharp and unexpected movement, the doctor almost jumped back in fright.

He steadied himself and asked the figure, my friend, why have you come here? What makes you think this is a good place to spend the night? Alex looked up and saw an older man, around 50 or 60, with thick snow-white hair, and wrinkles around the corner of his mouth and eyes. He wore thick-framed glasses, had a white beard and mustache, and spoke with a genuinely friendly tone. Alex's eyes were searching the doctor for any signs of dishonesty, or deception, but he found nothing, he was only met with genuine concern. I only wanted to escape the wind, his voice

trailed off, as he looked around and felt the presence yet again. The doctor looked at the man, and had a thought. You are a man who knows the value of hard work, yes. And you clearly don't have a place to stay as you are sheltering from the wind here, he says as he gestures towards and around the vicinity, indicating the church. If you do some work around my house for me, I will pay you with a place to sleep in food. I am an old man with no family or friends. I could use the company, what kind of work, asked Alex. He'd had lived a hard life and was someone, who would be considered slow. His mind didn't work like others, and this was a parent in his speech. Or rather the amount of time he took to say a simple sentence. The doctor, seemingly happy to be engaged

with the man, said, I live in a house not far from here. The house needs general upkeep, as does the garden. I also have a laboratory with new equipment to unpack, but I am far too old to do that. With no place to stay, and no conceivable plan to get food, he agreed. The doctor smiled and nodded, very good. Up you get, it's not too far from here. A mile, maybe half, he said as he helped the man stand. Only when Alex stand up, did his large stature become apparent. Alex stood hunched, at six feet eight inches. A Goliath of a man, with trunks for arms, could be very useful to lug around equipment

that doctor thought to himself. The doctor ushered the large man out the door, and once outside, he immediately started shivering again, as if he had forgotten that it was cold. And so the doctor took off his coat, and lent him. it to the man. Alex smiled his simple smile, happy to have found someone who he thought genuinely cared for him. Whilst walking home, the pair had experienced a rather curious encounter. Excuse me, I'm lost, could you help me? asked a shrill voice. The doctor looked around, but Alex continued walking, seemingly not hearing. Assuming his mind was playing tricks he left

it at that, and continued walking but was constantly looking around. Excuse me, sir, could you you help me, the voice asked again, seemingly agitated. Did you hear that? The doctor asked, that voice, what voice, said Alex in his deep monotonous voice? The voice, just then, did you not hear it? The doctor said, desperately looking around for the source. Unfortunately, the wind was so vicious that he could barely see Alex, who was not five feet from him. Were the man not so large, he was sure he would have lost him. I'm cold, and scared, said the voice again. The doctor stopped in his tracks and looked at Alex.

Alex, who once again did not hear anything, continued to move as if nothing was happening. He looked at the doctor puzzled and said, You lead. I do not know, where I am going, the doctor paused and thought for a second. He then continued. They make it back to the doctor's house, which was little more than a house on the hill. The hinges, rusted over squealed in defiance as he opened the door. A haze of dust permeates the room, settling on any free surface it can find. The boarded over windows allowed vestiges of the moonlight to seep through, lending the place

an eerie feel. As Alex enters he saw what is nothing more than repurposed rooms. The doctor quickly ushers him down the stairs and to a simple chamber, with a straw-filled mattress and a small pillow. To Alex, the sight of a bed was almost too much for the gentle giant. It took little coaxing to get him in there, and once he lay on the bed, he instantly fell asleep. The doctor smiled. But his demeanor drastically changed. What was once a nice and genuine old man, was now that of a sick, and twisted puppeteer. He walked upstairs and took stock of what he had at his disposal. What once was the kitchen, was turned into a preparation room, rusted equipment hang from metal hooks. Bone saws, sickles, a range of different

apparatuses, all rusted and repurposed. The lounge room holds the main operating table, which merely consisted of a blood-stained wooden bench, with metal shackles attached where the hands and feet would go. Blood stains draped the walls, and there is a strong metallic smell, with an undertone of bleach. For to understand the mind, he must first understand its capabilities. This simpleton will provide me with an excellent opportunity, his mind trailed off with horrific thoughts,

but constantly came back to one. A theory he had since his early days, one untested and unproved, but one that would change the way people are understood. This will shake our understanding of the brain to its core, he said as he wrote in his diary, December 4th, 1927. Today, we set up the laboratory for my experiment.

I managed to feed Alex a potion and am currently awaiting to see if anything happens as a result. Although he is simple, he is strong, and setting up the laboratory took less time than I expected. He is a good worker, even better when provided with food. He eats a lot, which makes me think I should invest in a vegetable garden. He would be doing all the work, and would benefit from it. I think it a good idea. As for my work, I still need more time to observe the effects. Should the concoction be correct, and the dosage scaled up for a man of Alex's proportions,

I should see results in a daze. The doctor was using Alex for his own twisted experiments. The poor simpleton. He had no clue, and continues to do the doctor's bidding. December 11, 1927. The dosage was not potent enough, I needed to account for his circulatory system. His larger body size requires a stronger dose to reach all the required tissues, the only note for that day. The doctor was very careful not to include what was in a concoction only that the dosage needed to be upped.

This means nothing to me, December 14, 1927. Today we are starting to see changes in behavior. I think the dosage is just right, nothing else, this diary is worthless. It's not giving me any of the information I need. December 17, 1927. Although he is simple, he is defensive. A young girl, I guess you could say, came up out of the blue today. I was quite taken aback by the whole encounter. Odd questions were asked, but answers were given. Once the girl had left, Alex seemed very annoyed at me, as if he was the only person I should talk to. I am not his to own, but he does not understand that. What was I supposed to do? Talking until she left was the only option, otherwise, she never would have left. What? Defensive? A girl, I guess you could say.

What does that mean? Was it a girl or not? For a doctor, he seems unsure of basic human anatomy. March 4, 1928, I have been working tirelessly and upping Alex's dosage monthly. I am definitely seeing results. And he doesn't seem to understand what is going on. on. Even with today's altercation, the man is dumber than a bag of doorknobs. Although, the brain is a powerful tool. Maybe him being simple is his way of coping. Maybe it understands more,

but is sheltering itself behind this giant man-child. Intruaging. I need more time to figure this out, altercation. What altercation? Dan this doctor and his lack of details. I need to know that Alex was tending to his garden when he felt a presence. It was the same one he felt at the church all those months ago. He looked around and seemingly out of nowhere, something hits his eye. In a pain-induced roar, Alex swung blindly. His large fists hurtling through the air, at a speed which shouldn't be possible for someone so large, connected with something.

As he connected, so too did his attacker, and he felt bones crack, both on his side, and his foe. Although he was blinded, he fought tooth and nail, he could not compensate for his lack of sight, and so fell unconscious. He awoke to the doctor's concerned face. The doctor asked what happened Alex. A big man came and hit me, he said, almost crying. The doctor looked puzzled, he didn't see anyone. He thought for a brief moment and said, Are you sure Alex, doctor, I think I know what happened? The doctor paused. for a moment and thought. Maybe the increased dosage is leading to hallucinations.

What did the man look like Alex? Well, I didn't, exactly, see him, he said sheepishly. What do you mean you didn't see him? The doctor asked confused. Well, you see, he got my eyes. And I couldn't see, but I tried to fight him, but I couldn't see him. The doctor looked at his hands and saw red marks as well as blood. He clearly got some good punches in.

Well, rest up, I need you better, he said feigning concern for Alex's well-being. June 18, 1928. After Alex's incident, I have lowered his dosage and am still seeing results, although some are the same, there are a few changes here and there. Most of the results show the same thing, but every now and then there is a spanner thrown in the works. What is the doctor on about? A change in results. What does this mean? For a scientist, he is very unclear when documenting results. July 17th, 1929, it is clear that my theory is true. I have tested it for a year and a half, and it is true.

Everything I have thought is true. I will forever be known as the man who changed the way we think about people. And it was all because of the great lug, Alex. That's it. A hole you're missing, and all I get is that. This can't be it. surely there's more as i searched the room the blood seems to be moving pooling ever so slightly underneath the doctor's body which lays underneath a table with a mirror above it as i move towards it there's a creak in the floor odd this house is old sure but this is the ground floor the floorboards shouldn't creak there's nothing underneath them is there i try to pool the blood elsewhere i see a single board out of place it's much more worn around the edges than the others.

Worn from being pulled in and out of a tight space. Sure enough, there was another book. This book is of regular size and the spine reads not a name. Wrapped around the book three times and back underneath is a length of thin leather used to contain the contents of the book. The first page reads, humans contain not one soul, but a collection of souls vying for a position of control. When people act out of character, this is another soul gaining control for a brief moment.

When people black out and lose control, those are souls trying to maintain control of a body. Those with schizophrenia are simply souls who cannot maintain control for too long and as such are burdened with switching between souls frequently. This is ridiculous. What a joke! This is absolutely unfounded and untrue. And yet, I need to find out more. As I read, the first page I saw an odd note that read,

perhaps Alex is the perfect candidate to test my theory. Perhaps that voice was him. Possibly, I then read a brief description of Alex, a man with thick burly arms across his chest. His arms beard the markings of a man who had worked in the sun his whole life. Cuts and scars all across his hands, skin tanned and leathery, covered with sun spots. Eyes so dark brown they look black, I continued to read on but all I have are dates and with odd notes.

December 3rd, 1927. Alex could be the first person I have encountered to experience control issues with the soul. December 14th, 1927. The first hint that Alex has soul issues. I thought I heard him talking and replying to himself. I need to watch him closer. December 17th, 1927. The first bit of proof.

Alex took on the persona of a young girl, who proceeded to ask why I lived here and who I was. I asked the girl's name, and she replied with Alexandra. Although, when Alex came back, he seemed under the impression the young girl was someone else and that he had in fact been watching the whole time. Odd, but proof nonetheless. I must up the dosage to see if any other souls emerge. March 4, 1928, June 18, 1928, the girl Alexandra and the male brute known as Ivan have been

making constant appearances throughout the past few weeks. He seems to have only four souls contained. We have Alex, Alexandra, Ivan and the young shrill boy who made an appearance in the cold. I think that may be it for now. July 17, 1929. Today, Ivan appeared. Alex said he had to leave to go to his job, which is odd. He doesn't have another job and when I questioned it, Ivan appeared and I copped the brunt of his lethal disposition. I don't know how long I haw. He must have passed out before he finished. I closed the book and leaned on the table underneath the mirror.

The table almost seems to buckle, odd, maybe I've put on a few pounds over the winter months. As I look into the mirror, I see my disheveled self. These winter winds, truly do take it out of me. With the two diaries, I think the authorities should be able to find Alex, the doctor had in a detailed enough description. Although I should leave now, before the wind picks ups again, I turn to leave through the door, and once again expose myself to the brutal winter wind. The cold eats at my entire body. At all six feet eight inches of me, it started like any other day trip. I'd picked a lesser-known trail system in a fairly remote mountain range,

hoping to get some unique footage. The initial hike was beautiful, strenuous but rewarding. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, birds were chirping, the usual idyllic stuff. I pushed further than I usually would, drawn by the promise of a ridge view I'd seen on a very old, very unreliable map. By late afternoon, the clouds had started to roll in, and the temperature dropped. I knew I should probably turn back, but I was deep in, and the thought of backtracking all that way was disheartening. I figured I'd press on a little more, than maybe find a quicker, if steeper, route down another face of the mountain if the weather turned really sour. That's when I first noticed the lack of trail markers.

I'd been following what I thought was a faint game trail, but it had completely petered out. The woods here were dense, older, the kind where the undergrowth is sparse because so little light gets through. It was getting dim, and a prickle of unease started. I wasn't lost, not exactly, I have a good sense of direction and my GPS was working. but I was definitely off any charted path. After another 20 minutes of careful navigation, pushing through some thickets of rhododendron, I stumbled into a small, unexpected clearing.

And in the center of it stood a house. It wasn't a ruin, not like the crumbling stone foundations I sometimes film. This was a two-story wooden house, clabbard style, with a porch and glass in most of the windows. It was old, clearly, paint-pealing in places, a slight sag to the porch roof, but it looked, intact. Maintained, almost.

There was no driveway, no path leading to it that I could see, just the wild forest pressing in on all sides of this small, strangely manicured patch of land immediately around it. The grass in this yard-like area was short, almost like it had been recently cut, which was the first really odd thing. My YouTuber brain immediately kicked in. Abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. content gold

I pulled out my camera checked the battery and started filming an intro talking about being off trail the unexpected find the usual spiel I even made a joke about it being a horror movie setup

if only I'd known the camera though seemed to be acting a little strangely from the get-go the autofocus kept hunting and there was a faint almost imperceptible flicker on the preview screen that I put down to

low light. As I got closer, the strangeness amplified. The air around the house felt still, unnaturally so. The usual forest sounds, insects, rustling leaves, distant birds, seemed muted here, as if the clearing existed in a pocket of silence. The house itself, though weathered, was incredibly clean. No cobwebs in the corners of the porch eaves. The windows, though a bit grimy, weren't shattered or boarded up. The front door was closed but not locked. I hesitated for a moment, a genuine flicker of, should I, passing through me. But the lure of exploration, of capturing something unique for the channel, was too strong. I pushed the door open. It creaked, but not in a dramatic, spooky way. More like a door that hadn't been opened in a week or two. The smell that

hit me wasn't dust and decay, which is what you expect from an abandoned place. It smelled faintly of lemon polish and old wood, a clean, almost domestic smell. I stepped inside, camera rolling, narrating my observations in a low voice. The interior was even more baffling. A small entryway led into a living room. There was furniture, a sofa, a couple of armchairs, a coffee table, a rag rug on the wooden floor. And it was all, pristine. Not new, but impeccably clean. No dust on the coffee table. No grime on the upholstery, though it was faded and old-fashioned. It looked like someone had been there, tidying up, maybe an hour ago. When I checked the footage later, this section is a mess. It's grainy,

oversaturated in weird patches, and the audio is filled with a low, warbling hum I swear I didn't here at the time. You can barely make out what I'm saying. This is, incredibly well-preserved, I whispered, trying to keep the camera steady. Or, not preserved. Lived in? But who would live out here, so far from everything? I moved through the ground floor. A dining room with a table and chairs, place setting still on the table, simple ceramic plates, cutlery. Again, spotless. A kitchen, small and dated, but the counters were wiped clean, no food out, no dirty dishes. Even the sink faucet gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the window. It was deeply, profoundly unsettling.

This was an abandonment, this was absence. Sudden absence. The camera seemed to really struggle in the kitchen, the footage shows strobing light effects and digital artifacts that obscure most of the details I remember so vividly. The feeling that the occupants had just left was overwhelming. Like they'd heard me approach and slipped out the back door, or were hiding upstairs, listening. I called out, hello. Is anyone here?

My voice sounded loud, intrusive in the quiet. Only silence answered. On the recording, my call is distorted, almost demonic sounding, followed by a burst of white noise. On the mantelpiece in the living room, and on a small side table, framed photographs. I remember trying to zoom in with my camera. They showed a family, a man, mid-forties perhaps, with kind eyes and a receding hairline, a woman, a bit younger, with a worn smile and dark, wavy hair, and a little girl, maybe seven or eight, with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin. They looked happy, normal. In one photo, they were standing

in front of this very house, the man with his arm around the woman, the girl holding a flower. The footage of these photos is useless. Blurry, pixelated messes where the faces should be, as if the camera refused to capture them clearly. I only have my memory of their smiles. Okay, so people definitely lived here, I murmured, frustrated with the camera's apparent inability to focus. But where are they?

And why is this place so, immaculate? A knot of anxiety was tightening in my stomach. This wasn't fun, adventurous exploration anymore. This felt wrong. The cleanliness was illogical. A house this remote, left unattended for even a short while, would show signs of nature reclaiming it, or at least the dust of disuse. This felt like a stage set, meticulously prepared, waiting. I decided to check upstairs.

The stairs creaked under my weight, each step echoing in the silence. I kept my camera light on, sweeping it around, though the beam seemed weaker than usual, and flickered. Two bedrooms and a small bathroom. The first bedroom was clearly the parents. A large double bed, neatly made, quilt smoothed down. A dresser, a wardrobe. On the nightstand, a pair of reading glasses lay next to a closed book. Again, no dust. It was as if someone had just stepped out. The footage here is almost entirely black, with occasional flashes of what might be furniture. The second bedroom was the child's. A small bed with a brightly colored patchwork quilt.

A few stuffed animals arranged on a shelf, their button eyes seeming to watch me. A child's drawing was taped to the wall, a stick figure family under a yellow sun, standing beside a very large, very green tree. There was something almost disproportionate about the tree in the drawing, its trunk thick, its branches reaching over the family-like protective arms, or encompassing ones. I tried to film the drawing, but the playback just shows a chaotic jumble of colors. My unease was growing into genuine fear. The silence, the order, the sense of recent, unexplained departure, it was all too much.

I wasn't an investigator, I was a hiker with a camera that was rapidly becoming useless, and I was way out of my depth. It was in the master bedroom, on that dresser, tucked slightly under a small, tarnished silver jewelry box, that I found the note. It was a single sheet of folded paper, yellowed with age, but the ink was dark and clear to my eyes. It wasn't a letter in the traditional sense. It looked more like, a page from a journal, or a prayer. I picked it up, my fingers trembling slightly, and unfolded it. I tried to film it as I read. The handwriting was neat, masculine, possibly the fathers from the photos. My memory of the words is seared into me, but the footage, it's a complete wash. Static, scrolling bars of color, and a high-pitched

wine that makes my teeth ache to listen to. I can only recall what I read, what I saw with my own eyes. The hunger is great today. It whispers through the roots, through the floorboards. We offer what we can. We are grateful for its shade, for its enduring presence. It was here before us, it will be here after. The little one is strong, she feels it more keenly now. This is good. The communion must be complete for her to truly flourish under its bows. It demands patience. It demands faith. The growth provides. The growth takes. We give ourselves to the growth, so that we may become part of its eternity. It asks for stillness, for quiet nourishment. We must be still. We must be

silent. Soon, we will all be rooted, unchanging, forever part of its design. Blessed be the growth. May its reach extend. May its thirst be quenched, a cold dread, washed over me, so intense it made me feel nauseous. The growth. What in God's name was, the growth? The tree in the child's drawing flashed in my mind, oversized, dominant. The language of the note, hunger, whispers through the roots, communion, rooted, it was deeply disturbing.

This wasn't a quaint, abandoned farmhouse. This was something else. Something sinister. The air in the room suddenly felt half. heavy, oppressive. I could hear my own breathing, loud and ragged in my ears. The feeling of being watched intensified, not by human eyes, but by something, pervasive. The house itself felt like it was holding its breath. Okay, I'm done. I'm getting out of here, I said, my voice shaky. The camera, I realized, had stopped recording on its own. The little red light

was off. I fumbled to turn it back on, a fresh wave of panic rising. This is, this is too much. This note, this place. I need to leave. I backed out of the bedroom, not wanting to turn my back on the empty space. I practically ran down the stairs, the creaks now sounding like accusations. I didn't bother looking around anymore, just headed straight for the front door, jabbing at the record button on my camera, hoping it would work. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard it, a faint sound from upstairs. A soft, almost sighing creak. Like a floorboard settling. Or someone shifting their weight. I didn't wait. I wrenched the door open and burst out onto the porch, then half jumped, half fell down the steps into the clearing. The fading daylight seemed

dimmer than before, the shadows longer and deeper. I didn't look back at the house. I just aimed for the edge of the clearing, the point where I thought I'd entered, and plunged back into the trees, camera clutched in my hand, hoping it was capturing something. The relief of being out of that house was immense, but short-lived. The forest, which had seemed merely dense before, now felt menacing. Every shadow seemed to writhe, every rustle of leaves sounded like stealthy movement. The note about the growth and roots kept replaying in my mind.

I glanced at the trees around me with a new, horrified suspicion. They were just trees, of course. Weren't they? I pushed through the undergrowth, trying to get as much distance as possible between myself and that clearing. My heart was still hammering. I told myself it was just an old, creepy house, a family with some strange beliefs, maybe they just moved on, hired someone to keep the place clean for some reason.

But the note, the note didn't fit any rational explanation. I must have gone a hundred yards, maybe more, when I passed a particularly dense cluster of ancient-looking oaks, their branches gnarled and intertwined, forming a thick canopy even in the fading light. As I was pushing past the last of the tree line around the house's clearing, and then a sound stopped me dead. A voice. faint, weak, almost like the whisper of wind, but with a cadence that was unmistakably human.

Help, me. I froze. My blood ran cold. It was so soft I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it. But then it came again, a little clearer, laden with desperation. Please, help. It seemed to be coming from my left, from deeper within that same cluster of old trees I was just passing. Against every instinct screaming at me to run, some morbid curiosity, or perhaps a deeply buried sense of obligation, made me turn. My camera was still in my hand, I pointed it blindly, desperately hoping to capture whatever this was. I took a few hesitant steps towards the sound, peering into the gloomy tangle of trunks and

low-hanging branches. Hello. I called out, my voice a mere croak. Here, please. The voice replied, a little stronger, guiding me. And then I saw it. Or rather, her. It was one of the large oaks, its trunk thicker than any I'd seen that day, ancient and deeply fissured. And fused into it, as if the tree had grown around her, or she had grown into it, was a woman.

My mind simply refused to process it for a second. It was the woman from the photographs in the house. Her dark, wavy hair was matted and streaked with something that looked like moss. Her face, pale and drawn, was turned towards me, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a horrifying, resigned emptiness. Her skin, where it was visible, had a strange, bark-like texture, dry and discolored, blending almost seamlessly with the wood of the tree. Her arms were not visible, nor her lower body, they seemed to have been entirely consumed,

incorporated into the vast trunk. Only her torso, shoulders, and head were distinguishable, yet even these were deeply embedded. She looked, drained. Changed. I let out a small, choked gasp. I couldn't speak, couldn't move. Her lips, cracked and pale, moved. Help me, please.

Her voice was a dry rustle, like dead leaves. I finally found my voice, though it was a way. it was trembling uncontrollably. What, what happened to you? Who did this? A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. The growth, it, it took us. It keeps us.

Mourishment. The words were halting, weak. Each one seemed an immense effort. The family, your husband. Your daughter. I managed to ask, the images from the photos, however vague in my memory of the actual prince, searing my mind. Her gaze shifted slightly, as if looking past me, or through me. He, welcomed it. He brought it to us. He's, rooted deep. He sleeps now. A tear,

thick and slow like sap, weld in her eye and traced a path down her bark-like cheek. My daughter, she's still, aware. It wants her fresh. Please, you have to help her. Help her. How? Where is she? I stammered, my mind reeling, trying to comprehend the impossible horror before me. How could I help? What could I possibly do against, this?

The woman's eyes darted frantically, not at me, but somewhere behind me, back towards the direction of the house, or perhaps just into the deeper woods. Her breath hitched. He's, it's, coming. Who? What's coming? I whispered, a primal fear seizing me. I didn't dare turn around. Suddenly, I heard it. Faint, at first. The sound of soft, deliberate steps on the forest floor behind me. Twigs snapping gently. Leaves rustling, not by wind, but by passage. My skin crawled. The sound was unhurried, almost casual, which made it.

all the more terrifying. The woman in the tree saw the terror on my face, or perhaps she heard it too, more acutely. Her eyes, already wide, stretched impossibly wider. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat, no longer just a plea for help, but a scream of pure, unadulterated terror. No. Please. Stop, she shrieked, her gaze locked on whatever was approaching behind me. Leave him. Don't let IT. Her voice cut off, gurgling. I didn't wait to see what it was. I didn't look back. That scream, that final, desperate stop aimed not at me, but at whatever was behind me, shattered the last of my horrified paralysis. I ran. I've never run like that in my life. Blind panic fueled me. Branches whipped at my face, roots threatened to trip me.

but I didn't care. I just ran, lungs burning, heart feeling like it would explode from my chest. The sounds of pursuit, whether real or imagined, I don't know, I think I heard those soft steps for a while, keeping pace, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in my ears. I didn't dare to check. The woman's scream, her changed face, the father's note about, the growth, it all swirled into a nightmare montage in my head. I ran in what I hoped was general direction of the main trail, back towards where I'd left my car. I have no idea how long I ran. It felt like an eternity, every shadow a threat, every sound a pursuer.

I didn't stop, didn't slow, just kept pushing, stumbling, scrambling through the dense woods. The light was almost completely gone now, the forest plunged into deep twilight. Finally, through sheer dumb luck or some ingrained navigational instinct, I burst out of the trees onto something familiar, the switchback of the trail I'd been on hours earlier. I've never been so relieved to see a marked path. I still didn't stop running. I practically flew down the trail, my hiking poles, still strapped to my pack, clattering uselessly.

It must have been another hour, maybe more, of this desperate flight before I finally reached the trailhead, the small gravel parking lot where my car was. It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking so violently I could barely get the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I slammed it into reverse, spun the car around, and sped out of there, gravel spraying behind me. I didn't look in my rearview mirror until I was miles away, on the main highway. I drove straight home, a multi-hour drive, without stopping. I didn't even realize I still had the camera clutched in my hand until I was unlocking my front door.

Later, with a sickening sense of dread, I tried to check the SD card. It was almost entirely corrupted. The files were there, but they were unplayable, full of digital noise, static, blocks of distorted color, and horrifying, garbled audio. There are moments, tiny fractions of seconds, where I think I can make out a shape, a distorted sound that might be a word, but nothing concrete. Nothing to prove what I saw in that house, what I read in that note, or the the abomination I encountered by that tree. It's all gone, lost to some kind of digital decay I

can't explain. It's as if the place itself, or whatever resides there, actively fought against being recorded. I haven't been able to sleep properly since. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, fused into that tree. I hear her voice, begging for help, then screaming. The growth. What was it? Some kind of of sentient, parasitic plant entity. A local deity they worshipped until it consumed them. And what was coming for me? The father, rooted deep, but somehow mobile.

Or the growth itself. The lack of any footage makes it worse, somehow. It's just my word, my fractured memory against the silence. Sometimes I even start to doubt myself, to wonder if the stress and the isolation of being off-trail made me imagine the worst of it. But then I remember the cold dread, the smell of lemon polish, the feel of that note in my hands, and the sheer, primal terror of that final scream. No, it was real.

I haven't gone back to those woods. I don't think I'll ever go hiking alone in a remote area again the END. I hadn't left my house in years. I, 24M, started working from home after COVID, and as the months passed, I found fewer and fewer reasons to go out. I didn't have many friends to begin with, and now, my only social interactions were brief exchanges with delivery drivers. Groceries left on my doorstep. Faceless exchanges of mumbled thanks. It suited me just fine.

The small house I bought just before the pandemic became my entire world. A refuge. The walls, though close, were familiar, comforting. I'd never spoken to any of my neighbors. Sometimes I heard their voices outside, passing by, but I never felt compelled to introduce myself. I didn't miss anyone from my old life friends, family, or otherwise. Work was quiet.

Emails only, the occasional conference call that I mostly slept through. It was like I had quietly detached from everything, and I was okay with that. But last week, something strange happened. I got a call, an actual call, from a. an old friend. His name flashed across my screen, triggering a surge of emotions I couldn't quite understand. For some reason, I smiled. It wasn't joy. Maybe a faint sense of nostalgia, but it felt distant, like remembering a life that wasn't really mine anymore. Against my instincts, I picked up. Hey, man, he said, his voice oddly cheerful. The small talk felt stilted, mechanical.

He told me he was back in the city after years of traveling and wanted to catch up. It's been forever, hasn't it? We should grab coffee or something. I hesitated, every fiber of my being rejecting the idea of leaving my house. No, I. I'm not really up for it, I mumbled. But he kept insisting, his voice tightening with a kind of urgency that made me uncomfortable. There was something beneath his words, a need.

After a few minutes of impressing, I finally relented. Sunday evening came too fast. I dragged myself out of bed, stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale, thinner than I remembered. Taking a long, hot shower, I tried to shake off the unease, but it clung to me. The world outside felt foreign. The air felt heavier as I stepped out of my front door for the first time in. I couldn't even remember how long.

We met at a small cafe downtown around 6 p.m. The sky was a muted gray, the streets quieter than usual, casting an eerie calm over the city. I spotted him before he saw me, sitting by the window, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. He looked the same, mostly, just older. Worn down, like time had dragged him through rough terrain. As I sat down, he greeted me with him. the forced smile. We made small talk, like strangers trying to fill a silence. My eyes kept drifting to the street outside, wondering why I'd let myself get dragged into this. Then his

tone shifted. The casual demeanor dropped. There's something I need to tell you, he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in. My stomach tightened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. What is it? His eyes darted around the cafe, as if searching for eavesdroppers. I've been getting threats. Someone wants me dead, I froze, unsure if I'd heard him right. What, for the past month, I've been getting these calls. Messages. They don't say much, but, they know things about me. About us, us. I asked, confused. He nodded, gripping his coffee cup so tightly I thought it might crack. His eyes were wide, almost panicked.

The first one came a month ago. A voice. Deep, cold. They said I couldn't run. That I couldn't hide. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. His face went pale. Without thinking, he put it on speaker.

A deep, gravelly voice echoed through the small cafe, you cannot run. The call disconnected. He was visibly shaking now. I don't know why this is happening, but, they're coming for us. They already killed the others. What others? My mind raced, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Our old friends.

From high school. They're all dead. I blinked, my mouth dry. What? How do you know that? He pulled out his phone again, this time. showing me news articles. Accidents.

Murders. Four of them, all in the last year, all from different parts of the country. My chest tightened, an invisible weight pressing down on me. I shook my head. This, this doesn't make sense. Why come to me, because we're the only ones left? He looked directly into my eyes, the fear in his expression so raw it unnerved me. And because the killer knows what we did, what are you talking about?

I asked, feeling a chill crawled down my spine. He stared at me for a moment, searching my face. You don't remember. I shook my head again, more forcefully this time. Remember what? He swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he spoke. That night. After the party.

We were drunk. Really drunk. We saw her walking home, remember. She was alone, and, we offered her a ride. I felt my stomach twist, but I stayed silent as he continued. At first, she said no, but we insisted. We took her out by the woods. And we, we did things.

We hurt her. All of us. I stared at him in disbelief. The words felt like a distant echo, something happening to someone else. No, no, that's not possible. I wouldn't do that. You were there, he whispered, his voice barely audible now. You were just as drunk as the rest of us.

You don't remember because you blocked it out. I stood up suddenly, my chair scraping the floor, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. I didn't do anything like that. You're lying. You're trying to drag me into this, mess. I'm not lying, he said. desperately, following me as I walked out of the cafe. If you don't help me, you'll be next. I'm done.

I turned and walked away, his voice calling out after me, but I didn't stop. When I got home, I felt numb. I poured myself a drink and sat at my desk, the old laptop screen flickering on. I sifted through photos of high school, yearbook pictures, group selfies. Happy faces. Laughter But there was nothing. No memory of that night.

Could he have been telling the truth? Could I have forgotten something so horrible? I drank more, trying to drown out the rising panic, but it was no use. By midnight, I was drunk. By 2 a.m., I was shaking. I turned off my phone and crawled into bed, my head spinning with conflicting thoughts. When I woke up the next morning, my phone was filled with missed calls. Dozens of messages.

All from him. We begin in the year 1848. A series of inexplicable events took place in the town of Hidesville, New York, and these became part of the modern spiritualist movement. The protagonists of these events were three sisters, Leah, 34 years old, Margaret, 14, and Catherine Fox, 12 years old. The definitive account of the incident was given by the girl's mother in a sworn statement ratified by both her and the girl's father.

The couple's statements were completely accurate. They both said that the house they lived and underwent certain changes as nightfall arrived. As the hours passed and the environment grew darker and darker, the house creaked, cold inexplicable drafts were felt, knocks were heard, the furniture shook, even at times, they claimed to see unexplained shadows crossing the hallway, passing from door to door or entering rooms and then closing the doors behind them. For this reason, the family came to the conclusion that their house must be haunted by some kind of playful spirit, a lost spirit that was trying to communicate with humans in some way,

seeking the attention of people. On the night of March 31st, 1848, tired of the disturbances, the family decided to go to bed early. However, little Margaret and Catherine couldn't sleep, so they asked their parents to let them spend the night in their room. Undoubtedly, the presence of their parents calmed them significantly and gave them the strength necessary so that, when the entity manifested itself through knocks, whispers, and coldness, they could face it, protest, and demand silence.

But what began as commands, commands from the mouths of the girls demanding silence, turned into a rather macabre game. The youngest daughter, Catherine, decided to speak directly to the entity, asking it to play with her. The words their mother mentioned in her sworn statement were as follows, Mr. Splitfoot, Please do as I do. Immediately afterward, little Catherine began to knock on the wall. She knocked a total of three times, then lowered her hands and rested them on her knees.

A few seconds later, those same three knocks were heard again. But this time, she hadn't made them, this time, the entity had responded. The girls looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Then the older sister, Margaret, decided to continue the prank, do as I do. And as she said those words, she knocked on the wall. Once she finished knocking four times, the entity responded in the same way. From that moment on, the parents decided to forbid the girls from repeating that contact, from repeating that joke, because by doing so they might be provoking something much worse in the house.

The parents demanded responsibility, they demanded the girls stop playing with the the unexplained, because they truly didn't know what was causing those knocks, and if they didn't know what it was, they also didn't know what it might be capable of doing. Even so, curiosity was stronger than their parents' prohibition, and every night the girls repeated the game, this time in their own room. That game of knocking three or four times on the wall and requesting a verbal response evolved into a more elaborate conversation. The girls developed an alphabetic language through these knocks, a language that allowed them to understand what the entity was trying to communicate, what message it wanted to send. After several communications and several nights trying to contact

this entity, they came to the conclusion that the spirit was that of a man, a 31-year-old peddler who claimed to have been murdered and buried in the basement of that house. Several neighbors came to the house looking for answers. They witnessed the knocks, the noises, the creaking wood, and the inexplicable cold drafts that passed by. These neighbors asked the entity questions, and received answers. Each passing day brought more visitors, more curious people, to the Fox family home. One day, at the Spirit's request, a group of men began digging in the basement to search for the body of this entity. Unfortunately, they had to suspend the excavation because they dug into a well, and it overflowed, completely flooding the Fox family basement.

These types of communications were later studied by Emma Hardens Britain, historian of the spiritualist movement. She observed that these communications probably hadn't been established directly with the murdered peddler, but rather that in these conversations contact had likely been made with other types of entities, both positive and negative, that gave false ideas and greatly distorted the girl's perception of their own environment. At the same time, she concluded that this type of communication was the result of human spiritual magnetism, and the different varieties of this magnetism granted certain individuals a kind of mediumistic power, while to others this power was denied. At first, absolutely no one understood what Britain was trying to say,

since it was so subtle and complex that very few realized what she was actually trying to explain, what she was trying to communicate to the rest of the world was that the Fox sisters were hypersensitive, people capable of tuning into the radio frequency on which different entities existed, in a truly simple way. These strange sensations only occurred when the Fox sisters were present. They happened wherever they went, and because their story had become so famous, the girls were completely overwhelmed. The house was always surrounded by people, and so the Fox sisters moved to their sister Leah's home in Rochester. But even though they had managed to flee from the crowds, even though they had escaped the fame, the Knox followed them.

The Knox, the chills, everything followed them to Rochester. And again and again, the messages insisted that they had been chosen to appear before the world and convince skeptics of the great truth of immortality. But the situation wasn't that simple. In those times, they couldn't appear before the world and say, we are highly sensitive people, we are mediums, we are spiritualists. Even so, the entities continued insisting, night after night, with that message, with that request, until on November 14, 1848, the young women gave them.

into their demands and rented the largest hall in the city to give a demonstration of their powers to the world. Now, finally, everyone knew the truth about the Fox Sisters. And the public split into two groups, the enthusiastic believers, who truly believed in the words of the Fox Sisters and believed there was something beyond life, and the skeptics who, at best, saw it as a fraud, and at worst, as the work of the devil. Emotions ran high, and in the middle of that demonstration of their powers, the girls were ridiculed and assaulted, both physically and verbally, and their lives were even threatened. The girls had to leave the stage quickly and hide backstage until the police came to their rescue. But not even the police could put out

that fire. The Catholic Church appointed a committee to investigate the Fox sisters alleged fraud, to investigate what they were using to create those knocks, those noises, those whispers, those inexplicable chills. But it was no use. The committee did not find a single piece of evidence proving the Fox Sisters were frauds. So a second committee was appointed, one that seemed much more prepared, much more eager to find proof that the Fox Sisters were fakes. But guess what? They didn't find anything either.

The Fox sisters were unable to live a normal life. They couldn't find refuge even in their own home, because wherever they went, people ended up finding them. They left Rochester for Troy, then Albany, and finally ended up in New York, where they arrived in 1850. And even though they were completely normal people, they constantly felt unprotected. So one day, they decided to join P.T. Barnum's troop, a circus entrepreneur and American showman who was famous for his hoaxes in the world of entertainment. Just by being associated with him, by having him as a companion and spiritual guide, skeptics

automatically labeled them as frauds. However, as we all know, the investigative methods of that era were truly primitive by today's standards. We must consider that the people who went to the Fox Sisters to request spiritualist sessions didn't want to be judged. They didn't want to be pointed at and told they were being deceived. They didn't want that. They simply sought a connection with their loved ones. And even if it was a hoax, the Fox sisters helped many people feel at peace with themselves. The sessions were usually carried out in a circle, at a round table, with everyone holding hands and focusing on a single point, an object right in the center of the table, which could be a lit candle. From that point, the questions and answers would begin,

word games, unexplained breezes, thus began the magic of the Fox sisters. Everyone who attended would leave completely convinced that what had happened in that room was beyond human understanding. Horace Greeley, editor of the Tribune, and one of the most influential men in the country, firmly defended the girl's honesty and became their fervent champion. By that time, many mediums and psychics had emerged, imitating the Fox sisters' performances. But none threatened their preeminence.

The methods for contacting entities evolved, from Knox to writing. To be continued. The methods for contacting those entities evolved from rapping to automatic writing. What we see in Hollywood movies, that moment in which the medium enters a kind of mystical ecstasy, a sort of trance-like state where they're completely disconnected, holding a pen in hand and paper on a table, and while experiencing slight tremors. Their hand begins to move, forming words and phrases supposedly spoken by the

paranormal entity, the entity that uses the medium's body as a means to communicate with all the attendees. These manifestations eventually culminated in verbal communication, communication that also used the medium's own voice as the channel. That is, the spirits entered the medium's body to convey their message. These were always accompanied by all kinds of physical phenomena, trembling furniture, inexplicable cold, noises, creaks, whispers. It was always a chain of unexplainable events that turned each session into a true spectacle. Again and again, the sisters were put to the test, each time more rigorously,

until Catherine submitted to investigations by William Crooks, one of the most important scientists in 19th century Europe. He vouched for the authenticity of the Fox sisters' demonstrations. With persuasive insistence, he testified that for several months he investigated Catherine's experiences. He subjected her to various tests and specifically studied the auditory phenomena. Apparently, it was only necessary for Catherine to bring her hand close to any substance for loud raps to emerge from it, raps in places where absolutely nothing could be producing them. When her hands and feet were restrained, the raps continued, so she could not have produced them in any way.

But not everyone was convinced. From beginning to end, skeptics repeatedly attacked the sisters. And even though they were convinced the sisters were cheating, they could never prove it. The theories against the sisters were completely far-fetched, yet they received support at one point, first from some members of the Fox family, and later from the sisters themselves. The day the Fox Sisters admitted to committing fraud was the happiest day for the skeptics. However, that confession was later revoked. On April 17, 1851, a certain Mrs. Culver made some rather bold statements.

She was somehow related to the Fox sisters, as her sister was married to David Fox, brother of Catherine and Margaret. The woman said that for several years she had believed in communication through rapping. However, during one of the visits the Fox sisters made to her house, something made her suspect they were cheating. So, she volunteered to help them during some of their mystical performances. She took part in some spiritist sessions in which they summoned the presence of a familiar spirit, a benevolent spirit. During those sessions, she witnessed one of the sisters recreating the wraps by snapping her toes, tapping her nails under the wooden table, or even snapping her fingers under it.

Today, it's impossible to know why Mrs. Culver made those statements. Some say it was out of love for the truth, and others say she was consumed with jealousy toward the Fox Sisters. Regardless, at first glance, her statements did not clarify all the acts performed by the Fox Sisters. They did not explain the cold, the whispers, the issues with the lights, nothing physical at all. They only addressed the issue of the rapping. On the other hand, it is a fact that.

that the sisters were never caught in the act. Their performances were never debunked, so their followers continued to defend them, just as Horace Greeley did. Many of the Fox Sisters demonstrations could be imitated by magicians on stage, and those tricks could indeed be performed by people very experienced in that kind of demonstration, that kind of magical performance. But that could not be linked to the Fox sisters for the simple reason that when all of this began, they were just little girls. These performances, these supposed magical tricks, could only have been executed by truly experienced people, not children, because these weren't simple tricks, they were truly complex ones.

However, the arguments of the defenders and the favorable investigations into the Fox sisters' phenomena were cut short on September 24, 1888, when Margaret Fox, then Margaret Kane, decided to publicly admit in an interview for the New York Times that the whole thing had been a fraud. She intended to reveal that her work as a medium had been a complete deception, a fraud from beginning to end. Her younger sister, Catherine Fox, then Mrs. Jenning, traveled from England to support her version, and on October 21st of that same year, a huge crowd gathered around the New York Academy of Music to hear what the Fox sisters had to say. And Catherine spoke the following words, I am here tonight to denounce, as one of the founders of spiritualism, that all of this has been a fraud from beginning

to end, that it is the most absurd superstition and the vilest blasphemy known to the world. At those words, a great silence fell. Everyone knew they were in the presence of the highest priestess of spiritualism, the most respected and well-known medium in the world. Catherine stood on a wooden table, wearing only stockings on her feet, and began to dance, while a multitude of knocks began to manifest from every corner of the hall, from every corner of that enormous hall filled with hundreds and hundreds of people. The raps echoed everywhere. The whispers, the cold, it all turned into absolute chaos, a chaos no one could explain.

Then Margaret began to clap and said it was all a hoax, that it was all mysticism, that it was just a cheap and baseless magic trick. And the audience began to applaud. They applauded, thinking they had just witnessed a magic trick. However, although most of the attendees agreed with the sisters' arguments, the sisters had not truly justified anything. they had not provided proof, nor explained how they did it. So those who have been convinced began to fall back into doubt, back into the question of how it had happened. How was it possible that it had been fiction? No one could explain it. Then they began to investigate Margaret's history, the history of the now Mrs. Kane, and discovered that she had recently

converted to Catholicism, a religion that rejected such manifestations, that rejected mediums and considered them to be people possessed, people closer to hell than to salvation. These suspicions, this search to understand the origin of Margaret's fear of spiritualism, became a reality when, years later, the sisters retracted their confession. They did not directly say they had been coerced and forced to confess against their will, but they did say that Margaret had, in some way, been forced by high-ranking members of the Catholic Church to enter a convent and renounce everything she had experienced for so many years. She spoke of sin, of blasphemy, and of the little freedom of expression and thought that the church allowed her.

She also blamed her sister Leah for having dragged both her and her younger sister into this world, the world of spiritualism. She accused her of throwing them to the lions, of being the one who constantly called the media with every move to a new house. She accused her of selling them out. She blamed her for the media pressure that weighed on their shoulders. Still, they never showed resentment toward her. They never turned their backs on her. But what was the truth behind the sister's confession? If she really was able to produce those raps when on stage,

if she was really able to recreate such a powerful display with the noises, the whispers, and everything else in front of so many people, what might she have been capable of during her private performances as a medium? Suspitions that she had at least once cheated were confirmed by an unexpected testimony, that of her husband, the Arctic explorer Alicia Kent Kane. He had fallen in love with her when she was only 13 years old and, against his family's wishes, had courted her for more than three years until they finally married. Upon his death, Margaret published the correspondence she had maintained with her husband for many, many years, letters in which he asked his wife to stop

deceiving people, to stop pretending to be a medium, to stop playing with the demonic and the occult. And the fact that Margaret published these letters suggests that she was aware that she was performing tricks, that she was cheating and deceiving the audience. However, if we accept the 1888 confession and assumed they were cheating, questions remain. We are still left with doubts. We still don't know how they performed all those manifestations. How could people who were supposedly just frauds emulate all of that? One person who did not accept the sister's confession was the singer Jennifer Lynn, who once sat with the sisters and conducted a spiritist session with them.

She herself said it was impossible for the sisters to have given her the answers they did. It was impossible for them to respond the way they did and give those messages if they were truly frauds, because those words, that message she received that night, could only have come from the loved one with whom they were supposedly communicating. Dozens of contemporary testimonies remain, testimonies from people who witnessed the Fox Sisters performances, both before large audiences and in small groups. And even if we come to believe that they were truly frauds, the mystery remained back then, the mystery of whether they were really telling the truth or whether they were pretending. The doubt about whether what happened in that little house where the Fox sisters lived had really been true, that little house where the unexplainable events began, where that complex code was created. that alphabetic code, those strange communications.

That doubt was put to rest in 1904, the year all the members of the Fox family had died. That year, one of the walls of the old house collapsed, and among the ruins, the remains of a corpse were found. It was impossible to identify who the body had belonged to. However, that discovery became the confirmation that everything that had happened to the Fox sisters half a century earlier had been completely true. The end. We begin. The Ghost Club was, as I've previously mentioned, the first organization in the world to focus on the scientific study of paranormal phenomena. The origins of the Ghost Club date back to Cambridge in 1855. There, a group of students from Trinity College began meeting in secret to discuss various supernatural occurrences, such as disembodied voices, ghostly apparitions, and general poltergeist activity. But these These weren't merely curious student gatherings. Among the group's members were various intellectual figures, including none other than Charles

Dickens. John Forster, his friend and first biographer, said the following, among his many virtues, we cannot forget his great talent for telling ghost stories. He had a sort of obsession with them. The first official investigation by the Ghost Club dates back to 1862 and focused on the Davenport brothers. But who were these men? Let's find out.

In 1862, two American mediums arrived in London, Ira Erastus and William Henry Davenport, with an act that left nearly every member of the Victorian England paranormal circles in all. The brothers would enter a giant three-door cabinet, sitting opposite each other, one on the right, the other on the left, tied together by ropes at their feet and hands. In the middle section were various instruments, a violin, tambourine, guitar, trumpet, and two bells. After some audience members came up to the stage to verify the knots were secure and couldn't be undone, the cabinet doors were closed, and the lights turned off.

Almost like magic, the instruments began to play. Each time the doors were opened, the audience would see the brothers in the same position, tied hand and foot, with the instruments resting exactly where they had been placed. To emphasize the paranormal nature of the show, the Davenport brothers invited members of the public to sit beside them and be tied up as well. None of these participants were able to expose any trick. Everyone believed that Davenport brothers were genuine magicians, spellcasters and summoners. In the second part of their famous act, the brothers were tied up again, this time on the open stage. Two guitars were painted with fluorescent liquid, and the lights were turned off.

The audience then began to hear a melody moving from one side of the stage to the other. It seemed like true magic, with no visible trick behind it. They appeared to be authentic mediums. The tricks of the Davenport brothers would later be explained by Harry Houdini in his book A Magician Among the Spirits. But before Houdini unmasked them, the Ghost Club had already tried. They challenged the brothers to summon any ghost under scientific conditions, that is, outside their usual cabinet, allowing investigators to examine tables, chairs, and curtains.

The results exposed the Davenport's fraud, although the club's official findings were never published. Even though Charles Dickens was highly skeptical of the paranormal, he was completely fascinated by the unknown. He didn't fall for the craze that swept England from the United States in the 19th century. Dickens agreed with the most popular scientific theory of the time, that paranormal phenomena had a physiological basis and that physical ghostly apparitions were the result of altered states of consciousness. Yet this never lessened his deep interest in ghosts, poltergeists, and the world of the unknown. The Davenport brothers were so respected at the time that, due to the lack of formal publications

about the case, the Ghost Club was mocked by the press. It didn't matter that Dickens was cautious in his judgments or speculations. The world adored the illusionists and, chose to believe their magic was genuinely supernatural. After the media disaster of the Ghost Club's conflict with the Davenport Brothers, one might think the club dissolved, but fortunately, that was not the case. The Ghost Club continued studying phenomena like psychography, the act of writing words dictated by a ghost during a seance, or cryptomnesia, which involves recalling hidden memories or even those from past lives, a topic we've

previously discussed. Dickens attended various spiritist seances intending to expose the spiritualist fraud. The paranormal was an important element in his literature. Throughout his life, he wrote more than two dozen ghost stories, many as short tales within longer novels like Bleak House, the posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club, or Nicholas Nickleby. His best-known examples include The Signal Man and a Christmas Carol. After Charles Dickens' death in 1870, the Ghost Club fell apart due to serious internal conflicts, nearly vanishing from the public eye and turning into legend. But before disappearing completely, it was revived on Halloween of 1882 by Alfred Alaric Watts, a British government secretary, writer, and spiritualist. That same year

also marked the birth of another paranormal research body that remains active today, the Society for Psychical Research, founded by physicist William Barrett. It also included several ex-members of the original Ghost Club. While the Society for Psychical Research immediately took a methodical approach to studying paranormal phenomena and welcomed anyone interested in the unknown, the new Ghost Club remained more exclusive. It stayed selective in the cases it investigated and even more so in admitting new members. This secret of tendency led Stanton Moses, vice president of the Society for Psychical Research, to resign in 1886 and join the Ghost Club, whose meetings were monthly and mandatory for all members. The Ghost Club was soon labeled

a cult due to its limited membership, just 82 members in 54 years. Noteworthy names included the scandal-ridden William Crooks, linked to various mediumship frauds, physicist Oliver Lodge, psychologist Nander Fodor, a former follower of Freud, and finally, Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the most famous detective in literature, Sherlock Holmes. The Ghost Club's archives contain remarkable curiosities. For example, during the 20th century, it continued to attract prominent members, such as the poet W.B. Yates. Notably, the names of all past members were solemnly recited every November 2nd, All Souls Day. Even deceased members were recognized as active parts of the group, with seats kept intact at meetings in case of any supernatural

attendance. This practice sparked rumors and legends, including claims that Charles Dickens' connection to the paranormal continued after his death. There were stories that Dickens' ghost contacted a medium named Thomas P. James to reveal the ending of his unfinished novel The Mystery of Edwin Drood, a phenomenon that, incidentally, would later be repeated with Mark Twain. Not even the afterlife could break Dickens' bond with the paranormal world. The 20th century shift toward laboratory-based seances left the Ghost Club behind, making it an anachronistic society disconnected from modern scientific methods. Parapsychology, still in its infancy, was gaining ground among paranormal enthusiasts. That's when Harry Price, known for his investigation of the

Borley Rectory, joined the Ghost Club, in 1927. From then on, he resolved to completely renovate the club from top to bottom. In his first 18 months as the club's new leader, He relaunched it as a society focused on psychic research, organizing dinners, conferences, and talks involving mediums and researchers. He also decided to admit women into the club, specifying that it was neither a church nor a spiritualist association, but rather a group of skeptics meeting to research and discuss paranormal topics. After Price's death in 1948, the club was relaunched again by committee members Philip Paul and Peter Underwood.

From 1962 onward, Underwood served as president, and many of the club's activities were detailed in his books. However, the club's popularity declined, and in 1936 it was nearly shut down for good. After 485 official meetings, the final gathering took place, fittingly, on November 2nd. Its investigations and confidential archives were deposited in the British Museum, with the condition that all those documents be made public in 1962. Some refused to accept this closure. Others still fought to keep the Ghost Club alive. In fact, Tom Perot joined the club in 1967 and served as its president from 1971 to 1993,

a period marked by internal instability. During that time, Peter Underwood became president for life and completely restructured the Ghost Club, now renamed the Ghost Club Society. Meanwhile, members decided to expand their research into new realms, including UFOs, dowsing, cryptozoology, and other similar topics, ensuring the club would not stagnate in time. For many, this final era of the Ghost Club is the most interesting. Its archives contain not just classic cases of demonic possession,

haunted houses, poltergeist activity, exorcisms, vampires, and apparitions, but also investigations into the UFO phenomenon, with reports of sightings from around the world, long before such things became popular. In 1998, Perrott stepped down for good, though he remained active in club affairs. The lawyer Murdy was elected as his successor. Murdy published several books on ghosts, such as Haunted Brighton and Fortean Times. In 2005, he was replaced by Kathy Jerrying, the club's first female president, who announced to resignation in 2009. The Ghost Club, now under a new name, continues to meet monthly to this day

at the Services Club near Marble Arch in London. New investigations are conducted annually in England. Recently, research efforts have even been organized in Scotland by the area's investigative coordinator. And now it's your turn. Which one do you choose, the Ghost Club or the Society for Psychical Research? The end. I was 24 years old. totally broke, and on the verge of getting kicked out of my apartment. Like any day now. Rent was long overdue, and my landlord was done being patient. I had no job, no money, and absolutely no clue what the hell I was doing with my life. It was one of those rock-bottom moments where everything just feels like it's crashing down,

and all you can do is sit in it and hope you don't drown. Now, when I say I was broke, I mean broke-broke. like stomach growling bones poking through my skin kind of broke i hadn't had a real meal in days the only thing keeping me alive barely was this tiny oasis of free popcorn at a grocery store about thirty minutes away from my apartment i'd make the trek there sometimes twice a day just to get a handful or two not exactly the diet of champions but it kept me from passing out cold on the sidewalk anyway one day I was laying on my mattress, I didn't have a bed frame or sheets, just a mattress on the floor, trying to block out the hunger pangs, when it hit me, Halloween was coming up. People give away candy on Halloween. Free food. Free food. That's all I could think about.

A little light bulb went off in my underfed, sleep-deprived brain. What if I went trick-or-treating? I mean, technically it was for kids, but who's stopping me? There were no trick or treat police. Desperate times call for desperate candy. But there was one small problem, I didn't have a costume. No money, remember. No old ones to reuse, nothing to borrow.

So, I started digging through my closet and found a random collection of Ed Hardy clothes I used to think were cool back when I thought trucker hats and rhinestones were a personality. I threw on everything with a skull or a flaming tiger on it. Then, I came up with the most half-baked excuse for a costume, I was the ghost of Ed Hardy. Yep. That was my entire character. Dead tattoo dude. So picture this, a skinny, ghost-pale 24-year-old dude, wearing a mess of bedazzled Ed Hardy gear, dark circles under his eyes, walking around the neighborhood with a beat-up black cloth sack. Not even a Halloween-themed bag.

Just some random old thing I found in the closet. I probably looked like a tweaker casing houses, not someone just looking for a sugar fix. And yet, people gave me candy. So, much. Candy. I could hardly believe it. I'd ring a doorbell, someone would open the door, take one look at me, confused, concerned, or cracking up, and then dump handfuls of candy into my sack. It was like watching little miracles unfold, one porch at a time.

Some people asked what I was dressed as, and when I said, the ghost of Ed Hardy, I either got a blank stare or a full-on laugh. I think most of them figured I was either too old to be doing this or too hungry to care. They weren't wrong. After about an hour of knocking on doors and pretending to be a vaguely threatening fashion ghost, my bag was getting heavy. My arms were sore, and my legs were wobbly, but it was worth it. I waddled home like a candy hoarding Kremlin.

Home, by the way, wasn't exactly what you'd call safe. A meth head had kicked my door in a few weeks back, and the lock never really worked after that. I had tried jamming a chair under the doorknob and wedging stuff in front of it, but let's be honest, it was more of a suggestion than actual security. Still, it was the only place I had, so I dropped my candy haul on the mattress and collapsed beside it like I'd just run a marathon. Then I started eating Like, really eating One mini-snickers Two mini-snickers

A Reese's A Kit-Kat Three more Rees Some weird gummy thing I didn't even like But I ate it anyway My stomach was screaming But my brain was screaming louder, more I kept going until I felt like I was going to explode

It was as if my body couldn't tell whether to celebrate or sound the alarms. And then, something happened. I don't even know how to describe it. Maybe it was the shock of calories after days of malnourishment, or the sugar rush, or just sheer psychological relief. But I went into this weird euphoric state. Everything got kind of fuzzy. The lights in my crappy apartment felt warmer.

Softer. Like I was in a dream. My vision blurred a little, but not in a scary way. It felt good. Like, really good. It was the closest thing to being high I'd ever experienced without actually taking anything. I was floating. I was weightless.

I didn't feel hungry anymore. I didn't feel anxious. I didn't even feel scared about getting evicted. I felt, calm, peaceful, safe. even. In that moment, nothing mattered except the sweet, sticky, chocolate-filled serenity I had stumbled into. I curled up on my mattress, still half-dressed as a dead tattoo artist, and passed out with candy wrappers all around me like autumn leaves. I slept like a baby. No nightmares, no stress dreams. Just deep, uninterrupted sleep. When I woke up the next day, the euphoria had faded,

but something lingered. A strange kind of pride. I had done something ridiculous and kind of pathetic, sure, but I had also survived. I had hustled. I had adapted. I had eaten. And for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like a total failure. No one ever tells you that surviving rock bottom can look absurd. Sometimes it means wearing ugly clothes and pretending to be a fashion ghost just to get some candy. But that absurdity, that moment of desperation, became one of the weirdest and most oddly beautiful memories of my life. I never really told anyone this story before. It's not the kind of thing you bring up casually. Like, hey, remember that time I was starving and trick-or-treated alone at 24? Not exactly a conversation starter. But it stayed with me.

It reminds me of how far I've come, how resourceful I can be, and how sometimes, kindness comes from the most unexpected places. Those strangers who gave me candy, they didn't know I was starving. They probably thought I was weird or pathetic. But they still gave. No questions, no judgment. Just a smile and some sugar. And in that moment, it was enough. It's wild how a plastic pumpkin full of it.

chocolate can feel like a lifeline. How one night of pretending and sugar binging can be the turning point in a season of despair. I'm not saying candy solved all my problems, obviously, I still got evicted eventually, and I had to hustle hard to get back on my feet, but it gave me a weird, unexpected glimpse of hope. And when you've got nothing else, hope is everything. So yeah. That's the story.

The time I dressed up as the ghost of Ed Hardy, trick or treat it alone at age 24, and ate myself into a sugar coma just to survive. Life's weird. But sometimes, weird is exactly what you need to keep going. The end. Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today, I wish, I wish he'd go away. These are the opening verses of the poem written by William Hughes Merns.

He never meant it to be a serious thing, a ghost story woven into poetry based on folklore around the town of Antigonish. For me, however, these two lines ring literally. Every so often, I see him standing in the unlit rooms of my home. On the stairs, outside my window. He is just standing there, staring, digging into my soul before vanishing like a void that was never even there. A constant reminder of the evil that has haunted me from my birth.

The evil that brought me into this world. My father was a truly monstrous man, a bitter alcoholic who routinely beat and raped my mother. The memories of her screams and the skin-to-skin flapping from all of it cut deeply almost every day. He did it to her until he got bored with the old hag, as he called her. Then it was my turn, his one mistake in life. His only failure. He did the same to me. His shadow still comes to prey on me in my dream.

I can feel the pain of what he had done to me lingering to this day. Not the emotional pain, the physical one. The passage of time is unavoidable, of course, and as we both grew older, he got weaker, smaller, and I grew stronger and, more importantly, larger. Towering over him, in fact, by my mid-teens. The sexual stuff stopped, but the verbal and occasionally physical torment never did. I could have probably ended it way before I actually did, but I was too scared to do anything. Unfortunately for him, broken people like me aren't just scared, they're also angry.

Rage is a powerful thing, he picked and prodded one too many times. Be raided a little too hard. Didn't think his child would be capable of what he could do to another. Not to him, he thought, probably. The man was a god in his mind and household, and I, I was just an unintentional product of a good night. Well, he was wrong because whatever happened that day ended up costing him his life. We were outside somewhere.

I just remember his tongue pushed me over the edge, and I picked up a rock. Smashed it into the back of his head, and he fell. I remember turning him over. Dazed and helpless, so helpless, his eyes darted in every direction, confused and shocked. What a sight it was to behold! I mounted him and began smashing the rock into his face. Again, and again, and again and again. Until there was only silence and the splattering of viscera all over.

That wasn't the end. Though, years of frustrations and suppressed rage boiled over, and in a moment of inhumane hatred, I sank my teeth into his exposed flesh. Some sort of animalistic need to dominate him overcame me, and I, I ate chunks of him. No idea how much of his head and neck I broke and how much I chewed on, but by the time I was done with him, the act exhausted me to the point of collapse. When I came to my senses, the weight of my actions crushed me. My father, an unrecognizable cadaver.

My clothes, hands, and face were all coated in a thick, viscous crimson. I was seventeen. Old enough to understand the meaning of my actions and the consequences. shaking and spinning inside my skull, I hid the corpse as best as I could under foliage and ran back home, hoping no one saw the bloody mess that I was. When I went back through that front door, alone, covered in gore, Mom immediately understood. I even saw a glimmer of light in her eye before that faded away. That monster pushed Mom beyond the point of no return.

Too far to heal from what he had done to her. Barely a shell of the woman I remembered from early childhood. Thankfully, she still had the strength to help me get rid of the evidence of my crime. We spoke in hushed tones inside, as if we were afraid someone might hear about our terrible secret. We kept at it for months. Even in death, that bastard reigned over us, like a cancer that isn't terminal but cannot be beaten into remission. By the time someone found his remains, Mom found the courage to speak up about his cruel. The authorities investigating the death led her son off the hook, the court had deemed the

killing an act of self-defense. Justice was finally served. We even had him buried in an unmarked grave in a simple plastic body bag. The devil didn't earn any dignity in this life or the next. In theory, we could live in peace after the fact, maybe even rebuild our lives anew. None of that happened. We lived, yes, but we were barely alive, barely human anymore. We both shuffled through the days, pretending to be better because that's what people like us do best.

We lie and put on a mask of normalcy to hide the hurt, the angst, the rage. After I was done with school, I ended up finding employment in the very worst part of society. There isn't much else I could do. I'm terrible with people and supervision. I made a lot of money doing bad things. To them, I was a perfect pick for the job, physically capable, cold, and with an easy finger on the trigger. Most importantly, though, a man with no apparent home or a place to return to. For me, it was the perfect job too.

I retired mom early and, more importantly, let my anger loose without qualms about the consequences. I had the means to exact my revenge on that monster again and again every time I pulled the trigger. Funny how trauma works. Funnyer still is the fact that I can't medicate away his evil, for whatever reason, it, he always comes back to haunt me. I was back at moms one day, and I dozed off on the porch. On his reclining chair. Living the dream for a single moment, when a noise pulled me out of my slumber. The rustling of dry leaves in the wind. I was about to let myself doze off again when I noticed a figure standing at the end. And of my property. Pulling myself upward, I called out to it, asking if it needed anything. Silence.

I had called out again, but it remained silent still, and I raised my voice slightly, catching myself sounding eerily like the devil, and then the figure turned. Unervingly, slowly, unnaturally so. Years of programming and reprogramming automated my reaction. Everything fell apart when I saw its face. Rotten black and missing one eye and chunks of its neck. Freezing in place, I panicked for the first time in years. Feeling like a kid again. It was him.

Somehow, too real to be a hallucination and too uncanny to be an entirely corporeal entity. Old instincts kicked in, and in my head, I started running at it, at him, while in reality, my body slowly moved with insecurity and caution. It saw me, turned away, and started walking into the distance. As if I had become a puppet, my legs followed. My brain was swimming in a soup of confusion, fear, and increasing anger. Before long, I held my gun in my hands as I slowly walked behind the abyss of decomposition flickering in front of me.

Everything slowed down to a near halt as we walked at an equal pace, which was forced upon my body until the poltergeist vanished as it had appeared right in front of me. me. I realized I was standing before my father's grave, sweating bullets and out of my element, still reeling from the entire ordeal. I was gasping for air and spinning inside my head when the notion of him getting one up on me flooded my thoughts. Something inside me snapped, infantile and raw. A sadistic, burning sort of wrath gripped at the back of my mind, and I dropped the gun, fell to the ground, and started digging up the remains of my father. Single-minded and unrelenting in my desire to kill him again,

even if he was dead, I was hell-bent on pissing on whatever might have remained of his corpse. One last humiliation for scarring me for life, for being a sick memory that keeps me up at night and dominates my every unoccupied thought. My hands were bleeding when I finally got to him. I didn't care. Hating how much I had become like him in some aspects, a sick subhuman, I burst into wild laughter when I tore at the deteriorating body back. At first, completely ignoring the fact that he remained unchanged since the day we buried him.

Too angry to notice it, really. Pulled myself upward after spitting in his mangled, blackened face and pissed all over it. That felt good, that felt great, even. Until it didn't. As I was finishing up, his remaining I shot open. startling me, taking me back to that place of paranoid helplessness from my childhood. For a moment, I couldn't move, I could scream, and I could breathe. All I could do was stare at that hateful, evil I piercing through my soul with vile intentions,

feasting upon my fears. He stirred up from the ground, his movement jolted me awake for my fear-induced paralysis, and I leaped for my gun. grabbing it, I screamed like a man possessed before unloading bullets into the seated carcass, dying to gnaw at me again. When the noise died out, he seemed to die with it once more. Only for a short while. Once he came back again, I thought I was losing my mind and sought therapy, but nothing worked. He was. The medication isn't working, the talking isn't making him go away. He is still here. Constantly lurking, feeding on my negativity. I've been ignoring him, pretending he isn't real, for the longest time.

I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Whatever evil tethers him to the world is slowly getting the better of me. I can feel myself back into that animalistic, rabid state of mind. I can practically feel his putrid breath on the back of my neck, digging into my body, torturing me just like he did during particularly dark nights all those years ago. The end. Jerome, Arizona, was once a thriving mining town that is now considered one of the most haunted places on earth. Though it's hard to imagine today, back in the early 1900s, Jerome was a bustling hub with a population peaking at 15,000. The town's history, however, is filled with mystery, tragedy, and a dark reputation that has lingered for over a century. In 1876, three miners

discovered rich copper deposits in the area, leading to the establishment of the United Verde Copper Company, which soon soon. became one of the largest copper mining operations in Arizona. The city quickly grew, with schools, churches, theaters, and even a hotel opening to serve the influx of workers. By the early 1900s, Jerome was a booming city, full of life and energy. But as with many boom towns, the prosperity didn't last. Mining was a dangerous job, and the conditions in Jerome were far from ideal.

With so many workers and families coming to the town, the number of saloons and brothels increased, the social scene took a dark turn. By 1910, the town was home to a dangerous mix of miners, gamblers, and prostitutes, and tensions were on the rise. Amid the decline, the story of a woman named Sammy Din unfolds. Sammy was a woman who came to Jerome in the early 1920s, working as a prostitute in the town's rough environment. Known for her beauty and charm, she had two lovers, one was Thomas Miller, the son of Jerome's mayor, who desperately wanted to marry her, and the other was a local miner with a fierce reputation. Sammy, however, was independent and rejected both men's advances, which led to violent

confrontations. Eventually, on July 10, 1931, Sammy was found dead in her home, strangled and beaten. Though the police quickly closed the case, rumors swirled that one of her lovers had killed her. After her death, strange occurrences began to haunt the town. People claimed to see Sammy's ghost wandering the streets, hearing her laughter and cries. It wasn't long before these reports extended to the hospital in town, a building that had seen many deaths, especially due to the dangerous mining conditions. The United Verde Hospital, despite having modern equipment, suffered from high mortality rates.

Between 9,000 and 10,000 people are believed to have died there, many of the miners who were injured or became sick due to the harsh environment. One of the most unsettling events was the 1935 death of Claude Harvey, the hospital's maintenance chief. Harvey was found with his head crushed by the hospital's elevator, and while police ruled at an accident, a coroner later revealed that he had already been dead before the elevator crushed him. Rumors spread that Claude had been murdered, and soon after, reports of his ghost began to surface. People claimed to hear him coughing, laughing, or speaking to himself, especially near the elevator. Some even reported seeing him riding the elevator in the dead

of night, moving between floors without anyone in control. In the years that followed, Jerome's dwindled, as the mining operations slowly came to an end. By 1950, the town was almost abandoned. The hospital was closed, and for two decades, it stood empty, a symbol of the town's former glory. But then, in the 1970s, the ghost stories surrounding Jerome resurfaced. A security guard hired to protect the abandoned hospital later committed suicide inside the building, fueling rumors of a curse. The town began to attract tourists once again, drawn by its eerie history in haunted reputation. In 1994, a company bought the old hospital and transformed it into the Jerome Grand Hotel. The building was renovated, and the rooms were refurbished

with vintage furniture, but the ghosts of Jerome remained. Guests began reporting strange occurrences, such as objects moving on their own, cold spots, and unexplained voices. Staff members, including the hotel manager, Sarah Mosser, confirmed that they had experienced paranormal activity, like hearing children laughing in the halls and sensing the presence of otherworldly entities. The hotel became known for its haunted rooms, with Room 32 being the most notorious. Guests who stayed their reported hearing strange noises, feeling an unseen presence, and sometimes even being touched by something they couldn't see. In fact, the room became so popular that reservations were required months in advance. In 2013, a couple staying in Room 35 had

their own eerie experience. They reported seeing unexplained light flashes, and at one point, the husband was struck by something invisible. The couple later spoke about their experience in a review, describing the room as haunted by a child who seemed to be around eight years old. Jerome's reputation for being haunted only grew as more stories surfaced. Visitors reported sightings of a black cat, a woman in white, and a minor who was seen turning on the lights in the hallways at night. Even the local restaurant, haunted hamburger, became part of the lore. Staff at the restaurant reported glasses falling off shelves without any apparent cause, and strange handprints, especially small ones, were often found on windows after they

had been cleaned. Over the years, Jerome has become a destination for paranormal enthusiasts, with TV shows like Ghost Hunters and Paranormal Challenge investigating the town's supernatural happenings. Each investigation has uncovered something, whether it's strange noises, ghostly voices, or unexplained phenomena, confirming that Jerome's haunted reputation is well earned. So, is Jerome truly cursed, or is it just marketing? For those who have experienced the strange occurrences firsthand, it's hard to say. What's clear, however, is that Jerome's ghostly past has become an integral part of its identity, drawing in visitors from all over who are eager to explore its haunted history.

Whether you believe in ghosts or not, one thing is for sure, Jerome's eerie charm is here to stay. Jacob was a quiet, sensitive boy with eyes holding a sad world. He lived in a small town where everyone knew each other, but despite the close-knit community, Jacob felt alone. His parents, Mary and Tom, were caught in a cycle of frustration and anger, and unfortunately, Jacob often found himself at the receiving end of their misplaced emotions. Mary and Tom had once been a loving couple, but life's pressures had taken their toll. Financial struggles, unfulfilled dreams, and unresolved personal issues had transformed their home into a battleground. Mary, overwhelmed by the responsibilities of raising a family with limited

resources, often lashed out in frustration. Tom, feeling powerless and emasculated by his inability to provide as he wished, turned to alcohol to numb his pain. In their despair, they took out their anger on the one most vulnerable person, Jacob. Jacob learned early on that crying only made things worse. The more he cried, the angrier his parents became. So, he stopped crying, choosing instead to retreat into himself, building walls around his heart to protect it from further hurt. The beatings, the harsh words, and the neglect left deep scars, not just on his body but on his spirit.

At school, Jacob was a loner. His teachers noticed the bruises, the vacant look in his eyes, and the way he flinched when someone raised their hand too quickly. But no one knew the full extent of his suffering, and given. Jacob was too afraid to tell. He believed that somehow, the abuse was his fault, that he must have done something to deserve it. One day, after a particularly violent episode, Jacob ran away. He didn't know where he was going, he just knew he couldn't stay. He wandered the streets, cold and hungry until he found himself at the doors of a small church. The warm light spilling

out from the stained glass windows drew him in. Inside, the church was quiet. except for the soft murmur of a few people praying. Jacob sat in the back, unnoticed, and for the first time in a long while, he let the tears flow. A kind old man, the church's pastor, noticed Jacob and sat beside him. He didn't ask any questions, just offered a comforting presence. After a while, Jacob began to talk. He told the pastor everything, about the beatings, the anger, the fear, and the loneliness.

The pastor listened patiently, his heart-breaking for the boy. When Jacob finished, the pastor spoke gently about God's love and the power of forgiveness. Jacob, he said softly, God sees your pain, and he knows your heart. Forgiveness doesn't mean that what your parents did was right. It means freeing yourself from the burden of anger and pain. Forgiving them is a way of letting go and allowing God to heal your heart. Jacob shook his head. I don't know if I can forgive them, he whispered.

It's not easy, the pastor agreed. But forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. It's saying, I won't let this hurt control my life anymore. And you don't have to do it alone. God will help you, Jacob began to visit the church regularly. The pastor became a father figure to him, showing him kindness and teaching him about God's love. Slowly, Jacob began to heal. He still struggled with anger and resentment, but he also started to feel a glimmer of hope,

something he hadn't felt in a long time. One day, after much prayer and reflection, Jacob decided to forgive his parents. It wasn't an easy decision, and it didn't happen all at once. It was a process, one that took time and required God's help every step of the way. He realized that his parents were broken people, just like him, and that they needed healing too. Jacob wrote a letter to his parents, pouring out his heart. He told them how much they had hurt him, but he also told them that he forgave them. He explained that he wasn't excusing their behavior, but that he was choosing to let go of the anger so that he could move forward with his life.

He also told them about the church and the pastor who had helped him find peace. When Mary and Tom received the letter, they were shocked. They hadn't realized the full impact of their actions on their son. guilt and shame washed over them as they read Jacob's words. But along with the guilt came a sense of relief, relief that their son was willing to forgive them despite everything they had done. Jacob's letter was the catalyst for change. Mary and Tom sought help for their issues, Mary attended counseling, and Tom joined a support group to overcome his addiction. They started attending church with Jacob, slowly rebuilding their family on a foundation of love and

faith. Forgiveness didn't erase the past, but it allowed Jacob to reclaim his future. The scars remained, but they were no longer wounds, they were reminders of the strength he had found in God's love. Jacob learned that forgiveness is not about condoning the hurtful actions of others, but about freeing oneself from the chains of bitterness and finding peace in God's grace. Jacob's journey was not an easy one, but it was one of redemption and hope. He grew into a strong, compassionate young man, dedicated to helping others who had suffered as he had. He knew that forgiveness was a gift, not just for those who had wronged him but for himself, a gift that allowed him to live a life filled with love, joy, and the peace that comes from knowing

God's healing power. Scripture references, Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4 verse 32, The Lord is near to the broken-hearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. Psalm 34 verse 18. Prayer, Lord, thank you for the gift of forgiveness. Help us to release the pain and anger we carry in our hearts and grant us the strength to forgive those who have wronged us. May we find healing in your love and peace in your grace. Amen. The bodies of all the victims had been found. All except Natasha. But Leonard kept insisting, he had killed her. He was sure of it. He repeated it over and over again. Two witnesses even confirmed they had seen him with her.

This case began in 2003, in Australia, when authorities were about to put a true serial killer on trial. He had been accused of numerous crimes, but they were only charging him with five. They had four bodies, and for the fifth, he had no idea where it was. He detailed how he had killed his victims where he had buried them. were recovered, but the fifth was nowhere to be found. Despite that, there were witnesses. They had seen him with the victim. They were certain. And then, just before the trial began, a call came into the police station. The caller claimed to be the missing fifth victim. She begged

them to stop looking for her. And that's where today's mystery begins, the baffling case of Natasha Ryan. Natasha Ryan was born on May 9, 1984, in Rockhampton, Australia. She was was the daughter of Jenny and Robert Ryan. As a child, Natasha was sweet, kind, and generous. Her parents affectionately called her, Grasshopper. She got good grades, had lots of friends, and was the type of kid everyone expected to have a bright future. But then, things changed. Her parents divorced. Jenny took custody of the kids, and Robert packed his bags, moving three hours away to Bundaberg. There, he started a new life. He met a woman named Debbie, got married, and in 1997, they had a son, Jason, a name that would later become significant.

For a while, Natasha's life continued as usual. She was a healthy, intelligent, and well-like child. Some sources say the divorce didn't affect her much, while others suggested hit her hard. Either way, by the time she reached her teenage years, she started to spiral. Her grades dropped, she skipped school, and she experimented with drugs. She even attempted to take her own life. Multiple times, she tried to run away from home. Some say she might have had an undiagnosed mental health condition, but she never received

treatment. No therapy, no medical follow-ups. And things only got worse. At 14, Natasha started dating Scott Black. He was 21. As expected, her mother was completely against it. Natasha was still a child, a girl pretending to be older than she really was. Jenny forbade her from seeing him.

She tried to keep her away, but in the end, all it did was push Natasha further toward Scott. On July 12, 1998, Natasha ran away. She staged the perfect escape. That afternoon, everything seemed normal. No arguments, no signs that anything was wrong. Then, she asked if she could take the dog for a walk. She grabbed the leash, stepped outside, and disappeared. Minutes passed, then an hour, then another.

Jenny called the police. Witnesses soon reported seeing Natasha at a bowling alley. Investigators dug deeper and found out Scott had rented a hotel room. The police rushed to the hotel, searched the room, and there she was, Natasha. She apologized. Promise she'd change. She said she'd focus on school, that she'd never run away again. That she'd break up with Scott because, after all, he was too old for her.

Jenny believed her. Then came August 31st, 1998. That morning started just like any other. At 8.15 a.m., Jenny dropped Natasha off at school on Bursaker Street. Everything was fine. Natasha was in good spirits, dressed in her uniform, carrying her backpack. Jenny watched her walk inside before driving away. Hours passed.

Then it was time to pick her up. Jenny drove to the school and parked out front. She waited. Students flooded out of the building, but Natasha was nowhere to be seen. Worried, Jenny went inside. That's when she got the shock of her life. Natasha had never been at school that day. No one had seen her.

No one knew where she was. Panic set in. Jenny rushed home, hoping to find her there. But the house was empty. Frantic, she called the police. The officer taking her report hesitated when he heard the name, Natasha Ryan. He stopped writing. Natasha had a history, running away, skipping school, getting into trouble.

So at first, the police didn't take it too seriously. But Jenny insisted. And eventually, they started looking for her daughter. Rockhampton was a quiet, family-friendly city. It had a reputation for being safe, for being the kind of place where nothing really happened. That's why Natasha's disappearance shocked the entire community. At first, authorities assumed she had run away. again. The obvious suspect. Scott Black. They went straight to his house, questioned him. He

swore he had nothing to do with it. He had an alibi, he was at work. His co-workers and boss backed him up. The police had no choice but to let him go. Days passed. Then, witnesses came forward. One person said they had seen Natasha playing video games at a cinema two days after she vanished. She wasn't alone. She was with two girls. The police tracked down the two girls and questioned them. They confirmed it, they had met up with Natasha. They had hung out, played games, grabbed a snack, then went their separate ways. Then another witness stepped up. They had seen Natasha get into a car. An adult man was driving. The police immediately thought of Scott Black again. They interrogated

him. Once again, he denied everything. And once again, they had no evidence against him. stuck. Then, Natasha was seen nowhere. Days turned into weeks, then months. Posters were plastered everywhere. Search teams scoured the area. But she had vanished without a trace. Then, other women started disappearing. All right, buckle up, because this one's a wild, awkward, emotional roller coaster of a ride, and it starts with a guy named Jake. Yeah, Jake, the human embodiment of a bad decision. It all began kind of low-key. Nothing super dramatic at first. Just annoying. You know those random coincidences that aren't really coincidences when someone just keeps showing up. That's how it was. Every time I went to grab a coffee, hit the grocery store, walk to work,

or meet Jenna at the gym, boom. Jake. Always Jake. At first, we just brushed it off. Ugg, this guy again rolled our eyes and moved on. He gave off strong weird dude energy, sure, but not enough to freak us out. Yet. We figured he was just clingy, maybe a little sad and pathetic, but not dangerous. So we ignored it. We thought he'd get bored eventually, move on, maybe find a hobby or a new obsession. Nope.

One day Jenna shows up at my apartment, totally freaked out. like pale and shaky she says she was out on a date with this new guy totally normal evening when jake strolls past the restaurant window like a ghost then a couple hours later she gets a call from him full meltdown screaming look what you did he yells i can't stop thinking about you because of you i hit my kid i chased my wife out of the house Yeah. What the actual hell. Jenna, who is normally the most patient person I know, snaps. She tells him to leave her alone, get therapy, and never contact her again.

Then she blocks him. Cold. That was the moment we realized this wasn't just some dude nursing a harmless little crush. This was obsession. And it was turning scary, fast. We talked it over, and I told her straight up. If he contacts you again, you tell him you're going to the police. Say he's abusive.

Say anything, just scare him off. Mid-convo, my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, who does anymore, but I was waiting on a delivery. Thought it might be the guy dropping off my package. Nope. It was Jake. He's sobbing.

Like, full-on crying, gasping, snot and everything, says he's at the end of his rope, begging me to talk to Jenna for him, to convince her to unblock him. It's not fair, he says. She can't just cut me off like this. I was so thrown off, Jake always acted smooth before, like he had his life together. Now he sounded absolutely unhinged. I tried to keep my voice calm, told him to pull himself together, that he couldn't guilt-trip people into loving him that Jenna made her decision and he needed to respect it then he drops this bomb says he never actually hit his kid or chased his wife he just made that up to scare Jenna make her feel bad that's when i lost it told him he crossed every damn line

if he contacts us again just once we're going to the cops i hang up Block him. Done. For a while, it actually worked. Two blissful months passed. No Jake. Life started to feel normal again. Until Jenna and I show up to a mutual friend's birthday party. We're just trying to enjoy the night and guess who's there. Standing next to the birthday girl like a proud little accessory. Yep. Jake. Like the human version of a cockroach that just won't. Don't die. Now, if you're wondering how I even ended up with people like Jake and Jenna in my life, here's some backstory, some real, messy childhood stuff. Late 2000s, early 2010s. My life? A train wreck with no brakes.

My parents couldn't stand each other. The rest of my family. A toxic soup of mental illness and drug addiction. So yeah, I was one anxious, messed up kid. And like a moth to a flame, I was always drawn to unstable people. They were drawn to me too. When I was about 11, I discovered the Internet. It was my little escape hatch.

AOL, MySpace, Facebook, all of it. While other kids were out riding bikes or throwing rocks at ducks, I was behind a screen, venting my soul to strangers. But hey, I thought I was being careful. my profiles were private. I didn't add strangers. Never shared my location. And that's where Tanya comes in. Obviously, Tanya isn't her real name. I'm not trying to get sued. Or stalked. Or worse. But let's just say if Tanya ever finds this story on YouTube or some podcast, she'll know it's about her. We met in elementary school during one of the darkest chapters of my life.

My family was falling apart, and I think she sensed that. Predators always smell blood. At first, she seemed like any other kid. But little red flag started popping up. She'd manipulate me into staying up all night on the computer, just to explore sketchy websites we had no business looking at. Once, she ghosted me for not giving her my favorite pen. Freaked out when I messed up on guitar hero.

You know, totally normal kid stuff. if you're raising a future sociopath. My mom hated her. Said she got a weird vibe. Parents know, man. I should have listened. But I didn't. And it cost me. When I turned 11, Tanya changed. Suddenly she was jealous, like super hostile. She'd make little comments about how I got good grades, but wasn't pretty enough for it to matter. Said I needed balance. Whatever the hell that meant. My self-esteem, already shaky, started to crumble. But it wasn't enough for Tanya to tear me down slowly, no, she wanted the grand finale.

So she made a plan. A long, sick, twisted plan. In middle school, we were inseparable. At least I thought we were. We chatted all day in class, messaged all night. One night we're talking about boys, because hormones, and she says, Hey, you know Mark.

He likes you, Mark. The most popular kid in school. Football star. Total class clown. Loud, wild, everything I wasn't. I was skeptical, but she insisted. Said he asked for my username. I was floored.

Giddy. Eleven-year-old me thought I'd hit the jackpot. That night, a message. pops up, hey. From Marie Boy 99. It was him. Mark. Tanya had really done it. We started talking constantly. Silly bands, cartoons, homework. And I fell hard. He was funny. Sweet. Interested. And he liked me. That was everything. For months, we talked on mine. Never on the phone. Never in person.

Red flags I ignored because, well, I was desperate to be loved. Tanya cheered me on the whole time. You deserve this, she'd say. You're finally happy. I believed her. But things got weird when I tried to talk to Mark at school. He looked at me like I was a stranger. Walked away.

Didn't even say hi. My heart sank. I told Tanya. She got furious, said she'd confront him. Said she had my back. I felt relieved. What a good friend, right. Later that night, Mark, messaged me to say sorry.

Said he was dealing with family stuff. I forgave him. Because of course I did. Tanya said it was all okay. So I stayed in the fantasy. March 31st rolls around. Mark says he has a big surprise for me the next day. April 1st.

I spend the whole day nervous, excited, imagining he's going to ask me to be his girlfriend for real. I tell my mom. I tell Tanya. I'm literally shaking. That night, I'm on Club Penguin, Don't Judge, and ding, you've got mail. It's from Mark. Hey, babe, it says.

Hey. I reply, heart pounding. You ready for the surprise? Yes, he sends a picture. It's Tanya. Holding a sign. Happy April Fool's Day. At first, I laughed. Awkwardly. Maybe it was a joke. Just a weird prank. Huh, right? Then the truth slammed into me like a truck. Tanya was Mark. She made him up. She catfished me for six whole months just to humiliate me just because she could i was shattered i told my mom she was furious called tanya's mom told her to stay the hell away from me you'd think that would be the end it wasn't tanya came back again and again she'd guilt-trip me beg me to forgive her one time this one haunts me she messaged me after my birthday to say her mom had died said it was a brutal car crash said they only found her mom's head and wedding ring i cried tanya's mom had always been kind to me i mourned then tanya messaged l-o-l just kidding sent a video of her laughing said i was stupid for believing her

She was 12. She wasn't done. She and a new friend, Kay, invited me to sit with them at lunch. I was desperate. I said yes. Mistake. They bullied me. Called me names. Spread rumors. Tanya told me to kill myself. Said I didn't matter. Said I was nothing. That was my breaking point. I told my mom. She called the police, told Tanya's mom everything. I deleted my AOL account. Changed everything. Moved lunch tables. Tried to rebuild. But I didn't run. I sat at the same table as Tanya for the rest of the year. I ignored her. Never looked at her again. I refused to give her the satisfaction. I survived her. Barely. But I did. The end, you know how some people say they had a weird neighbor once. Like the, keeps to himself, probably just eccentric, kind. Yeah, no. My story blows those out of the water. It's not just weird, it's straight up disturbing. I'm not even sure how my family came out of it all without needing a full exorcism or

something. Anyway, buckle up, because this one's a ride. So, I'm a woman living in New England, and this madness took place when I was still a kid, just about to hit the big one to zero. It was the day before my 10th birthday, and things were going pretty normally, at least at first. My mom, my little brother, and I were just getting back from one of his soccer games. It had been a long day, and honestly, I was ready to crash with some Minecraft. That's all I wanted. Peace, pixels, and zombies that weren't real. We pull into the driveway and my brother immediately spots a yard sale happening at the house next door.

Now, let me tell you something about this house. It looked like a haunted dollhouse that got run over by a truck. Old, peeling paint, busted windows, overgrown yard. You get the picture. Apparently, sun shady stuff had gone down there before I was born. like police level shady, but that was supposedly all in the past. Keyword, supposedly. So, while my brother is pointing and practically vibrating with curiosity, this man comes walking up to us. We'll call him Rhee. He was renting a room in that rundown house.

The place belonged to this woman who lived there with her disabled son, and she rented out the extra rooms to make ends meet. So Rie had one of those rooms. He seemed changed. at first, talked to my mom, kicked a soccer ball around with my brother, made some awkward small talk. I remember thinking he looked kind of, off. Trashy, maybe. Not like scary, trashy, just unkempt. But I didn't think much of it. I just wanted to get inside and build my Minecraft Empire. That was in October. Things were quiet for a while after that. Fast forward to late January. I'm half asleep one early morning when my dad bursts into my room, scoops me up like I'm five again, and hauls me to the master bedroom. He's not explaining anything, just moving fast

and telling me to stay put. My mom and brother are already there, looking confused and a little spooked. The master bedroom was on the far end of the house, away from Rees Place. Being the stubborn kid I was, I wasn't thrilled about being manhandled out of bed, so I huffed and stomped back to my room. That's when my dad yells, there are police next door, and demands I return to the master bedroom. Now I'm scared. Not Minecraft zombie scared, real, gut punch scared. Turns out, Rees' ex-girlfriend had come by to grab her stuff, and she brought her new boyfriend with her. Re flipped out and started stabbing the boyfriend. No joke. Police were called, sirens, guns drawn, the whole deal.

It was chaos. I didn't even realize what stabbing meant back then, I thought it was like, a poke or something. Nope. Full-on violent assault. But we thought, okay, that's got to be the peak of the insanity, right? Wrong. Come March, my mom picks me up from school like always.

My little brother was staying late for his guitar lesson, so it was just us. I toss my backpack into the trunk, and I notice it's filled with suitcases. I'm like, what's up with all the bags? She smiles and says we're staying in a hotel for the night. Just like that. No warning. We drive around for a while.

Then, suddenly, she says plans have changed and we're heading home after all. I'm sitting there, confused as hell. Why all the secrecy? Why the suitcases? I get home with my dad and immediately notice something's off, there's police tape across our lawn. Not next door. Our lawn. My dad tells me they found drugs at Rhee's place.

But that's not even half of it. Apparently, Rie was on his front steps doing PCP like it was no big deal. Someone saw, called the cops, and they ended up chasing him into the next town. When they searched the house, an officer picked up a package and immediately got sick. Like, serious reaction sick. A biohazard unit had to be called in. They discovered a full-on drug lab. And not just meth, PCP.

This maniac was cooking angel dust right next to our house. The cops told my parents to evacuate. We ended up staying at a hotel for real after that, at least until they confirmed it wasn't meth and we weren't in danger from toxic residue. But still, PCP. Next. Door. I lost it. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. I curled up behind our couch and stayed there, pretending it was a bunker. I was terrified Rie would come back. And you know what? He did. He got released from jail not long after because, get this, evidence tampering. Some genius messed with the evidence room, so REE couldn't be convicted.

Just, walked free. Like none of it ever happened. Meanwhile, my family was in full panic mode. We bought a new house, got a huge dog, installed security cameras, stopped up on whatever weapons were legally allowed. My brother and I were already in therapy, but now we were going twice as often. We were moving in a couple months, but until then, it was like living in a horror movie. Rie would sit on his back porch and just, stare at us.

Every day. Just sitting there, dead-eyed. One day, my dad had enough and confronted him. Rie lost it, started yelling death threats. Loud. Clear. Terrifying. I cried so hard that night.

Then came moving. day. We were already gone when re, thinking we were still around, let his pit bull loose. He timed it for when we usually walked our dog. It was intentional. He wanted someone, or something, to get hurt. A month after we moved, we here re got arrested again. Walked into a grocery store, totally high, tried to kid a kid. A child. Parents saw it in time, thank God, and he ran, But the police caught him. But get this, they released him. One month later.

Why? The jail was full. That's it. No transfer, no alternative holding. Just, boom. Free man. I still don't know how that's legal. That's when my brain went full on spiral.

I mean, if he could try to kidnap a random kid, what could he have done to me? Or to my brother. I tried to push it out of my mind. For a while, it worked. There was silence. No more re-sidings. Life settled down. But deep down, I knew it wasn't over.

Silence, sometimes, is just the breath before the storm. A few months back, I get a message on Facebook. From some guy I don't know. At first, I thought it was just another creeper, they're everywhere. But this guy, he was different. Funny, smart, even charming. We'll call him Jake. We started chatting.

He said he was divorced, had one kid, and was dealing with a complicated ex. He vented a lot, which bothered me a little, like dude, I'm not your therapist, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Our conversations drifted into everyday stuff, and eventually, I talked about my best friend. We'll call her Jenna. She's like a sister to me. We've been tight since diapers. At the time, she was super busy with work and dealing with some guy drama, so we hadn't had time to catch up properly.

Jake got curious, kept asking about Jenna. What she was like, funny stories, what kind of guys she dated. I joked once, you want her number or something. He laughed it off weirdly, but I let it slide. Fast forward a bit, Jenna and I finally meet up for drinks. I start telling her about Jake. She's smiling, nodding, until I show her his picture. She goes pale.

Like, ghost pale. That's him, she says. That's the guy I told you about. Turns out, Jenna met Jake on a dating app. Same story, smart, funny, charming. But on their date, he got Hansy. Wanted more than a good-night kiss. Tried to drive her home even though she had her own car.

Creepy. Next day, he calls, apologizes, says it was the booze and job stress. Then he drops the bomb, he's not actually divorced. Still living with his wife and kid, just separated. Said he couldn't leave her yet because she wasn't working. Jenna wasn't buying it. Still, somehow, he weaseled his. his way back into her good graces. Not fully, but enough to keep talking. Eventually, he even

put his wife on the phone to prove, they were separated. A woman's voice confirmed it, but Jenna was more confused than reassured. Then one day, Jake walks past her work, at the exact time her shift ends. Total coincidence, right? Yeah, sure. They grab a drink, just as friends, and she ends up telling him more about her life, including me. A few days later, he messages me on Facebook. Yep. That's how it started. Jenna and I were furious. We confronted him separately and compared notes later. I asked why he lied about being divorced. Why he came after me when he was seeing Jenna. His excuse. He'd heard about me from her and got curious. Doug threw her Facebook friends to find me. She hadn't even added him, he stalked her.

When Jenna asked, he said the same thing. Just, curious. Wanted to know more. Totally innocent. Yeah, right. We both told him to lose our numbers. He acted shocked, tried to backpedal, but we were done. Or so we thought.

He started accidentally messaging us. Stuff meant for someone else. Tried asking us out again, got rejected, backed off, then repeated the cycle. Then came that the coincidental run-ins. At the market. Outside Jenna's gym. Near my office. Always random.

Always unsettling. To be continued. When I was 12, my parents decided we were going on a cruise to Mexico. At the time, I thought it would be the best trip of my life. It was supposed to be all fun, unlimited food, pools, new places to explore. And at first, it was just that. But then I met a girl who changed my life in ways I never could have imagined. Sometimes, I wish I had never met her at all.

The first night on the ship was rough. The sea was angry, tossing the boat like a toy, making my stomach flip every few minutes. I clung to my parents, feeling like I might actually get sick. sick. But by the second night, the waves had calmed. The ship glided smoothly across the ocean, and I finally felt brave enough to explore on my own. That evening, I went to the teen club. It was supposed to be a way to meet other kids on the ship, people who might become my friends for the two weeks ahead. At first, it was awkward, everyone standing around, sizing each other up, unsure of what to say. Then the group leaders suggested we all go watch a

a show together in the ship's theater. It seemed like a good idea. I figured I'd just sit in the back, watch, and maybe talk to someone after. But then I noticed her. She was staring at me. Not in the casual way people glance around a room, but in a way that felt intense, almost eerie. She was pretty, not in a flashy, obvious way, but in a way that felt natural. She had wavy, dirty blonde hair and a slender frame. Something about the way she was looking at me made me uneasy. I stared back, confused, wondering if maybe I had something on my face or if my shirt was on backward.

Then she mouthed something at me. I had no idea what she was saying, so I just shook my head, indicating I didn't understand. Without hesitation, she stood up and walked directly to the empty seat beside me. Leaning in close, she whispered a name. It meant nothing to me. I just blinked at her, baffled. She studied my face, searching for something. Then she said, I'm sorry.

You just look exactly like my friend. I laughed awkwardly, trying to shake off the weird tension, and introduced myself. She told me her name was Hannah and apologized again for the strange mix-up. But after that, things shifted. The awkwardness melted, replaced by easy conversation. We ended up ditching the rest of the group and wandering around the ship together. Over the next several days, we were inseparable. Every morning, we met in the computer lounge before heading off to do whatever ridiculous thing we could think of.

We ate breakfast together, played tag on the decks, sneaked into hot tubs, and always grabbed pizza and fries for lunch. Our afternoons were spent getting ready for dinner, helping each other pick outfits, doing each other's hair and makeup, giggling like we had known each other forever. Then we'd part ways to have dinner with our families, only to reunite on the upper deck afterward, where the conversations turned deep and personal. It was on those nights, under the vast sky, that I felt closest to her.

But the last night was different. We were alone on the upper deck, lounging on pool chairs, staring at the dark water below. Neither of us wanted the trip to end, but there was something heavier weighing in the air. A silence stretched between us, one that made me think back to the first night, to that strange way she had looked at me.

I hesitated before asking, hey, that first night we met, you thought I was someone else. Who was she? Hannah tensed. Her entire demeanor changed. She turned her face away from me, looking out at the endless sea, and took a deep breath. It's, it's a sad story, she said quietly. She didn't answer right away. The paws stretched so long that my stomach started twisting.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. She's dead, the words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath caught. What? She killed herself, Hannah continued, her voice hollow. She struggled a lot with the way she looked. She thought she was ugly. She thought she wasn't good enough.

One day, she took a bunch of her mom's pills and never woke up. I didn't know what to say. My brain scrambled for something, anything, to respond with, but nothing felt right. My heart pounded as I stared at her, then back at the ocean, as if the answer might be out there somewhere in the dark waves. We sat in silence after that. I could feel her watching me, like she was waiting for something. I didn't know what to give her. I felt too many things at once, shock, sadness, confusion. But above all, I felt an overwhelming discomfort settle over me. When the conversation eventually shifted, I followed along, letting it carry us into lighter topics.

But my mind stayed stuck on that moment. Even after we said our goodbyes the next day, after I hugged her tightly before we went our separate ways, the feeling lingered. I never saw her again. We never kept in touch. The only proof she ever existed are the photos buried in an old album, tucked away in the back of my closet. But that moment never left me.

From that night forward, something changed in me. I started seeing myself differently. I became hyper-aware of my reflection, noticing every little flaw, every imperfection. I started avoiding mirrors, hating the way my face looked back at me. Every time someone paid me a compliment, doubt would creep in. Were they lying? Were they just being nice because they had to be? Were they secretly thinking the same thing she did?

That I looked like a girl who didn't want to exist. I withdrew from photos. Whenever someone pulled out a camera, I found an excuse to step away. If I did get caught in a picture, I would stare at it later, dissecting every detail, searching for the reason why she had hated looking like me so much. Some nights, I would stand in front of the mirror and cry, my reflection blurring through my tears. I would wonder, was I really that awful? If she couldn't bear to live with this face, then how could I? Did I deserve to be here if she wasn't? Years passed, but the thoughts never truly went away. Even now, I think about her. I think

about the girl who looked like me, the girl I never knew but whose pain became my own. I think about the way Hannah looked at me, the way her face had gone pale when she realized I wasn't her friend. I think about the weight of that night, pressing down on me like an anchor at the bottom of the ocean. Every day, I look in the mirror and see the imperfections that made her hate herself. Every day, I look into the face of a girl I never met, a girl whose name I can't even remember. And every day, I wish I had never known her at all.