Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Creepy Stories Marathon – 9 Hours of Horror

Episode Date: November 11, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #horrormarathon #ghoststories #truehorror #spookyvibes “Creepy Stories Marathon – 9 Hours of Horror” is a relentless plunge into the darkest corners of the internet. Dive into hours of spine-tingling tales inspired by real Reddit horror stories, ghostly encounters, and paranormal mysteries. From eerie whispers in empty halls to terrifying midnight visitors, this marathon delivers nonstop chills for fans of supernatural horror and sleepless nights. Perfect for background listening, long drives, or anyone who dares to stay awake. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedstories, paranormal, ghoststories, scarynarration, truehorror, eerie, darkness, chillingstories, nightmarefuel, supernatural, spookyaudio, longhorrorcompilation, creepyencounters, sleeplessnights

Let's take a journey through the human mind, a place where science and the surreal collide. From mysterious neurological conditions to chilling mental disorders, the world of psychology is packed with stories that are fascinating, bizarre, and sometimes downright eerie. So, buckle up, because we're diving headfirst into the labyrinth of the brain. Split brain syndrome, two minds in one. Imagine waking up one day to find that your left hand seems to have a mind of its own. This is a reality for some people who have undergone a procedure called corpus callus calisone. sodomy. To treat severe epilepsy, surgeons sever the corpus callosum, the bundle of nerve fibers

connecting the brain's two hemispheres. While this can prevent seizures, it also creates two semi-independent minds within one skull. One of the strangest phenomena associated with split-brain syndrome is alien hand syndrome. A person's hand might act against their conscious intentions, like unbuttoning a shirt the other hand is buttoning. Even more mind-blowing, each hemisphere can have its own preferences and thoughts. One side might love chocolate while the other prefers vanilla. This condition raises profound questions about identity and free will. Are we truly one unified self, or are we the sum of many parts? Psychopathy, the chilling absence of empathy. Psychopathy isn't just a Hollywood trope, it's a real and unsettling personality disorder. Psychopaths lack empathy and

remorse, enabling them to manipulate and harm others without guilt. They're often highly intelligent and skilled at mimicking normal human emotions, which makes them even more dangerous. What's truly chilling is how detached they can be. Imagine confronting someone about their harmful actions, only to realize they don't care, not even a little. They might apologize, but it's purely performative. It's not that they're misunderstood, they're simply wired differently. Understanding this disorder is crucial for psychologists, especially those working in criminal settings. Cultural syndromes, when beliefs shape reality, culture profoundly influences how mental illnesses manifest. Take Koro, for instance. Predominantly found in parts of Asia,

Koro involves the irrational fear that one's genitals are retracting into the body, potentially leading to death. This condition is often linked to anxiety and cultural taboos surrounding sexuality. Then there's brain fatigue syndrome, observed in some African cultures. This condition primarily affect students under extreme academic stress, causing psychosomatic blindness. Yes, you read that right, their eyes worked perfectly, but their brains simply refused to process visual information. These syndromes remind us how deeply intertwined our minds are with the cultural environments we inhabit. PICA, craving the inedible. PICA is a condition where people feel compelled to eat non-food items, clay, chalk, hair, or even paint chips. While it might

sound quirky, it's far from harmless. Eating these items can lead to serious health issues, from intestinal blockages to poisoning. Imagine being so driven by this compulsion that you ignore the risks entirely. For those with PICA, the urge is often tied to underlying nutritional deficiencies or mental health conditions. Glove paralysis, when the mind tricks the body. Glove paralysis is a somatic disorder where individuals lose sensation or movement in their hands, specifically from the wrist down. What makes this condition fast, is that it doesn't align with the way nerves are structured. The symptoms are entirely psychological, showcasing the mind's incredible power to influence

physical reality. Aphasia, the language puzzle. Aphasia is a language disorder caused by brain damage, often from a stroke or traumatic injury. Depending on the affected brain region, a person might struggle to form sentences, understand speech, or even recognize familiar voices. For psychologists and speech therapists, helping someone with aphasia is like piecing together a linguistic puzzle. It's challenging, but the progress, however slow, is immensely rewarding. Hemispatial neglect, ignoring half the world. Hemispatial neglect occurs when brain

damage causes a person to ignore one side of their visual field. For example, someone with left side neglect might only eat the food on the right side of their plate, leaving the rest untouched. What's wild is that this isn't a problem with their eyes, it's their brain refusing to acknowledge half the world. Studies show that even when imagining familiar places, patients only describe what's on their good side. It's a stark reminder of how brain injuries can alter our perception of reality. Borderline personality disorder, emotional whiplash. Living with borderline personality disorder, BPD, is like being on an emotional roller coaster that never stops. People with BPD experience intense mood swings, impulsive behaviors, and unstable relationships. One moment, they might idolize

you, the next, they could lash out in anger. For therapists, working with BPD patients can be both challenging and rewarding. Progress often feels like a dance, one step forward, two steps back. But when breakthroughs happen, they're incredibly fulfilling. Understanding and managing BPD requires patience, empathy, and a deep commitment to the therapeutic process. Schizophrenia, a fragmented reality. Schizophrenia is one of the most misunderstood mental illnesses. It's not just about hearing voices, it's a complete disruption of thought, perception, and behavior. A friend of mine has been struggling with disorganized schizophrenia for years. Watching someone you care about lose touch with reality is heartbreaking. He used to be

vibrant and sociable, but now he's a shadow of his former self. He mimics others' behaviors, follows people around, and struggles to make decisions. Living with him has been draining, as he clings to me for guidance in every aspect of life. Despite consulting therapists, Progress has been slow. It's a stark reminder of how debilitating mental illness can be. Life in psychiatric wards, a glimpse into chaos. Psychiatric wards are places of healing, but they can also be unsettling. During my stay-in-a-wort for depression, I met a young woman recovering from meningitis.

Despite her humor and kindness, she was consumed by a desire to end her life. She would steal batteries to swallow, break mirrors to harm herself, and bang her head against walls. Her desperation was a sobering reminder of the depths of human suffering. Another encounter involved a schizophrenic roommate who constantly whispered to herself while hitting her face. One night, I woke up to find her silently staring at me from her bed. It was unnerving, to say the least. She was eventually moved to a long-term care facility, but the memory of her vacant eyes

still haunts me. The dark side of mental illness. One of the scariest stories I've heard involved a woman in a psychiatric ward attacking her roommate in the middle of the night. The victim managed to defend herself and escape, but the incident highlights the unpredictability of untreated mental illness. These moments serve as stark reminders of why mental health care is so critical. The mind's endless mysteries, despite the challenges, the human brain is a marvel of complexity and resilience. Conditions like split-brain syndrome, hemispical neglect, and cultural syndromes show us how

adaptable and mysterious our minds can be. For psychologists, every case, no matter how bizarre, is an opportunity to learn and grow. Whether it's helping someone navigate the chaos of schizophrenia or unraveling the cultural roots of a rare syndrome, the work is never easy. But in the midst of the struggle, there's always hope. The mind's quirks and challenges are a testament to its incredible capacity for both fragility and strength. And that's what makes studying it so endlessly fascinating.

Radius, if a well-executed hit was a work of art, then Zoe Horn was Pablo fucking Picasso. She could create a pseudo-accident so believable that homicide detectives would laugh out loud if anyone suggested foul play. She could frame a former lover with such conviction that their own lawyer would recommend plea deals before the defense attorney could. She could stage a suicide that would fool a coroner and leave grieving family members hurrying to start a non-profit for mental health awareness. As international assassins go, Zoe's code was rather typical, no kids under 15 and no members

of her own family. While she didn't take any pleasure in civilian casualties, there were no guarantees in this business. Sometimes this shit just involved ending innocent lives. As a freelance journalist, Zoe had the perfect cover. Her constant travel did not raise suspicion. She gained access to public figures, all but invisible to security with her press pass. She could, and had on more than one occasion, write engaging articles about the life and deeds of the same public figure she had just assassinated. Her editors were constantly pleased with the quality of such articles delivered so quickly after the tragedy, and Zoe always accepted the praise with the appropriate amount of modesty.

Zoe had a handler that rendezvoused exclusively by phone to set up her hits, and she had two loving parents that recently figured out how to FaceTime, and now used it with frustrating frequency. Zoe's extravagantly large Swiss bank account for her assassin-based earnings dwarfed the typical, lower-middle-class Bank of America account where she deposited her freelance-based earnings. She was just as comfortable playing high-stakes baccarat in a Moroccan penthouse as she was gossiping with her university friends at a baby shower in the Chicago suburbs. Having done this for nearly a decade now, she had come to enjoy her double life. She loved that the radius of one life didn't overlap with the radius in the other, like a Venn diagram that didn't quite then. There was a certain freedom to leaving Zoe Horn's average life behind for days or weeks at a time, knowing she could come home and pick up right where she left it once the job was finished. She had some help, of course. All international assassins have a network.

However, Zoe's network consisted of just one person. She only knew him as Machine Teddy, a moniker she had come up with in lieu of exchanging real names. Machine, because A, his work with tech and advanced robotics was second to none, and B, he worked tirelessly once he received a job. Teddy, because well, the guy just looked like a teddy bear, round face and tummy, brown hair, and scraggly beard. When Zoe asked him to pick a name for her, he kept it simple, calling her, Jane. She was a bit disappointed considering he chose the name after she had dubbed him Machine Teddy, but she didn't make a fuss. She should have expected a tech geek to have the creativity of a fucking lamppost.

Two weeks ago she'd received a contract calling for an accidental death. After a week researching the target, she figured out the perfect way to handle it. The solution required some nuanced tech, so she contacted Machine Teddy. He said he could make the device she requested, he just needed seven days to build and properly tested. Those seven days were now up, and Zoe trekked to a grimy, abandoned warehouse on the north side of Washington, D.C. The building was two stories and machine teddy had taken over the second floor. Ten cages, each holding a dead animal, were lined up side by side against the back wall. Zoe counted three mice, one parrot, two cats, and four

dogs. Their stench was almost physical, a pungent combination of shit, piss, and the early hints of rot. Zoe breathed through her mouth to keep from gagging, but Teddy seemed unaffected. She assumed he must be nose-dead after a week in it. Either that or he grew up in an alleyway dumpster and just enjoyed the nostalgia. You're sure it works? Zoe asked. She sat in a folding chair opposite Teddy. The remote device lay on an upside-down cardboard box between them. I'm as sure as one can be. Teddy jerked his thumb at the cages behind him. After the last round of animal testing, I increased the output power a hefty amount just in case it needs an extra push for humans. So it just shuts off the pacemaker. She asked. Teddy shook

his head. Much more than that. It turns the pacemaker against the wearer. The device hacks the electrodes and directs the generator to dash, fucking English, man. Teddy nodded apollo. The remote speeds the pacemaker up to dangerous levels and then dash, he snapped his fingers, fatal heart attack. How close will I need to get? Zoe asked. Will I need to aim it at the target? Aiming is not necessary.

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

snagged the dog by its collar and led it back to Zoe. The pitiful animal stumbled a few times, forcing Teddy to drag it the last few feet. Zoe assumed it still had some sedatives in its system. Initially, I had planned on using this one and its twin to test how well the device works in duplicate DNA pairs, he said. But his brother escaped after I implanted their pacemakers two days back. Lucky him, Zoe said. Teddy tied the dog's collar to a metal beam near Zoe then reached for the remote. He paused halfway there.

Would you like to do the honors? I would. The remote was the length and width of a credit card but as thick as three on top of each other. There were only two buttons. She glanced up at Teddy. The top button powers it on and the bottom button engages the pacemaker. It's already powered on. Zoe took 15 deliberate paces away from the beam.

She held the remote and despite not needing to, she aimed it toward the animal. The dog watched her with the depressed, guileless eyes of an unloved pet. Sorry, pal. Those sad eyes never worked on me. The family dogs I, lost, growing up can attest. to that. She looked the lab in the eyes and held the button down. Before she could finish counting to two in her head, the dog twitched. It flipped over onto its back and began seizing. The yelp that came next was wildly similar to the animalistic howls of a dying human.

Three seconds later the dog was still. Zoe walked to the animal and kneeled down, searching for breath or heartbeat with her hands. Perfect. She stood up again, grinning. The device had surpassed her expectations. Although it was taboo to speak of another assassin's hits, word of her work today would spread in certain circles. No one but Zoe could have come up with such an elegant solution to this particular contract. So, you are satisfied? Teddy asked.

Very. Zoe pocketed the remote then tossed Teddy an envelope from her back pocket. His toothy smile matched the manila of the envelope as he examined the bills. $225,000 in total, a worthwhile expense considering the payout she'd receive at day's end. Before leaving, she gave him a new burner phone for the next time she might need his services. Teddy thanked her and began dousing the dead animals in gasoline. Zoe parked her car, a cheap and previously used Mazda, near an apartment building six blocks away. As she walked along the sidewalk, she wondered whether Teddy would control the burn or let the whole warehouse catch fire.

But before expending too much thought on it, Zoe decided she honestly didn't care either way. Two blocks later, Zoe passed an alleyway and had to double take. A black lab, identical to the dog she had just killed, lay on its back against the curb. Its wide open eyes and stagnant chest waylaid the possibility that it was just having a nap. Not so lucky, after all, Zoe thought. Don't worry, buddy, your twin only lived a few days longer. Zoe heard the wails of a far-off siren when she reached her car. She turned around to check the warehouse, but it wasn't a flame.

And even if it were, she highly doubted Machine Teddy would have called the fire department. The sirens volume increased steadily as its source, an ambulance, rounded the corner. Zoe lit a cigarette and watched with the professional curiosity of a fellow tradesman in death. Two EMTs hopped out of the truck, grabbed the stretcher from the back, and hurried into the nearby apartment building. Zoe's phone buzzed, a call from her father which she promptly ignored. She felt a little guilty, considering he and his surgery were her inspiration for the device,

but not so guilty to answer his call on the day of a job. She wasn't Zoe Horn, loving daughter, today. She was Zoe the international assassin. The E.MTs reappeared carrying the body of an old woman on the stretcher between them. The look on their faces combined with the lack of hustle toward the truck told Zoe all she needed to know, the woman was as dead as the black lab in the alleyway. They loaded her into the truck and sped back toward the city. Zoe ground her cigarette into the sidewalk with her boot then climbed into the front seat of the beat-up Mazda.

Two cigarettes and 20 minutes later, she had found a parking spot on the fourth floor of the Washington Convention Center parking garage. Around the corner, a long line was forming at the entrance to the convention center. There were well-dressed politicians and business folk. There were polysci students gearing up to write their various theses. There were parents leading their children, eager to hear the front-runner for the next presidential election speak. And finally there were the thrift store-clad hippies ready to protest and boo every remark. But the line held no issue for Zoe. She was press.

A security guard saw her badge and waved her ahead. Her press pass was for a mid-tier online publication, so she was in the second row rather than the first. That put the speaker's podium about 14 feet from her. If the remote worked at the range it did in the warehouse, then she should be close enough. Then again, she highly doubted Machine Teddy did any testing. on the device around enough sound equipment for a Stone's concert. But the senator was set to take questions from the press after he spoke, so if the remote didn't work now it certainly would later. While the rest of the crowd slowly piled in,

Zoe pulled a notebook from her book bag. As the only member of the media who knew that the candidate was going to die today, Zoe pushed her advantage. She quickly outlined two versions of the story, depending on the success of the pacemaker remote's range. The first version assumed the senator died on the podium mid-speech. Zoe figured she'd try, as reverently as possible, to link it with his age and the extreme passion with which he campaigned. The second version assumed he died during press questions shortly after the speech. Zoe thought it might lead nicely into a subtle reprimanding of the intensity and overzealousness

of the media surrounding U.S. elections, one of those self-righteous, we can do better, type of articles that people seem to really get behind. The seats filled up throughout the room. By the time Zoe finished each rough outline and put her notebook away, the Senators' wife, a former member of the U.S. House of Representatives, walked on stage to introduce her husband. The crowd greeted her enthusiastically and she returned the fervor by delivering an impassioned speech about the change in Washington that her husband would usher in. And now, she finished, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce my husband, and your

28 presidential nominee, Senator Michael Wilkins. The crowd erupted, giving the senator a standing ovation. While they applauded and the senator hugged and kissed his wife, Zoe palmed the pacemaker remote. She powered it on. Senator Wilkins took the podium. He quieted the crowd and thanked them for the show of support. He thanked his wife for the introduction. Zoe waited. Senator Wilkins thanked the Washington Convention Center for putting on the event. He thanked his campaign team. He thanked his political party. Zoe waited. After a few paragraphs lifted directly from his various stump speeches, Senator Wilkins dove into the current political climate and the state of the country. He spoke about where he came from and where he grew up. He mentioned

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

The crowd hushed. The senator groaned into the microphone and grabbed the podium with both hands. The crowd murmured and whispered. The senator clutched his chest. Help. A strained voice in the back shouted. Zoe turned around and her eyes went wide. Two dozen elderly men and women were standing around the room, hands on their hearts.

One by one they toppled and began to seize. Someone in the front row gasped. Zoe turned back to the stage just in time to see the senator fall on his back. He didn't even seize. He was dead before he hit the floor. Security rushed the stage. More shouts from the back of the crowd for help. Some people hurried to the fallen.

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

Security was trying to lock down the convention center, but they couldn't handle the force of the crowd. The people finally broke through, Zoe along with them. The scene outside on the street was just as hectic. Two ambulances were already on the scene. EMTs pushed through the crowd to get into the convention center. A handful of bodies littered the street. Some were protesters. Some were office workers. Some were tourists. All were elderly. How large is the radius on that fucking device? She hurried down the sidewalk to the parking garage. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it and broke into a run. She didn't care which of her two lives the call came from, her handler, her editor, it didn't matter. She needed to get to her car. She needed

to leave the scene. Zoe skipped the garage elevator and took the stairs. She climbed two at a time until she reached the fourth floor. She sprinted to her Mazda. Once in the driver's seat, she finally let herself breathe. Her phone buzzed again and she fished it out of her pocket. It was her mother. Of course. All of that was broadcasted live. She just wants to know if I'm safe. I can put my loving daughter hat on for a few seconds. Mom, I'm fine, Zoe answered as calmly as she could. Oh, thank goodness. Are you with your father? I can't reach him. Why would I be with Dad?

He was at the event. He went to see you. CNN said people in the crowd were fainting. They think it could be a gas leak. Zoe? Are you there? Zoe? Working on the railroad might sound like an adventurous or even romantic job to some,

but for those who have spent years on the tracks, the reality can be quite different. It's a world filled with long hours, isolation, and occasionally, moments of pure, unfiltered terror, or strangeness. For my years as an engineer, conductor, track maintenance worker, and derailment recovery manager for a small freight rail service in the 1980s, I've amassed a collection of stories, some humorous, some bizarre, and some downright haunting. Here's a look into that world. Fair warning, things get graphic as we go along. The turtle marker, one of my first memories from the job is oddly lighthearted. While working on a freight line in a fairly remote area, I came across a turtle that had been cut cleanly in half on the tracks.

One half was on one side, and the other was on the opposite side. The remains had been there so long that they were mostly just shell and bones by the time I saw them. It was weirdly deliberate, as if someone had placed it there on purpose. Over time, that poor turtle became a sort of landmark for me, a familiar face, albeit a dead one, in an otherwise monotonous sea of trees and grass. Freight tracks often cut through desolate landscapes, so even something is great. as that turtle gave me a sense of familiarity. I'll admit, after a while, I started to say hello to it. Hey, buddy, I'd mutter under my breath as my train rolled by. When the turtle finally

disappeared, likely kicked away by a maintenance crew, I actually felt a pang of loss. Isn't that ridiculous? But when you spend so much time in isolated places, the little things, even a mangled turtle shell, can make a difference. The high-speed nightmares, now, things start to get darker. I've been in the cab of a high-speed passenger train, zipping along at over 240 kilometers per hour, about 150 miles per hour. During the day, you have decent visibility, assuming the weather isn't terrible. If you hit something, at least you can see it coming. You might report back, just hit what looked like a washing machine, now sitting about 200 meters east of the tracks. Nighttime, however, is an entirely different story. The locomotive's headlight is powerful, sure, but at

those speeds, it only gives you a fraction of a second to react to whatever dark shape is in your path. When you're going that fast, it's not uncommon to hit objects, some benign, some not, without any real chance to avoid them. Insects are a constant nuisance at night, smacking into the windshield like tiny bullets. By the end of a shift, the glass looks like a war zone, with every square inch splattered. We used gallons of windshield washer fluid just to keep some semblance of visibility. Machinery on the tracks was always unnerving because you worried about the potential for damage to your wheels or communication systems. But animals? That's where things got truly messy. Small birds would leave little red smears on the windshield. Larger birds,

like geese, made a louder thunk, and sometimes you'd see enough of the aftermath to identify the species. Deer collisions were common but mostly unseen by passengers, as the impact stayed low, near the wheels. Cows, however, were another story entirely. Their mass made for a wet, sloppy collision, leaving an ugly mess across the front of the locomotive. But nothing compared to hitting a human. The ghosts that linger, I don't know why, but women often chose to end their lives by standing on the tracks in white dresses. They'd stand there, arms outstretched, gazing upwards as the train barreled toward them. You'd see it coming, slam the emergency break, and pray you'd stop in time. But at a little bit of a while. But at a little bit of the,

At those speeds, even with all the breaking power in the world, you'd be lucky to slow down much before the impact. The train would finally screech to a halt a couple of kilometers down the line. Then came the grim task of reporting the incident and inspecting the locomotive. Sometimes identifiable remains were still attached to the front. Those images stay with you. It's not just the physical mess that lingers, it's the weight of what you've seen. I remember a young woman in her twenties who'd chosen a particularly busy stretch of track.

She stood there, looking almost serene, as if she'd made peace with her decision. When we finally stopped and I climbed down to inspect the locomotive, I found one of her shoes lodged under the pilot, the metal plow at the front of the train. Something about that single, intact shoe broke me in a way the rest of the scene didn't. The sanitation truck incident, one of the more bizarre incidents I witnessed involved another train hitting a small sanitation truck, essentially a mobile porta-potty. It was carrying a tank full of human waste, and when the train struck it, the contents sprayed everywhere.

I was fortunate to be observing from a safe distance and quickly drove away, but I'll never forget the visual or the idea of that smell. The man in the tracks, one of the most chilling stories comes from a friend who worked with me. He was following a train through a block when he saw what appeared to be a pile of trash on the tracks. This wasn't uncommon, wind or passing trains often scattered debris. But as the train approached, that trash moved. It turned over and looked at the train with human eyes. The train was moving slowly enough to stop after just the lead locomotive passed over the figure.

My friend went to investigate and found a man who'd been struck by a previous train. The guy had gone out celebrating his 21st birthday, gotten drunk, and tried to climb onto a moving train. He fell, losing several limbs in the process. Miraculously, he was still alive, though in critical condition. The sight of what they initially thought was, garbage, turning into a mutilated human haunted my friend for years. The Tunnel of Terror, now for one of my personal stories. I just binge-watched two seasons of the Walking Dead, which is unusual for me since I'm not big on horror. That same night, I was called to work an overnight shift on a slow train headed into the mountains.

Around 3 a.m., my train stopped unexpectedly on a steep grade that ran through a series of tunnels. I had to walk the length of the train to inspect everything. As I trudged along the tracks, I came across animal tracks crossing the snow. One was unmistakably from a large cat. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, but I pressed on. When I reached the first tunnel, I switched from walking on snow to gravel. About halfway through, I heard something, gravel shifting behind me. I turned off my flashlight and headlamp, pulling out my knife.

Then I heard it, a low, rhythmic moaning coming from the far end of the tunnel. I spent five minutes questioning my sanity, wondering if I was in a nightmare. if someone was pranking me, or if I was truly about to die. Gathering my courage, I turned my flashlight back on and headed toward the sound. The source. A tank car releasing steam due to pressure buildup. The rhythmic noise came from liquid sloshing inside. Relieved but still jittery, I completed my inspection and returned to the cab.

To this day, I laugh at how close I came to going full mad max in that tunnel. Secondhand tales, some stories aren't mine but were shared by colleagues. One old-timer I knew, who later opened a barbecue restaurant, told me about hitting a car at a rural crossing back in the 1970s. A mother was driving, and her young son was in the passenger seat. The boy locked eyes with the engineer right before the collision. Neither survived, and the memory gave the old man nightmares until his death. Another story involved a young couple at a train station.

The woman, who was supposed to board the train, stayed outside kissing her boyfriend even as the train began to leave. Realizing too late that she wasn't on board, she decided to jump onto one of the external ladders. She clung to it for miles, her hands gripping so tightly they had to be pried off when the train finally stopped. Miraculously, she survived, but the shock left her in a near catatonic state. Then there was the time my father, who worked as a yard master, found a family living inside an abandoned boxcar. Policy dictated that he report them, which would have led to their arrest and eviction. Instead, he warned them to move on before someone less sympathetic found them. It was one of many small acts of kindness he performed

during his career. Modern freight hopping. In my younger days, I spent some time hopping freight trains for fun, traveling across the U.S. and Canada. I've seen my share of oddities during those adventures. Once, I adopted an orphaned baby a possum after finding it next to its dead mother by the tracks. Another time, I saw a man climb into our boxcar outside Las Vegas, only to find out later that he torched a car and was fleeing the scene. We kicked him out at the next rail yard. A friend of mine lost her leg in a train hopping accident in Kansas City. She's one of the lucky ones, many don't survive such incidents. Train tracks are littered with the remains of animals and, occasionally, people. It's a harsh, unforgiving environment, and you learn to stay alert

at all times. Closing thoughts, working on the railroad is not for the faint of heart. It's a job that exposes you to the best and worst of humanity, the raw power of machinery, and the unforgiving nature of the wilderness. For all the eerie, tragic, and downright disgusting moments, there's a strange allure to it, the solitude, the camaraderie, and the sense of purpose that comes with keeping the trains running. But it's not a life I'd recommend lightly. It leaves a mark on you, in more ways than one. All right, let's dive into this massive collection of experiences from working around trains. These stories are wild, strange, and sometimes downright creepy. So, grab a seat, and let's unpack them in full detail. Back in

the day, there was this guy who worked as a tourist railway engineer. He got paid in either Canadian or U.S. dollars depending on which currency had the least value at the time. Pretty shady deal, right? Anyway, one time while he was driving a steam locomotive, a car darted onto the tracks right in front of him. It was so close that he had to stand between the locomotive's coupler and the front beam, leaning on the whistle cord non-stop. And then there were those mysterious green flashes of light they saw at night. Like lightning, but stranger. Only he and his conductor witnessed them, no one else ever did.

Oh, and there was this local guy from the town who confessed to sneaking into the steam locomotive during the off-season and firing shotgun rounds into the boiler area. His reasoning. He hated the pollution the train caused. Lucky for him, none of the ricochets ended up taking him out. it. That wasn't even the weirdest encounter, they also once interrupted a group of teens hanging out by the tracks. Let's just say one of the guys was getting attention from a girl in ways I probably don't need to explain. Most of his experiences involved cleaning debris

off the tracks or witnessing cars doing dumb things around trains. Occasionally, he'd catch glimpses of private, intimate moments through house windows near the tracks. Trains apparently have a front row seat to human drama. Another railway worker shared an unforgettable moment moment at the yard. He thought he saw a black trash bag inside an intermodal container. Since trash could block proper shipping container alignment, he went to grab it. Turns out, it wasn't trash. It was a dead vulture. The second he lifted it, feathers went flying everywhere, and he screamed while bolting down the tracks. His co-workers were in stitches, but they made him clean it up anyway since it was his side of the train. The best tale he had, though, happened

during a night shift. A train rolled in and parked, and a few hours later, a scruffy, disoriented man showed up wandering around. He'd apparently been riding the rails. Official railway policy was to call the cops to arrest trespassers, but the unspoken rule. Just escort them out if they seemed harmless. So, he asked the guy if he needed help finding the exit. The man said yes, but before leaving, he turned around and asked, where am I, anyway? When told he was still in Baltimore, the man looked baffled. He'd apparently boarded the train at another Baltimore yard, fallen asleep, and woken up at this one, just eight kilometers away but six hours later. Poor dude thought he'd escaped the city, only to find out

he hadn't gone anywhere. One substance abuse counselor shared his experience working with train engineers and conductors sent to rehab. Most were union workers forced into 90-day programs after failing random drug tests. About 90% of them had deep addiction problems, usually from the isolation and loneliness of their schedules. Their routines kept them away from their families for days, one day driving a train with over 100 cars, nights in motels, and then another long train ride back. On top of that, nearly every single one had haunting memories of hitting and killing someone

with their train. It wasn't always someone suicidal, either. Some were drunk and passed out on the tracks, others were trying to beat the train and failed, and some just wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. These guys all shared one devastating truth, trains simply can't stop fast enough to avoid a collision. The trauma stuck with them, and many turned to alcohol or drugs to cope. Session after session, they recount these moments, unable to escape the flashbacks of people frozen in fear or recklessness right before impact.

Another engineer, who worked passenger trains, said he didn't witness as much as his cargo counterparts. But he'd still seen enough. Suicides, accidents, and bizarre encounters were par for the course. The scariest thing for him, though. Driving at over 70 miles per hour into dense fog. Visibility would drop to almost nothing, and all he could do was trust the signals and equipment. He'd back away from the train's front in those moments, overwhelmed by the dread of speeding into the unknown. Then there was the freight train conductor who once hit a woman walking between two main tracks at 5 a.m. What made it truly unsettling was that he thought they'd hit two people. He'd seen a heavyset white woman in her 40s leaning toward the

train, but when they went to check, they found a thin Latina woman in her 20s instead. Both he and the brakemen swore they'd seen the same older woman before the collision. To this day, they're convinced some sort of malicious entity possessed her. The twisted, pained face he saw still haunts his nightmares. Another bizarre tale comes from a maintenance worker in Staten who saw a freight locomotive arrive with its front end smeared in red, like some horrific zombie apocalypse scene. His stomach turned as he and his co-worker wondered if it had plowed through livestock or, worse.

Turns out, it wasn't what it seemed. The train had collided with a stranded fiberglass trailer filled with tomatoes headed to a processing plant. The cleanup was disgusting but far less terrifying than what they'd imagined. One electric traction crew worker had an unforgettable night investigating cable theft along a remote stretch of the Harrisburg line. When they arrived, they found severed cables and what they assumed was the electrocuted thief lying lifeless on the ground. They called the cops, who began documenting the scene. But when the flash from a police camera went off, the dead man sprang up,

let out a blood-curdling scream, and bolted into the night. One of the officers chased him with a baton while the rest of the crew stood frozen, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Another night, during a snowstorm, a worker stationed in a special rail vehicle locked himself inside to nap. He secured the doors from the inside with padlocks so no one could get in. Hours later, he woke up, checked the locks, and found them outside the vehicle instead of inside where he'd left them. He couldn't figure out how it had happened, but the eerie realization that someone or something had tampered with them left him rattled. One conductor's uncle's best friend shared a creepy yet oddly funny story. While driving through northern Florida,

his train hit a deer. He assumed the deer had been obliterated and moved on. Later, as the train slowed to take a curve in the next town, he noticed something on the locomotive side. The deer, somehow alive, had landed on a set of external steps and stayed there for miles before eventually hopping off, presumably to continue its bewildering journey. Here's a spine-tingling winter tail from a freight train conductor. His train made an emergency stop in the middle of a tiny town. While inspecting the issue, he passed a house on the outskirts where a man stood in the doorway,

only a long coat and beanie despite the brutal cold. The conductor greeted him with a wave and a hello, but the man didn't move or respond. On his way back, the man was still there, in the exact same spot and position. The next day, passing by the same house during daylight, the conductor saw no sign of life. The entryway wasn't cleared of snow, and there were no tracks. He's passed that house dozens of times since and has never seen any lights, cars, or movement there. Creepy doesn't even begin to cover it. A janitor once got called to clean out disused train engines set to be scrapped.

These trains hadn't been touched since the mid-90s, and he was warned he might find homeless people squatting inside. When he arrived, he found an old diesel engine surprisingly clean inside. But then he spotted a skeleton propped against the wall, wearing a leather jacket and clutching a pill bottle. The prescription date. 1996, the man had been missing since 1997, a widower who had apparently chosen to end his life in the abandoned train. No one had found him for decades. When the janitor attended his burial,

he was the only one there. Everyone who cared about the man was long gone. So, there you have it, a massive collection of wild, tragic, and eerie stories from the world of trains. Whether it's bizarre accidents, ghostly encounters, or simply the strange side of human nature, life on the rails is anything but ordinary. Hopefully, this trip down the tracks gave you chills, laughs, and maybe a bit of perspective on just how unpredictable life can be. Luciana's secret and the tale of Ralph Sarchie, Luciana had a secret.

She didn't tell her parents about the marks on her belly, etched like scars with numbers and letters. Nor did her brother Dominic Jr. share his fear of the monster lurking under his bed. Each family member had their demons, both figurative and literal. It was a storm of secrets brewing under one roof, bound by the chilling presence that haunted their home. But let's start from the beginning. It was July 2nd, 2014, when Deliver Us from Evil hit the big screen. Directed by Scott Derrickson, the movie told the story of Ralph Sarci, a New York cop who battled more than just petty criminals during his nightly patrols. This guy came face-to-face

with the forces of evil, possessions, poltergeists, and even demons. The kicker. The movie claimed to based on real events. Derrickson had stumbled across a peculiar book title Beware the Night, an autobiography of Sarchie himself. The Tales Within fascinated him so much that he tracked Ralph down, and the two spent a night patrolling the Bronx together. Whatever happened during those hours convinced Derrickson to turn Sarchie's chilling encounters into a movie. But who exactly is Ralph Sarchie, and what made his story so captivating? Hashtag hashtag a cop turned demonologist. Ralph Sarchie grew up in a Roman Catholic household, but as a kid, the church didn't hold much appeal for him. He found sermons boring, and religion felt like a chore. As he got older,

his skepticism only grew. For him, God was a concept, not a force he felt in his life. Sarci's real passion was law enforcement. He joined the NYPD, eventually rising to the rank of Sargent. For 18 years, he patrolled the South Bronx, dealing with the kind of violence and chaos most people only see in crime dramas. With over 300 arrests under his belt, Ralph became a respected figure among his peers. But his reputation took a bizarre turn when he started receiving calls not just about crimes but about hauntings. At first, he chalked these claims up to superstition. Strange noises. Probably creaky floors. Cold drafts. Just bad insulation. But then, he started seeing things, things that defied logic. These experiences

re-ignited his faith and pushed him into the world of demonology. Soon, Sarchi wasn't just carrying a badge and a gun on his patrols. His car was stocked with holy water, wooden crosses, salt, incense, and even a relic of the Holy Cross. He transformed into an unlikely exorcist. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the haunted family. One of Sarchi's earliest cases came from a seemingly ordinary family. They lived in a modest home but were terrorized every night at exactly 3 a.m. strange scratches echoed from the ceiling, and heavy footsteps paced through empty hallways.

Ralph's investigation revealed that the previous tenant had fled the home in fear. The man refused to even step inside, collecting his mail from the curb and avoiding the windows. After digging deeper, Sarchie concluded that the house was cursed. The malicious spirit of a former tenant had turned the place into a playground for demonic entities. Armed with holy water and prayers, Sarchi cleansed the house, room by room, reciting the minor exorcism prayer of Pope Leo the 13. The family finally found peace, for a while. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the cursed painting. Another peculiar case involved a teacher who had purchased a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe at a local market.

From the moment the artwork entered his home, strange things began to happen. The temperature would plummet, shadows moved in the corners, and objects vanished without explanation. Sarchie and his partner Joe Forrester arrived to investigate. While Ralph searched the house, Joe studied the painting. Something about it felt off. It was missing the angel that traditionally appeared at the Virgin's feet. Joe realized the painter had intentionally altered the image, stripping it of its protective symbolism.

By desecrating the holy image, the artist had turned it into a vessel for malevolent forces. As Sarchi recited prayers, the oppressive atmosphere lifted, and the painting was freed from its dark influence. Hashtag hashtag the Villanova case, then came the infamous Villanova family. They lived in Westchester, New York, in a house besieged by supernatural chaos. Dominic, the father, and Gabby, the mother, along with their two children, Luciana and Dominic Jr., were at their wits' end. When Sarchie and Forrester arrived, the house was in disarray.

Mattresses were piled in the living room because the family could no longer sleep apart without being tormented. They described being plagued by unseen forces, objects flying through the air, unexplainable noises, and a chilling presence that loomed over their every move. Gabby confessed she'd made an unlikely friend, in the basement, a woman named Virginia Taylor, who appeared to her in the reflection of an old mirror. Over time, Gabby grew attached to this spectral figure, unaware that Virginia was no ghost but a demon manipulating her emotions. Ralph ventured into the basement, equipped with holy relics.

He felt an overwhelming sense of dread near a locked storage room. As he approached, a searing headache and nausea gripped him. Mustering his courage, he doused the area with holy water and retreat. treated upstairs. Meanwhile, Gabby revealed to Forrester that Virginia had warned her, harm will come from below. Beware the night. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the final confrontation, realizing the Villanova home was heavily infested, Sarchie performed an emergency exorcism. As he prayed, guttural growls and unearthly shrieks erupted from the walls. The family watched in terror as Gabby began to convulse, her face contorting unnaturally.

It became clear that the demon, Virginia Taylor, was attempting to possess her completely. Sarchi directed his prayers toward Gabby, fighting to expel the entity. After hours of spiritual warfare, they succeeded in freeing her. But the relief was short-lived. Months later, the family called Sarchi again. The hauntings had returned, fiercer than before. This time, Ralph brought a full team to cleanse the house. They left no corner untouched, filling the home with blessed incense and reciting prayers. Finally, the oppressive atmosphere lifted, and the Villanova family could breathe again. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the legacy of Ralph Sarchi.

These are just a handful of the cases that defined Ralph Sarchie's career. From cursed objects to full-blown possessions, he encountered evil informs most of us can't even imagine. His experiences transformed him from a hardened skeptic into a devout believer. Whether you view his stories as proof of the supernatural or the workings of an overactive imagination, one thing is certain, Ralph Sarchie's tales continue to captivate and terrify audiences around the world. So the next time you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, remember, it might not just be the wind. I gripped the steering will tightly, the hum of the

engine filling the silence of the car as I drove down the quiet street. The sky outside was darkening, a faint amber glow lingering on the horizon from the last hints of daylight. In the back seat, Eli's voice cut through the calm, filled with enthusiasm. Dad, are we almost there? I glanced in the rearview mirror and met his eager blue eyes. He was bouncing in his seat, his small hands clutching the seatbelt like it was his only lifeline. Almost, buddy, I said, my voice steady but carrying the weight of a quiet fatigue. It had been a long week, and my mind had been consumed with work. But this, this was for Eli. The toy. Randy the doll. Eli had seen the commercial just two days ago,

and since then, he'd hardly talked about anything else. The way he described it, the doll seemed like the answer to all his childhood wishes, eyes that blinked, a voice that spoke to you, the kind of toy that made you feel like it was alive. I wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea. I had my doubts, of course, who wouldn't, after seeing those ridiculous commercials? But when Eli begged, his bright eyes full of hope, it became impossible to resist. I'll take care of it, Dad. I promise, Eli had whispered earlier, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he already

knew this toy was something special. The glow of the toy store's neon sign appeared on the horizon as we neared the corner. It was an old, familiar place, one that had been around for as long as I could remember. The shells inside were always packed with the latest trends, the next big thing, and some oddities that made me feel like I had stepped into another world. I slowed the car and turned into the parking lot, the tires crunching over the gravel. The store's lights spilled out onto the pavement, casting a warm, inviting glow. It all seemed so normal, just another stop in our evening routine. Eli scrambled out of the car before I'd even come to a full stop. His excitement was

infectious. Let's go, Dad. Let's go get Randy. I chuckled, shaking my head. All right, all right. Keep your shoes on, kiddo. We made our way toward the entrance, Eli already running ahead, his little feet pounding the pavement. I followed at a slower pace, my steps measured, but my mind clouded. I felt tired, but it didn't matter. Tonight, Eli would be happy.

That's what mattered. The bell above the door jingled as we entered the store, and the scent of new plastic and hardboard hit us. The toy aisle stretched out ahead, shelves stacked high with dolls, action figures, and games. At the very end, under a brightly lit display, sat Randy. I couldn't take my eyes off the doll. It looked almost too perfect, too pristine, sitting there like a little sentinel. Eli was already moving toward it, his face lighting up as he saw the toy in person for the first time. There he is, Dad. Randy.

He's real. Eli's voice trembled with excitement as he reached for the box, pulling it off the shelf. I smiled, watching the joy flood his face. It was a simple thing, a toy, but to Eli, it was everything. And that was enough for me. All right, let's get him, I said, stepping forward to grab the toy from Eli's hands, his eyes wide and eager. Everything was fine. Perfectly fine.

But something about the doll, there was just something a little off. Randy the doll stood out on the shelf, its features perfectly crafted but oddly unsettling in their perfection. Its small, chubby face was framed by wild, unkempt red hair that stuck out in all directions, as if it had been brushed once and left to grow with a mind of its own. The doll's eyes were a glossy, lifelike shade of blue, so clear they almost seemed to to follow you around the room. Its porcelain cheeks were soft, but there was a faint, unnatural flush to them, like someone

had overdone the blush. Randy wore faded overalls, but unlike the worn-in look they should have had, these were bright, almost unnaturally so, as if they had never seen a day of dirt or wear. The fabric was stiff, the strapped sitting squarely on the doll's tiny shoulders, each button fastened perfectly. Underneath was a blue and yellow striped shirt, the colors sharp against its pale skin. The stripes looked too perfect, the lines too straight, as if they were machine-made. The sleeves were too long, the fabric bunching awkwardly at the wrists.

On its feet were tiny sneakers, their white soles gleaming under the store lights. The laces tied neatly with a bow. They looked like they should have been dirtier, from the imagined adventures Randy would go on. but they were pristine. Everything about the doll's outfit screamed, playful, at first glance, but there was something strange about how perfect it was, like a display in a store window, carefully arranged to look casual, but never truly lived in. It felt like Randy wasn't meant to be played with, but simply observed. It sat there, still, strangely inviting, as if it was waiting for someone to notice it. Eli's fingers trembled with excitement as he reached for the doll,

his small hands brushing against the smooth plastic surface. He grasped Randy and lifted it off the shelf, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. Without thinking, Eli pressed the small, circular button on Randy's chest, just like the commercial had shown. The doll's eyes glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights, and then it came to life. A soft, mechanical voice crackled from its mouth, too cheerful, too smooth. Hi. I'm Randy. Let's play a game. Eli jumped back, startled by the sudden movement. Randy's mouth shifted to form the words, but it felt off. There was a delay before it spoke, as if the doll wasn't quite sure how to sound human. The voice was too chipper, almost rehearsed.

But Eli didn't notice any of that. His face lit up with pure joy, and he laughed, hugging the doll tighter. The chill running up my spine went unnoticed by him. Dad. It talks. It really talks. Eli's voice was filled with excitement. He pressed the button again, eager for more.

Hi. I'm Randy. Let's play a game, the doll repeated, its tone unchanged, unblinking. I stood there for a moment, watching the scene unfold. A shiver traveled down my back, but I couldn't place why. It was just a toy, right? A doll that talked. Nothing more.

But Eli's happiness was contagious, and for a moment, I pushed the unease aside. All right, buddy, I said, forcing a smile as I placed a hand on Eli's shoulder. Let's get Randy home. We've got a game to play, Eli nodded eagerly, holding Randy high above his head. The doll fell silent, mouth frozen in its perfect grin. We walked to the counter, the soft click of Randy's box against Eli's hands echoing in the stillness of the store. The cashier scanned it without a word, her eyes tired, her smile faint and distant. I paid in cash, fingers brushing against the crinkled bills.

The exchange was routine, and the woman handed me the change. Thanks, she mumbled, barely looking up. I nodded, my mind already drifting back to Eli. His face was a picture of joy, eyes wide with wonder, the doll clutched tightly in his hands. Outside, the cool air greeted us, the evening settling in around us. Eli was already in the backseat before I'd even closed the car door. The toy, still in its box, sat silently in his lap. I started the car, the engines hum filling the space.

Eli's excitement was palpable, but I couldn't shake the knot in my stomach, the unease that refused to fade. Are we almost home, Dad? Eli asked from the back seat, his voice eager. Yeah, just a few more minutes, I replied, glancing in the rearview mirror. Eli was holding Randy so tightly, the doll almost looked like an extension of him. When we pulled into the driveway, Eli was out of the car before I'd even turned off the engine. He was practically bouncing with excitement. I grabbed the keys from the ignition and followed him inside, carrying only the single, Unremarkable Toy.

At the door, Eli struggled to unlock it, his tiny hands fumbling with the keys. Once inside, he darted down the hall, nearly running into the walls in his haste. Come on, Dad. I got a play with Randy, I didn't respond right away. I stood for a moment, watching Eli did. disappeared down the hall, my heart heavy with a feeling I couldn't explain. But it was fleeting, replaced by the sound of Eli's laughter echoing from his room. The excitement in his voice was contagious. He was happy, and that was all that mattered, right? I shook off the unease,

slowly making my way down the hall. Everything would be fine. It was just a doll. I was greeted by my wife as I walked through the door, her tired eyes searching my face as she asked, did he get the toy yet? The one he's been asking for. Yeah, I replied, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice. I got it for him. Her smile was soft but still tired, the kind of smile you give after a long day. Good. He'll be thrilled. I nodded, but there was a weight in the air that I couldn't quite explain. It wasn't anything specific, just a strange feeling, a lingering tension that I couldn't shake. That night, after we got Eli settled and in bed, I went through my usual routine. I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth, and trying to unwind. I felt the exhaustion of

the day creeping up on me as I lay in the quiet dark, the hum of the night air conditioning filling the room. But then, just as I was about to drift off, I heard something. A soft noise coming from the kitchen. My heart skipped a beat, and I blinked at the dark ceiling, listening closely. I strained my ears, unsure if it was just my mind playing tricks. But there it was again, an unmistakable sound, like something had fallen or shifted. I reached over and glanced at the clock on the dresser beside the bed. The glowing numbers blinked back at me, 12.36 a.m. It felt wrong, so late, so

still. And yet, something about it made me feel like I had to check. I slipped out of bed quietly, trying not to disturb my wife, who was already deep in sleep. The floorboards creaked under my weight as I made my way through the darkened hallway. The kitchen was pitch black except for the faint glow from the streetlights filtering in through the window. Then, my eyes landed on something that made my stomach turn. on the counter, sat Randy the doll. But that wasn't what made my blood run cold. It was the knife

beside him. A large kitchen knife, its silver blade catching the faint light from outside, looking so out of place next to the doll. For a moment, I just stood there, my feet frozen to the floor. The doll's eyes stared back at me, lifeless but somehow unsettling. The silence felt suffocating, as if the air itself was holding its breath. I blinked and took a shaky step forward. Had Eli gotten up and put that knife next to Randy? Or maybe I had, without realizing. Or, had my wife? The questions swirled in my mind, but none of the answers made sense. I stepped closer, slowly, my hand hovering over the knife. My heart pounded in my chest. I grabbed the knife, trying to steady my shaking hand, and placed it back on the counter, away from the doll.

But something inside me still felt, wrong. I couldn't leave it there, not like that. I picked Randy up from the counter, feeling the cold weight of it in my hands, its small form still so perfect, so unnaturally pristine. The kind of toy that shouldn't feel so wrong in the dark. I didn't know why I did it, but I walked into Eli's room, still holding the doll. His soft breathing filled the quiet as I gently placed Randy next to him, sitting him up beside his son. Everything's fine, I whispered to myself, but the words felt hollow. I stood there for a moment longer, just staring at the two of them.

Eli, peaceful in his sleep, and the doll, lifeless as always but somehow now a little more, sinister. I shook my head, trying to shake the unease off. I needed sleep. I needed sleep. Everything would be fine. It was just a doll. But as I turned to leave, the feeling in my gut told me something wasn't quite right. And I couldn't escape the sensation that something, someone, was watching me from the darkness. As I turned to leave Eli's room, my footsteps slow and deliberate, I heard it, bang. The door slammed shut behind me with a force that made my heart leap into my throat.

I froze, every muscle tensed in panic. My breath caught in my chest, the sound of the door slamming echoing in the empty house. Jesus Christ, I muttered under my breath, my body stiff with sudden fear. My mind raced, and I turned back to the door with shaking hands. What the hell had just happened? I reached for the handle, my pulse pounding in my ears, and slowly, carefully, I opened it. I expected to find Eli standing there, his little face lit up with some mischievous grin. But the room was as silent as a tomb.

No one. The bed was still, the blanket untouched. The doll sat next to Eli, just as I'd left it. But the door, how had it slammed shut like that? I stepped inside, my mind struggling to piece things together. Was Eli awake? Had he gotten up and slammed the door in his side? sleep. But there was no sign of him stirring, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Just the dark shadows in the room and the strange, unsettling feeling creeping back into my

bones. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty room. What the hell was going on? I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but, the doll, the knife, the door slamming shut by itself, it all felt like too much of a coincidence. I stepped back out of the room, my hand still gripping the door handle as I tried to process what it just happened. My mind kept circling back to the same question, what's happening to us? But no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, a cold, creeping dread began to settle deep inside me. Something was watching, something was waiting. I just didn't know what it was yet.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft rays across the room. I woke up to an empty bed, as usual. My wife, Mary, had always been an early riser, but today, something felt off. The silence in the house was deafening. No soft sound of her humming or the faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. I rubbed my eyes, stretching out of bed, and glanced around. I didn't hear anything coming from Eli's room either, which was strange.

Usually, he was up before the sun, but this morning, everything was unervingly still. I pulled on my slippers and walked down the hallway. The smell of pancakes and sizzling eggs hit me first. I breathed it in, the familiar, comforting aroma of breakfast. It was like nothing had changed. mary was at the stove flipping pancakes with that careful precision she always had the eggs scrambled soft with just the right amount of seasoning were almost ready but it wasn't just the food that caught my attention sitting at the kitchen table was eli his small frame hunched over the table and next to him sitting upright in a chair was the doll randy its expression as still and lifeless as before but somehow this time, it looked different.

It didn't seem out of place at all. It was just another part of the family now, like it had always belonged there. I stared at the doll for a moment longer than I should have. It felt wrong. Why was it sitting at the table? Why did it feel like a part of our morning routine now? Good morning, honey, I said, walking up to Mary and kissing her on the cheek. She smiled at me, her eyes bright, like she hadn't just.

spin in the kitchen for hours, but only a moment. Good morning, love, she replied, her voice warm as always. But there was something about her smile, something that seemed a little too, forced. Eli's voice broke my thoughts. Daddy, Randy's hungry. Is the food ready yet, he asked, his innocent face so earnest as he looked at me. He didn't seem to notice how strange it was to have that damn doll at the table with us. I glanced back at my wife, who was now putting a plate of pancakes down in front of Eli. Her eyes flicked from the doll to me, and I couldn't help the confused, uneasy feeling creeping up my spine. Mary, are you really going to make this doll food? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though I couldn't help the strange edge to my words.

She didn't respond right away, just continued to place the pancakes on the table. There was a a pause, and she looked at me, her expression unreadable for a brief moment. It's just a doll, John, she said, her tone soft but laced with something I couldn't place. It's just, pretend. But I wasn't convinced. This was more than pretend. Something was wrong, and no matter how much I tried to push it away, I could feel it, deep in my gut, like I was being drawn into something darker than I could understand. As I sat down, I could. As I sat down, I kept my eyes on Randy, feeling a chill settle over me. Something about this breakfast, this normal morning routine, felt anything but normal.

The sound of silverware clinking against plates filled the kitchen as we sat down together. Mary placed the final stack of pancakes on the table, the steam rising off them, and Eli eagerly reached for his syrup. The doll, Randy, sat as if it were just another member of the family, its glassy eyes staring at the scene before it. The morning felt oddly routine, but beneath the surface, something was off. Eli took a bite of his pancakes, chewing thoughtfully before breaking the silence in his usual innocent way. His voice was soft, but what he said froze me in my seat. Daddy, Randy said that when you made him leave the kitchen, he was mad at you, Eli began, his tone so casual, so childlike. He called you. He called you. He called

you a bitch and said that he would kill you if you do that again. I blinked, unable to fully process what I had just heard. Mary's face shifted, and she glanced at me, just a quick look, but it was enough for me to know we were both equally confused. I turned back to Eli, my heart racing. Eli, I said, my voice firm, but trying not to sound too harsh. You don't say those types of words in this house, ever. Not inside, not outside. nowhere. That is a bad word. The weight of my words seemed to settle in the room, and Eli looked down at his plate, his small hands folding in his lap. He mumbled a quiet, almost apologetic, sorry, Daddy. I won't do it again. I stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what just

happened. He spoke so innocently, without even the slightest hint of understanding the gravity of what he'd said. But that didn't make it any less disturbing. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The air around us felt thick, tense. As I glanced at Mary again, her face was pale, a mix of confusion in something else I couldn't quite place. But her lips tightened in a thin line, and she avoided my gaze, focusing on Eli as if trying to keep some semblance of normalcy. Still, my mind kept coming back to those words, Randy said he'd kill me. A doll, an inanimate object, supposedly said this. I shook my head, trying to clear the absurdity from my thoughts, but it lingered, thick and

oppressive. I couldn't shake the feeling that something deeper was happening, something that neither Mary nor I were prepared to face. But at that moment, the noise of silverware scraping against the plate pulled me back into the present. Eli was eating again, as if nothing had happened. And Randy sat beside him, its unblinking eyes staring at me, as if waiting for something. But what?

I grabbed my bag, slammed the car door shut, and quickly made my way inside. The house was eerily quiet. I hesitated at the front door, a chill running down my spine. The silence felt suffocating, unnatural, like something was waiting in the shadows. As I stepped inside, I glanced around. No Mary. No Eli. But then I froze.

The doll. Randy. It was sitting on the living room couch, its little body propped up against the cushions, watching the news. The TV was on, the sound low, but it didn't matter, the sight of the doll sitting there, motionless, its glassy eyes locked onto the screen, sent a jolt of unease through me. My stomach twisted. I stood there for a moment, caught in a strange, surreal stare-off with the doll. How was it even possible? My heart began to race as I took a hesitant step toward the living room, the quiet of the house pressing in around me.

The doll didn't move, but I could have sworn that its eyes flicked toward me for just a second, before returning to the TV. I shook my head, dismissing the thought. But even as I moved closer, the feeling of being watched didn't fade. It felt like Randy knew something I didn't. Something was wrong. I glanced at the TV. A news anchor was talking about some mundane local story, but all I could focus on was the doll sitting there, like a person, as if it were part of the family.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of the absurdity of the situation. This wasn't normal. I turned back to the kitchen, my thought spinning, and that's when I noticed the knife was gone. The counter was clean, nothing out of place, but the missing knife only deepened my sense of dread. Had I put it away? Had Mary? Or had Randy moved it? My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. The house felt wrong, too still, too empty, and somehow too aware of my every move. As I passed the living room again, I couldn't shake the feeling that the doll was no longer just a doll. It had become something else. Something that had a will,

and it was watching me. The news anchor's voice cut through the silence, and I froze in place, my heart pounding in my chest. The story that filled the screen was completely unexpected, something I never thought I'd hear, especially not now, in this house. A strange doll that has reportedly moved on its own at night, exhibiting violent behavior. A family of five claims the doll tried to kill them during the night, and they narrowly escaped with their lives. Authorities were called, but before they could arrive, the doll was returned to the store by one of the family members who complained.

However, that individual was sent to a nearby mental institution for further evaluation. No criminal charges have been filed, but the family's bizarre story has left the community shaken. This incident occurred just two days ago, and authorities are still investigating the possibility of psychological or supernatural involvement. I stood there, frozen, as the news report continued to play in front of me. My breath caught in my throat. My mind raced, trying to process the words, the chilling implications. Was this really happening? Was this the doll? Could Randy really be connected to this? I couldn't tell if it was the same doll or if my mind was just playing tricks on me.

I felt my legs go weak, as if the floor was sinking beneath me. My eyes darted from the screen to Randy, who was still sitting on the couch, unblinking, like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Was this some sort of sick joke? Was this the doll from the news? Or was I losing my mind, just like the person who had been sent to the mental institution? I wiped my face with my hands, trying to steady myself, but the words on the screen kept repeating in my head. A strange doll, violent behavior.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something far darker than I could understand was going on, and it was staring right at me from the couch. I wanted to reach out, to shake the doll, to demand answers. But I didn't move. My mind was spinning, struggling to make sense of this nightmare. Was I imagining things, or was something truly wrong with Randy? Something that no one could explain. The room was plunged into darkness as suddenly the lights and the power cut out,

leaving me standing there in complete silence. My breath caught in my throat as I fumbled around for my phone, trying to light my way. But then, I saw it. In the pitch black, I could make out the faintest outline of glowing red eyes, staring at the TV. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The doll, Randy, was no longer sitting innocently. Its eyes, now glowing a sinister red, slowly turned toward me. I could feel an icy chill crawl up my spine as its gaze locked onto mine,

the air growing thick with an unsettling tension. And then, in the stillness of the dark, it spoke. Hi. I am Randy. Wanna play? A wave of terror crashed over me, and I didn't even think. I bolted for the door, my hands shaking as I twisted the handle and burst outside. My breath came in ragged gasps as I sprinted to my car.

I fumbled with the keys, desperate to start the engine, my mind still reeling from what I had just seen. My hands were trembling as I punched in my wife's number, texting her urgently. The power went out, and the doll started moving. I didn't expect much, but the reply came almost immediately. You're just imagining things. Calm down. I read her message and shook my head. I knew what I saw.

It wasn't just my imagination, this was real. My thoughts raced as I drove, my eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror, half expecting to see that doll following me. I couldn't believe this was happening. When I arrived at my wife's place, I didn't waste time. I went straight inside, and without hesitation, I told my son we were getting rid of that doll. But my wife, looking unbothered as usual, objected immediately. No, you're just imagining things.

It's fine. The doll hasn't done anything wrong. Let it stay, she said, brushing me off with a wave. I snapped. This doll literally. told our son that he wants to kill us. It made him say a curse word, a bad word, and that's a terrible influence on our family. You know that, she stopped, her face flickering with confusion, then a bit of doubt. But her hesitation was brief, replaced by the same dismissive attitude.

It's just a doll, John. You're overreacting. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I looked over at Randy, still sitting there, innocently perched on the couch, its eyes no longer glowing but still haunting in their emptiness. I knew, deep down, that whatever this doll was, it was more than just plastic. And the more I ignored it, the worse it was going to get. But for now, all I could do was stand there, helpless and frustrated, as my wife refused to believe what was happening right in front of us. The park was eerily quiet for a late night, around 9 p.m. The dim glow of the nearby street lamps cast long shadows across the playground. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, but there was an unnatural stillness in the air, as if the

whole world was holding its breath. My son was on the swing set, rocking back and forth slowly, his legs kicking lightly with each motion, the chain creaking in the silence. He was alone, lost in the world of his little game, as his mother, Mary, stood at the edge of the park, her gaze distant. I had just pulled up to the curb, the screech of my tires still echoing in my ears as I turned off the engine. My hands were shaking from the sheer adrenaline and fear of the events that had unfolded earlier. I needed to talk to Mary. I needed her to understand that the doll wasn't just a toy. It wasn't just an innocent part of our lives anymore. I grabbed

the door handle and slammed it open. My boots hit the ground with a firm thumb. as I hurried toward her. The chill in the night air cut through my clothes, but it didn't matter. There was no turning back now. Mary, I called out, trying to keep my voice steady, but my words broke through with an edge of desperation. We need to talk. You can't just ignore this.

The doll, Randy, it's dangerous. It's not normal, Mary. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw its eyes turn. and red. I saw it move. The power shut out. Something's wrong with it. And his eyes weren't supposed to go red. Even if they did, why were they red? That's weird, right? She didn't turn to face me right away, her attention still on our son, but her shoulders stiffened when she heard the urgency in my voice. Slowly, she faced me, her eyes hard but weary, as though she had

already decided what she wanted to say. John, she said quietly, her voice low, almost resigned. I told you already. You're overthinking this. It's just a doll. We can talk about it when you're thinking more clearly. Right now, I'm just trying to keep things normal for our son. She crossed her arms, sighing, her expression unreadable. John, you're tired. You've been under a lot of stress late. We need to go home, get some rest. We'll talk about this when you're calmer. Right now, we need to focus on our son. It's just a toy, nothing more, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

How could she dismiss this? How could she be so calm? Mary's face tightened with frustration. John, please, she said, the quiet desperation in her tone cutting through my resolve. We are going home. We are not going to have this argument tonight. I stood my ground, unwavering. I'm not staying here, Mary.

I'm going with you, and I'm taking that damn doll with me, even if it means dragging it out of there myself. Her gaze softened, but it didn't show any sign of yielding. Without another word, she turned toward the car. I felt a brief pang of regret, but it was quickly replaced with determination. There was no way I was letting her go back alone with that. that thing. We both got in our own cars and headed back to the house, the silence between us thick, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The drive back seemed longer than usual,

the streets darker, and my nerves only heightened with each passing mile. When we arrived back at the house, the air was thick with tension. As we stepped inside, I could feel it. The house was silent. Too silent. My eyes darted around, scanning for anything that seemed out of place. There was nothing. But that feeling, that feeling wouldn't leave. Mary grabbed our son by the hand and led him through the house, toward his room. I stayed behind, standing in the hallway with a sinking feeling in my stomach. The atmosphere in the house felt heavy, something was off. Something was wrong. As I stepped into the room, I saw it immediately. There, sitting on the bed in the center of the room,

room, was Randy. The doll. Its eyes stared back at me with that same eerie, lifeless gaze. But there was something new, something worse. A piece of paper rested next to the doll. Mary stepped forward, her eyes flickering over the note with a frown. She bent down and picked it up, then held it out to me. Did you write this, son, she asked, her voice calm but tinged with confusion. My son shook his head, his eyes wide with innocence. No, mom, I didn't do it. The doll did it. My heart skipped a beat. The doll, it wrote this. My blood ran cold as I looked at Mary. See, I told you something's wrong with it. It's not just in my head. But Mary, always the optimist, shook her head and smiled softly.

No, John. This is just our son using his imagination. It's a game to him. He's been playing with it, and now it's come to life in his mind. That's all. I stared at her, a sense of helplessness washing over me. Mary, this is real. It's not just his imagination.

This doll, John, she interrupted gently. You're letting this all get to you. We should just play along with him, okay? It's just a game. Nothing more. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. How could she think this was just a game? But Mary didn't seem to see it the way I did.

She was calm. She was already accepting it, and that made the dread in my chest even worse. The doll wasn't just a doll. It was something darker. But Mary wasn't ready to see that. The doll sat on the table, its blue eyes staring blankly ahead. Our son, with his small hands, pressed the button on its back, and immediately the eerie mechanical voice began counting down.

10, 9, 8. Mary and I exchanged a glance, both of us unsure of what was happening. My mind raced, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the doll. How was it counting? Why was it doing this? Our son stood there, transfixed, watching the doll count as it continued. 7.6, 5. I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine, but I didn't move. I couldn't. This was unreal, yet here it was, happening in front of me.

It felt like I was watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion. 4.3, the doll's mechanical voice droned on. I turned to Mary. We need to hide. Without another word, we both turned and sprinted toward the hallway, our footsteps echoing in the silence. The house, usually so familiar, now felt foreign and oppressive. I didn't know where to go, just that I needed to get away from the doll. I glanced around quickly and pulled Mary into the small closet under the stairs.

It was cramped, but it was the only place I could think of. We crouched down together in the dark, my breath quick and shallow as we listened to the sound of the countdown continuing. Suddenly, the lights flickered and then went out completely. The house was plunged into darkness. I froze. The power had cut out, just like before. But before I could react, I heard a voice, soft and eerie in the darkness. Ready or not, here I come, I felt my heart stop.

The voice, the doll It was alive Through the crack in the door of the closet I saw the faint glow of something, blue eyes It couldn't be And then the sounds of shuffling The unmistakable sound of small footsteps Mary, I whispered, my voice shaking

We need to leave This isn't a game anymore, but the footsteps grew closer Something was in the house with us and it wasn't human. The countdown ended, and the silence that followed was suffocating. But then, just as I thought maybe, just maybe, it was over, the lights flickered out. And then nothing. The house was swallowed by darkness.

I held my breath, the air thick with fear. The only sound now was the faint hum of the doll's voice, still lingering in my ears. It was like the house itself had become an extension of that thing. thing. I grabbed Mary's arm, pulling her close, my voice a strained whisper. We need to grab our son and we need to go. This is not a game. We might die. Mary's face was a mask of confusion and disbelief, her eyes darting toward the doll on the table. John, it's just a toy, she said, her voice trembling. There's nothing wrong with it. It's just a toy. It won't do anything.

There's no such thing as ghosts. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the word struggling to come out. You believe in God, don't you? I whispered, my eyes locked with hers. She hesitated before nodding. Yes. I do, so that means you believe in the devil, I said quietly, my voice barely audible in the heavy air. And if you believe in the devil, then you believe in demons.

Something is wrong with that doll, Mary. I'm not imagining it. Think about it, the power just went out. Who has the power to do something like that? It's not our son. He's hiding somewhere. I glanced toward the hallway, the anxiety clawing at my chest. Speaking of him, we should go get him now.

He's in danger. That thing, it's not just a toy anymore. Mary stood frozen for a moment, her face pale, her mind clearly fighting to accept what I was saying. But I could see the crack starting to show. The doubt was creeping in. Please, Mary, I pleaded, my voice horse. We can't take any more chances.

We need to go get him. Now, suddenly, Mary's hand shot out, grabbing my arm tightly. Shush, she whispered urgently. He's here. We froze, the hairs on the back of my neck. neck standing up as we both heard it, footsteps, slow and methodical, getting closer. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Then came the voice. Peekaboo, it said, the doll's voice dark and twisted, laced with an unnatural, playful tone.

Before I could react, a sharp pain sliced across my face. I gasped, my hand flying to the wound. Blood trickled down, and I looked in horror as the doll held a small knife, its eyes gleaming with a malicious light. I stumbled back, cursing through clenched teeth. See? I told you. I yelled, wiping the blood away as best I could.

The fear in my chest surged, my body moving on instinct. Mary grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the hallway. We need to find him. He's in danger. We ran down the hall, calling out for our son. Eli. I shouted, panic creeping into my voice. Eli, get out of hiding.

We need to go now. I reached the garage door, swinging it open with a force that echoed through the house. My mind was racing, my pulse pounding in my ears. I knew I had to do something, anything, to stop this madness. I grabbed the nearest tool I could find, a hammer. The sound of footsteps in the house continued, taunting us, but I didn't care. I rushed back into the living room, eyes scanning the area for the doll. And then, there it was, sitting on the table, its eyes gleaming, as if it was waiting for me to approach.

Without hesitation, I raised the hammer and brought it down hard, smashing the doll into pieces. The sound of breaking plastic and snapping wood filled the room, but even as I did it, I felt the air change. The room seemed to grow colder, and the power, just as I thought it was over, began to flicker back on. But then, everything went wrong. Suddenly, an invisible force slammed into me from behind, throwing me hard into the wall. My body hit with a sickening thud, and I gasped for air, disoriented. I scrambled to get up, pain searing through my muscles. Hurry! Hurry! I yelled, my voice frantic as I tried to push myself up. We need to leave the house. Now, Mary was already running toward the door, her face pale with terror.

I saw her grab Eli's hand, our son had come out of hiding, his eyes wide with fear. He looked terrified, his eyes darting from me to the wreckage of the doll and back. What's happening? Eli whispered, his voice trembling. What's wrong with the doll? Just get in the car. I barked, too scared to explain. There wasn't time for explanations.

We had to leave. We rushed out the door, all of us piling into the car. As soon as we were inside, I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal, speeding away from the house. Five days later, we had moved into a new house. The fresh paint on the walls and the unfamiliar surroundings should have brought some comfort, but instead there was an unsettling quiet in the air. I kept telling myself we were safe now, that we had escaped the nightmare of the doll and whatever it was that had followed us. But the thought lingered, creeping into my mind every time I walked

into a new room or passed by a shadow. Eli had been unusually quiet, spending most of his time in his room. Mary was trying to put things back together, setting up the house, but I could feel the tension between us. The house felt empty in a way that no amount of furniture could fill. It was like we were all just waiting for something to happen, even though I didn't want to admit it. It was late in the evening when the doorbell rang, its chime cutting through the silence of the house. I froze for a moment, my heart racing in my chest. No one knew we were here. I had made sure of that.

I walked to the door slowly, my hand trembling as I reached for the knob. When I opened it, there was no one outside. Just a long, rectangular box wrapped in simple brown paper, sitting on the doorstep. My heart skipped a beat. Confused and hesitant, I took the box inside. Eli was sitting in the living room, his eyes following my every move. What's that? he asked, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and fear. I don't know, I answered, still staring at the box.

Something about it felt wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I set it down on the table, and Eli wasted no time, eager to open it. I didn't want him to, but I couldn't stop it. him. He tore off the wrapping, revealing an old, tattered doll, its clothes faded and stained. My stomach dropped as I looked at it. I recognized it immediately, those hollow eyes, the twisted smile, the way it seemed to be looking right through me. Eli, put it down, I said, my voice trembling. But he didn't listen. He held the doll up, staring at it with wide eyes. And then, without warning, the doll's eyes began to glow red.

The smile stretched into something far more sinister. The eerie sounds of chains, mournful whales, banging noises, and a crib that rocked on its own, this and much more happened in the haunted house of Ryan. To understand this case, we must travel back in time to the early 20th century, specifically to the small village of Ryan, also known as Rayyan, located near Morita in the Asturias region of Spain. Back then, this area had a mere 50 inhabitants, all of whom worked in the mine. The village was made up of traditional stone houses typical of the region, and everyone knew each other. It was a peaceful place with no room for suspicion.

However, in 1915, a new family moved to the village, the Bayon-Gonzalez family. This family, initially consisting of 14 members, Father Eusebio Bayon, mother Concepcion Gonzalez, and their 12 children, arrived in the area. Concepcion was pregnant at the time, so soon their family would grow even larger. They settled in a lovely little house, became well acquainted with the locals, and got straight to work. The father spent all day working outside, while Concepcion stayed at home to care for the children, the house, and the fields. When she gave birth to her last child, she didn't stop working. Life in those days was exhausting, especially for Concepcion. She had her

hands full with the older children, the baby, the house, and the farm. If she wasn't busy with one thing, she was occupied with another. When night came, she was utterly exhausted, and just as she was about to fall asleep, the baby would start crying. Every night, it was the same routine. But then, one particular night, something strange happened. As usual, Concepcion went about her tasks and, when it was time to go to bed, she went to the kitchen, lit a lamp, and washed the dishes. Everything seemed normal. She finished cleaning, extinguished the lamp, and went to her bedroom, ready to sleep. But as soon as she fell asleep, she was suddenly awoken by the sound of her baby crying.

She got up, lit the lamp again, and headed to the baby's room. But just as she reached the door, something was wrong. The baby, who had been crying loudly just moments before, was now completely silent. Concepcion opened the door to check, and what she saw took her breath away. In the dark room, the crib was rocking by itself. There was no one else in the room, no drafts, and no one hiding. Everything was as it should be, except for the crib, which was swaying back and forth. At first, the family brushed it off, searching for logical explanations.

But as the days passed, the strange occurrences continued. Every night, the crib rocked more violently, and the baby remained motionless, unaffected by the rocking. It got so intense that the crib would even spin around. Eventually, the family couldn't ignore it any longer. Eusebio shared the strange events with the neighbors, and one of them, one Alonso, a strong, brave man, promised to solve the mystery. He was confident he could stop whatever was happening. But when night fell, things took a terrifying turn.

One approached the crib, but it was so powerful that even he couldn't stop it. The crib moved from one side of the room to the other with such force that one couldn't hold it still. The same happened and other strong men tried to help. It seemed as if some supernatural force was pushing them away, sending them crashing into walls. The chaos escalated from there. What had started with a rocking crib soon turned into pounding noises from the walls, footsteps on the stairs, dragging chains, and constant wailing.

It was relentless. Terror took over the family, and some nights, the neighbors stayed with them to keep watch. Thanks to this, the family realized that the most active times were between 1 and 5 a.m. Back then, people in Spain didn't discuss parapsychology, they spoke of curses, ghosts, demons, and other supernatural phenomena. Word of the haunting spread quickly, and the House of Ryan became infamous. People from nearby villages would gather outside the house, witnessing windows opening and closing on their own and hearing the incessant banging.

It didn't take long before the house was known as the House of Fear in Ryan. One of the neighbors recalled the terrifying experience, saying, I remember the sounds vividly. They used to happen every night, starting at dusk and continuing until around 4 a.m. We could hear huge bangs on the walls and doors, even though no one was touching them. It was so scary. The youngest child, who was still a baby, remained unaware of all the commotion around him, but the crib would shake violently, and yet he never reacted. As he grew older, he began to notice strange occurrences around him.

One day, a glass of water he had on his nightstand levitated and spilled all over him. Other times, an invisible force would wake him up by pulling his hair. The children reported that every night, they would feel a mysterious force pulling at their feet or moving their blankets. Objects would appear and disappear without anyone touching them. In the attic, there were all sorts of old objects, dusty bottles, boxes, and strange items. On one occasion, a bottle filled with dust appeared on the first floor, though it should have been

in the attic. Another time, a stone flew through a window, landing in the hallway, yet the window remained This strange, invisible force continued to cause havoc in the house. One of the most disturbing events occurred when a large crucifix on the wall started moving by itself before flying off and crashing to the floor. The family couldn't take it anymore, and in 1917, they went to the authorities for help. Some sources say that the family reported the strange happenings to the Civil Guard, while others claimed that the police got involved after hearing the rumors.

The story had spread far and wide, and the police arrived to investigate. An official report was created, but the authorities couldn't do much, they didn't know how to stop the disturbances. They just kept watch and entered the house with the neighbors, witnessing firsthand the strange events. It was clear that no one had any answers. Desperate, the family turned to the church. They requested exorcisms, blessings, or anything that might help. Several priests visited the house, promising to put an end to the haunting, but none succeeded. One neighbor, Anton de Morita, recalled seeing a priest walking.

toward the house every day, dressed in a heavy, strange robe, even in the summer. When asked what he was doing, the priest claimed he was performing exorcisms. But nothing seemed to work, and the haunting continued. The story soon gained media attention, with newspapers publishing articles about the ghosts, spirits, and curses that plagued the house. This led to an influx of curious visitors, religious figures, supposed witches, psychics, and many others who claimed they could solve the mystery. But despite their promises, none of them.

them could bring peace to the family. Then, one night, while everyone was sleeping, Concepcion heard a strange voice calling her name. The voice seemed to come from the room next door. Without hesitation, Concepcion got out of bed and responded. She entered the room and shut the door behind her. What happened next remains unclear, and only Concepcion knew the truth. She later described encountering a humanoid, luminous figure that instructed her to kneel and listen. They exchanged words, and after the encounter, Concepcion fainted. When she regained consciousness, Eusebio found her on the floor. She told him that she couldn't reveal anything about their conversation, except that she had been given an order. If she followed it,

everything would be resolved. According to Concepcion, her recently deceased sister hadn't received any masses or prayers, and that was why the haunting had started. To put an end to it, they needed to go to Camp Plongo, arrange a few masses, and light two candles for her sister. If they did that, the haunting would stop. If not, things would only get worse. So, the family went to Camp Plongo, fulfilled the request, and, miraculously, the disturbances stopped. Concepcion lived to the age of 103, taking the secret of that night's conversation to her grave. Despite numerous investigations, the mystery of the haunting remains unsolved to this day.

Ryan, now a village with only four inhabitants, all descendants of Concepcion and Eusebio, remains forever linked to the chilling events of the past. Juan Manuel Gonzalez, Concepcion and Eusebio's great-grandson, still resides in the same house. In a 2017 interview, he shared that his grandmother used to tell him and his cousin's stories about the house. She used to tell us everything, but we never felt scared. We grew up here, and we never saw anything unusual, he said. Even though no one in his family has ever witnessed anything, the locals of Ryan continue to remember the haunting with a mix of fear and respect.

The tale of the haunted house in Ryan is one of the most well-known stories in the area, and everyone who lived there at the time is a witness to the strange events. It may sound unbelievable, but no one dares to mock the story, for those who were there know that something truly mysterious happened in that house. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, the legacy of the house of fear still lingers in the memories of those who experienced it firsthand. So, what do you think? Could this haunting really have happened? Part 1. This story is about a two people of the opposite sex. Male, Brandon Green, for now, female, an arc. Note, this is about as much as I plan to tell the rest lies in the story.

Sorry for bad grammar beforehand. Page 1, Chapter 1, Welcome to Red and Rose City. Brandon, monologue in head, between the constant moving around and saying goodbye to short-term friends, I feel like everything is moving too fast, and I can't seem to feel complete with life's if only my mother would understand. Julia, mother hey, you coming. Brandon, huh, yeah, hold on I just got to finish getting everything out of the moving truck. I'll be there in a minute.

Walking around the outside of house, Brandon, aw, goddammit my fucking phone died. Person takes out earbuds. Person, were you talking to me? You need directions or, Brandon, no, no, no, it's fine. I was just screaming at my phone because it died. Sorry. Person, H.A. I can relate. It's all good. Hey, you knew here. Brandon, yeah, I kind of just moved from some shit town in Utah. Anark, Utah. Fuck dude, good on you for getting out of that Mormon desert. What brings you to California?

Brandon, wasn't really my choice, my perenn. Person, let me guess they forced you to go so they can find better job opportunities in this shit hole. Brandon, holy hell You're a fucking mind reader Person, yeah, but my psychic services ain't free bud Brandon, oh now you're a comedian Well, you know what would real funny Person, what? Brandon, if you could let me use your phone

so I can call somebody, person, who ya callan? Brendan, some chick I dated in Utah Person, joking, playful tone, what's the name? Brandon, just let me call her. Person, well I'd like to, but my phones is dead too, so ya-ya. Brandon, bullshit. Person, they do, but they don't brag about it.

Think about it, it's a joke. Brandon, unsurious, playful, fake angry tone. Oh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ya-know-what, Emma go charge this piece of shit phone in my new piece of shit house. Good day, madam. Person, hold on. You never told me your name. Brandon turns around.

Brandon, it's Brandon, Brandon, Green. What's yours? Person, it's an arc. Brandon, is that like one word? Anarch, yeah, I'm not fucking kidding. Brandon, wait, you serious? Anark, as serious as a felony. Look, you want to hang some time, so I can introduce you to the wonders of this shithole.

Brandon, I'm kind of seeing someone. Anarch, not like that. In like a, sorry you have to live in this shit hole let's go explore, kind a way. Brandon, okay. But you're letting me use your phone to call this bitch. Anarch, deal Brandon, I knew your fucking phone wasn't dead Part 2

Julia, aka Mother, Hey, you never got the rest of the boxes out of, comes outsides and runs towards me and Anarch. Julia, aka Mother, look at you. Your first day here in Red and Rose and you already have a girlfriend. Brandon, frustrated Cy Mom, she's not my girlfriend, me and her were just having a conversation.

Julia, hey, if that's what you call it. Brandon, really, sigh anyways, Anark, I got to go, it was nice meeting you. Anarch, playful joking tone trying to leave again, huh? Well, before you go, I think you need to make a call to your significant other. Brand up, fake frustrated tone between you and my mother, am really getting sick of the comedy acts. Anarchy, no really, I insist. Brandon, you know what, just give me the damn phone. Anark, that's the spirit.

Dials number phone starts ringing. brandon come on pick up his instant answer amy h hello brandon hey it's me amy brandon why are you calling me brandon i just wanted to see how you're doing amy oh god this is awkward brandon why amy it's just oh god puts phone down babe how do i tell him because this is awkward as fuck amy's current boyfriend let me tell him i got this trust me Amy's boyfriend, hey, asshole back off. She's with me now. Brandon, who are you?

Amy's boyfriend, the name is Dave what's yours bitch. Brandon, Red Foreman, because when I see you, I'm putting my foot up your ass. That 70s show reference. Dave, that's some big talk kid. Brandon, no, it's just too big for you to wrap your fucking walnut-sized brain around. Now go get herpes from loose lips over there, you dumb coxicker. Brandon hangs up, then turns around to Anark. Brandon, okay, so when do you want to hang out today, or some other time?

Anark, jaws dropped and speechless. Brandon, hello, an arch waving hand in her face. Brandon, well I take that as, let's hang out tomorrow, bye. Part 3. The next day after the phone altercation, Brandon wakes up, face with long black and red hair appears above bed in blurry vision. Brandon, low muttering, barely conscious voice WWWTF. Anark, joking fake drill Sear Gant voice rise and shine faggot, your burning daylight. Opens curtain, Brandon covers eyes with pillow.

Anark, ugh, I want to go explore this lovely town with you. Brandon, irritated dismissal tone explore my lovely left nut in trying to sleep in. Anark, hey, if it gets you out of bed. Brandon, zero underscore zero yo chill I was joking. Anark, well I wasn't. Brandon gets jump scared into a sitting position. Anark, good I got you. you to wake up completely, now get your ass dressed properly and let's go.

Brandon, fake whiny, angry tone man. How the fuck did you even get in my house? Anark, you see I waited for you to go to sleep then I snuck in through the window. I fell asleep under your bed and waited until sun's rise, then I watched you until you reached consciousness. Long eerie, awkward pause, Anark, takes bite of a nearby apple now. I'm just kidding your mom let me in, real nice lady. by the way you never gave my phone back yesterday.

Brandon, damn it. I knew I forgot to do something. My bad. Anarch, hey, it's all good. Besides you saved me from the notifications. Brandon, playful sarcastic voice, you're that popular, huh? Anarch, sad hard to hear tone no. He just want leave me alone, sad face.

Brandon, puts hands on Anarch's shoulder and looks in her eyes, hey, is everything okay? Was it something I said? Anark, deep inhale slash exhale sit down. Brandon sits down. Anark, look, im kinda have a boyfriend, well not really boyfriend per se but some guy who's close to me. Brandon, joking tone so a boyfriend. Anark, kind of laughing but serious tone shut up.

It's not, I mean, we're just friends. Brandon, so what's this friend doing that's got you so upset? Anark, blurts out he wants me to marry him. Brandon, starts laughing for a bit then gets back into a serious tone okay. okay so if you like him why not just take him on his offer. He seems like a good guy if he already wants to marry. I sure know I don't have that kind of commitment. Anarch, quiet sad tone he is, it's just. He isn't the one for me. Brandon, damn, that's kind of a shit scenario. Anarch, tell me about it, when me and him first met I thought he was the one but it just doesn't add up for me

anymore. Brandon, well, rest assured, you'll find the one, one way or another. Anarch, really quiet muttering voice I think I already have. Brandon, sorry, what was that? Anark, fast-talking, nervous tone nothing I just got to use the restroom real quick, hold up. Brandon, confused, uh, ook. Brandon, well that was weird. Five to ten minutes pass by then, Anark gets out of the bathroom. Anark, deep breath okay. No more has a station let's go explore this bitch. Brandon's on his phone, Brandon, but hold on, I just got to finish texting this girl I met on Tinder, she's really into me. Tear drops from Anarch's eye Anark, extremely depressed tone

Oh okay, sad face. Brandon, head turns to Anarch's slowly very concerned tone, are you okay? Anarch, very convincing but still suspicious, optimistic, mood switch. Yeah. Im fine, why the hell wouldn't I be? Now let's go explore this bitch. Brandon, slow skeptical voice-ook. Let's go then. Anark, trying to start small talk as they walk out. outside so how has things been going between you and that girl on Tinder? Brandon, okay. I guess, but honestly I don't really think she's my type. Anarch, then why do keep contacting her?

Brandon, honestly, I think she's more of a lust for me, rather than a love. She's hot but, she has a basic-ass personality. Anarch, so, basically you're man hoaring her. Brandon, hey, I'm just trying to get laid, don't knock my hustle X.D., anarchy, so you're not looking for love, I take it. Brandon, well, I wouldn't say that because, I am looking for love, just not with her. Plain and simple. Anarch, monologue in her head, yes, yes. Fuck yes. I still have a shot. Brandon, hey you okay, you just went quiet and, Anarch, euphoric, chill tone things couldn't be better. Brandon, all right, you know what, I'm really starting think you're bipolar. Anark, why's that?

Brandon, bruh, a few minutes ago you were all sad about some fag trying to marry you, now everything is just roses and got him puppies. Anarch, sorry. Brandon, okay now I feel like shit for saying that. Look, you don't need to apologize for shit. I wasn't try, Anark, nah, it's fine. I didn't know you were trying to be humorous. Long as pause. Brandon, well, this became awkward turns on phone and opens Tinder.

Anark, through the corner of her eyes she sees him open Tinder blurts out loudly, we need to talk. Brandon, gets jump scared as H-I-T. Drops phone about what? Anarch, quickly tries to come up with an excuse, um, we need to talk about your addiction to that damn phone. Yeah, Brandon, smart-ass voice, K-mom. Anarch, shut up, I'm being serious.

Brandon picks up his phone. Brandon, while unlocking his phone he starts thinking to himself, why the hell would she care if him on my phone unoles, drops phone again and freezes completely, while he's frozen his eyes turn black with a red anarchy symbol in the middle. Anarch, big hitch. WTF is that. Brandon, unrecognizable voice Brandon. She's one of U.S. I can see her eyes. Anarch, panicking WTF happened to your eyes and what are talking about. Brandon, Anarch listen to me and listen to me carefully. In not Brandon, my name is Bloodshot. Think of me like a second personality. Except I'm a living entity. I come from a rich history of people who,

Beard the Alias, Bloodshot, Anarch, W-T-F. Why are you telling me this? Bloodshot, number one, because something you've said or done activated his eyes and number two because I have reason to believe you're one of us. Part 4. Anarch, how am I one of you, and what did I do to fucking cause this? Silence. Brandon's I turn back to normal. Anarch, Bloodshot.

You there? Hello. Brandon passes out and falls to the ground. Anarch rushes to me. Anarch, concerned tone. Okay. Hey Bloodshot, Brandon, whatever the fuck you are answer me. Brandon wakes. Brandon, an Anarch. Anarch, OMG, you're alive. Thank God. Brandon, is it true? Do you really feel that way? Long pause. Anarch, tries to change subject

look. I think you just need some water or something. Brandon, gets frustrated why do you have to be like that? Just answer the question. Anarch, nervous, shy tone, I, I don't know. Brandon, sad tone I see. Look, I'm just gonna go home, sigh, I've made this difficult enough already. Anark, wait. Brandon stops walking. Anark, voice turns quiet and clenches fists I love you. Brandon, smiles.

I hope so. Because if you didn't, I would have to cancel my plans with you tomorrow at 6 p.m. Anark, completely frozen with mouth open. Brandon, Tay v. Omaniana me a more. Anark, thinking to herself. fake, funny crying tone I don't want to wait till tomorrow. Loudly crying face, loudly crying face. Anark runs towards Brandon in extreme haste.

Brandon, ha. Looks behind himself, Anark, hey. I thought we were going to hang out today. We never even got to see the rest of Razor Red. Brandon, Razor Red? Anark, right. I forgot you're new here. So a while back some kids came to school with knives and hatchets and killed 20 people,

and ever since then this town, a.k.a. Redden Rose City was nicknamed Razor Red. Brandon, Jesus fucking Christ. Who just wakes up one day and says, I'm just going to bring my hatchet to school and hack someone's nuts off. Anarch, laughing her ass off that's fucked up, X.D. Brandon, what, don't get mad at me. I'm not the one with the axe and a stake knife. Anarch, laughing uncontrollably I can't, I can't breath X.D. While she's laughing Brandon gets a glimpse of her eyes flickering black with the red anarchy symbol.

Brandon, Anark. Stand still real quick. Takes photo with cell phone. Anark, if you wanted my photo so bad you could have just asked. Brandon, he was right. Anark, who was right? Brandon, shows her the photo. Anark, I don't know what your, holy S-H-I-T.

My eyes, W-T-F. There's no way. Brandon, check the photo I can prove it's not edited. An-Rq, I got an idea, Use his front selfie camera why ain't they showing up anymore. Brandon, it only activates when you have intense emotions or euphoria. Anarch, then how come no one else has seen them? Brandon, the only way a non-bloodshot can see your eyes is if you're using them for either

seduction, persuasion, or intimidation. Other than that the only people who can see the eyes are other bloodshots. Anarch, starts remembering when Brandon's activated I see. Well, fuck I guess I'm screwed ain't I? Brandon, deep breath let me tell you the real reason I moved to Red and Rose. Anarch sits down on the grass. So a while back I got into a fight with some dick in Utah because he was trying to fuck my previous girlfriend Amy.

It all started out good, I was winning and nearly caoed his ass until he pulled out a gun from his back pocket. I panicked and my eyes turned on to intimidate him, then they completely activated and I nearly beat him to death. After the fight he told the police what he saw and someone actually believed the occurrences, despite how disbelivable they were. In two days after the fight, three men in black suits came to my door and told me that me and my mom need to pack our bags and leave town, they couldn't legally have me arrested,

because the fight I got into was ruled as self-defense. Anarch, if it was self-defense, why would they want you arrested in the first place? Let alone tell you that you need to move, because they couldn't arrest you. Brandon, the reason why they made me move was because they knew I had the bloodshot eyes and they couldn't have me locked up so the second best option, was to get me out of Salt Lake and make me move to this small town. Anark, you think they're still keeping watch on you. Brandon, probably but, as long as they don't put their fucking hands on you.

Then nobody has get hurt. Anark, oh, woo. That's cute. Brandon, funny, that's not what Amy used to say, dick joke. Anark, I didn't mean it like that X-D. By the way, fuck Amy. Brandon, joking Tonya. I bet you would.

Anark, I'll do it for you, daddy. Brandon, laughing hard a. F. All right, go do it then. Anark, where the bitch live, X.D. Brandon, in hell somewhere near Slutsville and Sodomy Lane, X.D., yeah, I bet she's keeping Satan's lap warm. XD. Laughing sounds play and the day slowly fades tonight. An arc, well, that was fun. Brandon, yeah, but I think it's time I start heading home now, but before I go, I just want to let you know, be ready by 5.30 and outside before 6 o'clock. Anarch, I never even told you where I live, though.

Brandon, wherever there's a feeling of comfort, enjoyment, and euphoria I know you'll be there. Besides, it shouldn't be hard to notice the most beautiful woman I've ever met when she's standing outside waiting for my arrival. Anyways, it's getting late so I'll see tomorrow, K, good night. Anarch, thinking to herself nunca on tess estuvae tantadu de chupar el-pinda alguim and totami vita, go and translate it XD. Part 5. The next day, Brandon wakes up, reaches for alarm clock, turns to see Anarch next to him. Brandon, mixture of confusion, gratitude, and nervousness. Brandon, ook. Anarch with eyes closed but conscious enough to speak. Anarch, this time. I got in through the window. Brandon, shocked but accepting.

Brandon, in any other context, I would terminate at the sight of this. But, I appreciate your gesture of loyalty, too much. So instead I'm a put better locks on my window. Anark, smart-ass tone, what if I live here then? Brandon, smart-ass response, what if your parents find out, should have thought about that first. Anark, yeep yo I. You thought. I live with my older sister, Aubrey.

Me and her fight a lot, so me moving would be no sweat off her back. Brandon, why, why, why, why, wait, you have a sister. Is she as hot as you covers mouth, oh shit. Anarch, sad tone, look if I introduce her to you, please don't forget about me, sad face. Brandon, serious, sad tone I can't forget about you. I never forgot about any my friends I left behind from moving town from town three years ago, then being forced to move here because of some stupid fight, thus completing ending my relationship with Amy.

But if I lost you, depressing long pause, Anarch, zero underscore zero you okay? Brandon, my bad I got carried away. Anyways, I'm sorry for asking you such a dick had. question a few seconds ago. Anarch, it's fine. She's not as hot as me anyways. She wishes she had my hair and my style. The bitch looks like Whoopi Goldberg compared to me. Brandon, Jesus Christ, it's like a nudist gathering, the way people are getting exposed over here. Anarch, you have yet to see the half of it. I'll flame the bitch like Scorpion. Brandon, Toasty. Anarch, I give you props for that XD. Brandon, joking tone not give me head.

Anarch, competitive and confident voice I will if you let me live here. Brandon, spare some change for yo desperate ass. Anarch, shut up. And let's go do these, plans you had with me. Brandon, it's 8.30 a.m. What, you want to go on a lavish date in my living room eating cereal and watching Black Lagoon on my PS4 sarcasm? Anarch, I would be honored to experience such luxuries XD. Brandon, well I got a PS4 in here in case you want a breakfast and be.

bed like some fucking patrician, member of royalty. Anarch, sounds like five-star treatment to me. Okay hand, okay hand. Brandon, guess I got to get you some cereal too, huh? Anark, yep. And while you're at it, get me some goddamn orange juice peasant X.D. Brandon, sarcastic tone anything else your majesty. Anarch, just that and your company. Brandon, ha. Don't hear that too often, thinking of Amy, obtains and delivers Anark her food slash drink. Anark, thanks Squire. Brandon, sarcastic tone yet don't mention it. Only the finest for you, Queen Elizabeth. Anarch, laughs. All right, come and bring your fine ass next to me and let's watch some anime. Brandon, satirical, fake gay voice, OMG, thank you I work so hard to keep my posterior nice and firm.

Anarch spits out orange juice and laughs uncontrollably. Anarch, you're the fucking top tier of comedy. I swear to God. Brandon, thanks but, I'm a have to give that title to George Carlin. rest in peace George Carlin. Hours of hanging out pass and eventually it hits 5.15 p.m. Brandon, Anarch. Anark, what? Brandon, you're going to have to go home and get your finest fucking outfit on because it's getting close six.

Anark, we still doing that. Brandon, yes. And it's going to be the best experience of your life. Anarch, sarcastic tone wait. It gets better than this. Nah, I'm joking, today was actually pretty great and I enjoyed your continuous suits of entertainment, you're a real fucking comedian. Brandon, thanks.

It means a lot, coming from Queen Elizabeth herself. Anark, satirical black woman impression, Awu-We-Haw-Naya, you didn't just compare me to that dusty ass hag. Brandon's laughs and as his laughing continues, the scene transitions into Anark outside her house waiting for Brandon to show up. 45 minutes pass by, Anark, come on I only live like three to four houses away from him. What's taking him so long? Two loud gunshots emerge. Anark, O-H-F-U-C-K.

Sees Brandon injured trying to walk away from an unknown shooter. You ain't fucking getting away, you son of a bitch takes another shot, bullet hits Brandon's shoulder and he hits the ground. Anark, eyes turn black with red anarchy symbol. Anark, crying and pissed, I'll fucking kill you. Loaded handgun simultaneously spawns in her left hand and she fires 12 rounds at the gunman. Gunman hits the ground dead and her gun disappears. Anark runs to Brandon. Anark, panicking.

Fucking fuck don't you fucking die on me. Throws Brandon in the passenger seat, hotwires her sister's car, and rushes to the hospital as quick possible. Anarch's bloodshot eyes starts to get even brighter noticeable, at this point she has inhuman amount of focus and energy. She's dodges three cars at point-blank range, then drifts into a hospital parking space with perfect precious. Two ambulances start unloading patients right when she arrives.

Anark, S-H-I-T. Two ambulances are occupying the ICU. Looks like we're taking the long way in. Hall's ass into the hospital carrying Brandon on her shoulders. Anark, I need a fucking doctor and I need it now. Hospital staff member gets scared shitless and knocks files off his desk accidentally. Hospital staff member, scared shitless yes ma'am. A doctor will be here right away.

Anark sit down Brandon on one of the waiting room chairs and grabs the staff member by the collar. Anark, good because if he ain't I'll kick your funny looking ass until he decides to show up. Hospital staff member, ma'am, please calm down I'm doing the most eye, Anark, her eyes turn on to intimidate him shut the fuck up and get a doctor. Hospital staff member hauls ass down a corridor and starts shouting, we need a doctor in the waiting room stat. Doctor takes off running while pushing a gurney into the waiting room. Anark throws Brandon on the gurney, Anark and the doctor are running down a hospital corridor. Doctor, why didn't you use the ICU? Anark, because two fucking, dickweed, ambulances decided to unload idiots off right when

I arrived, I figured I'd be better off scaring the shit out of the desk attendant until he get some help available. Which may I add wasn't a hard task at all. Doctor, well, I have to give you praise for split-second creativity. They arrive in the operating room. Surgeon and doctors start getting to work immediately. Hours pass by and eventually, I hits midnight, Anark refused to go home and stays in the hospital all night, and inevitably passes out on a chair in the patient room. Anark wakes up the next day in the same chair. Anark, stares at the hospital bed, while the heart monitor continues its continuous sound. Brandon, quiet laughing that son of a bitch Dave really thought he could kill me with just three rounds. He is a dumb coxicker.

Anarch, I can't believe you're okay hugs Brandon. Brandon, you know. I would have made it out and scathed if I let my eyes turn on, but I was so scared of being forced to leave you that I got shot three times and fought against my powers instead of fighting back. Since I'm alive I think I made the right decision. Would you agree? Anarch, when he shot you the third time, you hit the ground unconscious and my eyes activated and I shot him to death. But I don't remember grabbing a gun from my room. It just appeared, out of thin fucking air. Brandon, those eyes will do unimaginable things if put to the right use.

Looks like you've saved my ass because you went bloodshot on that cunt Dave. Hopefully you don't get locked up for murder. Anarch, Naya. I won't, half the crime here in Razor Red goes untouched and unsolved. Brandon, it must be hell here. Anarch, it's hell here but, the people are genuinely nice so it makes a bit easier to walk the streets. Brandon, what's the worst thing that's ever happened to you here? Anark, I got my house set on a fire when some guy threw a Molotov at my house.

Brandon, why? Anark, because I didn't take the guy to the prom XD. Brandon, well, at least you never gotten raped or shot at. Anark, nobody even came close. I had every guy in school trying to get with me, if anybody even looked at me the wrong way, fights broke out. Brandon, you're lucky as fuck. When I was in school I got in fights, got cheated, got rejected, and was socially outcast because, I'd rather play Pokemon and hang outside with my crew then, contribute to their bullshit. Anark, you had a crew.

Brandon, yeah, but, it was short-lived because they started fighting over stupid shit and I ended up moving to Salt Lake City and I started dating Amy at that time. But we, weren't perfect together, to say the least. She didn't understand humor for shit, and she always treated me like I was unimportant and I was a burden, but at least she let me fuck, X-D. Anarch, kind of sad tone well that's cool. Brandon, why are you so gloomy? Was it something I said? Anark, no, it's not you. It's just I don't what to do about Chris. Brandon, who's that? Anarch, you know the guy that I said was really close to me. Brandon, oh yeah, your boyfriend I completely forgotten about him, thug life. Anarch, yes my friend. Brandon, boyfriend. Anarch, my friend Chris.

Who's kind of obsessed with me and wants to marry me? Brandon, IDK, what to do about that, you could break up with him. Anarch, we're hardly a thing to begin with. I even told him that I'm unsatisfied, but he just told me to, give it some time. Brandon, was the sex good at least. Anark, we never got that far, because I didn't let him. Brandon, why? Anark, I guess for all my life I was saving myself for someone like you.

Long pause. Brandon, can we go, hang out at my house? now. Anarch, nice try, you're stuck here for a bit longer. Brandon, what about when I get out? Anarch, deal. Brandon, really? Anarch, hey, don't think I'm easy though. I-U-O-1. You took three bullets so you wouldn't have to leave me. Good thing I took the shot. Or the feds would make you leave me. Brandon, are you sure, you're not going to get sent to prison for that? Anarch, for one, there's no weapon anymore, two, I was defending you, and three the police in Redden Rose don't give a fuck. Brandon, what if the feds get involved?

Anarch, you know how many times people have been shot near my house. If the feds do get involved they have little to charge me we with. The only person at risk is you and you're a victim. Brandon, what if they were watching? Anarch, then they would have saw what happened and would have no reason to intervene. Anarch, my sis Aubrey is a fucking lawyer. So it's in their best interest not to anyways. Brandon, you always provide a feeling of re-insurance, don't you?

Anark, you're but, only when you're around. Usually I'm negative and pessimistic about everything. Brandon, speaking of being negative. You know what two things sucks the most. Anarch, what? Brandon, I got three bullet holes in my favorite suit and we never got to go on that date XD. Anarch, you know what else sucks. Brandon, what?

Anarch, I still haven't got my phone back XD. Brandon, oh yeah, I forgot about that X-D. Anark and Brandon laugh simultaneously, then the scene fades to black. Part 6. The next day comes and Brandon is out of the hospital. Anark and Brandon are chilling in the kitchen at Anarch's place. Brandon, Anark, what's up? Brandon, how the fuck we gonna pay these hospital bills? Anarch, I don't know.

You have insurance. Brandon, I wish. Ever since my mom quit her job in Salt Lake City we lost our insurance. Anarch, you think your mom could pay for it? Brandon, she would if she had the money. We spent most of what we have trying to get here. I couldn't help but overhear your recent financial complications. May I be of your assistant's hands business card?

Brandon, lustful and euphoric tone, who's that? Anarch, frustrated, embarrassed tone, ugh high. That's my sister Aubrey. Aubrey, at your service. Brandon, gives a aroused smirk. Anarch, Aubrey. Can we talk a bit in private? Aubrey walks with Anarch in another room door closes.

Anark, Aubrey. I must say this once and once only, so pay close attention, you are not going to take this one from me. You got that. Aubrey, who him? Nah, you must be misunderstood with my intentions. I wasn't thinking about seducing anyone, I was just being polite to our guest. Anarch, I know you, you too well. You screwed me out of two guys before.

Aubrey, first of all, Stephen liked me more than you and Daniel was gay and only used us so people would think he's straight. Anarch and Aubrey start arguing. Their house phone starts ringing. Brandon, hey, the phone's ringing. Damn it. They can't hear me. Fuck it. Brandon answers house phone. Unknown male voice. Hey, is Anarch there? Brandon, she's not available right now, but I can tell her you called. You noun male voice, who's this? Brandon, who wants to No. Unknown male voice, the guy who's dating her. Brandon, thinking in his head, oh shit, this must be Chris, should I tell him we're only friends or should I make up an excuse him?

I got it. Asterisk, you noun male voice, frustrated tone, hey you there, answer me. Brandon, is this Chris? If so, I've heard great things about you. I heard you could bench 240, is that true? Chris, oh. Well, gee, I'm flattered, I didn't think you admired my accomplishments. Thanks. Brandon, thinking to himself perfect, now to make him believe I'm gay, so he'll back off

and think I'm not competition. Brandon, you know, Chris, I saw pictures of you and I would like to say. You're quite the handsome type. Winky face. Brandon nearly vomits on himself after saying that to Chris. Chris, whoaa. Dude, I'm not into that. Brandon, what, you got something against me because I'm gay.

Chris, nervous fast-talking voice no, no, no, no, no. No, no, no. I'm just not into that, I have nothing against gays. Hell I even have gay friends. It's just me personally, I'm not gay. Look when Anark comes back just tell her I called okay. Brandon, okay bye-I-i-i, winky face. Chris hangs up immediately, Brandon starts laughing his ass off, Brandon, well.

Looks like I scared his stupid ass away X-D. Scene transitions back to Anark and her sister Aubrey. Anark, look, just don't try anything with him okay. He means a lot to me. Aubrey, okay, but I'm helping him pay for his hospital expenses. It's the least I could do. Anark, fine, but that's it. I got my eyes on you.

If you try anything, I'll kick your ass. Aubrey, chill out. I'm not going to try anything. Anark and Aubrey walk back into kitchen. Brandon, hey, Anark. Chris called you a few minutes ago. Aubrey, oh, oh, oh. Anark, what are going to do if he finds out you're cheating?

Brandon, there'll be no need for explanations. I got this guy completely sold on the idea of me being gay. Anarch, you're funny, kind, and resourceful. What can't you do? Brandon, well, I'm not really good at algebra, but I can tell why he, Chris, should be your ex. Anarch, thinking to herself, fuck me, please. Anarch, ha. I get it, X D, Aubrey, anyways.

I heard you where you couldn't pay for your hospital bills. Brandon, yeah, my mom is broke and I don't have insurance. Aubrey, no problem I'll pay for your bills if you do me a favor. Anarch, looks at Aubrey in suspicion and anger. Brandon, what do you need me to do? Aubrey, are you okay with Anarch, moving in with you? Anark, OMG, thank you, Aubrey. Aubrey, now hold on, he hasn't answered yet.

Brandon, definitely. I would be more than happy to let her move in with me, but I got to ask my mother. Aubrey, you 18 or 20? Brandon, nah. I'm 17, Aubrey, thinking to herself, damn it. I can't get away with fucking him because he's not 18 yet. Fuck. Aubrey, fake enthusiasm and excitement no.

Way. You're the same age as Anarch. Anarch, confident, mocking tone which is why, you can't pull anything, ain't that right. Aubrey, you're funny sarcasm. Anyways you should call your mom and find out if she can be. move in with you. Brandon, turns to Anarch, come on let's go to my house and ask. Anarch, can't we just call her? Brandon, trust me she'll be more likely to say yes, if you're there to make her feel bad if she

says no, X-D. They go outside and start walking towards Brandon's house. Brandon, who knows? If she says no, you'll be able to keep doing creepy but romantic gesture X-D. Anarch, I know it's creepy but you gotta appreciate my climbing game, because it's on some top-tier shit. Brandon, how does one get to the point of climbing through people's windows just to fall asleep in someone else's bed? Anarch, serious, sad tone I honestly don't know. I just don't want to leave your company. Brandon, zero underscore zero, are you?

Anarch, smiles trust me, I'm fine at least now I am smiling face, slightly smiling face. Brandon, thinking to himself and just like that, I contribute to the millions of people who find themselves attached to someone. I haven't even known her for more than a week and yet everything is moving so fast. Eyes tear up a little please don't fuck this up. Anarch, notices Brandon's eyes tearing a bit attempt of comedic relief, was it something I said X-D, wouldn't be the first time. Brandon, not everything is fine. I think my eyes are just watering hard RN. Arrives home anyways we're here, but we're going to have to play this real cool understand.

Anark, I got this. Brandon opens the door and Anarch follows his lead. Anark, shouts loud, yo, Julian. Is it okay if I live here now? Brandon, Anarch, I said play it cool. Julia, did your parents say it was okay? Anarch, yeah. I recently got approval before I showed up. Julia, then feel free make yourself at home.

Brandon, why, why, why, wait, that's all. You're not even gonna ask why. You're joking right. Julia, please when I was your age, I was all. already engaged. It's not like you two are planning to get married. Chances are, you and her spend most of your time together playing video games and having sex. Brandon, mom. Julia, joking tone okay miss, special. Hand me a towel to drive these places with. Anark, hands towel here you go. Everybody does chores and eventually get done. Scene transitions to Brandon and

Anark chilling in Brandon's bedroom. Brandon, well, it's approaching nighttime, want to stay up and game with my friends on PSN or go to sleep. Anarch, what type of fucking question is that? Bring your PS4 in the living room upstairs and let's fucking game. Brandon, no need. Lucky for you, I happen to behave a few resources in this room already. Anarch, so we playing split screen or...

Brandon, laughs in a kind of show-off way man fuck split screen X-D. opens closet and Anarch sees a gold mine of gaming equipment. Anarch, shock and all mother of God, what is that? Brandon, this is my infantry of all things gaming. Everything here is in complete 100% working condition. Ah, there it is pulls out flat screen, PS4, and all accessories from closet, then quickly sets everything up then turns on the console. Anarch, impressed and dumbfounded in the future there will be tales of your great legacy. Brandon, don't get your hopes up, I'm just a loser with lots of charisma and gaming equipment.

Equipment X.D. Anark, we're on the same boat except I collect guns and knives XD. Brandon, you should bring your collection. Tomorrow we could head out to a desolate location and shoot some bottles and shit. Anark, now I'm too lazy for that. I just want to chill here and play video games for the rest of eternity. Brandon, we could get a ride from my mom. Anark, whiny voice, but it's going to be hot outside tomorrow. Brandon, well, let's at least go on that recently post-poned date we had planned.

Anark, oh yeah. I almost forgot about that shit. By the way how your wounds doing. Brandon, examines himself you're not going to believe this shit, but, the bullet hole wounds aren't there anymore. It's almost as if I didn't get shot. Anark, takes a look WTF. There's not even a scar or mark to indicate where Dave shot you at. Brandon, wow that's one big unintentional fuck you to Dave.

All of his efforts just went in vain. Anarch, I wonder how Amy is handling it. Amy is handling it. Game loads up wait who was I talking about again. Brandon, IDK some dumb bitch whose name everyone keeps forgetting. Meanwhile at Amy's house, Amy, on the phone with one of her friends, Amy, bragging, stereotypical, teen girl tone, OMG, you should have seen it, people were sending sympathy cards with money in them. I'm telling ever since that loser Dave died I've been like a millionaire like OMG. Transitions back to Brandon's house. Brandon, you never answered my question. You still want to go on that date. Anarch, how you're going to pay for it?

Brandon, I'm not. When I first moved in here my mom got a coupon for some restaurant in town. She left that shit on the coffee table and I snatched that shit like a burglar. Anark, what did the coupon say? Brandon, opens drawer and grabs coupon. One free meal with one extra guest written in big bold lettering. Brandon, looks like we got ourselves a golden ticket. The only problem is there's no name, just a address and some text that's promising a free meal with one extra guest. Anarch, sound sketchy. Brandon, you think we should still go. Anark, tell you what?

We'll check it out and see if it's legit and if it is, we'll go there if it's not, we'll just go back home. Brandon, Kay, deal. Anyways want me to introduce you to my friends. Anark, sure. Brandon, Kay, let's go. Creates PS party and invites friends they should be here in three, two. Two people speak simultaneously, hey faggot, where the fuck were you?

Brandon, glad you bitches missed me X-D. Anyways I got my girlfriend Anark in this up party. Say hi Anark. Anark, hey sup. Two people speak simultaneously again, G-G-G-G-G-G girlfriend. You son of a fucking bitch. Can't believe this asshole is getting pussy before us. Anark, laughs they sound like fun people.

Brandon, you fun people. who never introduced themselves. My apologies M8. My name is Derek and that's Tyrone's boyfriend, aka Anthony. Anthony, OMFG, don't you fucking tell her about Tyrone? Anarch, who's Tyrone X.D. Brandon, you know that stereotypical buffed black guy in prison who rapes people. That's Tyrone.

He's a character we created as a joke, but, slowly he became more of a way to piss off Anthony. Anthony, I still don't know why that's so funny to you guys. I'm not gay. Anarch, no offense Anthony, but, I think that's Tyrone's decision and he says you're gay, X-D. Anthony, oh, h my fucking God. Fro's headset and controller. Derek, Brandon, and Anarch start laughing uncontrollably. Anarch, hey you want some fries with that salt. X-D. Everyone except Anthony starts laughing again. Brandon, I think we're all gonna get along just fine, X-D. Anthony, man, fuck you. Brandon, no thanks faggot, by the way, don't say if you don't mean it and if you mean it you're gay and if you didn't mean it, why

did you say it? Anthony, sighs god damn it. Everyone is chilling and cracking jokes until it becomes dark and they all pass out. Part 7. After a long night of gaming, morning comes in Anark is the first one awake. Anark, start shaking Brandon Hey. Wake up. That ho Amy left you a voicemail.

Brandon, drowsy tone W-WTF. Is it about Dave? Anarch, listen for yourself. phone to Brandon. Brandon plays the voicemail. Amy, stuck up bitch tone, you really did it now, dumbass. Three of Dave's friends and gangs are after your ass for what you did to him. Figured I'd let you know before they show up and shoot your stupid ass. Anyways, good luck, hope you don't get shot. Bye. Brandon, fucking cunt, well at least they don't know it was you who shot Dave. Anarch, the fact they're coming for you pisses me off more, but, hey look at it like this,

if shit gets real we can turn on our eyes and fucking annihilate them. Brandon's thinking of an idea. Brandon, hey think you can bring your guns over here for a few weeks. Anark, come with me to my sister's house, and we can go and grab them real quick. By the way, there are guns now. Since I'm a be living in your room, and you're willing to share your possessions. I'll do my part. You're welcome, Brandon, sweet.

The only problem is I got learn how to correctly operate such tools of defense. Anarch, aren't you from Utah? You know, conservative Utah. The place where they have no regulations on what type of knife you can own, true fact, and very loose gun laws. Brandon, I know I know it's ironic. But to be honest, I've never needed to use or own a gun. Every conflict I've gotten into was mostly solved by throwing hands or loudly arguing in public XD. Anarch, hmm. You're more of close quarters fighter. Challenging as it may be, I will make you a fucking solider just give me lots of am. some targets and a few weeks.

Brandon, well I was looking to learn, I even asked yesterday if you wanted to bring your guns over and shoot some bottles in some quiet area and you kind of said no. Anark, well now that I'm not super relaxed and lazy. Let's go fucking shoot some shit. Brandon, I take it the date is going to be cancelled again, XD. Anark, well if it makes you feel any better, the address actually was in the middle of nowhere at some abandoned farmhouse. I looked it up when I woke up.

Brandon, abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, huh, light bulb above head I think we find ourselves a shooting range and a hangout spot. Anark, yeah. But what if there's some creepy fuck waiting for us to arrive there? Don't you find it a bit coincidental that the specific address, for that farmhouse was on the paper? Brandon, well, it's not like we're showing up unarmed X-D. Anarch, oh yeah. Good point.

Eventually they both get the firearms and head out to the old farmhouse in the middle of fucking nowhere. Brandon, so this the place, huh? Tries to open farmhouse door, damn, it's locked. Anark, honestly. We could just shoot the lock with my 12 gauge. Brandon, nah, that won't be necessary. I think I have an idea. Brandon, Anark.

Do me a great favor and hand me a knife and a bobby pin. Anark, gonna pick the lock, huh? Well, unfortunately, I don't have a bobby pin, but I do have a knife. Brandon, hmm. Maybe the car has one. Search his car and find something aha. I found a fucking paper clip. Anarch, sweet.

Anarch, astonished how the fuck did you do that so fast? Brandon, kind of embarrassed tone I've broken into a few houses before. Anarch, well make this another complete attempt of breaking and entering. Now let's just hope that fake-ass coupon was a joke and nobody actually lives or works here. Brandon, I doubt it. Chances are that coupon was some prank to get someone to waste their time driving to the middle nowhere for nothing. Anarch, the jokes on them, though, pulls out spray paint can from her backpack, because this area belongs to us now.

Asterisk with the spray paint, Anark writes, Property of, A.B. Brandon, we make a great team you know that. Anarch, we make an even better couple though. Brandon, joking tone at least we would if Chris wasn't already dating you, Anark. Anarch, joking but kind of sincere, well maybe I'll break up with him so I can be with you, Brandon. Brandon, wait, you serious? Anarch, I mean if you want me to.

Brandon, is that what you want though? Anark, of course. But I need to know if that's what you want. Brandon, if it means being with you then yes. This faggot Chris can go huff and puff and blow someone's dick down. Anarch laughs hard. Brandon, anyways fuck Chris let's go outside of base and shoot some shit. Anarch runs to the car and unloads targets from the car along with old bottles and cans.

They spend a good 15 minutes setting up targets. Anark, okay now first how you hold the. Brandon is in a perfect gunner position. Brandon takes off safety. Anark, well I'm glad you know that much now. Brandon shoots all targets in the bullseye and shoots every bottle slash can in 10 seconds, five targets, six bottles and four cans. Anark, completely speechless.

Brandon, how'd I do? Anark, you're a fucking natural. Brandon, what you mean? Anark, you shot in the middle of all the targets and you took out all the cans and bottles on the range. Hold up, I'm getting more bottles from the car and after I do that you're telling me your goddamn secret. Brandon, what secret? All I did was point aim and shoot. Anarch, thinking to herself as she's walking to the car, it's either his bloodshot eyes or he's a fucking demigod.

Brandon, talking to himself now that I think about it. That was fucking incredible, but I don't really know how I did it. I just did it. Without even thinking as if it was second nature. Asterisk Anarch comes back and quickly sets up bottles, five bottles and three cans, with five reusable targets already set up. Anarch, okay. You have about 25 rounds in that AR-15. How fast can you?

Brandon reloads and shoots all the targets in the bull's eye and shoots all the bottles and cans in eight seconds, including the reload. Anarch, asterisk bows on her knees teach me, Sensei. Brandon, that good, huh? Well, unfortunately I really don't know how the fuck I do that so well. So I can't. Anark, then we'll stay here till you find out how. I got plenty of bottles plus ammo and the targets are reusable. Brandon, all right, let's do this then.

They stay there for five hours learning each other's techniques and eventually decide to come home. Anark is driving home whilst talking to Brandon. Anark, you know. After ten tries I almost caught up to your record but was two seconds short. Brandon, that was fun and BTW you'll never beat my record. Anarch, well I can try. Brandon, well I give an A for enthusiasm. Anarch, thank you, Sensei.

Brandon, don't get too excited. Your next assignment is a test in the art of Faladio. X-D, Anarch, you ain't slick, I know what that word means. Brandon, good you've passed the pre-test now bend over and let me take the wheel, XD. Anarch, wish me luck, hope I pass. Face with tears of joy, face with tears of joy, face with tears of joy. Fun, dirty, and regular conversations continue until they make a lot. it back to the house. They get home, unload everything and settle. Anark, falls backwards on Brandon's

bed in exhaust and relief. Anark, lazy tone that was way too much damn mobility for me. I just want to lay here and watch game shows like some 35 years old housewife. Brandon, the most you did was run back to the car occasionally and shoot guns. Anark, yeah I know, it was awful. Brandon, you know you had a good time stop lying X-D. Anark, it would have been a completely different story if you weren't there. But, yeah, it was great. Smiley face, Brandon, want to go again tomorrow? Anark, I kind of just want to stay home with you. Brandon, sounds good to me.

But the next day after tomorrow we're going deal. Anark, deal. Long silence. Anark, hey. Brandon, what's up? Anark, your mom isn't going to be home from work for another two hours right. Brandon, yeah. Why?

Anarch, quiet, barely hearable voice. This is such an awkward question to ask. Anark, do you want a super quiet voice have sex? Brandon, W. W. What? Anark, sigh, do you want to have sexual intercourse with me? Brandon, so you're wondering if I want to have sex with you? Are you sure that is indeed what you're asking me? Anarch, another sigh, yes.

That is indeed what I'm asking you. Brandon, long pause then shouts this is the greatest day of my life. They proceed to have sex, but as they are having sexual intercourse two guys drive near the house. Guy one, so this is the place, huh? Guy two, yep this is where we'll find him. Guy one, get the AK and some rounds. We'll break in in.

Guy two, grabs AK 47 and a few magazines let's do this. Part 8, I had to repost to fix title, if you've read it already just move on, it's not new. Anarch, fast breathing talk you know I owed you this anyways, right, asterisk, loud, orgasmic, moaning Asterisk. Scene transitions real quick to the intruders. Guy one, I heard something go check it out and blow its brains out. Guy two, I'm on it. Brandon, fast-breathing talk yeah, but, I was trying to pull it, sigh of relief because he finishes. Guy two is watching through a small opening of the door. Guy two, now what in the hell is going on here? Brandon, whispers Anarch. Did you hear that? Anarch, hear what? Brandon, I think there's someone in the house. Anarch, what a pain. What a pain

in my ass. They decide to show up when I'm covered and fucking come. Brandon, if you think about it that's two pains in the ass. Anarch, tries not to laugh but fails a little stop it. This is serious. Brandon, I know it probably hurt a lot. Anarch, uncontrollable loud laughing. Guy too, kicks the door open and sees Anark on the ground laughing hard. Guy too, where the fuck is? Brandon, Brandon's bloodshot eyes activate checkmate bitch. Turns from a corner by the door and swings a baseball bat right at the intruder's head. Guy two is knocked out cold. Guy one, hey Remorez, where the fuck are you? Are they dead? Brandon checks Guy two's phone and he sees a profile named Kane Remirez with some other vital contacts. Brandon steals the phone and proceeds to sneak downstairs

with a baseball bat in his hand. Anarch, whispers P-S-S-S-S-T you forgot to take this from him waves Waves AK-47 in her hand. Brandon, hold on to that. I'm a try to be stealthy so no one finds out. Anarch, K Just please don't get hurt Brandon, I won't By the way you might want to clean the jizz off your face Anarch, angryish tone next time I'm just gonna fucking swallow

Brandon slowly goes down the stairs Guy one, that son of a bitch Remores Better not have bailed on me Brandon hears Guy one's voice And somehow pinpoints his location Brandon, deep almost demonic voice You're fucked now Guy one, what was T.H. Metal Kling and the sound

of a baseball bat hitting the floor Brandon gotcha bitch now what's your name grabs his phone damn he's got a screen low phone instantly unlocks brandon w t f it just unlocked for me bloodshot's voice in brandon's head you're welcome kid brandon oh well that explains a lot checks phone contacts brandon talking to himself m looks like the owner's name is paul garcia both last names of the intruders are of Hispanic origin. Perhaps they're in some Latin gang, after all Amy did say two gang members were looking for me. Anarch walks up behind Brandon any leads detective. Brandon, well we got two names, guns, and cell phones. We have two options here. We can give all this to the police and have

these people arrested or two. We can tie these cunts up, take them to our hangout, and get some fucking answers. Anarch, evil smirk and her bloodshot eyes activate I think you know what the real option is. Brandon, get some zip ties, something to cover their eyes, and some chairs. We're going to make these sorry fucks sing. Anark, I'm on it. By the way, start the car then get a lot of food and water because after we're done, we're dropping their asses off in the desert. Brandon, sounds like a plan. Anark and Brandon prepare for the intruder's interrogation. Brandon, okay, I'm set on my end, how about you? Anarch, yeah, I'm pretty much done here. All that's left to do, is to start loading the cargo.

Brandon, I already loaded the cargo on your face a few minutes ago. Anarch, sarcastic Tonya thanks. Brandon, don't mention it. Anarch, I should have expected you to say that. They both put Paul and Kane in the car and proceed to drive to the farmhouse. They arrive and set up the interrogation room. Brandon, throws water on them both. Paul, starts coughing WTF.

Where am I? Kane, Paul, is that you? Paul, Remores, do you know where the fuck we are? Cain Remores, No, I can't see shit. Paul, neither can I. Long pause. Brandon, now that you two had your little reunion. Let's discuss what the fuck you were doing in my house.

Paul, I was there fucking your mom. How's that sound? Brandon, hits Paul's knee with an aluminum baseball bat. Paul, screams in agony. Brandon, you think this is a fucking game. One more. Just one more smart ass quote from your ass and I'll dump gas in your mouth and throw a lit match down your throat grabs gas canister and shakes it to intimidate Paul. Paul, I ain't

fucking scared of you. Brandon turns to Anarch. Brandon, hold his fucking mouth open. I'm giving him the devil's cocktail. Kane, don't do it. He didn't actually mean that he's just stupid okay. Paul, snarky, critiquing tone, please. They probably don't even have gas. That's probably just water in gas canister. Brandon throws gas on his clothes. Paul, sniffes, oh shit. It's gas. Anarch tries to force his mouth open. Paul, struggles and breaks free from Anarch's grip. Paul, chill I'll talk. Just don't fucking set me on fire, okay. Brandon, leave him alone for now. Anarch backs away. Paul, what the fuck do you want to know? Brandon, oh I don't know. Maybe I want to know why two failed abortions such as yourselves decided to break in my house.

Kane, because you killed Dave. Brandon, there was no other option dumbass. He was trying to kill me and he died in the process. Paul, the reason why he was trying to kill you was because you disrespected him. Brandon, faking, mocking, crying tone boo fucking who, I said some shit over the phone and he got a whittle, mad. Switches back to serious tone, that doesn't justify him showing up to my house and shooting me three fucking times. But fuck all of that because, I have another question for the both of you. Kane, what? Paul, you're what?

Brandon, what gang are you guys from? Kane, the Victorians. Brandon and Anarch's eyes activate and they freeze. They simultaneously speak in a demonic voice, I fucking hate Victorians. Paul, yo W.T.F. Kane, what the fuck was that demon voice? Brandon, I'm giving you two a mercy deal. After this is over you, stay far, far away from us bloodshot voice or I'll kill everyone you know.

Kane and Paul are absolutely terrified. Paul, crying WTF. Please just let us go. Kane, crying along yeah. We promise we'll stay far away from you guys. Just don't fucking kill U.S. Brandon, turns to Anark all right, hit M with the sleeping stick. Kane, wait dawn, two metal clings to their heads with a bat and they're both knocked out.

Anark, to the California desert we go. They drive to a remote desert and drop off the intruders, cut their restraints and blindfolds, unload the food and water, and drive off. Anarch's driving talking to Brandon. Anarch, that's the last time they fuck with us. Brandon, that's probably the last time they fuck with anyone, period. Anarch, laps by the way. Why did we get so mad when they said what gang they're from? Anarch's bloodshot, because the Victorians are our enemies and now that they're recruiting humans there's no telling what war they'll bring. Anarch regains consciousness. Anarch, WTF. I thought this thing was only supposed to activate in emergencies or emotional moments.

Brandon, I forgot tell you. Sometimes it activates when it needs to tell you something important or say some to scare someone. Anarch, so does this thing spy on me? Brandon, no, it's only aware of what's going on when your body or mind informs it to be aware, other than that it remains dormant and unnoticeable. Anarch, that's fucking cool. It's like having a guardian angel.

Brandon, yeah, I guess you could say that. They drive and conversate for a while and eventually make it home. Anark and Brandon walk inside the house. Anark, I smell something good. Julia, you're just in time for dinner. Brandon, what's the special tonight, mom? Julian, marinated barbecue chicken with some homemade mashed potatoes and gravy. Smiley face, Anark's mouth is watering.

Anark, I fucking love this place. Julia, watch your mouth red dye. Anark, my bad. Sorry, Julia. it's okay. Now sit your fucking ass at the table and eat up. Anark, but, Brandon, just go with it or she'll tell you, Julia, I pay the bills and put food on the table, so it's my God-given right to say whatever the fuck I want in my under my roof, is that what you're referring to? Brandon, sigh, yes, that's what I was talking about. Anarch, turns to Brandon, I wonder what

will be like his parents. Julia, well you better stop wondering. If you idiots have kids any time soon, I'm a kick both ya asses. Anarch, don't worry, we'll play it safe. Julian, turns to Brandon, hey stupid have you been using condoms? Brandon, embarrassed tone mom. Julia, don't act embarrassed, everyone knows you too have been doing a lot more than hanging out, in your room. Me, Anarch starts laughing. Brandon, Bill Clinton impression I did not have sexual relations with that woman.

Anark laughs even harder and falls off her seat. Julia, you okay, dear? Anark, yeah, I'm fine. sits back down seriously though you guys are absolutely hilarious. Julia, embraces her true country accent, darling, I just tell it how it is and sometimes people find that funny. Keep in mind she's from rural Utah. Anark, Amen.

After dinner Anark and Brandon are chilling in the bedroom playing video games and chatting with Brandon's PSN friends. Brandon is slowly falling asleep with a controller in his hand. Brandon, passes out. Anark, shit. Our MVP is down. puts on badass sunglasses looks like I'm carrying the team. Derek, I doubt it, we're most likely gonna gun erect by these MLG faggots, an arc, thinking to herself.

By theory I should activate if I keep telling them to because, earlier today Brandon told me that it activates or becomes aware when your minds or body tells it to. Activate. Activate. Activate. They get destroyed. Derek, well, we didn't win, but you did better than all of by like six kills. Anarch, damn it. I had a plan but it didn't work. Derek, what was your plan? Anark, that's irrelevant right now. Anyways, it's late and I'm tired so good night. Anthony, good night.

By the way, add me on Snapchat, winky face. Derek, don't you mean, add me on Snapchat? Anark, okay, don't add either of you on Snapchat, K deal. Bye. Turn off PS4 and lays down next to Brandon. Anark, looks at Brandon, then takes a deep sigh my mom and my dad didn't want me and my relationship with my sister is off and on. Please don't ever leave me. Brandon, Brandon's eyes shoot open leave you. You and my mom are all I have,

and I can hardly bond with my mother because she works from nine till eight, and my dad is the definition of a deadbeat father. He wasn't there when I was born and he wasn't there when I was growing up in a small meth head town out in Utah. But with all those setbacks, I at least have you and you're the only person to keep me company, and I fucking love you and your company. Anarch, you know through my whole life I believed people pretended to like me to either get with me or get with my sister and sometimes I was right but you. You actually care. Chris acted like he did but, at the end of the day, he just wanted to make me a submissive housewife. Which is why tomorrow I'm breaking up with him to be with you because, I fucking love you and your company.

Brandon, I give you props for using what I said at the end of my statement. And I hope Chris dies a death of a thousand cuts. How dare he try to make you a submissive house bitch? He done stole my idea. Anark, I belong to your sex dungeon and yours only. Brandon, laughs okay. I'm a try to go back to sleep now. Good night.

Anark, K. Good night. They proceed to fall asleep and the scene cuts to black. Part 9. Anark wakes up to notice Brandon is missing. Anark, talking to herself no fucking way, this dude woke up before me. Hey, Green, where'd you disappear to? Brandon's last name is Green, Anarch, hello, long silence.

HM. Maybe he had to go somewhere. Footsteps continue upstairs. Brandon, will continue this conversation in my room with my girlfriend. This is a decision I can't really make on my own. Well, think about it like this, you work for us and you'll avoid legal repercussions for what you did in that farmhouse to those gentlemen. Brandon, fuck them. I'm sick and tired of being afraid of you guys and worrying if you're going to lock me up.

If someone fucks with me or those I love they deserve what they get in return. We can always put that behind you, you know. You can start over, just make the right decision. Brandon, let's see what she thinks. I was just going to recommend talking to your lady friend with the mononymous name about this. After all, this is a big decision. Asterisk they walk into the bedroom, an arc, um. WTF is going on here.

Brandon, this fuck from the FBI wants me to work for him, and he's kind of black with that little interrogation slash kidnapping we did to those vectorian punks who fucked with us. How funny it is you think I'm from the FBI. Perhaps it's time I give my first proper introduction. I'm Alexander Eligos of the CIA. Brandon's eyes transform into its iconic anarchy symbol, anarch, reacting to Brandon's sudden eye transformation oh shit. Alexander, calm down I ain't here to install cameras or make a violation of your rights

with advanced technology, I'm just here to make a humble request. bloodshot, frustrated and firm tone hears a few things you might want to take in consideration but first off I have no prior training in this line of work, second I don't have a diploma because I couldn't finish school before the move, which means I have to get my GED and third, a free offer into the CIA seems sketchy and disbelievable. Alexander, look Brandon, can I call you that? Brandon, sure, Alexander, I'm just trying to lead you into the right path. You've made a few mistakes but your abilities can be a resourceful utility.

for us. Who knows, this could be your chance to get out of your parents' house before you even turn 18. Brandon, thinks for a while I will consider under one condition. Alexander, what's that? Brandon, she's coming with points finger at Anarch. Alexander, I don't know about that. To be frank, I don't think she has the requirements needed for this line of work. Brandon, well, I don't have the requirements either. Alexander, that's because for what we know she doesn't have the eyes. Brandon, thinking to himself well. Obviously he doesn't know she has the eyes and he doesn't want to accept my request, but I'm not leaving without her. Brandon, I'm not going to leave without her.

Alexander, you drive a hard bargain. Tell you what? You keep yourself out of trouble from now on and you won't have to join and will still keep this offer on the table in case you change your mind. Deal, Brandon, one hand is behind his back with two fingers crossed okay I'll try. Alexander, great. It was nice getting to talk to you and your lady friend I have feeling this won't be my last time seeing you. By the way, I don't think we can accept your request until we have reason to believe that she's a worthy candidate for this line of work. Alex leaves, Brandon, thank God.

I thought he'd never leave. Anarch, thanks for trying to include me in the deal. You could have been a successful spy or well-paid hacker for the CIA, but you took me into consideration before accepting, which was pretty damn no. of you, smiles. Brandon, smiles back and becomes silence. I'm not that good with extremely direct affection, I hope my actions help you get a better understanding of how I feel. When I deny an opportunity like that just so you can be involved it's my way of saying.

You get the message. Look, let's just head to the my room and play H1 or Blacklight. Anarch, I've heard of of H1Z1, but what's Blacklight? Brandon, let me show you. Two hours later, they're currently playing Blacklight in a PSN party with Derrick. Anarch, this fucking amazing. Brandon, yeah I know. Hey Derek where the fuck is Anthony?

Derek, I blocked his ass because he's being a annoying sack of shit. Brandon, notices a metaphorical ocean of messages from Anthony I'm a get-up on my sir blocking ton shit too. This B-O-I really sent me like 300 fucking messages, now I'm blocking his ass. Anthony gets blocked and they all proceed to hang out. Derek, joking tone, yo Brandon. How the fuck did you get with Anarch? Brandon, I honestly don't know it kind of just happened. Anarch, joking tone he fell from the sky and survived, then I took to the hospital and as we were there we developed a close intimate relationship.

After all of that we decided to settle down, raise a family, and fuck your mom. The end, Derek, fake crying that was a really touching story man. Anarch, of course it was a touching story especially when you take in consideration that I had my hand on your mom's ass the entire time. Derek, you, what are you, some type of carpet-eating dyke? Anark, joking tone hey man, for a bag of tachis and some mountain do I'll be a fucking gay astronaut. Brandon, I got both in my kitchen. Put on your suit and strap on because you're going into deep space. Inside Derek's mom.

Derek, ha. Your funny sarcasm. They all proceed to hang out and crack jokes towards each until it hits about 2 p.m. Anark, well that was fun. Brandon, yeah, but unfortunately, we have target practice and then I have to get a shit ton of chores done. Anarch, relax. We have all day. Let's just chill and watch some anime or play cod.

Enjoy this time while you have it. Brandon, numerous flashbacks occur. Flashback one. Brandon is 11 years old and he's being dropped off at his dad's house. Brandon, sees his dad outside and screams in excitement dad. Runs towards his dad. Julia, you're lucky, you know that. He hardly shows up around here, so enjoy this time you well have it.

Flashback 1 cuts to him waving goodbye to his father and not seeing him for a long time. Flashback 2. Brandon is 13 years old. Brandon, Mom. Julia is cooking in the kitchen. Julia, yes dear. Brandon, you think I'm ever going to see my dad again? Julia, I don't know, but I'll tell if he ever calls, who knows he might come around to see you again.

Brandon, mutters to himself I doubt his stupid ass will ever show up again. Julia, what was that dear? Brandon, nothing. It was nothing. Flashback two cuts to him in his bed looking at photos of his dad that his mom gave him. Flashback three. Brandon is 16 years old. Amy, seductive, aroused smirk and told my parents are going to be out of town until six.

We should enjoy this time while we have it. Brandon, you serious? Excitement builds, yes. I never thought I'd see the day. They head to a bedroom then the flashback cuts. to winter time at Brandon's old school in Utah. Brandon, as pissed off as I'm, I don't think I should fight him. One of Brandon's old friend, hey man, he's been fucking with your girl and now you have an

opportunity to kick his ass. You should just enjoy this time while you have it. Brandon gets into a fight with the man who was trying to steal his girl. Girl stealer, come at me pussy. What you scared? Pushes Brandon. Brandon remains silent but tense. Girl stealer, that's what I thought little bitch.

Punches Brandon in the forehead and Brandon. Brandon hits the ground. Girl Steeler, hit the ground pussy. Tries to walk away. Brandon gets up. Brandon, you've messed up now, motherfucker. Brandon's eyes activate. The girl Steeler turns around and screams in absolute fear at the sight of Brandon's eyes. Bloodshot, I'm gonna fucking kill you, you son of a bitch. Bloodshot starts beating the shit out of Zach Anderson, aka the girl stealer. Zach is losing badly so in desperation he pulls out a handgun from the back of his waist. Bloodshot becomes more violent and knocks the gun out his hand then starts beating Zach and Zach starts bleeding severely.

Teacher, what in God's name is going on here? The flashback cuts to him at his house talking to what appears like Secret Service or FBI members and they're basically explaining to him and his mom that they need to move to somewhere else. Faint sound of Anarch calling Brandon's name. Anark, Brandon. Hello. Brandon, snaps out of memory lane W.W. Anarch, very concerned tone, are you okay?

Brandon, I'm fine it's just something reminded of a fuck time, that's all. Anark, leans in for a really tight hug if it was something I said, I'm so sorry. Brandon, smiles, it's okay, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just when you said, enjoy this time while you have it, it reminded of some bad situations that involved those certain string of words, but, you know what that's all over now and I have you, so everything is great. Even at my most unfortunate day the mere presence of you means things won't get worse. Anarch, there's one thing I always noticed about you.

You have an amazing way with words. Brandon, you're all but three, but I forgot what they were because I spent all that time trying to find new ways of telling you that I love you. Anarch, really emotional and crying hard. You're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. Brandon, I hope so, otherwise you're going to have to get a refund. Anark, I didn't pay for your acceptance or your compassion. You just gave it to me, which makes it priceless. They both simultaneously tearing up and it eventually turns into a love scene.

Brandon's mom walks in, Julia, do have any idea how many chores you. Now what the hell is going on here? Ah, nah, that shit is not happening when I have my day off from work. You. Red dye. Aka Anark. Start helping me clean the dishes, if you're going to be staying here, start pulling your own weight. And as for you, boy, don't try to fuck your girlfriend in my Christ-Bless home and take out the goddamn trash.

Anark, yes ma'am. I'll get to it right away. Runs down the stairs, Brandon, disappointed tone, ugh. Okay, I'll take out the trash. Julia, first you're going to drop that attitude then, you're going to take out the trash, then after that you're clean in this pigsty you call your room. And, after that you've got to finish taking your GED test. Brandon, sarcastic tone, oh boy.

I can't wait. Julia, well, I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about it, now move your ass and get it done. Brandon and Anark spend a lot of time doing a shit ton of chores and varies housework then Brandon finishes his GED test and submits it. Four hours pass and the clock hits 6 p.m. Brandon and Anarch get back home and decide to go hang out at a local restaurant called Razors. Brandon, the food here is great but you'd think people wouldn't eat here because of the controversial name.

Anarch, people in this town think differently. Instead of forbidding anyone to talk about what happened, they encourage it, because it brings people together to discuss how they felt about the tragedy and how they can prevent another serious tragedy from happening. That's why everyone calls this town Razor Red. Think of it as a controversial conversation piece. Brandon, even with all this awareness the crime rate still sucks XD. African-American female waiter from the distance overhears their conversation and proceeds to go to their table, waiter, very energetic and upbeat tone amen. This town is full of so much hate and sorrow but, at the end of the day, you can count us to provide your get

Now may interest you in one of our fine as specials. Brandon, very satisfied tone I like you. You seem really confident under these conditions. Yes, I will take one your specials. Don't tell me what it is either I want to be surprised. Waiter, coming right up good sir. Brandon, man, why can't more people be like her? That waiter lives in the shittiest town on earth, but,

she came up to me and enlightened me with positive-ass vibes. Anark, ya sounds like upbeat Ayla, I underscore lo. I underscore lo, to me. Brandon, ala ha. You don't hear that name too often. Anarch, what about my name? I'm probably the only person in the world named Anark, and I'm also a part of the almost non-existent group of people who only have one name.

Brandon, yeah and I got the stereotypical white kid name. Anarch, I'm fucking Japanese, and my parents named me Anarch. Anarch out of all things. Brandon, wait, hold up. You're Japanese I literally couldn't tell because you look like every. every white emo girl. Anarch, oh ha ha ha because of my hair right. I'll have you know my black and red hair is natural. Brandon, how sway. That looks like bright red hair died put towards the end of solid black hair. Anarch, I swear to God I'm not lying. I know it's crazy but

maybe I'm a part of a secret race of fucking aliens or some shit because I've had this specific hair color for as long as I can remember. Brandon, did your parents have your hair color? Anarch, I wouldn't know because I've never met them I lived with foster parents for most of my life until I moved in with my supposed sister. Brandon, well, I can see why you're a skeptic because she definitely doesn't have your hair color. Anarch, the funny thing is, my foster parents told me she was my biological sister after they decided to do DNA tests on me, but honestly I think there was a mistake in the testing.

Brandon, there had to have been. Anyways, you forgot to order. Anark, nah, I'm come here a lot so Aela knows what I want. Brandon, intrigued tone well, what is it that you're getting? Ayla overhears the conversation again. Ayla, she deaden our finest razor blade burger and machete shake. Brandon, even the names of food are offensive towards the tragedy. I fucking love this place.

Anarch, get used to it, because this place is temporary heaven for most. By the way, there's something I need to do that's I told you I would. Pulls out phone, clicks on contacting and then clicks on a contact called Chris Winter, then calls, phone rings, Chris, picks up immediately look who finally decided to call. I suppose you want something. Anark, you're to break up with your sorry ass that's what. Chris, meh. You were always a frigid bitch anyways.

Cool break up with me and go fuck yourself. Anark, oh I will but, somebody's got to tell you something real quick. Hands the phone to Brandon. Brandon, convincing gay voice remember me, sweetie. Anark told me where you live and I'm bringing some of my black friends hope you don't mind. "'Christ, H-H-H-W-T-F. "'Drops phone, picks it back up. "'You-you stay the fuck away from me, why you-you-faggot?

"'Or I'll call the police. "'Brandon, gay voice K-stud, you just stay where you're at "'and I'll be there in five, by I-e-E. "'Cris hangs the fuck up quicker than shit "'and everyone in the little restaurant is dying laughing. "'Randum guy, I'm paying for their meal. "'I haven't laughed like that in a long time. "'Anark, OMG your humor got us free fucking food.'

Dude, you're fucking God. Brandon, bruh, this town is amazing and this restaurant is even better. Anarch, accepting, happy tone yes. Yes it is. They chat with the waiter and crack a few jokes then go home. By the time they go home it's super late and they end up passing on the living room couch listening to Lofi and playing an old S&E.S. Part 10. I'm glad to be working on it again.

The next day, Julia is shuffling through the living room. Julia, frustrated, impatient tone where the hell are my keys? I ain't got time for this shit. Julia, sees Anark and Brandon passed out on the couch eye. Wake up. Claps hands but Anark doesn't respond. Brandon, really tired eyes open and he grunts I don't want to, pulls pillow over his head. Julia, you just have to move for like three seconds, so I can look in that couch for my goddamn keys.

Brandon, Anarch, shakes her to wake her up. Anark, tired voice whatever it is. I ain't doing it gets comfortable again. Julia, hold on, I got this. Hears throat and screams the house is on fire and we gotta go now. Anarch, instantly springs off the couch, oh shit. grabs Brandon by the wrist and runs outside. Brandon, trying really hard not to laugh.

Anarch realizes how stupid she looks. Anarch, face palms hard and speaks with an angry, loud voice. Oh my God, I can't believe I fell for that. Julia goes outside. Julia, keep it down red dye. You're going to wake the neighbors up. Also move out of my way so I can go to work. Brandon, wait.

So were your keys in the couch? Julia looks back and starts talking whilst heading to her car. Julia, no, they were on the coffee table, climbs in the car and starts it up. Brandon, well, that was a waste of time. Anark, want to go back to sleep. Brandon, checks his phone. It's 4.35 in the morning. Wanna watch the sun rise.

Anark, laughs, br, you got me fucked up thinking I'm going to stay out here and watch the motherfucking sun rise at 435 in the goddamn morning. Brandon, a bit distracted but calm tone okay, becomes silent and walks alone out into the middle of his yard. Anark, fuck it. Wait for me. Rushes to the yard and chills outside with Brandon watching the sunrise. Some time passes and Anark is super tired. Anark, yawns I'm a pass out soon.

Make sure some crackhead doesn't kidnap me. Eyes slowly close. Gunshots emerge. Anark, eyes open quick as fuck oh fuck. Brandon, grabs Anarch and they head upstairs in the house. They're looking out the window. Brandon, WTF is going on out there. Anarch, IDK, but, I hope I doesn't involve us. Two people outside start shooting each other and one of them is yelling at the other to hand over their money, an arc, a robbery.

At this time in a fucking morning. Grabbs AR 15 from the closet fuck this. They're both going to die for being stupid and waking up the whole fucking neighborhood. Brandon, extremely tired and laughs a bit chill. There's no need for that, let's just go back to sleep. K. Anarch, I can't sleep under these conditions. Anarch's bloodshot, besides, you could always shoot them both and steal their shit. Anarch opens the window and takes aim, but the robber shoots the victim and steals their wallet. Anarch, shit. Crosses arms and frowns that was lame.

Makes excuses I let them get away. You saw that, right? Brandon, passed out. Anarch, Green. You saw that right? Green. Wake up. Brandon, appears to still be passed out but isn't. Anark, you know what, lays down next to Brandon, fuck it.

I sense a catchphrase XD, silence for five minutes. Brandon, talking with eyes closed I know you didn't actually let them get away. Anarch, you're gay. Brandon, that's not what Aubrey said. Anarch, slowly turns head and looks at Brandon with an angry look, but proceeds to smile and laughs quickly after. Anarch, laughing a bit you always have some smart-ass shit to say, don't you? Brandon, fake ancient Japanese accent.

That is the way of the samurai. Anarch, and there's your infamous humor. Brandon, more like notorious. I used to piss a lot of people off with my jokes. Anarch, fake aroused voice so you're like a comedian outlaw, moans that's hot. Brandon, shut up, scene transitions to them both back asleep and then walking back up to somebody ringing the doorbell. Anarch, tired and lazy, ugh, get the door plz-Z-Z-Z-ZZZ. Brandon, rock-paper scissors for it.

Anarch, fine. She loses damn it. Brandon, yes. Anarch, walk downstairs and opens the door, opens the door and sees Chris standing outside on the porch with a fedora and a smile. Chris, hello, Anarch, may I come in and have a chat with you? Anarch, angry at the sight of Chris, listen. Aik what the fuck you're doing here but, you better leave before you lose the privilege of leaving alive.

Chris, now calm down. I just came to tell you that I'm moving in this neighborhood and I plan on getting getting to know the neighbors, which includes your boyfriend who claim to be gay in an attempt of sabotaging my relationship. Keep in mind Brandon's upstairs window was left open from Anark when she was trying to shoot from there, which means Brandon can hear the conversation. Anarch, fuck off okay. Nobody wants to talk to you, so leave.

Chris, whatever bitch. Tell Brandon he's a coward for me, would you, gunshot is heard and his fedora goes off his head. He turns and sees Brandon in an upstairs window with a gun and his eyes activated. Chris, smiles and activates eyes with a blue vector scale and a solid black background, then walks away after waving goodbye. Brandon's bloodshot, shocked he's a fucking vectorian. Anark rushes upstairs and finds Brandon angry with a rifle sitting next to him. Anark, hey, nice shot.

Brandon, eyes still activated we have to find out which house that son of a bitch is moving into. Anark, nah, he won't be much trouble there's two of us and one of him, plus he's a pussy and he doesn't want smoke with anybody because he's all talk. Brandon, eyes deactivate perhaps, but let's keep an eye for him just in case. K, Anarch, okay, but, just know when you took that shot and knocked off his fedora, I saw him piss himself, then he tried smiling and waving to make himself look tough. Brandon, figures. I'd be scared too if I had to waste some more money investing in a military helmet for the next time we meet. Anarch, I have armor piercing rounds in my ammo bag somewhere, so that's just a wasteful investment.

Brandon, hook me up. Anark, tosses ammo bag they should be somewhere in there, just dig around. Brandon finds what he's looking for and prepares a specific load out for his next encounter with Chris Winter. Anark, hey. Aren't you worried about Alex intervening? Brandon, packing bag with miscellaneous ammo and gun as long as it's a self-defense issue, he won't have to. Besides I'm going to wait for his move, then destroy him. Eyes flicker between activated and deactivated. Anark, he doesn't try anything. Brandon, serious tone if he does it's going to be a long ride through hell. The scene cuts to black then shows a man preparing a bomb in his garage and after it's complete, the person smiles and wraps in wrapping paper and put a gift bow on it. Part 11. Later that day,

Brandon and Anarch are upstairs silently staring at the AC in the room. Brandon, have you wondered what it would be like as a tiny person inside the vents of an AC? Anarch, that would be cool A.F. literally Brandon's phone interrupts the chill-ass moment with a notification Brandon's phone you got mail Brandon checks phone text reads check the basement fag from an unknown number Anarch curious what did you get Brandon sarcastic semi-serious tone oh that's cute Anarch what's cute Brandon you and this message from some unknown number prick who I suspect to be Chris Anarch or voice changes to a frustrated one and great anyways what does it say? Brandon, reads text out loud, check the basement fag. Anark, that doesn't sound good.

Brandon, I know but, do you think I should check it out? Anark, fuck that, let's bail. Brandon, grabs pistol from ammo bag, aide, let's go. Meanwhile, Chris is outside the house waiting. Chris, looking at his phone, one of them should be investigating the basement by now, guess I should set the bomb off. Pulls detonator from pocket and presses the button, but nothing happens. Chris, visibly angry oh come on just blow up all reed gets punched in the head and knocked to the ground brandon grabs chris by the shirt collar while smiling with a sadistic grin brandon looks like someone didn't heed my warning pulls pistol from the back waist and puts it to chris's head chris slowly begins to smile go ahead do it or are you afraid alex will intervene brandon releases chris w t f how do you know about chris little do you know i've been watching you since the first day you arrived When you first met Anarch, I was there. When you got shot and was sent to the hospital, I was there.

I merely played the role as a gullible yet suspicious boyfriend of Anark, so you would think you'd have no reason to worry about me. While I did have feelings for Anarch before your arrival, it doesn't really matter anymore because the only reason I'd even consider dating that bitch is because I've seen her eyes beforehand. Brandon, silent for a few minuettes. If, you were playing a role to deceive me. Then why the fuck did you stop?

Chris, the Victorians' own Razor Red Kid. You've assaulted and kidnapped two of our jury members, low-rank human Victorians that don't have the vector-scale eyes, and your girlfriend killed another. Me telling you my place in your life won't matter when you're already a dead man. I Christopher Eugene Winter am the highest-ranking executioner of all Victorians and I sentence you to death. Points at Brandon dramatically, Brandon, trying not to laugh but fails miserably Eugene. His middle name is Eugene.

Rolling on the ground laughing. Chris, oh, MFG, this is serious. Stop fucking laughing, I am going to kill you. At this point both Brandon and his bloodshot are laughing. Chris, I ain't got time for this, pulls out mini-side that enlarges when he flicks it with his wrist. Brandon, still laughing, oh no. Eugene's angry. Spare me, oh merciful Eugene, for I know not of what I'm doing.

X-D., Chris, gets insecure and lets guard down, stop it. There's nothing wrong with my middle. name okay, sad face. Brandon, gee man, I'm sorry, perhaps that was a bit rude of me, by the way. Suck it, bitch. Shoots Chris in a head fucking cunt, don't ever fuck with me. Executioner my dick, bitch. Didn't I tell you to keep yourself out of trouble?

Guess it's in your nature, huh? Brandon, turns around and points a gun at Alexander Elligos. Alex, if you're not going to use, I suggest putting it away. After all, you're not in gun a position to threaten others after you're, you've killed both a fellow agent of mine, and a high-ranking victory in executioner. Brandon, wait, he's also a fucking CIA agent. Well, that explains a lot. Well, fuck, I guess I'm going to prison, huh?

Alex, the only federal crime you've really committed is threatening an officer, which we can forget about, as for the death, well. He was going to kill you first, at least that is what I saw when I arrived and lucky for you there's not a lot of active witnesses, so it's anyone's guess on what happened. Brandon, why are you defending me? He's on your side and I killed him. Chris, yeah, that's true but, you're one of U.S. Remove sunglasses to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes.

Brandon, this has to be one of the craziest fucking days I've experienced so far. Anarch appears behind Brandon while Alex is distracted in the distance with making space in his trunk for Chris's body. Anarch, and it's about to get crazier considering there's a bomb in our basement that could go off at any time because Chris is a fucking notices Chris is on. the ground dead OMG, you killed Chris. High five. Raises hand up offering a high five to Brandon. Brandon, eagerly accepts Anark high five and slaps Anarch's hand hard. Alex, a hem.

Brandon and Anarch turn towards him this body isn't going to move itself, so I recommend you two morons help get this body to the agency headquarters before someone notices. Brandon, excited no fucking way, we get to go to the CIA headquarters. Alexander, no, unfortunately you can't, but you can help dispose. the body, which might get you a souvenir if you're luck. Brandon, all man. Wait, how am I going to get away with killing one of your agents if you're bringing him to your agency's HQ?

Alexander, I'll tell them he died in an assassination. They'll have to believe me because I'm the head director. Brandon, what if some news journalist catches wind of this? Alexander, laughs my boy, nobody knows how to cover shit up quite like the CIA, besides even if some schmuck journalist finds out will pay M to STFU about it and if they don't. Then will Houdini their ass and make M disappear, you understand. Brandon, okay. They load the body into Alex's car and wave goodbye as he leaves. Anark, hey, what should we do about the bomb? Brandon, well, it hasn't exploded yet. Which means it should be safe enough for us to take

to our range and blow some shit up with. Anarch, I think I have a better idea. Seen transitions to Brandon and Anark outside of a game stop wearing black bandanas at 2 a.m. Brandon, what exactly are we doing at a game stop at 2 o'clock in the fucking morning, explain. Anarch, the sold me a broken copy of Grand Theft Auto San Andreas a long time ago and never gave me a refund. Brandon, absolute scum. Anarch, I know, which is why I brought this, grabs bomb from the trunk of Brandon's car. Brandon, that's a dud though. Anarch, evil laugh, yeah, it was a dud. Then I did some modifications. Brandon, what if Alex finds out, he found out about our farmhouse interrogation so I wouldn't be surprised if he's watching now.

Anarch, all the surveillance cameras are broken in this area, and not even Alex would be crazy enough to stalk you at this time of night. Brandon, I don't think we should do this, though. That's a perfectly good bomb and it would a shame to let it go to waste to some lousy, cheapskate, game stop. Anark, jumps on Brandon and grabs holds onto his shoulders, then carry me to the car and let's go home, Romeo. Brandon, surprised I honestly thought you'd be upset with me for convincing you not to blow up the game stop. Anark, nah. I only really came here to spend more time with you and this bomb gave me an excuse to do that. Brandon, you could have just asked.

You live in the same house as me for fuck sakes. Anarch, I know. By the way your mom is chill a. F for letting me live with you. Brandon, true. So, what do you want to do now? Anarch, umum. Hmm, seen transitions to them at the house staring into the vents of Brandon's AC in his room. Anarch, do you think our eyes have the power to shrink us down so we can just live inside the AC?

Anarch's bloodshot, they could but, neither of you have half the experience with your eyes to pull that off, sorry. Anarch, well, what can we do with my eyes, right now? Anarch's bloodshot, let's see, Anarch you have enhanced senses and Brandon has more experience than you, which means he should have unlocked the ability to see through solid objects by now. Brandon, like walls, doors, or what? Brandon's bloodshot, it says here you can choose between thin walls or fabrics of cloth currently, but your choices will very soon. Anark, feeling sad and insecure great, now he's not going to be faithful to me.

Brandon, you thought, your only formidable competition is Aubrey but, all she has is looks. If you want my honest opinion, you're way more attractive than her. Anark, then why do you always stare at her when she's around and ignore me, sad face? Brandon, because I'm a fucking pervert, and I want to fuck every thought I meet. Anarch, zero underscore zero that's honest a F. Brandon, yeah, it's honest because I wouldn't want to lie to the person I love who is not Aubrey. Anarch, I get it, I'm sorry. I just get jealous sometimes okay.

Brandon's bloodshot, ugh, just fuck already. Anarch's bloodshot, I know right, why do they have to be so deep and personal about everything? One personal conversation later, Brandon, drowsy voice I think I'm gonna, pass. is out. Anark, grabs onto Brandon arm whilst laying on his bed next to him. Anark, half asleep, half awake voice. Oh. Okay, Brandon a notification on his phone. Brandon's phone, you got mail. It reads, I miss you, sent from Amy. Seen slowly cuts to black. As soon as the first phrases were spoken, Clara opened her eyes wide and began to scream. The voice that emerged from her throat was more like the growl of a wild beast than the cry of a 16-year-old girl. She began to to shake, to convulse, to foam at the mouth, to insult, and in the middle of what seemed like a terrible hysterical attack, the young girl tore her clothes and destroyed one of the wooden columns that adorned her bed. The nuns couldn't believe it, and while one of them kept reading, the other ran to hold Clara's arms. We start. Sir, I just committed a father's worst,

okay, I just shot my daughter in the head, my son in the head. What is your address? Put misery, Okay. Where are you? I'm going to shoot myself. Sir, are you armed? The gun. Now yes, I do. Okay. Recently, thanks to a video made by Dross, the case of Michael Leck has gone viral, a man who, believing that his two children were possessed, ended their lives with a shot to the head. This was a case dated 2014, yet to this day, it remains deeply disturbing due to two key points, the first is that this case was handled under the strictest secrecy. In fact, the only things that have leaked are his photo, his children's photos, and his final sentence. And the second point is that this man was only sentenced to five years in prison, a truly low

sentence for the crime he committed. For that reason, now that this case has resurfaced, it has reopened old wounds, wounds that society believed had been closed in the Middle Ages but that have remained open and silent to this day. And these are demonic possessions. According to certain religions, a demonic possession is a form of violence that occurs when an evil spirit enters a person's body and forces them to speak and behave not as they would want, but as the spirit dictates. In other words, the person's true personality disappears to make way for another.

The oldest references to possession date back to the time of the Sumerians. They've even found tablets written in Cuneiform script containing prayers to different gods asking for protection against demons or even for the liberation of their souls because they were under demonic power. In ancient times, it was believed that demons were responsible for making people sick, both physically and mentally. Before there were scientific explanations for headaches, stomachaches, or nervous tics, everything was directly linked to the demonic. With the arrival of Christianity, the vision of demonic possession took on a more defined form. The first Christian to study possessions was Saint Hippolytus, who claimed that possessed people

were easy to identify because they had marks on their bodies inflicted by the, himself, marks that would later be popularly known as the claw of the, something described in the Malius Malfikarum of the 15th century. In that book, just as we saw in the cases of the Witches of North Berwick or Zugramurdi, they sought to identify people who had made a pact with the underscore underscore, or were under his influence. But what was he saw in the cases? But what was a What concerns us today is not how to detect a witch, but how to identify someone who is possessed. This book listed the exact characteristics a possessed person had to meet in order to be subjected to an exorcism, and some of these were, rolling the eyes back constantly, possessing

Xeneglossi, which is the ability to speak languages one has never learned, foreign languages like Polish, German, glossolalia, or speaking in dead languages. If your skin presents demographism, clear marks, priests would automatically think it was demonic writing, personality changes, convulsions, violent attacks, sudden mood swings and voice changes to very deep tones when seeing sacred symbols, gaining knowledge one has never had access to, and the seventh point, the appearance of bruises, bleeding wounds, and scars out of nowhere. For a person to become possessed, several factors must be present. But according to the Catholic religion, there are only three major points that one must avoid at all costs to prevent

possession. Not being baptized, if you are not baptized, supposedly God cannot protect you. Lack of faith, a person who doesn't follow God's path, doesn't pray to him, or doesn't show loyalty to him does not deserve his protection. Making a pact with the underscore underscore, this third point is broad. Making a pact directly with the, underscore underscore, invoking a demon, giving up your soul, this is only the tip of the iceberg. Making a pact also a implies practicing paganism, performing rituals with candles, etc., etc. According to recent articles from Catholic priests, this last point is the main reason why many people today become possessed. Next, we will explore three truly unusual cases of demonic possession,

three cases, some of which do not fit this classification at all. This story begins with the birth of a girl in 1890 in a small South African town whose name remains unknown to this day. Apparently, her parents couldn't support her, so they handed her over to the nuns of the mission of St. Michael, hoping they could give her a better future. The nuns, as soon as they received her, baptized her and gave her a new name, Clara Germana Seal. She was just a newborn, but they already had great hopes for her. They taught her to read, to write, to translate from Latin, to pray, and of course, to preach

the word of God. The nun's dream was that little Clara would someday become a mother superior. And apparently, they did their job so well that by the time she turned 16, Clara was one of the most beloved and respected novices in the congregation. She was kind, respectful, and very devout. When someone had a problem, they knew Clara would always be there to help. However, they quickly realized that something was very strange about this girl. As mentioned earlier, the young girl knew how to translate directly from Latin and even Greek,

which wasn't unusual, it was a common type of study among the clergy. But without anyone ever teaching her, Clara spoke perfect German, Russian, Polish, French, and many other languages. At first, it seemed she possessed a prodigious mind, but things quickly took a very dark turn. The presence of religious symbols and objects sometimes made her feel deeply uncomfortable. And when she entered the chapel and dipped her fingers into the holy water font, she always pulled them out completely dry, something that didn't happen when she dipped her hands into river water.

So, on the night of August 20, 1906, while Clara slept peacefully in her bed, two of the nuns who cared for her decided to sit at her feet and recite biblical passages together. They believed that if the, underscore, underscore, was stalking her, this would drive him away. But what they got was the opposite effect. As soon as the first phrases were spoken, Clara opened her eyes wide and began to scream. The voice that came out of her throat was more like the growl of a wild beast than the cry of a sixteen-year-old girl. She began to shake, to convulse, to foam at the mouth, to insult, and in the middle of what

seemed like a terrible hysteria attack, the young girl tore her clothes and destroyed one of the wooden columns that adorned her bed. The nuns couldn't believe it. While one of them kept reading, the other ran to hold Clara's arms. No animal had ever made such sounds, not even the lions of East Africa or the fiercest bulls. Sometimes it sounded like a real herd of wild beasts orchestrated by Satan himself had formed an infernal choir. Testimony from one of the nuns of the mission of St. Michael.

For days, the mission studied Clara Germana Seale's case. They watched her day and night and read. realized that at certain times of day, her body acted very strangely. Her gestures changed. Her knowledge. Her voice. She seemed like a completely different person. And here I'll mention some of the strangest things this girl did.

For one, Clara seemed to know the darkest secrets of everyone around her. She told one of the nuns more than once that she knew they were watching her. She knew who was doing it and who had ordered it. She said names, she said dates, she said hours, and everything she said could be confirmed. At times, she had terrible fits of rage, attacks in which she hit anyone trying to restrain her with supernatural strength. She even managed to throw two nuns across the room and bit one of them, and this bite was especially strange because, when she pulled away, it left the mark of a serpent. But the most shocking thing was that when Clara calmed down and came back to her senses, she didn't remember anything at all.

And finally, we come to one of the most unusual abilities this girl had, apparently, when she fell asleep, her body levitated up to five feet in the air. Sometimes she floated horizontally, and her dress showed no alteration whatsoever. Other times she floated vertically, something that terrified anyone near her, since at any moment she could open her eyes, and suffer a new attack. Because of all this, on September 2nd, 1906, Reverend Erasmus decided to confess the young girl. To be continued. But, at any moment she could open her eyes, and suffer another attack because of all this, on September 2nd, 1906, Reverend Erasmus, decided to confess to the young girl,

and she, without needing any interrogation, confessed, that at the age of four she gave her soul to the underscore underscore, according to texts written by the nuns of the mission, the underscore underscore, appeared before the girl and offered her all the knowledge of the world, in exchange for her soul. However, according to later, interpretations, this is not entirely true, as it is said that Clara, at four years old, attended a voodoo ritual and the spirit, invoked there decided to stay with, the girl. Whatever the true version of the story may be, what we do know.

is that on September 10th of that same year, Reverend Erasmus, with the help of the mission, director, Reverend Manswaiti, carried out a first exorcism to free the soul of, the young girl. This first exorcism was, conducted in the Mission Chapel in front of, 170 witnesses, all of whom claimed, the young girl was able to levitate. Not only that, but a superhuman force, took over her body and forced her to, ripped the Bible from Reverend Erasmus's hands, an attempt to strangle Reverend Manswady. This is according to an article published in the Catholic Digest. The rites began at 6 in the morning, paused at, noon, resumed at 3, and ended at midnight.

After that, there was silence. Supposedly, Clara had been freed, forever, but in January 1907, she suffered a second relapse. According to the, reverence, it wasn't because. they had, performed the exorcism poorly, nor because they, failed to follow up. They said this girl, was not watched or controlled, but rather, that she had made another pact with the, underscore underscore. Her feminine nature pushed her to sin, to always follow the path of the evil one, and that's exactly what caused Clara, to become possessed again. So, this time, the reverence waited several months, to perform a second exorcism. In fact, they waited,

from January until April 24 to carry out one final right, which supposedly ended Clara Germana, Seale's Nightmare for Good. This may be the most famous, sinister, and well-documented case in the history, of demonology. And now, we are, about to learn the real story behind, the 1982 movie The Entity. Because yes, Carla Moran existed, and her real, name was Doris Bither. In 1974, the Psychiatry Department, at the University of California received a report that a widow and mother of, for children was suffering strange attacks. Apparently, this woman claimed that unexplainable things were happening, in her home. It all started with, objects disappearing, lights burning out, a TV turning on and off by itself, knocks through the walls, shadows, projected everywhere. At first, it all seemed like events that could be explained, rationally.

But what she described was that a presence had begun to torment her in every way. Doris reported that when she got into bed, an invisible entity would sexually assault her, against her will, and not just that, but it would also beat her brutally, and grope her private parts. Initially, the psychiatry department was certain that the woman must have been suffering from some kind of mental disorder. She was a widow, so perhaps she had PTSD. They conducted several tests and also discovered that she had been abused as a child. So, this trauma could also, have led to a psychiatric disorder. But when Doris showed the wounds, covering her entire body, the hypotheses vanished. The woman had enormous handprints all over her body, bruises,

bleeding wounds, scars, and her genital area, which was inspected by several doctors, showed clear signs of what Doris was describing. So, parapsychologists Barry Taff, and Carrie Gaynor quickly decided to take the lead on the case. The experts, interviewed the woman's children, and all of their testimonies were exactly the same. They claimed to have seen, their mother being brutally beaten, by an invisible entity. They heard her scream, saw her thrash around, and saw terrible bruises form on her skin. The expert said that every time they, tried to help her, the entity wouldn't allow it. It would push them, throw them through the air, sland doors shut, even blow out all the, light bulbs. With this information,

Taff and Gainer, decided to subject Doris to multiple hypnosis sessions. They needed to rule out any real signs of mental illness. After more than a month of various tests, hypnosis, therapy, they concluded that this woman was mentally sound. So, they decided to move to field study. They gathered a team of psychiatrists, psychologists, parapsychologists, and all of them, went to the Bither family's house, with a very simple plan. First, gather testimonies and identify the areas. of the house with the most paranormal activity. Once they found the hotspots, they installed,

recorders, motion sensors, and all kinds, of devices to detect evidence, of paranormal activity. The third step was to constantly monitor, Doris Bither. They monitored her heart rate, placed cameras around her, and supposedly, never left her alone for a second. And the results were truly terrifying. During their stay in the house, the researchers saw strange orbs flying over, Doris's body, orbs the cameras captured, as arcs of light. But that, of course, was not the strangest event they witnessed. On the first night, while everyone was, in the room with Doris, one of the parapsychologists, went into the hallway to talk, with Doris's eldest son. They were, talking quietly when suddenly, they heard a terrible noise.

coming, from the kitchen. Then everyone present, left Doris alone and ran to the kitchen. There they found a cabinet wide open, and a pot on the floor. Just as they were about to pick it up, Doris began to scream. Everyone ran to her and found her on the floor, completely terrified, claiming that the monster, the entity, the being, was right in front of her face. One of the witnesses quickly pulled out, a camera and took a photo, an image, in which Doris' body is in focus, but her face is blurry. According to them, the entity was directly in front of her face. Doris was convinced her attacker, was a man, or at least had a male body, but was sometimes

helped by other creatures, that held her down while he abused her. In fact, on one of the nights when, researchers witnessed the attacks, they saw bruises, Finger marks, even, bite marks appear on her skin, marks, that she said were left by the entities, helping her main attacker. Several psychiatrists tried to treat, Doris without knowing what to do, so they referred her case to, the Catholic Church. But the church, couldn't do anything for her either. Catholic priests said Doris wasn't, fully possessed, but in the process of possession.

She was a very strong woman, so the demon trying to possess her, hadn't succeeded yet. It was doing everything it could to break her will, beating her, dominating her. What they were able to determine was that the entity was a demon, called an incubus, a type of demon, obsessed with harassing women. And it would not stop until, it completely destroyed Doris's will. Even knowing what it was, they, couldn't help her. So, this woman, was passed from psychiatrist, to therapist to religious figure, four months, even years. Finally, she had enough. She packed her bags and moved with her family, to Texas.

And from that point on, no one ever heard from her again. So we don't know if she ever got rid of it, or if she died a victim, of that demon. Many criminals have claimed, to be possessed by the, underscore, underscore, to reduce their sentences. In 1976, David Berkowitz killed seven people and seriously injured, six others, claiming that the, underscore, made him do it. However, no one in his life ever saw proof of that. But there are other truly terrifying cases where many believe that underscore underscore, was involved. Like what happened in Osset, England, in 1972. Michael and Christine Taylor, were a couple beloved by their neighbors.

They were generous, attentive, the kind, of perfect couple everyone thought, would last forever. One day, the couple heard about a Christian prayer group led by Mary, Robinson, a woman said to have been touched by the hand of God. So they attended one meeting, and were immediately hooked. But ever since they began going, Michael started acting very strangely. He had trouble entering the room, where meetings were immediately hooked. readings were held, showed a version, to religious symbols, rarely read the Bible, barely interacted with others.

Christine began to think that what was wrong with her husband was, that he felt guilty, for having an affair with Mary Robinson. One day, she confronted the supposed lovers. But they both denied everything. Mary swore to God she had nothing, going on with Michael. But instead, of defending himself, Michael lost. control completely. He shouted obscenities, flailed his arms, with uncontrolled rage, his eyes, filled with hate. Everyone was truly terrified. After that, the congregation closely observed Michael's

behavior, and concluded he was in the midst, of a possession. That's when a priest stepped in and performed an exorcism that lasted, over 24 hours. They extracted 40 minor demons, from his body, but one superior demon, refused to leave. It was a demon, with a thirst for blood and flesh. So they warned Michael to be careful, to call on God whenever he felt, that rage rising within him. Unfortunately, no one was prepared, for what would happen that same night. As soon as Michael entered his home, he murdered his wife in the most, brutal and bloody way imaginable, completely destroyed her. Then he killed their dog.

Police found him hours later, naked and covered in blood, wandering the streets of Osset. In court, he was acquitted, after pleading temporary insanity. But once he was out, no priest, wanted to perform another exorcism. They washed their hands of him, and forgot him. He continued to commit all kinds of crimes until he was finally, committed to a psychiatric institution, where no therapist ever managed to truly understand what was wrong with him. But now it's your turn. What do you think about demonic possession?

Is it real? And if so, what do you think the true cause is? Asterisk Asterisk. End. Sheila Sharp asked her mother for permission to sleep over at her friend Jamie Seale's house, located 15 feet south of Cabin 28. She knew the boy's parents, had spoken with them many times, so she gave her permission, unaware that those would be the last words they would ever exchange.

We begin when someone goes to the cinema and, before the screening starts, reads the words, based on true events. Somehow, they try to mentally prepare themselves, believing what they're about to see is pure exaggeration, a slightly distorted version of reality. However, when the strangers premiered in 2008, the audience was in shock, because the images we all saw, those bloody, stressing, tension-filled images, were actually only a small part of the real events that inspired Bertino. Just like what happened with the second installment of the film, released on June 1st, each part of the saga has been inspired by different events, but at the same time, very similar ones, gambling, Charles Manson, and unsolved crimes. But let's slowly discover how these three

elements intertwine and create the three characters that still give many of us nightmares to this day. The 60s and 70s were years of student revolts and rebellion against society, both in the United States and Europe. Movements arose against the tensions between powers during the Cold War. There were also many protests against the Vietnam War. What best defined those times was the so-called flower power, a symbol of passivity and nonviolence. As we all know, those years were very complicated for youth, full of excess, drugs, alcohol, and of course, so-called free love. But this utopian idea of human freedom also had a dark side, it seemed that absolutely everything was allowed. A series of violent events began happening all over the world, and the most shocking

came from Charles Manson and his family. They had a very particular way of seeing life and handling different aspects of it, such as romantic relationships, business, or housing. However, what interests us here is not the cult itself, nor its story, but its main pastime, the creepy crawlings. Creepy crawling is the name Charles Manson gave to a completely made-up game whose sole purpose was to scare strangers in their own homes. Manson and his followers would observe certain families for several weeks, and when the time was right, they would sneak into their homes in the middle of the night, moving all the

furniture around, placing chairs on top of tables, TVs upside down, and sofas against the wall. The intention of the game was to disorient the victims. When the family woke up and saw everything, they would feel pure terror, terror at the thought that strangers had entered their house during the night, unseen, and had moved everything. Of course, 80% of the time, since there were no forced doors or windows, people assumed it was the work of spirits and asked the church to bless the house. But what happened if someone woke up? What happened when the crawlers were discovered? The victims lost the game, because the crawlers ended their lives. Throughout history, this game hasn't been widely publicized, as Manson's cult was

initially considered peaceful. However, it is known that around 1965, after falling into severe financial trouble, the Manson family began committing atrocious crimes. A clear example is the murder of Sharon Tate in 1969, which we discussed in a previous video. The motive for that crime remains a mystery to this day. Some say the reason was that the house once belonged to a music producer who refused to record an album for Charles Manson. Others say it was revenge against Roman Polanski, Sharon Tate's husband, for directing Rosemary's baby. And finally, there's the version claiming that this crime was a creepy crawling that went wrong.

Sadly, we'll never know the truth, Tate wasn't in the wrong house. The terrible crime mentioned above wasn't the only inspiration for Brian Bertino in creating the strangers, but also a personal experience he spoke about in several interviews. When I was a child, we lived in an isolated house at the end of the street, in the middle of nowhere. One night, when my parents were out, someone knocked on the front door, and my little sister went to answer. At the door were strangers asking for someone we didn't know.

Later, we found out these people were knocking on random doors, and if no one answered, they would enter the house. This is the question the long-haired woman asks when she knocks on the victim's door. With all that I've told you, we've now woven the plot of the first film, a young couple, likely inspired by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate, a house in the middle of nowhere, and a macabre game directly inspired by the creepy crawlings. But what inspired the second installment? Let's find out.

Why are you doing this to us? Because you were home. In the early 1980s, the town of Keddy, California, was referred to by many as the place where the American dream went to die. After a severe economic downturn in the mid-70s, it became more of a place to flee than to live. Gradually, people abandoned their homes and fled to neighboring towns, leaving behind just a few families. KETI became a very quiet place, the kind where you could leave your front door open at night because you knew all your neighbors and weren't afraid of break-ins. In the 70s, many businesses had to close due to the economic crisis. However, the Ketty Resort refused to shut down.

To survive, it had to lower its prices, which turned out to be a great idea. Soon, its cabins filled with low-income families escaping the big cities. For the Sharp family, the neighborhood was a dream come true, peace, good neighbors, space to run and live. Even though their new house was small, they had escaped a horrible life. In 1979, after years of abuse from a violent husband, Glenna, Sue Sharp packed up and escaped with her five children. At first, she didn't know what to do, she just wanted to get away from her husband. So, she traveled around for a while, staying with friends, family, and neighbors. Eventually, she settled in Quincy in a trailer owned by her brother, though she knew it was too small for raising five kids.

She had no money to buy a house. The government gave her $250 monthly, and because she was married to a retired Marine, she received a pension. With this money, she paid rent and fed her kids with food stamps. She also received help from social services. Her luck changed in November 1980 when she saw an end. ad in the newspaper for the Keddy Resort, spacious cabins in the middle of nowhere at affordable prices. The price perfectly matched her budget, so she called the manager, and within an hour, she and her children moved into cabin number 28, a beautiful three-bedroom home.

Johnny, 15, settled into an unfinished room on the ground floor. Rick, 10, and Greg, 5, shared a room at the front of the house near the living room. Sue and her daughter Tina, 12, shared the rear bedroom by the kitchen. Initially, the Sharps weren't living with Sheila, 14, because she was in Oregon, waiting to give birth. She originally intended to keep her baby, but the family couldn't support another child, so she gave the baby up for adoption and returned in February 1981. From then on, Sheila shared a room with Tina, and Sue slept on the living room sofa. Sue was always described as a very reserved woman who kept her thoughts and concerns to herself.

Apart from the pension, her only income came from a job placement program. She attended entrepreneur courses, hoping to start a business to support her family. But those who knew her there didn't speak well of her, they said she refused to talk, didn't share notes, and wouldn't even say hello. Her strange behavior didn't stop her from rebuilding her romantic life. Since leaving James Sharp, she had several partners, though none treated her well. There were rumors of abuse, drugs, and alcohol. One relationship we know for certain was with a man named D.

Apparently, they dated for a long time, and their last date was two days before the tragic event. On the night of Saturday, April 11th, Sheila Sharp asked her mother for permission to sleep over at Jamie Seale's house, 15 feet south of Cabin 28. She knew the boy's parents and had spoken to them many times, so her mother agreed, unaware that these would be their final words. At 7.30 the next morning, Sheila awoke to the sound of dishes and the smell of coffee. The seals were devout Catholics, and as every Sunday, they were going to Massachusetts Sheila had two options, go with them or return home. She chose the first, but didn't have proper clothes, so at 7.45, she went to cabin 28.

When she opened the door, she was met with a scene that would mark her for life. Before her lay the bodies of her mother, her brother John, and her friend Dana. All she could do was scream, scream with all her might and run to cabin 27. From there, with the Seale family, they went to cabin 25 to alert the owners, who called the Plumaz County Sheriff. When police arrived, Sheila and Zeta Seal went back to cabin 27, and Sheila remembered her younger brother's Greg and Rick had had a sleepover with their friend Justin, 12. Fearing the worst, they knocked on the boy's bedroom window, and thankfully, the three children were unharmed. But Tina was missing. They searched the entire cabin and found no one

else. Inside Cabin 28, investigators found two kitchen knives, one with a slightly bent blade. They also found a hammer, a pellet gun, and a pellet on the living room floor, suggesting it was used during the attacks. The three victims had their hands and feet bound with medical tape and extension cords. Sheila said there was no medical tape in the house, which indicates the attackers brought it with them. When the autopsies were revealed, the world was shocked, the victims had been tortured for ten hours. Sue Sharp's body was found under a yellow blanket, wearing a robe but no underwear. Her underwear had been balled up and stuffed in her mouth with medical tape. All the victims had been stabbed and beaten, but John's injuries were different,

he had also been strangled. Two more details shocked police. First, there was a large amount of blood in the living room where the bodies were found, but a few drops were on Tina's bed, suggesting she may have been sexually assaulted before being abducted. Second, nothing of value was missing, so robbery was not the motive. However, some furniture had been strangely rearranged, suggesting the family may have been victims of creepy crawling. The Plumaz County Sheriff's Office interrogated everyone with information. Two key witnesses stood out, young Justin Eason and his stepfather Martin Smart. At first, Justin said he didn't see or hear anything that night.

Later, he changed his story, saying he had dreamed of two men attacking the family and taking Tina. Then he said he actually saw everything but was too scared to act. His testimony was vague but used to create two composite sketches of the supposed killers. Martin Smart's testimony made even less sense. He claimed to be with his friend Severin John, Bo, Bubade, whom he had met two weeks earlier at a VA hospital where both were supposedly being treated for PTSD after serving in Vietnam. Smart said that on April 11, he, his wife Marilyn, and Bo tried to convince Sue to join them for drinks, but she declined.

So the three went to a bar where Smart complained about the music and later called back to complain again. Marilyn did some cleaning, then went to bed. After that, Smart and Bo returned to the bar. The sheriff considered the two men prime suspects. It seemed strange the criminals spared the room where Smart steps unslept, and strange they let three children live who might have seen or heard everything. But a polygraph test concluded they weren't guilty. However, Marilyn Smart's later statements shocked everyone,

she saw her husband burning clothes in the fireplace the day after the murders. He gave no explanation. She described him as extremely violent and said he deeply hated John Sharp, possibly explaining the strangulation. In April 1984, three years later, part of a skull was found 29 miles away, near the forest. 18 in Bat County, the discovery prompted police to conduct an exhaustive search of the entire area. Several more bones and part of Tina Sharp's jaw were found. But now it's your turn to share your opinion on this case and who you think committed the crime. End. It was a typical Sunday night,

and I was out driving to make some extra cash using DoorDash and Uber Eats. A couple of my friends had shown me the ropes on how to use both apps simultaneously to maximize earnings. It's a little trick that's genius if you think about it. One of the biggest headaches with food delivery is the downtime, those long stretches where you're just driving around, waiting for an order to pop up. By running both apps, you eliminate most of that idle time and can keep the money flowing. That night, I have been working for a few hours, hopping between restaurants and homes, when I got a request for a small order from a nearby restaurant. The destination was pretty far, though, and I'll be honest, those orders suck. You end up driving a ridiculous distance

for what usually turns out to be a measly payout. But this one seemed promising, the payout was unusually high, which meant the tip had to be substantial. So, I figured it was worth the trip and accepted the order. I grabbed the food and started the 25-minute drive to the listed address. About halfway there, while driving down a quiet side street, my phone rang. The caller ID showed it was from the app, so I assumed it was the customer. When I answered, a man's voice confirmed he was the one who placed the order. He apologized profusely, explaining that he had accidentally ordered to his friend's address

instead of his own. He said his house was just around the corner and began giving me directions. Just make a couple of turns, he instructed, and I'll be waiting outside. I asked for his exact address to be safe, but he brushed it off, saying, don't worry, I'll be out front when you get here. Then he hung up. This whole exchange felt weird. It's not exactly normal for people to give vague directions and then abruptly end the call. But I was already halfway there, and his story about mixing up addresses seemed plausible enough. Plus, I'm not someone who scares easily. I'm a big guy, and honestly, I don't often feel threatened.

So, I shrugged it off and kept driving. I followed his instructions, making the turns he described, and soon found myself on a dimly lit neighborhood street. The road dead ended a few houses down, with a, no outlet sign marking the end. I felt confident I had followed his directions correctly, so I pulled over and grabbed my phone to call him back. Just as I was scrolling through my recent calls, a loud knock on my driver's side window startled me. I'm not usually jumpy, but the sudden sound made me flinch. Embarrassed by my reaction, I rolled down the window slightly to greet the man. But as soon

as I got a look at him, something felt off. His face was blank, completely emotionless. There wasn't even a hint of friendliness or gratitude that you'd expect from someone eagerly awaiting their food delivery. I instinctively let go of the window button and immediately immediately locked my doors. The man's expression didn't change, but he quickly raised a gun, pointing it directly at my head through the crack in the window. My heart felt like it stopped. Behind him, I could hear more voices approaching.

Within seconds, a group of people surrounded my car, tugging at the door handles and yelling at each other. I couldn't make out their words in the chaos, but it was clear they were trying to get in. Time seemed to slow down. I was frozen, staring at the gun inches from my face. My brain wasn't even forming coherent thoughts, it was like my body was running on autopilot. Then, as if by reflex, I saw my opportunity. The gunman glanced away for just a split second, and I slammed my foot on the gas.

The car lurched forward, and I sped down the street. The man managed to hold onto the gun but had to pull his arm back just in time to avoid losing it to my car window. As I raced toward the dead end, my mind was in overdrive. I slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, and executed a clumsy, three-point turn. When I looked back down the street, the group had disappeared. They weren't in the road, on the sidewalks, or even near the houses. It was as if they had vanished into thin air. The moment I was safely out of the neighborhood, I called 911. Apparently,

these kinds of gang-style robbery setups are somewhat common in the area, but it's the kind of thing you never think will happen to you, until it does. The police took my report, but without clear descriptions or evidence, there wasn't much they could do. The whole whole experience was a harsh wake-up call for me. In that moment when the gun was pointed at my head, I realized how fragile life is. It didn't matter that I'm a big guy or that I'd always thought I could handle myself in a tough situation. None of that mattered when someone had a weapon that could end my life in an instant.

I've since become a lot more cautious, especially when it comes to dealing with strangers in isolated settings. This wasn't my only eerie experience while working delivery jobs. During the pandemic, food delivery boomed, and I ended up taking up. on a lot more orders. It wasn't a bad gig, honestly. I liked driving, seeing different neighborhoods, and the occasional generous tip was a nice bonus. Most of the time, it was routine, drop off the order, snap a photo as proof, and move on. But there were moments that stuck with me, like my interactions with Vesna, an elderly woman from Serbia. Vesna became one of my

regulars. Every Thursday, like clockwork, she'd placed the same order. At first, I never saw her, she'd peek at me through the window, maybe wave a little, and then retreat before I even got back to my car. But over time, she started to warm up. Eventually, she began greeting me at the door, and later, she'd even let me bring her groceries inside and place them on her counter. Vesna was sweet, always tipping generously in chatting about her life. She had been a stockbroker before retiring, which explained her beautiful home. She'd recently lost her husband and lived alone, with her children scattered across the country, visiting only during holidays. One Thursday, something felt off as soon as I pulled into her driveway.

The front door was ajar, and all the blinds were shut, completely out of character for Vesna, who loved keeping them open for her plants to get sunlight. I called her name and rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. My first thought was that something terrible had happened. Maybe she'd fallen or had a medical emergency. I debated whether to go inside. Technically, I wasn't supposed to enter someone's home, but I was worried. Finally, I decided to step in, reasoning that I just dropped the groceries on the counter

like usual. The house was eerily quiet and dark. I set the bags down and called out her name again, but there was still no response. As I turned to leave, I heard faint movement upstairs, a soft shuffling sound. Relieved, I called out to Vezna again, thinking she'd come down any second. But no one appeared. The noise continued, faint and deliberate, like someone was slowly dragging something across the floor.

Feeling uneasy, I left the house and sat in my car. As I pondered whether to call the police, I saw the curtains in an upstairs window shift slightly, as if someone was peeking out at me. But whoever it was quickly let the curtain fall back into place. My gut told me something was very wrong. I drove around the block, trying to clear my head, but I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. When I passed by her house again, I saw the same curtain move. This time, I caught a glimpse of a man's face before it disappeared.

Vesna had two daughters and a son, but her son had passed away years ago. I couldn't imagine who this man might be. I decided to leave but couldn't stop thinking about the situation. The following week, Vesna didn't place an order. That was the first time in nearly a year she'd skipped her usual Thursday routine. I drove by her house, and this time, there was a police car parked in the driveway. When I got home, I searched her name online and discovered she had been reported missing a few days earlier. The timeline suggested that the last time she was seen was

shortly after placing her grocery order, but before I arrived that Thursday. I went to the police with everything I knew, but there wasn't much they could do with my limited information. To this day, business case remains unsolved, and I can't help but wonder who that man was and what might have happened if I'd stayed longer. Another incident that stands out happened a few years ago when I was working for a pizza chain. It was a late-night shift, just me and a co-worker, Tom, who was a quiet and reliable guy. Around 11 p.m., I took a call from a customer who ordered a large sausage pizza. The man sounded drunk, slurring his words as he confirmed the order. Tom prepared the pizza, and I headed out to deliver it. The house was about 15 minutes away

and sat on a large lot surrounded by trees. When I arrived, the man who answered the door seemed startled to see me, like he wasn't expecting anyone. I handed him the pizza and told him the total. He fumbled with his cache, staring at the box with an intensity that made me uneasy. Then his gaze shifted past me, over my shoulder, as if he saw something behind me. I turned to look and froze. A hooded figure was darting into the tree line, barely visible in the dim light. My stomach dropped.

When I turned back to the man at the door, he stepped back inside and slammed the door shut without a word. Panicked, I rushed back to my car, scanning the area for any signs of movement. The hooded figure was gone. I sped back to work and told Tom what had happened. He didn't seem surprised, casually mentioning that the customer was an old friend of his. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, so I called the police. Later, an officer informed me that the man at the house claimed he hadn't seen anything unusual and knew nothing about the hooded figure. To this day, I don't know what that encounter was about. I switched jobs shortly after, but the memory still lingers.

Between these strange experiences, I've learned that you can never be too cautious when it comes to dealing. The curse began on the night of October 30, 1982, when emergency services received a call regarding a domestic altercation at 8723, Rangley Avenue, West Hollywood. In the garden of that property, there was the unconscious body of a 22-year-old young woman, much loved by her neighbors. Apparently, that night the young woman had invited a co-worker over to her house. Unfortunately, both were surprised by her ex-boyfriend, who, seized by an attack of jealousy and rage, lunged at her and chased her into the garden.

Amid the chaos, the young woman's co-worker grabbed the phone and called emergency services, hoping everything would just be a scare. But when they arrived, the young woman was lying unconscious in a corner of the garden while her attacker shouted over and over, I did it, I killed her. The ambulance took the young woman to Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, but unfortunately, they could do nothing for her. She was in a coma for days, and finally, her family, knowing she would probably never wake up, decided to disconnect her from the system keeping her body alive. This cruel example of gender violence could have been forgotten over time, and though many indeed have forgotten,

though many have forgotten that the culprit was sentenced to barely six years in prison, of which he served only three, no one forgets the face of that girl. That girl was Dominique Dunn, who just five months earlier had achieved great box office success playing Dana Freeling, the eldest daughter of the family starring in Poultergeist. For those who don't know what the film is about, it shows the audience the story of a family living in an apparently quiet California suburb. But unfortunately, the piece doesn't last, as they live in a house built over an old Indian cemetery, and the evil spirits whose rest

has been disturbed manifest through the television, seeking revenge by kidnapping the family's youngest daughter, Carol Ann, and taking her to another dimension. This movie was not only acclaimed by the public but also by critics, receiving a Saturn Award and a BAFTA in 1983. In addition to the great success mentioned, multiple sequels were released. Shortly before the release of Poultergeist 2 in 1986, Julian Beck, who played Reverend Henry, died of stomach cancer that was diagnosed halfway through filming. Just two years later, Beck was followed by Will Sampson, who played a shaman named Taylor in this second installment. He died due to complications after surgery. At this point, many began to speak of an actual curse over the Poultergeist saga, and rumors started circulating that everyone involved in the cast of this movie series were died.

tragically. But no one wanted to listen, and in 1988 the third part was released. As filming progressed on a third installment, Little Heather O'Rourke, the undisputed star of the saga, began feeling very ill, headaches, leg tremors, swollen feet, and to top it off, she couldn't eat. The girl's mother, very worried, took her to the hospital a total of four times, and all four times they were sent home with the absurd diagnosis of a simple flu. The woman knew perfectly well that her daughter didn't have the flu, that her daughter had something much more serious, but no doctor wanted to listen to her. After much insisting, doctors discovered that little Heather had an intestinal parasite called Giardia, and to fight it, they

gave her such a powerful medication that it caused intestinal inflammation. Seeing the inflammation, the doctors thought the little girl had Crohn's disease, so they gave her cortisone and simply let time pass. And so came February 1st, 1980. when Little Heather, after multiple erroneous diagnoses, lost her life. But her death was not the only one from that poltergeist installment, it was also followed by the death of the mother of Zelda Rubinstein, the actress who played the medium Tangina Barons. In 2015, a remake hit theaters.

But this time, the new director didn't want to take any risks, so although the story was to be the same, he decided to change the names of all the characters. Thus, the Freeling family became the Bowen family, and of course, Little Carol and became Madison. As the saying goes, better safe than sorry. If there's a truly cursed movie, it is undoubtedly Rosemary's Baby from 1968. In this one, a newlywed couple moves into a luxurious New York apartment. Shortly after, the protagonist discovers that her pregnancy is the center of a diabolical conspiracy to give birth to the Antichrist himself. The curse began a year after its

release, specifically in early 1969, when the film's producer, William Castle, began receiving a series of very disturbing calls. In them, a distorted voice said the following, you will regret having played with the blank. Shortly after, this man became seriously ill with kidney problems and had to undergo a slow and painful treatment that at times seemed like it would take his life. It is said that on some occasions, when he was completely sedated, he murmured the following words, Rosemary, for the love of God, dropped that knife, but he wasn't the only one who fell ill. At his side was Christoph Cometa, the composer of the film's soundtrack. Unfortunately, this man was not as lucky as Castle and lost his life due to a brain hematoma.

The artist's death reminded many of one of the characters in the movie, Hutch, a friend of Rosemary who realizes the macabre situation she is in but unfortunately dies under strange circumstances before he can tell her. Though fate can be very cruel, no one took seriously that these deaths could be coincidences. The public did nothing but look for connections between the movie and the real world, and they finally found something. Practitioners of occultism and Satanism were involved in the production of the film. Let's start with the Dakota building, where the film's exterior shots were filmed. This place, in the early 20th century, was home to the famous Alistair Crowley, who was considered one of the most wicked men in the world. It was said that

this black magician carried out several dark rituals inside the building, and because of this, anyone who died within it, or who simply entered, was condemned to eternal fire. Moreover, around the same time, Boris Karloff, famous for playing the sinister Frankenstein monster, lived there. After his death, it was said that intense poltergeist phenomena occurred in the building, and his ghost was seen and heard by all the residents. During the filming of the movie, and as I said earlier, only the exterior shots were filmed at the Dakota, a series of strange events began to happen, events that pushed many crew members to quit. Led actress Mia Farrow suffered several anxiety attacks and nervous breakdowns. It was even said that overnight,

and without any explanation, she broke up with her then partner, Frank Sinatra. While all this was happening, several groups of black magic practitioners and satanic cults gathered in front of the Dakota building to threaten the film's director, Roman Polansky, to prevent Rosemary's baby from reaching the big screen. The undisputed leader of these protests was Charles Manson, whose revenge would be terrible. Roman Polansky, shortly after the film's release, bought a property where his wife, Sharon Tate, was staying. The woman, eight months pregnant, barely left the house as the doctors had recommended absolute rest. So, on the night of August 8, 1969, while her husband was traveling

in London, she decided to invite some friends over to keep her company. They could not even imagine that Charles Manson's family had been following them for some time and had chosen that precise night to turn the new house into a sea of blood. Several members of the family broke into the place, and mercilessly killed everyone present. Afterward, they tied the victim's necks with a rope, connecting them, and wrote the word, pig, on the house's door with Sharon Tate's blood. The most shocking part of all this is that the woman was stabbed the total of 16 times. And according to the doctors, the first five were enough to end his life just as its name suggests,

this movie talks about a prophecy concerning the arrival of the Antichrist. The plot, it must be said, is a bit surreal, A couple loses their child due to a miscarriage, and before the woman realizes it, her husband replaces the dead baby with another living one. No one will claim this baby, as he appears to be an orphan. So everyone comes out winning, or at least it seems that way. Little by little, the evidence starts to suggest that the child is pure evil, and eventually the father discovers that the biological mother of his adopted son was a jackal.

Moreover, his real son didn't die during childbirth but was murdered so that Damien, the son of the underscore underscore, could take his place in the world. If this plot is chilling by itself, the events surrounding the film don't fall behind. A series of incidents began to affect everyone involved in the production. The beginning of the film was shot in Rome, so the entire crew had to fly there. Incredibly, the filming went well, until everyone had to fly back home. Gregory Peck, the lead actor, and Mace Newfeld, the executive producer, took two different flights on the same day, and both planes were struck by lightning. The planes weren't damaged,

but the idea alone is enough to send chills down anyone's spine. Days later, Harvey Bernhard, the film's producer, was almost struck by a third lightning bolt during filming. Too many coincidences in a row. So when the airline called director Richard Donner to inform him his flight, was cancelled, no one objected. The entire crew was afraid of being struck by a fatal bolt. And truthfully, had they taken that flight, their fate would have been far worse, the plane's engine failed and it crashed into a car, killing every passenger. Who do you think was in that car? The pilot's wife and children. Coincidence or curse. The fatal accidents continued wreaking havoc during the filming of the Omen. In February 1976, the restaurant where Richard Donner and

Harvey Bernhard dined almost every night was bombed by the IRA. In March of the same year, Donner was hit by a car. And just months later, on August 13th, John Richardson, the special effects supervisor, while traveling with his girlfriend Liz Moore, suffered a terrible accident. He was almost unharmed, but the woman did not survive. Liz Moore died decapitated by the windshield. Doesn't that remind you of something? There are many versions of the story, but they all agree on one thing. When John crawled out of the vehicle, he saw a sign that read the next town was 66.6 kilometers away.

The events related to scenes in the film continued. Remember the scene with the dogs in the cemetery? Well, after filming that scene, those same dogs attacked their handler. The same thing happened at the zoo where they shot scenes with animals. The idea was to include scenes with lions, scenes that didn't make it into the final cut. The day after filming, those lions killed their handler. No one knows what happened, though it said that someone, or something, left the lion cage open. Who doesn't know the legendary movie The Exorcist?

I don't think it's necessary to explain the plot or the true story behind it, mainly because I already covered it in a preview. video, but if you haven't seen it, I'll leave the link below. Clearly, the Exorcist was filmed in a very sinister environment, and it seems that the discomfort felt by the audience was also felt by the actors. The tragedies began as soon as the set started being built. Multiple electricians and carpenters were hired, but two of them suffered terrible accidents, an electrician died by electrocution and a carpenter almost lost two fingers while assembling one of the pieces of furniture in Reagan's room. But of course, the accidents didn't stop there. During the first week of filming, the lead actors suffered family losses. Linda Blair lost her grandfather and Jason Miller

nearly lost his son in a car accident. The following week, filming had to be suspended for two weeks when Ellen Burstyn started suffering from terrible back pain. The strange thing is that, by the end of filming, both she and Linda Blair had to be hospitalized because of spinal injuries from the scenes in which they were thrown violently. There were nine fatalities associated with The Exorcist, including actors Jack Matt Goren and the Siliki Maliaros, who died while the film was still in post-production. What's chilling is that both their characters also died in the movie, a terribly sinister coincidence. One night, Reagan's room caught fire.

After the fire department was called and the blaze extinguished, the cause was never discovered. could have made the entire room burst into flames. After that, the room no longer felt peaceful. None of the actors felt comfortable there. They felt as if the ceiling might collapse at any moment, or that a new fire would consume everything. A chilling cold settled in that room daily, and everyone had nightmares about the film. Eventually, director William Friedkin hired a priest to perform mass every day in that room to calm the dark energies. The following stories don't belong to a single movie, but to two, two movies again based on real events, the exorcism of Emily Rose, based on the exorcism of Annalise Michelle, and

Amityville Horror, based on 108, Ocean Avenue in Amityville. Why include both films? Because the lead actors experienced the exact same thing. Jennifer Carpenter said in several interviews that she lived far from where the exorcism of Emily Rose was filmed, so she rented a hotel room nearby. Unfortunately, her stay wasn't pleasant. Every night at 3 a.m. sharp, the old alarm clock on her nightstand would go off on its own, playing the chorus of Pearl Jams alive. If you've seen the movie, you'll know that the demonic activity that played Emily Rose always occurred after that hour, making this story genuinely terrifying. At 3.15 a.m. on November 13th, 1974, Ronald DeFaio Jr., holding a.5-5 caliber.

Marlin Rifle, shot all the members of his family one by one while they slept. What's terrifying about this story is that the young man claimed he didn't do it of his own will, but because the voices told him to. No one believed his ghost story, or at least didn't consider it real, until the Lutz family bought the property and couldn't last even 28 consecutive days in the house. Since then, the story of the Amityville Horror House has become a favorite of Hollywood for creating terrifying movies. Unfortunately, anything tied to the name Amityville is said to be cursed. In 2005, a film based on it was made, Amityville horror. And even before filming started, things went wrong. Remember the famous boathouse. On the first day they arrived,

they found the body of a drowned fisherman. After calling the authorities and resolving the issue, the crew assumed everything would be fine. Unfortunately, things, especially for Ryan Reynolds, the film star, would never be the same again. From that night onward and until filming ended, his eyes would snap open every night at exactly 3.15 a.m. Unlike Jennifer Carpenter, Ryan's alarm clock never went off, it was his own eyes opening, just like Ronald DeFaio Jr. and George Lutz. But now it's your turn, do you think all this is just coincidence? Or do you truly believe in curses? End

Part 1 of 5. There's a weird kind of silence that hits you right after a courtroom door slammed shut behind you. It's not like regular quiet, it's heavier, loaded with everything you just lost and everything you're still trying to pretend you don't care about. That silence was my first taste of real freedom, and man, it was bitter. Getting divorced from my ex-wife wasn't just painful, it was apocalyptic. It wiped me out emotionally, mentally, and financially. You hear stories about ugly divorces and think, yeah, that sucks, but you don't feel it until

you're the guy sitting on a milk crate because she took the damn couch. And the dog. And the savings. And even the blender. Who the hell takes the blender? We weren't always like that. We met when I was 26, young, dumb, and thinking love could fix anything. She had this smile that could stop traffic and a sense of humor that made you forget how screwed up the world was.

At least in the beginning. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. I started working more, trying to build something. I wasn't trying to ignore her, I was just trying to create a life we wouldn't need to escape from. But she saw things differently. Said I was obsessed with work, emotionally distant, always, somewhere else. she wasn't completely wrong. I was somewhere else.

I was juggling my 9-2-5 IT job, freelance gigs on the weekends, and trying to get a side project off the ground, a tech startup I was coding with a buddy of mine. It was our shot at something big, but to her. It was a waste of time. She used to roll her eyes when she saw me at my laptop and call it, that little fantasy app.

That one stung. Every time. When she filed for divorce, she didn't just want out, she wanted blood. She went full-on courtroom warrior mode. Claimed I was neglectful, cold, borderline abusive. It was like watching a stranger where your partner's face while stabbing you with lies. And it worked. She had a shark for a lawyer, while mine looked like he'd rather be golfing.

She won just about everything. The house? Gone. my paid-off car hers even the mutt we adopted together even though she always said he smelled weird and never once walked him

she still took him just to hurt me and yeah I gave her some good ammo I was absent sometimes I worked too much missed a couple of anniversaries forgot her sister's baby shower one year but I wasn't a monster

I was just a guy trying to build something real. I thought we were a team. Turns out, I was solo the whole time. So I moved out, alone and broke. Landed in a tiny apartment with secondhand everything. My mattress was a floor ornament. My TV was a hand me down from a friend who owed me a favor. I lived on microwave noodles and coffee.

My credit score cried itself to sleep every night. But I survived. I kept my head down and focused on the one thing I had left, the startup. That little fantasy app she used to mock. Yeah, that thing started to grow legs. Part 2 of 5. I don't even remember the exact moment it happened, but somewhere between ramen cups and debugging errors at 3 a.m., the startup began to click.

My buddy and I caught the attention of a couple of low-key angel investors. Nothing huge, just enough to get some breathing room, hire a proper designer, pay for a marketing push, stop using duct tape to hold our servers together. And then, boom. Download started rising. Feedback was solid. We patched bugs, stayed up nights, and just kept grinding. In under three years, we sold the damn thing. I remember the moment the wire hit my account. I stared at the number on my screen and couldn't breathe. I wasn't rich, rich, but I was finally free. Not just from debt or stress, but from that feeling that I wasn't good enough. That I had failed. That I was the cold workaholic, she painted me as. I didn't throw a party. No champagne. I bought a better

mattress, got rid of the stained futon, and took my mom out to dinner. Then I started something new. A company of my own this time My name on the paperwork No partners No one to tell me it was stupid or a waste of time I built a software firm that focused on automation tools for small businesses Nothing sexy but reliable Profitable

Clean I got myself a place downtown Nothing flashy Just clean floors, good lighting, and no one yelling at me for working too late. I started going to the gym again, got into reading, and, most importantly, I learned how to breathe. Like really breathe. Not that shallow panic breathing I used to do when we'd argue at 2 a.m. and I had work at 6. I mean the deep, chest cracking kind that tells you, you're okay now. You made it. That piece lasted five beautiful years.

And then she showed up again. I should have seen it coming. When word got out that our startup sold big, it made some tech blogs. Her friends probably told her. Or maybe she was Googling me out of curiosity. Either way, she reached out. At first, it was subtle. An email. A, hey, hope you're doing okay.

Innocent enough. I didn't respond. Then a message on LinkedIn. A follow on Instagram. Then a text, from a new number, pretending to be a wrong number that just so happened to say my name. I ignored them all. Then came the legal papers. She was trying to sue me.

Again. Her claim. That I had worked on the startup while we were still married and that she was, entitled, to a percentage of the sale. I almost laughed. Almost. Part 3 of 5. Let me tell you something about old wounds, they never close up all the way. They just scab over.

And when someone rips that scab off, you feel every damn inch of it again. Getting served those papers felt like a punch to the gut, not because I thought she'd win, but because she really, honestly believed she deserved something from my success. This was a woman who, when we were married, would tell me to get off the laptop and be a real husband. who once called my app, that dumb hobby, in front of her friends at dinner. Who didn't just not support it, she resented it. But I had learned. Oh, I had learned.

I hired a real lawyer this time. A shark. The kind who doesn't smile unless it's with teeth. We combed through every old message, every email, every calendar entry. I still had receipts, literal ones. equipment I paid for out of my personal freelance checks. Domain registrations with timestamps. Chat logs where she told me to give it up and grow up.

We even found a voice message from her ranting about how I needed to stop, pretending to be the next Steve Jobs, and take her to wine night. My lawyer loved that one. The court hearing was brutal, but in the way you enjoy when you know you're finally the one holding the sword. She tried to play the sympathy card again, cried in front of the judge, talked about how she supported me emotionally, and how I owed her. But this judge wasn't buying it. My lawyer presented everything, timeline, receipts, emails, even testimonies from my old co-founder. He said, on record, that she used to call

during meetings to yell at me. That she once told him directly the app would never make a cent, the judge ruled against her. Swiftly. Denied with prejudice. meaning she couldn't try this stunt again. That was the moment the final chain snapped off my neck. Part 4 of 5, she didn't take it well. From what I heard, she broke down in a hallway outside the courtroom. Screaming. Crying. Accusing the universe of being unfair. Karma, though, karma's got perfect aim. You see, while I was rebuilding myself, she was doing the opposite. Burned through her divorce settlement in two years. Bought a new car she couldn't afford, spent money like she thought her well would never run dry. Turns out, Instagram vacations don't

pay for themselves forever. She defaulted on the mortgage for the house sheik won. Sold the dog to a co-worker after claiming he was too much responsibility. Maxed out her credit cards. Borrowed from family. Alienated most of her friends with drama. Last I heard, she bounced between friends' couches, then shelters. Someone said they saw her outside a strip mall with a cardboard sign that said something about bad luck. I didn't gloat. I didn't cheer. I didn't even comment. I just let it all slide off me like rain on a windshield. I didn't want revenge. I wanted peace. And peace, I finally had. It's funny, isn't it? She used to think I was cold because I didn't write long love notes or make big gestures. But all I ever wanted was to give us a stable life.

I wanted us to win. She just didn't want to do it with me. She wanted the prize, not the process. Well, she got the prize. And she blew it. Part 5 of 5, so where am I now? I still run the Still take walks in the morning, just because I can. I adopted a rescue dog, he's old and lazy and smells weird, but he doesn't judge me for working late. I've started dating again, but I take my time now. I don't chase fireworks anymore. I chase peace. Sometimes I think about her.

Not in a bitter way. Just, in a, what a weird chapter that was, kind of way. Like an old dream that doesn't scare you anymore. I don't hate her. Hate takes energy. I'd rather use that energy on things that grow. Things that give. And every now and then, I get emails from people who heard about my story.

Other guys, some women too, who've been through hell and think they're stuck. I tell them what I wish someone had told me. It gets better. Not overnight. not magically but slowly painfully stubbornly one scraped knee at a time you rebuild you heal you don't forget but you don't need to carry it all forever either my story isn't about revenge it's about resilience about dragging yourself out of the dirt with nothing but grit and the quiet belief that you're worth more than how someone else saw you if you're going through something like

this, don't give up. Let them take the broken pieces if they want. You'll build something better. And when they come crawling back, you won't need to slam the door. You'll just smile. Because you're already free. And as Jackson sat there with a blank expression on his face, he turned to me and simply said, no, and friends I know it sounds crazy after everything that you've read up to this point. But trust me when I tell you that I finally felt the small emotion of realization running through my veins. I finally realized what had happened was a terrible thing, the kind of thing you see in movies that make you think about life,

this was the way I felt. Anyways, I think we're a little ahead of ourselves, so let me introduce myself. Hi, I'm Brooks Michael's son, but since we're going to be friends you can call me B. I am 24 years of age and I live in a penthouse suite in the middle of Los Angeles, California. I drive a sports car that has one seat,

yes, like a race car, and I've had it since I was 17 years old. It's red with black leather seats. The tires are a sleek black color. I am six feet, the perfect height, and I have a chiseled jawline with cheekbones that are perfectly placed. I have blonde hair and perfect skin. I work out daily. In the morning I do crunches, I can do 2,000 now. And I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you I'm not like those other brainwashed sheeps who waste their meaningless lives trying to be someone they're not. I know of a lot of people in my social circle that enjoy being in a fantasy world and living a life that isn't theirs, but I keep it to myself. Let me introduce you to a couple of my acquaintances. Jackson Montgomery, a friendly

lighthearted singer who doesn't know how to sing. Hannah Montgomery, Jackson's sister who attempted suicide a few years ago and still is lab-led suicidal by almost everybody including me. Bailey Miller, a rich, beautiful woman who I fell in love with. I will introduce a couple more when we get further along but trust me you are going to want to know these people because one of them is going to die. Like I said before you are going to want to really know these people so let me explain who they really are. Jackson loved to play basketball as a kid and he was very good at it. I mean scoring 25 points per game in middle school is pretty impressive. But he tore his ACL and never played again. Not by choice but because his mother wouldn't let him. And friends, can I call you that? You can't

fully understand Jackson Montgomery until I tell you about his mother, Mrs. Montgomery. As a young child Mrs. M really hated boys and I mean hated, after all she was once won. Like I was saying as a young child Mrs. M., well back then Mr. Hated Boys. long story short she hated herself and attempted to murder herself a total of three times well four but we will get to that a little later obviously none of the three attempts were successful but enough with her backstory you already know enough about her back to jackson after finding out that he would never pick up a basketball ever again he went out to find a new hobby he tried everything but nothing seemed to be good enough so he started to sing his emotions as an outlet and a eventually learned to love it as much as he once loved playing basketball. The only problem was that he is a horrible singer. That's all you need to know about Jackson. For now anyways.

Moving on to Sweet Hannah, remember Hannah is Jackson's sister so you know what that means. They have the same mother. But her mother was her best friend in the world and maybe it's because Jackson is a boy and by now I'm sure you probably know that she hated men but she hated Jackson. And yes, I am referring to her in the past tense, may God rest her soul. Back to Hannah, she had a great childhood. She was a straight-a-student, had a stable relationship with her mother and had a lover who well-loved her. Of course, as you may probably know her mother wasn't the biggest fan of men so Hannah is a lesbian.

That made her mother very proud and when Hannah makes someone proud she always has to make a big mistake right after. Don't ask me why because I wouldn't be able to tell you. But this certain mistake made life-living hell for the Montgomery family. Hannah Montgomery reached out to her long-lost mother. And friends you may be wondering, Mother. Yes, Mother, it's important to remember that Mrs. M. was not always a miss. At the age of 14 Hector Montgomery decided he was no longer going to be a he. Two days later was the birth of Claudia S. Me Montgomery, Mrs. M. Where were we? Oh yes, the long-lost mother. Let me tell you a story of the worst night of Mrs. Montgomery's life. It was a somewhat normal evening for Mrs. M as she went to the bar for the third time that day. As she was drinking her life away she caught a glimpse of the most attractive woman she ever laid her eyes on. Her name was Melanie Menendez.

Mrs. M. got to talking with Melanie and it seemed like they had a connection. Mrs. M. went to the bathroom for five minutes and then came back. Twenty minutes later she was on Melanie Menendez's bed. Not conscious, though, because 20 minutes ago Melanie Menendez drugged her and kidnapped her. When Mrs. M. woke up. She was naked from the waist down and she saw the disgusting sight of her own penis. It made her cringe and eventually throw up. you may be thinking to yourself why wouldn't she just cover it up i forgot to tell you that when she woke up she was also chained to the bed as this was happening melanie was walking in the room and the sight of her was even scarier than her penis thirty minutes passed and what happened between that interval is too disturbing to tell you all let's just say that was the first time mrs m ever produced seaman nine months later melanie menendez had a baby named hannah our hannah

Yes, R. Hannah. As you may have realized by now Mrs. M. isn't exactly right in the head. Long story short, she kidnapped the baby in the hospital and never got caught. Granted this might have been the worst choice she ever made and eventually led to her inevitable suicide. Enough already about Mrs. Montgomery and her daughter's mistake. Oh wait, you haven't even heard about the mistake. Let me tell you. When Hannah Montgomery decided, decided to find out about her other mother she did the most research she ever did and eventually found Melanie Menendez on Facebook. She contacted her telling her about how she thought she was her daughter in the most respectful way she could. Let me just show you what she messaged,

Dear Mrs. Menendez, I have great reason to believe that you are my birth mother and I know it might sound crazy, but I'm almost 100% sure of it. Please message me back and have a great day. Love, Hannah Montgomery. And friends you might not be thinking how bad this actually is, remember, Mrs. M. Kidnapped Hannah as a baby. When Melanie saw the last name Montgomery, she knew it really was her daughter because she remembered the horrible thing she did long ago. She replied back saying, Hello, Hannah, what I just read is the best thing I ever laid my eyes on. I know it sounds crazy like you said, but I am your mother and I need to meet you as soon as I possibly can.

I love you and I can't wait to see you. Oh, and P.S. don't tell your mother about us. Not yet. Love, Mom. Is it just me or does this lady seem really weird? I really am getting tired of the Montgomery's, so let me tell you the rest another time. Bailey Miller, remember her. I doubt it since you've been sucked into the world of the Montgomery's.

Trust me everybody and their cousin has, so don't feel bad about forgetting the girl that nobody forgets about and I'm sure you won't either, so let me tell you about her. Bailey Miller is a very attractive girl who gets all the attention in the world but at the same time is the loneliest girl you'll ever meet. And friends I know what you must be thinking, I've heard this story a million times too. But BM is a different story, and yes I will be referring to Bailey as BM from this point on. As a young girl BM had everything she could ever ask for. Everything but her parents, the father is a successful businessman who makes over $5 million a year. Her mother is dead.

The father didn't believe in nannies just like he didn't believe in global warming or vaccines. But anyway, BM made her first friend when she was 12 years old, but they drifted apart and never spoke again. Other than her one friend she had for a couple of months, she was alone every second of every day until she was 18. This was the day when she met a boy named Brooks Michaelson. Wait, that's me. So me and B.M. met at a small get-together and we hit it off. Two attractive people who are smart will always hit it off. After the get-together we went back to my place and well I think you know what happened.

Three days later I called her and asked her on a double date. And I know, a double date? Really? But Jackson Montgomery, remember him? really wanted to meet her. Anyways, Jackson had a date named Becca. She has nothing to do with the story at all. For now.

For the date we went to an ice rink and since I never skated before I was nervous. Just kidding, I don't get nervous. But BM was and I saw this as an opportunity to comfort her. When I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, she snapped at me and yelled that she didn't need my help. I was confused, but I didn't really care. As we ice skated, she kept on falling, so I tried helping, but she wouldn't let me. Again, I didn't care because I figured that in a week I would forget about this rando and hook up with another hot girl, but boy was I wrong.

After we skated we wanted to leave and when we were about to get in the car Jackson shouted out that I was crazy. I was confused but didn't care. Those words that he shouted will be important later. The next day she called me and said she was sorry for being so distant and explained her whole life story. I didn't care exactly, but I was glad I was going to see her again. I will tell you what happened next after I finished telling the story of Hannah Montgomery's mistake. Let me catch you up. Hannah's mother, Mrs. M., was sexually assaulted and was used to provide a baby for a lady named Melanie Menendez.

Nine months later Mrs. M. found out where Melanie was giving birth and kidnapped her baby. 21 years later Hannah wanted to know who her other mother was so she did everything possible to find out about Melanie. She messaged her explaining how she thought that she was her mother and Melanie was overjoyed and told her that she wanted to meet her. Now that you're all caught up, let's continue. When Hannah read her other mother's email, she thought the same thing as all of us. She thought she was crazy, like I said Hannah got straight A's so she's pretty smart. This intelligence of hers actually prevented her from getting murdered. But I'll tell you how later. Even though Hannah was suspicious of Melanie's overwhelming email, she was still happy that she found her other mother.

They made plans to see each other and even though Hannah knew it was wrong she wanted to meet her anyways. Without telling her mother where she was going for the weekend, Hannah flew out to New York. It's important to know that Mrs. M. was the happiest she's ever been and that is why what happens next is so tragic. Melanie Menendez decided to look at everybody that Hannah was following on Facebook and she saw the name she's been searching for. 22 years ago when Melanie and Mrs. M first met Melanie never got Mrs. M's first name. That's why it was so difficult for her to find her. But once she saw the last name Montgomery on Hannah's following list she knew that she finally found her. The woman that stole her was

her baby. Melanie took it upon herself to message Mrs. M the picture of Hannah's messages with her. She also told her that she was going to kill Hannah. When Mrs. M saw that she tried to contact Hannah but she wouldn't answer. Back to me for a little while. Me and B.M. dated for five years after the story I told you. It was the best years of my life. She just got me. It was like she was the girl version of me. You know what I mean. Everybody has met them in an opposite gender. My cousin told me this story about him and his best friend and how she knew everything that he knew and vice versa. Anyways, me and BM were on a date and I proposed to her.

She said yes, but what happens next changed my life forever. But before I tell you the most tragic ending to a love story of all time, let me tell you about what happened to Hannah in New York. Remember when I told you that Hannah's smarts were the very thing that prevented her death. Well, we're not there yet, but we're close. Hannah and Melanie were reunited once again and were having lunch in the Big Apple. They started with small talk and ended with Melanie telling Hannah that Mrs. M. raped her, lie, all those years ago and then kidnapped Hannah at the hospital. Hannah couldn't handle this news and ended up puking in a plant.

Melanie feeling somewhat happy told Hannah to never return to Los Angeles and stay with her in New York. She explained that it wasn't safe for her. her to return back to Mrs. M. But Hannah's only friend that she had was her mother and she wasn't ready to believe Melanie just yet. But friends, what Melanie said next changed everything. She told Hannah that Mrs. M. killed her husband, lie. But of course Hannah had no choice and decided to believe her. Back in Los Angeles Mrs. M was panicking and didn't know what to do. She anticipated for Melanie to tell Hannah that she kidnapped her so she gathered the thing she hated most in the world. The security footage of Melanie's hotel the night she made her have a baby with

her. She was prepared to show Hannah this when she came back home but Hannah never did. Three years pass and Mrs. M writes a letter saying goodbye to Jackson with a videotape attached to the note. The note read, Goodbye I beloved son, it was the best day of my life when I adopted you and I know you thought that I hated you but I loved you more than words can describe. I was only hard on you because I wanted you to be safe because I loved you so much. The recording on this videotape is very disturbing and I don't want you to watch it. I want your sister to watch it. That is my final wish in this world.

I love you, son, and I'm so sorry I failed you. Goodbye. Two days after this letter was written Mrs. M was found dead in her bed with a bottle of pills sitting on her bedside table. And remember, friends, I did say that she would successfully commit suicide. That was pretty sad, but let's see what Jackson decided to do. Did I mention that I've known Jackson since I was 12? Anyways the day Jackson read that letter was the worst day of his life and he wanted to fulfill his mother's last wish, so he flew to New York and found Hannah.

He gave her the tape and flew back home. When Hannah watched this, she was confused at first, but then she realized it was her mother and Melanie. She watched as Melanie forced Mrs. M's penis into her and made her make a baby with her. After watching this, Hannah left Melanie with a note simply saying, I know what you did. Hannah felt responsible for her mother's suicide, so she went out to the nearest bridge she could find and she jumped. But the second she jumped, she realized she didn't want to die and she didn't want to turn out like her mother and she remembered a video she had watched explaining what to do if you ever fall into water so she did just that and did, not die.

And friends I did say that her smarts would prevent her death. After she hit the water she was immediately rescued and brought to a hospital. Now, let me tell you about the most tragic love story that ever there was. After me and BM got engaged, we read our vows just out of the spirit of love and they were beautiful. I told her that she was the best thing to ever happen and that I loved her more than I thought I could ever love any. I told her that I wasn't even going to go to that small get-together where we met years ago, but I felt like something life-changing would happen if I went and it did. I met the most beautiful, funny and downright the most perfect person that ever lived.

And she simply came closer and whispered in my ear that she would love me until her dying breath. Now you may be asking yourselves, how is this tragic? Well one night we went out to a bar where Jackson was performing at. Remember, he's a singer. Remember Becca? Jackson's date to the ice rink all those years ago. Well they're married now and she was at the bar. Me and BM sit down with her and start talking.

It was the typical small talk that goes on and on but finally Jackson started performing. Long story short it was terrible but other than that it was a fairly fun night. night I spent with BM was perfect. But the next morning I go to BM's house and I see her sleeping with Becca. Becca! I shouted at the two of them and BM didn't look phased at all but Becca seemed mortified. She acted like she just watched me murder someone. I don't like to talk about that day too much so I'll just say this, this was the worst day of my life. Two weeks later Jackson comes banging on my door and screams at me. I opened the door and as so, I opened the door and as soon as I do Jackson throws a punch at me. Of course I dodge it and I proceed to tackle Jackson

on the floor. I ask what's his problem and he says that Becca told him that we slept together. I told him it was crazy and I watched BM and Becca do it in bed. I told him BM and her made a plan to make it seem like I slept with her. Jackson just got up, goes to the door, turns around and says, you're crazy. And friends I think we know each other well enough now to know that I'm not crazy. Think about it, Jackson has been neglected his whole life by the lady that ends up killing herself and his sister also tried to kill herself. It's a miracle he wasn't tried. He's the crazy one. At this point I had nobody to talk to so I reached out to BM and we figured stuff out and two years went by and we were happier than ever. I asked her to come meet my dad and

she was very reluctant for some reason. I told her I haven't seen him since I was 18 and it would mean the world if she came to our reunion. She finally agreed and when I arrived at his house, mansion, he greeted me with a smile and a hug. I told him to meet Bailey Miller. And friends, this is the exact moment where my life fell apart. My father looked at me and laughed and the words he said next have haunted me since. He laughed and said, I remember BM from when you were little. I would come home for a couple days before my next business trip and you would tell me all about this girl named Bailey Miller and how you liked her because she had the same initials as you. I'm glad you still remember your imaginary friend buddy. After hearing these deafening words

I ran as fast as I could away from that monster of a man who tried to twist my mind. I was running so fast I didn't see the car coming and I was hit. Part two, friends, we left off with me getting hit by a car and now the story picks up with me in the hospital. I wake up with my father and Jackson by my side. I asked them where BM was and when they didn't answer I asked again this time in a more serious tone. My father says that she is imaginary, she isn't real. Jackson follows up and asks me, is that who you've been talking about for all these years? I just look at him wondering what he means. I tell him, you know BM, she has been to all of your concerts and even your goddamn wedding. You do know her, I know you do, so just admit it and

and tell me you know who Bailey Miller is. And as Jackson sat there with a blank expression on his face he turned to me and simply said, No, and friends I know it sounds crazy after everything that you've read up to this point, but trust me when I tell you that I finally felt the small emotion of realization running through my veins. I finally realized what had happened was a terrible thing, the kind of thing you see in movies that make you think about life, this was the way I felt. They checked me into a psychiatric hospital and this is where I'm writing to you from. It's a nice place really, people finally understand me. It's no mansion in Los Angeles, but I like the people here. Remember when I told you that I'll

introduce a couple of more friends later on in the story? Well, I'm going to hand over the keyboard to Melanie. Hi guys, I'm Melanie, what? Did you think Brooks gained all that knowledge about Mrs. M. all by himself? No, I studied that woman the day she kidnapped my baby and she deserved to die. It only took her four times to do it without failing, but that was the type of person she was. Brooks wants it back. By y'all. Hey guys, I'm back. You must be wondering, what happened to BM? Let me tell you. I accepted that as a kid I was so lonely that I came up with a perfect built and best friend. BM sadly passed away, though. Like I said in the beginning of the story, one of those people was going to die and I know it's sad but it was B. M. Although she

died I will carry out our beautiful love story with me till the day I die. Like she said friends, I will love you till my dying breath. And she did, I made a promise to her that I will do the same. Have a good life everybody and make sure you have someone because loneliness can drive anyone mad. Goodbye, friends. Look what you've done. Look what you've done, Roman. Take a good, long look. Know that I'm the one who caused you a lifetime of suffering. Roman remained frozen. He'd fallen to his knees the moment his infectious parasite released him. Hazel eyes, burdened with emptiness, remained glued to the soiled hardwood, tears swelled and threatened to fall, but mercifully splotched his vision instead. His gaze lifted to the mirror

that hung before him. His reflection smiled back at him. It stood behind the glass, with eyes of the blackest night, and a deadly grin that promised malice. She thought it was you the entire time. The poor girl was screaming for you to stop as I carved into her flesh, I could see the terror she held for you. It was maddening. Roman blinked and turned away from the mirror. The tears he choked back slipped down his cheeks and dotted his shirt. Roman's broken gaze fell to his hands, caked in blood that was not his own. It stained the carpet and pooled in a warm puddle near his knees. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, or those glossy eyes.

Not yet. Having justice fear you and to lose her in life, is worse than losing her in death. Isn't that what you feared, Roman? Well, we've achieved both. Roman snapped his attention back to the demon lurking inside the glass. Rage danced across his features, desperation flooding his irisice. Its words dragged his state of mind deeper into oblivion, and he wanted to silence it, he wanted to rip its throat out with his teeth and watch the blood run, so he could taste

its screams. It taunted him like this was a game, one in which Roman was losing and had no desire to win. He held the gaze of his reflection, and stood up. You took my sister away from me. On the contrary, Roman, it was you who ran the blade along her throat. The knife was in your hands, was it. not. Roman rested his palms on either side of the mirror, lightly dipping his head as he closed his eyes for a moment. The chill of the wall bit into his palms yet it offered

Roman no distraction. You plagued my fucking mind. You can't manipulate me. I would have stopped you. Roman's reflection didn't mirror him. It returned a bone-chilling smile. It placed its index finger against the glass, pointing at Justice's lifeless body. Look at her, Roman. All she knew before she died was you. Not me, not anyone else, just. You. You could have stopped me if you weren't so weak,

your unstable mind made it easy for me to have all of the control. Roman finally mustered up the courage to finally glance at justice. Despair swam in those green eyes as her reflection remained in the mirror. Her body lay in a pool of her own blood, and Roman's throat began to ache. Agony wrapped its vicious claws around his heart, tightening, tightening, tightening, squeezing until it was fit to burst. Rage boiled deep in his core and it pumped through his veins. Roman forced himself to bring his glare back into the endless depths of those obsidian eyes

on his own reflection. Don't you remember? Perhaps you'd like a reminder. The heavy question shattered Roman's grieving heart. His cheeks dampened as he caved, all efforts of holding back his tears futile. Fuck you! Roman spat, so sharply his tone could have sliced the mirror in two. A snarl played at his lips, fingers curling dangerously around the edges of the frame.

Aggression nod at the back of his mind, trying to find its way to the surface. Roman wanted to see the mirror shatter, use the pieces to carve an ugly smile along the creature's The demon clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and tilted his head. It dragged its nails down the glass as it leaned forward and whispered through a crooked, twisted grin that sent shivers along Roman spine. You should be terrified of me. I am the demon that killed your sister. And I will haunt you until you go insane.

I will shred your mind into nothing until you start to rip at your hair and fall into the deep abyss of your own insanity. inhaled a shaky breath. He lowered his hands from the wall and brushed his hair back in one swipe. The demon's chuckle reverberated along the walls at a hauntingly low volume, until the room echoed its bellowing laughter. Abruptly, it stopped and its face fell flat as he glared with a sickening intensity at Roman. Its mouth opened, but the voice that aired past its lips chilled Roman down to the bone. Roro, knives are sharp. You know the rule. Romans seethed. Justice's voice fluttered from the reflection's mouth, lips unmoving. The young man staggered a bit, bringing himself to glare at the demon. I'll kill you. Roman growled. I know, princess, but I wanted to show you a trick. Roman released a frustrated exhale and dragged both bloodied hands down his face. Like a fist his heart pounded against its cage. Whether the room was spinning, or he was swaying, he wasn't sure.

He couldn't relive it, it was a nightmare that suffocated him, pulling back into the darkness he tried so desperately to crawl out of. Okay, but don't hurt yourself. Remember I used the last band-aid on Mr. Stuffies? Roman hissed through his teeth and slammed his fist upon the mirror. The frame rattled against the wall. Enough, with a menacing growl, the demon lurched forward. Its arm penetrated the glass, its hand snatched Roman by the collar, and yanked in closer.

Roman stumbled forward and smacked his face against the glass. Blood began to pour from his nose, but the pain went unregistered. I won't hurt myself, Princess. I just wanted to show you how sharp they can be. It's why I always tell you not to play with them. Its tone was laced with venom, poisonous and deadly, Roman struggled to fight against it. the harsh whisper in his ear as it was pressed unwillingly to the mouth of his reflection. His limbs were exhausted, his mind threatened to give out entirely.

Roman longed to give up. Roro, you know I don't like knives. Can we play sorry instead? Roman yelled out in a frustration that ate his heart. To hear Justice's secret nickname for him sent Roman over the edge. With one fatal pull, he yanked himself free from the demon's vicious hold. When his blazing glare returned to the mirror, the reflection had morphed. Roman found his attention glued to the image, he couldn't look away, even if he had wanted to.

Resting like a painful reminder in his hand was the knife that he had slid along his sister's throat. The image was a memory, a mirage, his own personal hell. Justice clutched her stuffed bear, pointing to a sorry game. Roman watched himself fiddle with the knife, his thumb gliding along the tip. All right, let's play sorry. The demon grabbed justice by the hair and yanked her up off the couch. The young girl cried out in pain and grabbed onto who she thought was Roman. Her tiny hands scrambled to get a grip on his hand, her nails sliding along his skin.

Roman. That hurts, stop. I'll go first. Roman's throat burned, aching harshly from the tears that swelled at the back of it. He could feel himself slipping, he tried desperately to remain on stable ground. Roman's mind cracked into pieces and fell into oblivion, sending him spiraling into his own insanity. Justice began to cry quietly as light gleamed off the blade. Gently, the demon brushed a strand of hair away with the tip of the knife.

It lightly scratched at her cheek and its jet black eyes looked to Roman, a smirk at the corner of its lips. The demon twirled the knife and brought it to the crying girl's neck. Roman wasn't going to relive it. His fingers latched onto a standing lamp from the room and with all of his might, thrust it to the face of the mirror. The mirror shattered and the pieces clattered onto the floor around his feet. In slow motion they fell and littered the ground. A scream bubbled up from his lungs as he watched the image splinter and disappear.

But the demon refused to give in to defeat. Don't you want to remember how you carved her open? Roman shot his glare to another mirror that was much smaller than the previous one. Without hesitation, the blunt force of the lamp fell into the glass and it scattered in a broken mess. You cannot rid me that easily. The window whined as it broke. The curtains came crashing down in his grieving rage. Without a second thought, Roman held on to the lamp tighter as he bashed it into every window.

Roman lost a piece of himself as each shard of glass clinked onto the ground. Each smash of the lamp was louder than the last. When the lamp proved to be useless in the bathroom, Roman curled his hands into fists, staring the demon down. Even if you destroy all the surfaces in this house, you cannot escape me. You should be terrified, begging, you don't. Roman threw his fist into the bathroom mirror. The glass splintered and wept.

He watched. his broken reflection slowly fall into the sink. Gashes decorated his knuckles, split and bleeding, painting the porcelain in crimson. He'd shattered every surface, even if it cost him the flawlessness of his skin. There were no other crevices it could slink about. Roman forced himself out of the bathroom and into the living room. He stood above Justice's body, terrorized by a choking sadness. He knelt down and scooped her into his arms. Suddenly, a cold sensation ran along his insides that washed shivers over his skin. He froze, his mind slowed and clouded.

With rising dread, he couldn't fight it off, the sensation was too familiar. Roman was too late. His eyes were glossed obsidian, and the demon looked at the little girl he held in his arms, chuckling with wicked vileness. I will haunt you until you go insane. I will shred your mind into nothing until you start to rest. rip at your hair and fall into the deep abyss of your own insanity. Roman screamed in the little corner of his mind. We begin. Today's story takes us to China,

where a man named Wang Chinquang was born and raised. He was born specifically on November 13, 1993, and according to several reports, from a young age he always dreamed of becoming an actor. There is often confusion between Wang Xing and another actor named Wan Shiny, but I must clarify that their careers are very different. One Shiny was born in 2002 and has done countless works to date, films, series, sketches, his name is more widely known. But the story of W. Xing is very different. One debuted in acting in 2015 in the movie at Man 3, and from there he appeared in television programs like Fox Spirit Matchmaker, The Tale of the Rose, and psychologist. But generally, these were secondary or very minor roles.

In fact, on several occasions, he didn't even appear in the final credits, not even a passing mention, nor was the role he played stated. However, his dream was to be an actor, and for the past ten years, he had been fighting for it. Any role, no matter how small, he accepted, because he knew perfectly well that a house doesn't start from the roof, it starts from the ground. With background or secondary roles, he accepted anything. By 2024, his personal life was great, good relationship with his parents, a solid, lifelong

group of friends, and a girlfriend who loved him with all her heart. A girl named Jia Jia. She supported him in everything, his dream of becoming an actor, and always encouraged him. As you can imagine, acting is quite a volatile job. You work for a few weeks, then you work for a few weeks, then you work for a few weeks. face long pauses, then work again. If you want to go to castings, you need to move, talk to people, have contacts, never stay still. Wong knew exactly how to move. He was charismatic, pleasant, friendly. In every job, he always made friends and new contacts, and through them, he learned about

castings. It was through a friend that he got access to a chat where job offers appeared from time to time. The chat in question was called Sunan Professional Actors Group. The idea was simple, you joined the group, offers and links were shared, and from time to time something might interest you. So Wong joined the group on December 24, 2024, and a few days later, an account called GM underscore Grammy 16 posted that they were looking for actors. Specifically, they were looking for a lead role, and this man, without hesitation, applied. He, opened a chat with the account. The person managing it introduced himself. His name was Jan Shu, and he claimed to be the acting coordinator for the company GMM Grammy. He talked about this

company, their success, their big productions, everything sounded so good that Wong couldn't quite believe it. So he turned to Google to look it up, well, not Google, because it's not available in China, but basically he did an internet search, and there he saw that everything seemed legit. It was a Thai company involved in many areas, music, media, film, broadcasting. In Thailand, it had a huge reputation, though outside the country it wasn't as well known. That's why they were looking for Chinese actors, they wanted to expand their reach, create new projects, and the casting seemed very serious. All the steps were the same as what Wong had previously experienced in other casting processes, how to present yourself, how to work with them, it was all normal. Nothing

strange. And of course, the man relaxed. He talked to his girlfriend and told her everything about the offer. She agreed and saw everything as normal. On the 26th, he recorded a video with his casting audition. He sent it to the coordinator. Everything seemed fine, and the next day, he was accepted. He would be the lead. The role was his. But from here, strange things started happening. The company told him he had to travel to Thailand. They would pay for the flight, the accommodation, and he would do another edition in the country. Back in 2018, he had already traveled there for work, but the conditions were very different. It wasn't as confusing or demanding as it was now. So on the 30th, he declined the offer. However, the coordinator

insisted. He explained that the company's plan was to grow internationally. They were strong in Thailand but now wanted to expand. They wanted new, little-known actors with some experience, people who knew the industry, were easy to work with, and were of Chinese origin. Wong was perfect for the role, perfect for the company. According to their plan, there would be more projects for him in the future. He was messaged daily via email and chat, and everything the coordinator said seemed to make sense. So finally, Juan was convinced, and on January 2nd, 2025, he began his long journey. He boarded a plane at 9 p.m. at Shanghai Pudong International Airport. According to Bangkok Post, he arrived at his destination in the

early morning of January 3rd. Throughout the journey, he had to send proof, photos from the airport, the tickets, all sent to the coordinator, to verify everything was going well and safely. And in his mind, this all made sense. As he sent these things to the coordinator, he also sent them to his girlfriend Jia Jia, same photos, same route, same information. He even sent her screenshots of all the chats. When he arrived in Bangkok, some suited men were waiting, very polite, very proper, with a sign. Everything up to this point seemed legit. But now is when things get weird. The people picking him up said there had been a small issue, the hotel they were supposed to take him to was full. They had relocated him to another one

a bit farther away. Nothing to worry about. Everything was under control. But hearing this, Wong became suspicious and shared his real-time location with his girlfriend. He was in the car with these people. Everything seemed normal, they wore suits, seemed serious, the atmosphere was calm. But for several hours, the car kept driving. No hotel in sight. And every time he asked, they changed the subject. What seemed professional now felt like a bad joke.

Each change and stop, he reported to his girlfriend. Finally, at 11 a.m., the messages stopped. She texted him, no response. She called, his phone was off. The phone's last location was the border between Myanmar and Thailand. According to Juan, this was not supposed to happen. He was only going to be in Thailand. Seeing this, all the alarms went off.

Juan's girlfriend didn't sit still. She called friends, family, asked about it, and apparently no one knew anything. She joined the group chat, contacted the supposed coordinator, but he gave her no answers. He just left her on Reed. So she immediately reported Wong's disappearance. She contacted the Municipal Public Security Bureau of Shanghai, the Chinese Embassy in Thailand, and the Chinese Consulate General in Chiang Mai. And on January 6, she went directly to Thailand, where she formally filed a missing person's report.

Unfortunately, everything seemed too slow. That's why the girl turned to social media for minute one. She created a post with all the information, the typical photo, age, the last known info about him, but beyond that, she posted locations, routes, full names, and also screenshots of chats. All the chats Wong had sent her were now public, conversations with the coordinator, the group chat, the GMM underscore Grammy 16 account. everything was there. And within hours, thousands of people shared it. The case went viral, and the media jumped on it. W. Ching was not famous, he was a supporting actor, but even so,

the media sold this as the kidnapping of a famous actor, which made the story spread more. More people shared the info, the articles, all of China knew about the case. People who had experienced very similar events spoke directly to the media. Among them was another Chinese actor named Chuajio. This guy told the press that in 2024 he lived almost the exact same story. He was looking for castings, work, contacts, and found an offer in a chat. He contacted the person who posted it, sent a video, and indeed, they arranged a trip to Thailand. To be continued.

The media, and among them, there was another Chinese actor named Chuajio. This young man told the media that in 2024 he went through an almost identical story. He was looking for castings, work, contacts, and in a chat, he came across an offer. He contacted the person behind the offer, sent a video, and indeed, they arranged a trip to Thailand. Everything until this point was exactly the same. The young man traveled there, was received by people in suits holding a sign, everything seemed very legal, very reliable. But then they asked him to hand over his passport. He responded no. They insisted, saying it was for the casting, for some paperwork to do over there, but the young

man firmly refused. And instantly, he took a flight back home. He rejected the job, wanted nothing to do with it, and once at home, he discovered that the job was fake, that the account he spoke with wasn't real, and that he had probably avoided a kidnapping. But this case wasn't the only one. Another actor named Denyu, upon seeing the screenshots, said that some time ago, the same acting coordinator had contacted him while he was in a chat looking for castings, and that this coordinator offered him a role. But this time, the man didn't believe it. He didn't accept the job. He didn't travel to Thailand.

He ignored it completely. Wong's girlfriend was sharing every detail, every bit of information, every new woman. clue, everything she received, she posted. And in this way, the story became more widely known. It's a serious matter, and there are many concerns. I still have details and evidence that I haven't made public. I'll continue forward with the information I have when I find someone who can really help me with this. Little by little, the case gained more and more traction. Friends and fellow actors of Wong also turned to social media. Among them was Gong Jun, I've acted in scenes with him before. He's a great and dedicated guy. I hope he's safe.

More and more actors were speaking out about the story, and with all the commotion, the company GMM Grammy came forward to say they had nothing to do with it. That offer wasn't theirs, and at no time had they arranged to give Wang any job. So, in this way, it was confirmed that he had been kidnapped and that he had fallen victim to a mafia. This information prompted very media outlets to investigate the whole scam topic, and they began publishing full articles about the story. The whole issue gained relevance in 2021, but its peak was believed to be around 23. In fact, the UN estimates that in 2023 alone, there were approximately 120,000 people kidnapped in Myanmar and another 100,000 in Cambodia, all of whom were forced to carry out

online fraud. But we're not talking about your typical email scan. These were scams related to illegal betting, cryptocurrency scams, really complex, twisted frauds. And the mafias were looking to recruit people from other countries, people who spoke English, Chinese, Japanese, people capable of scamming victims from many different nations. They contacted you online, offered you a great, well-paid job, and you believed it was real. You traveled to Thailand or any other country, and from there, they stripped you of everything and took you straight to Myanmar, where there was a major cyber fraud hub, specifically in Mayawadi, which is where police now suspected Wong might be.

One very striking thing about this case is that, according to the Bangkok Post, the Thai police were working together with the Burmese police, and together they were looking for Juan. They exchanged information and worked day and night. But on the other hand, the Bangkok police said that there was no kidnapping. They were looking for him, they were working on it, but supposedly, the border cameras captured him walking calmly, getting out of a car and into another. So, for them, he had left voluntarily. But online, the pressure was intense. Every day, more testimonies emerged from people who have been victims of fraud, people who were almost kidnapped,

people who knew others who had disappeared, but also survivors of these kidnappings. Among them was How Dong, who, apparently in 2023, was kidnapped for 59 days by one of these ones. mafias. There isn't much information about what he went through, but according to him, it was complete hell. He traveled with a promise of work, was kidnapped, had all his documents taken, and for 59 days couldn't contact his family. However, he managed to escape. He was rescued. And from that moment on, he shared his experience on Tojin, a social network very similar to TikTok, where he now has 150,000 followers. Rescue cases are very difficult.

The most successful ones so far have required the victims to send their location to their families. For the families, the hardest part is waiting for news. In the meantime, there's nothing else they can do. At this point in the story, something incredible happened. On January 7, the Prime Minister of Thailand announced that Wong had finally been found, and that soon he would be returning home to his loved ones. That he had been rescued. That he was safe.

That he was coming home. And just hours later, Wong appeared before the media. Physically, he looked emaciated, his head had been shaved, his eyes were sunken. He looked very affected, sad, and crushed. And in front of the cameras, he told everything that had happened to him. He said that yes, he had been kidnapped. that they lied to him with a fake job offer, that they took him to the border, and that once there, the people he was with changed their attitude.

They were no longer friendly or nice. Suddenly, they didn't even speak to him. The car stopped, and they were surrounded by armed people, military. From there, he was transferred to another vehicle. Wong was taken to a building where he was going to be exploited. They took all his clothes, changed him, shaved his head, and put him to work with about 50 other men, who, according to him, were also Chinese. What he lived through was a complete nightmare. But miraculously, everything ended in just a few days, which people found

strange. But the weirdest part is what came next. Wang is rescued, placed in front of cameras and the media, and then, along with several police officers, is taken to the airport. Journalists and various media are there. And in front of them, he thanks the police in English, thanks them for the support, the investigation, the speed. But someone accompanying him tells him exactly what he has to say. They tell him to repeat that Thailand is a safe place. In fact, the exact words were, do you think Thailand is a safe place for you? Right? You can speak in Chinese so people know, to which Wong replied, Thailand is a fairly safe country, so there's no need to worry. If I get the chance in the future, I'll definitely come back. The whole internet

commented on this interview, as it seemed that Wong was literally being forced to say this. He had lived through a complete hell, and at that moment, he just wanted to escape and go home. So people had a thousand questions. But the story doesn't end there. Because just as this man returns home, the Thai government releases a statement using AI. In it, they talk about what happened, that they are a safe country, that this was an isolated case, that they will investigate everything, that tourists can be at ease and can travel without problems. Basically, they were worried about tourism. But this message got a very different response.

Online, people were outraged. Wong is not an isolated case. There are dozens of cases just like his. Cases that haven't even been resolved, that have been stalled for years, cases with no leads whatsoever. But governments don't listen, apparently because the victims aren't well known. Shortly after Wang's rescue, a joint petition was created by the families of nearly 180 Chinese citizens who had disappeared, specifically in Myanmar. With this petition, they sought to get the government to investigate the cases and act as quickly as they did with Wang. And on social media,

reactions multiplied, we're desperate to know if the other Chinese citizens who were with him have been rescued. Their lives matter too. Mysteriously, there is no information about this, whether more people were rescued, whether it was just Wang. Nothing has been published about the rescue operation. So, online, speculation is everywhere. Many more cases like Wang Xings have come to light, cases that haven't been resolved, people who traveled to Thailand for a job and never appeared again. Even people who sent their locations, everything is there, photos, locations, chat screenshots, names, surnames, car plates, all the information is in the hands of the police. But when the last location is at the border, those cases freeze. What I'm about to say is

very important. It seems that in recent weeks, several cases have been resolved. Photos have been published of models and actors who disappeared in recent years under the same circumstances, and now, after Wong's case, some of them are returning home. The rescue operations are secret, no details are shared, nothing is explained, but people are returning home. So it seems that Wong's case shook things up significantly. Now it's your turn, what do you think about the case? Do you believe we'll start hearing about more cases being solved little by little? The end. I was never a very good person in life. I cheated on my wife, cheated on my taxes, stole from my business partners, beat my kids any time they looked at me

wrong and overall just acted as a general scumbag. In hindsight, I see it clearly. I wish I could start over and do it all again. One night, on my way home from my law firm, a freak ice storm covered the highway. I had four-wheel drive and didn't think about the falling sleet and hail, until a truck in front of me began to slide, then jackknifed and flipped, landing not even ten feet in front of my SUV. I had no time to react. I slammed the brakes at the very last millisecond but ended up going into the side of the trailer at 70 miles an hour, without a seatbelt on. The last thing I remember was time slowing down to a crawl as I flew through the windshield, shards of safety glass glittering like stars all around me in the winter air. Then it was

blackness. I awoke, screaming and hyperventilating, in the same blackness, but without any pain. In the darkness, I felt my body, running my hands over my arms, legs, chest and face. I didn't seem to have a single broken bone or laceration. I was even in the same expensive Armani suit I had been wearing during the accident. It seemed miraculous that I had somehow survived and scathed, without even a tear in my suit. I stood in the darkness, putting my hands out in front of me and stumbling around in short, hesitant steps. After a few minutes of this, I ran into a wall. The wall felt warm and seemed to vibrate under my fingers. I pushed on it and my hands went into it, like pushing into silly putty.

I began to rip away pieces of the wall and throw them behind me, and a shaft of light pierced through the hole I had just made. The light illuminated the cavern I was in, showing a floor of cobblestones soaked in layer after layer of dark red, clotted blood. The wall itself looked like the guts of some massive creature. It had long shards of white bone running through the top and bottom with smaller pieces of bone connecting them. The rest was some light red and vibrating tissue, like intestines that had been unspulled to form a never-ending, solid wall. I looked down at my hands, and saw with horror that dozens of black, maggot-like worms squirmed all down my wrist.

fists and hands. With a yelp and a jump backwards, I frantically tried to shake them off, but I could feel hot stings coming from my hands as they bit me, over and over. After a few minutes of writhing and rubbing my hands together, I got them all off. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest and instinctually kept checking the rest of my body to make sure I didn't miss any more of the biting, blood-sucking maggots. The soft, fiery light that came through the hole I made in the living wall showed me a door on the opposite side of the hall from the wall. From what I could see, it had a straight hallway that went off into the darkness. Having no other good options, I started walking down the hall, the minuscule light quickly

fading into nothing. I put my hands out in front of me and felt the smooth, stone walls. I walked in a straight line for what felt like hours before seeing a glimmer of red light, at first only a tiny pinpoint. As I walked towards it, it grew and grew, until I realized I was staring at a door that must have been 20 feet tall, surrounded by polished white bones on all sides. The bones that composed the framework of the door were so massive they looked like they had come from a blue whale, as if someone had taken the ribs off of one and fused them together into an archway.

All I could think of as I approached this door was my wife, my child, my job. Everything that I identified as me, everything that gave me meaning. Despite having cheated on my wife many times, I still loved her deep down. After all, I had protected her from the knowledge of what a poor husband I was, simply out of love for her. I had never let my five-year-old child suspect that his father was involved in anything illegal or immoral. My love for them had made me protect them from all the things I had to do to guarantee us a better life, and now I just wanted to see them again, to be with them. I knew I was basically a good person, and I just wanted another chance to prove it.

I kept their faces in my mind's eye as I walked through the massive archway. It looked big enough to drive a tractor trailer through. I saw flickering light coming from the other side, and, taking a deep breath in, stepped over the threshold. What I saw horrified me and shocked me into stillness. I had walked into an open field, the dark red and black clouds above blocking out any sky. The light filtering through them cast everything in a bloody glow. The field itself looked at first like a farmer's field, with finely spaced rows of soil plowed into perfect lines.

Growing out of the earth stood many squat brown plants covered in thorns. Out of the tip of each one, a large egg sack clung, weighing the plant down and bending many of them to the ground. The egg sacks were pale and unbroken, filled with fluid and dark silhouettes in each one. I saw beings writhing, one adult-sized silhouette in each sack, some putting their faces up to the wall of the sack in a silent scream, others trying to reach their arms or legs out through. But the sturdy covering of the yoke just bowed out with their arms and legs and didn't pop. It looked as if the people inside the eggs were all drowning. I quickly began speaking between the lines of horrifying plants, wondering whether the plants fed on the people in

the sacks or whether it just fed them and gave birth to them. As I passed the first row, one of the sacks burst in a torrent of fetid, rotting fluid burst out, dumping a beautiful, naked woman at my feet. She had long blonde hair and green eyes, flawless skin and a tiny, upturned nose. She heaved in a deep breath, as if she had been drowning, before looking up at me. Oh, God, she said, please don't hurt me. I shook my head and helped her to her feet. Why would I hurt you, ma'am?

I asked. Everyone here hurts me, she said, starting to weep. Her fingers shook as she sobbed, bowing her head in a pathetic way. I grabbed her arm. I promise you, I will not hurt you. I am one of the good guys. But I think we should get going, I said. We really need to find a way out of here.

Out of here, she asked, crying and laughing at the same time. There is no way out of here. Don't you know where you are? I shook my head. This is hell. I don't know if it is hell in the Judeo-Christian sense, but it is close enough. Everyone here is dead. I don't feel dead, I said, rubbing my hands over my suit, my face, my hair.

everything seems intact she nodded at this her crying quieting down as she focused on my face everyone comes in like that she said until they catch you torture you burn you rip you apart then when your body is too spent to feel anymore they bury you in these fields these plants grow overnight encasing your body in a sack and bringing it up to the surface where it starts to feed you and revive you after your healed enough for another round of torture, the fruit of the plant bursts, but who brings you to these fields? Who is in charge? I asked. Her pupils dilated, her eyes wide, she whispered the answer. Angels. At that moment, a bolt of lightning shot down from the red sky, bursting open dozens of plants

nearby and showering us in a mixture of blood, amniotic fluid, thorns and leaves. I grabbed her arm. Let's get out of here, I said. We can talk more when we get somewhere safe. She laughed at this, as if it was the most absurd thing she had ever heard, and we began to run. By the way, I said, gasping between breaths, my name is Jay, Angela, she said. At the end of the field, I saw a paved road. It had countless potholes and cracks running through it, and some parts of it had been wiped out and fallen into a stream that ran parallel to it on the farther side.

but I was still glad to see some sign of a trail. A road. I cried, pointing in excitement. Maybe that road lead somewhere out of this hellhole. She shook her head in amazement at my stupidity, but I ignored her. I had to hope there was some way out, that this wasn't just a never-ending landscape of horrors under a blood-red sky. The road seemed to stretch out in both directions forever, fading into each horizon in a perfectly straight line. I could see parts of the road were entirely missing, and it looked like some

bridges had collapsed farther down in the direction I was looking, so I turned the opposite way and started moving, holding Angela's hand as I went. Her presence gave me some comfort. She even reminded me of my wife to a certain degree, as they both had very light skin and an overall Irish cast to their faces. If this is hell, I said, then why are you here? She looked up at me, surprised by the question. Heaving a deep sigh, she looked away. No sense in keeping secrets here, I guess, she said. We are just going to get captured and tortured to death again anyways. That's all it is here. Just a never-ending cycle of pain and death. A lot of these people completely lose their minds. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, as if her head hurt her.

I always wanted to be an actress, but I grew up having no money. I met an older man who said he believed in me, and that he wanted to take me to L.A. But we needed money to get from the East Coast to L.A. and to live there while I looked for work. He convinced me to rob a bank with him to get it. Needless to say, it didn't work out very well. He got spooked and murdered two of the tellers before a security guard came out and shot him in the head. I grabbed his gun and killed the guard, took the money and ran. When the cops caught up with me, I pulled over slowly, put the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger.

I had absolutely no intention of going to prison for the rest of my life. I was just a stupid kid, really. I couldn't believe this angelic, innocent-looking young woman had participated in murders. It shocked me to my core. If this is hell, I said, I don't really feel I belong. Yes, I did some bad things, but I never killed anyone, never put a gun to anyone's head, never even killed an animal. She looked up at me sharply. You're only lying to yourself, she said.

No one innocent comes here. But I don't really care what you did, to be honest. We are both trapped here, and that's all I need to know. There is no hope. Just don't betray me. Our only chance of surviving longer is to stick together and trust each other. As we ran, the fields began to fade in what looked like an old, dilapidated western town began to take their place.

I saw people hanged by their neck from the street signs. Overall it seemed the safest place in the area, however, so I began to pull Angela over in that direction. There was an old saloon with swinging gates, and we walked inside, wary of any traps. In the corner, I saw what looked like a medieval night with massive white wings flowing out from his back. He held a man's mouth open while another man in a full suit of glowing blue armor poured molten lead down his throat.

The man screamed for a moment, then the lead ate through his neck and he collapsed to the ground. Angels, Angela said to me, their heads turned towards us, but there were no faces there. It was just an empty black void under a platinum helmet, one that seemed to glow. from its own inner light. They approached me, and I grabbed Angela. Please, please, take the girl and let me live. I screamed, my heart bursting with anxiety in my chest. They looked at each other then back at me.

Tell me how to get out of here and she is all yours. I'll hold her down while you burn her alive or cut her to pieces. Please. I just want to see my family. To my utter astonishment, they nodded at me. One spoke in a deep, slow cadence, his voice sounding like thousands of voices of different pitches all mixing and echoing over each other. You can ride the lightning up to Earth, one said.

The lightning connects us to those calling on magic, those who call on demons or try to contact ghosts. Any who are weak and small can be overwhelmed by those who ride the lightning up to them and possess them. But you will always return to us in the end, I nodded, throwing Angela in their direction and turning to run back to the field. Lightning was crashing down all around me now, bursting egg sacks and plants every few seconds, but I was no longer afraid of it. I looked up at the sky and saw a swirling whirlpool of red and black, and stood under it as a bolt struck

me directly in the center of my head. I felt myself being sucked up at an incredible speed and saw, above the clouds, a deep void. I fell into the void and saw through another set of eyes. Two teens played with a Ouija board in a graveyard, giggling as if it were a game, surrounded by black candles. Demons, we call on you to answer us, one of them with a high voice shrieked. As his mouth opened, I rushed into it. His eyes widened in shock as I pushed his soul out, sending it spiraling back into the void I had just emerged from. I now had complete control of his body. Hey man, the other kid asked me, are you a woman?

I nodded, smiling, looking around at the clear sky and feeling relieved to be back. Never been better, buddy, as I took over the body of the teenager, a sense of euphoria and exhilaration filled me. I had escaped from hell. I looked around the cemetery, frowning. Scanning the mind of the child I possessed, I gained his name, Kurt, and his address, among other critical information. I found myself in Maine, in the absolute middle of nowhere.

But it would have to do. The friend stared at me with wide eyes, clear anxiety marring his expression. You don't look good at all, man, he said. You look pale as shit all of a sudden. My body wavered and I tripped, nearly falling before the friend grabbed my arm and steadied me. Scanning the mind of the kid, I found the name of his friend. Thanks, André, I said. Maybe it was just something I ate.

A little touch of food poisoning or something. I guess I really don't feel that good. I'm just going to head home. Andre nodded seriously at me. I'll pick up the Ouija board and candles and everything, he said. Too bad we didn't get to see anything supernatural happen, huh? Yeah, too bad, I said, walking away. If only he knew.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I started to start a little bit of my eye, as I started walking down the side of the road under the streetlights, I saw the silhouette of an angel, like the ones I had seen torturing people in hell. Its wings spread out massively behind it twenty feet in each direction, softly swaying to and fro like a flag in a slight breeze. But when I turned my eyes to look directly at it, there was nothing there besides an ancient oak tree with countless branches reaching up to the moonlit sky. My eyes are playing tricks on me, I said to myself. Then I remembered the horrifying thousand voices of the angel as it turned its empty space of a face towards me, how it had said to me, you will always return to us in the end. I shuddered.

It felt like it had been staring directly into my soul, judging me and finding me wanting. I had never done psychedelic drugs in my life, but I felt like I was on what I imagined LSD or peyote to feel like. I kept seeing figures out of the corner of my eyes, shadows running across the street, faces in the trees and eyes staring out from the surrounding forest, but whenever I turned my attention to them, they disappeared. It was like something was mocking me, always staying directly out of the view of the center of my vision, but playing games on the periphery instead. The ground began to tremble, as if an earthquake were starting.

I heard running from behind me, and turned to see Andre standing there, sweating and out of breath. God, did you just feel that, he said, his eyes widening with fear. I think we're having an earthquake. We don't have earthquakes in fucking Maine. What the hell is going on right now? He was right. When Maine had earthquakes, they were generally so small no one felt them. But right now it was just getting more and more intense. Trees began to fall in the forest, the smashing branches creating an echoing cacophony that blotted out of all André's words afterwards. I saw his lips moving, but I couldn't hear anything besides the crashing of the earth, the collapsing of crypts in the nearby cemetery and trees continuously breaking apart.

All of a sudden, I felt a whooshing sensation and heard deafening crashing inches away to my left. A massive pine tree branch crashed into the ground, its smaller branches slicing up my shirt and back as it fell. At that moment, Andre and I began to run to the only open area that was close, the cemetery. It seemed the only place where we wouldn't get crushed to death by falling trees and branches. We didn't even have to speak to each other, but both sprinted in a blind panic, breathing hard, my heart beating out of my chest. The shaking behind us was getting so bad that the road was starting to crack. We sprinted as fast as we could, nearly tripping a few times as the pavement heat.

and split around us and more branches fell in the distance. The forest around us sounded like it was coming apart. I heard alarms going off in the distance, first car alarms, and then the wailing of a tornado siren from the center of downtown. People were definitely waking up, noticing something was very wrong, and I had a feeling it was all my fault. As we ran into the cemetery, I first began to see for certain that this was not a normal earthquake. hands were reaching out of the ground, some skeletal, others with some flesh still hanging

on to their cracking bones. I could see the muscles and tendons of those closest as they moved with frantic energy and unbelievable speed, shoveling dirt away and ripping a hole open as they emerged from underneath. Crips flew open as bodies bashed through the doors with superhuman strength, sending shards of stone flying in all directions. From the eyes of every corpse, I could see pure blackness, just like the blackness of the faces of the angels who controlled hell. The blackness was piercing, shimmering, beyond any simple absence of light, it was as if a hole was actually ripping in reality right where the eyes of the corpses used to be. And all of the hundreds of them stared directly at me, ignoring Andre completely.

Then, in an instant, the shaking stopped. The silence was deafening and eerie in the aftermath of such a cataclysm. All I could hear was the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart. You will return to us, the corpse in front of me shrieked, his voice sounding like thousands of deep, distorted voices overlapping. He was a half-decomposed elderly man in an expensive Armani suit, strands of white hair still hanging to the papery skin of his skull, his teeth, and the muscles of his jaw showing through the decayed holes in his cheeks as he spoke.

Do you need more rope to hang yourself with, sinner? Will you not accept your fate? You dare take the body of an innocent child just to fulfill your own selfish desires and try to escape the fate that you deserve. Another corpse began to move in from my right, a young woman who looked much fresher, but had a massive bullet hole through her forehead. Otherwise, she almost could have still been alive. Yet she spoke with the same voice of the other corpse, the cacophony of many beings blending their vocalizations together almost, but not completely, in sync. Her screaming was so loud I felt my chest vibrating, my heart thudding painfully in my chest as the corpses closed in around me. Haven't you done enough, Jay? You are rotted from the inside. Only hell will purify your evil.

Return to us. Give up the body of the child, now. I felt around Kurt's pockets, having only one idea to get out of this situation. I knew I couldn't return with them. And in his right pocket, I found what I knew would be there. A pocket knife. Grabbing Andre quickly, I flicked open the knife and put it to his throat. Stand the F-U-C-K back. I screamed as loud as I could, my throat hurting from the sheer force of my yelling. The circle of corpses stopped moving in on me, but my heart was still beating too fast, my hands trembling so badly I thought I might drop the knife on the ground.

I wanted to throw up, but I managed to avoid it. I'm serious right now. I will fucking kill this kid right in front of you all if you don't let me go. Have you gone so far down, Jay, the elderly man said to me in the voice of an angel. You know you must return to us eventually. Why accumulate more evil to repay? Your kind never learns. But you're not a stupid man.

You must know we cannot allow you to stay here in the body. body of this innocent boy. He shook his head, almost like a disappointed parent. My hand shook so bad that I sliced Andre's skin slightly. Andre yelped, and a few drops of blood ran down his neck. Kurt, what the fuck man, he whispered to me. Let me go. This is crazy. You don't have to do this. I don't know what's going on, but, I'm not Kurt. I said, I possessed him during your little ritual with the Ouija board, but I'm not him. And I am not going back to hell. No way. Andre, you have no idea what these things do to people there. They pour lead down their throats, they hang them from every pole on the street, they burn them and cut them and torment them,

then when their victims are too used up, they're buried in a field, where they're healed and come out of some massive eggplant just to do it all over again. How can anyone expect me to go back there. That's totally insane. I would rather die. At that moment, a fleet of police cars and ambulances started to drive by, their lights flashing but their sirens off since there was no traffic out here, but they slammed on their brakes once they saw the massive crowd of people standing in the cemetery. The cop in the front car got out, looking confused. Then he saw that the people standing around us were not really people at all, with their decomposing bodies, black eyes and skeletal figures, and his jaw fell open.

Holy shit, he whispered. More cops got out behind him, all of them looking confused. Some pulled out their guns and started screaming orders at the walking bodies, while others got back in their cars and locked the doors, staring out in horror, unsure of what to do. Some of them called for backup on their radios. One cop got in his car and drove away like a madman, swerving between the ambulances and other police cars in front of him, his sirens now blaring.

He looked like he was screaming inside the car and I think he flipped us off as he sped away. I suppressed a sudden urge to start laughing hysterically at this absurd scene. If I started laughing now, I might never stop. I felt like I was losing my mind under all the stress. I don't know who started it, but one of the cops fired his gun as a few of the corpses started walking towards them, and all hell started breaking loose. The circle of corpses rushed at the police, and then all of the police started firing at once.

The gunshots made my ears ring, and I heard a few bullets smash into the crypts and tombstones immediately to my left, whizzing right next to my head and chest. I let Andre go and ran for my life. I don't know if he made it out of there or not. He might be dead for all I know. I scanned Kurt's mind and found his house. He was only 14 and so, of course, lived with his parents. But I needed a place to rest and think, and that was the only one nearby.

I ran to the house, running up the stairs without speaking to anyone and locking the door behind me. Shaking, shivering, sick with fear and worry, I laid down on the bed and started to cry for myself and everything I had lost. I thought about my wife and my kid, my old life and how much I missed all of them, and I started sobbing uncontrollably, the tears staining the pillow as I screamed into it in desperation and anger. As I write this up, I look out the windows and keep seeing the silhouettes of angels out of the corner of my eye. And now the ground feels like it is starting to shake. I think they're coming for me. I wonder if I should keep running, or if I should just go with them to that sick place with the red clobes. and the people constantly brought back to life just to be tortured all over again.

I am thinking about taking Kurt's parents hostage if I need to. The angels don't seem to want to see innocents die, and that may be my only chance. I still have the pocket knife just in case, and there are plenty of bigger knives downstairs, if I decide it necessary. Yet the voice of the angel from the cemetery keeps repeating in my head, Do you need more rope to hang yourself with, sinner? We begin. This story starts in the year 1896, when Mr. and Mrs. Otto decided to move to 534, Eaton Street in Key West.

After moving there, they began to earn the sympathy and affection of all their neighbors. Yes, they began to gain the reputation of being truly pleasant people, very attentive, always willing to help everyone. If you had any kind of financial problem, they would lend you money. If you needed good advice, they would give it without expecting anything in return. The autos were a family loved by all, an admired family, the typical model family everyone wanted to imitate. However, when it came to addressing the house staff, the autos were despicable people. Every good family has its dark side, and theirs was that they were incredibly racist and classist.

Practically all of their staff were originally from the Bahamas, and in their eyes, the mere fact that their skin color and beliefs were different made them social scum. On multiple occasions, guests of the Otto family witnessed all kinds of abuse toward the servants, rudeness, harsh words, even physical aggression, sometimes simply because a tea was found too hot. Any excuse was good enough to fire an entire family. But starting in the year 1906, the excuse became something else. The excuse was voodoo. One random morning, Mrs. Otto was upstairs doing her daily chores when suddenly she felt curious.

She felt the urge to look out toward the backyard of the house. So, she slightly pulled the curtain and looked out the window. That was when she saw four black women performing what at first she considered to be some kind of dance. She thought they were celebrating something. But the more she watched them, the more she analyzed that scene, the more it seemed like a voodoo ritual. Mrs. Otto, completely scandalized, couldn't help but run down the stairs and confront them, because she thought, what will the neighbors say? What will they say when they find out I've allowed this?

Allowed these women, this scum, to perform strange pagan rituals under my roof? What will they say? I can't let this keep happening here. So she fired them. She kicked them off her property. But one of them refused to go. One of them had never before received even a single reprimand from the masters. So she knelt down on a single reprimand from the masters.

damp grass and begged the lady to forgive her. She pleaded not to be fired, because she had a mouth to feed. She begged, please, for my young son, don't leave me without a job. I'll have nothing to feed him with. She swore she would never do it again, that she would stop practicing voodoo, that she would do anything the lady asked, but please, don't fire her. Unfortunately, Mrs. Otto had already made up her mind. She turned her back on her and went. inside the house without looking back. A week later, someone knocked on the door, someone knocked at the auto residence, and the one who answered the door was none other than the lady of the house. She came face to face with that same servant who, seven days earlier, had begged to keep

her job. But this time, she wasn't there to beg to be let back into the house or to be allowed to work for them. She came bearing a gift. The gift was a doll, about three feet tall, completely made of cloth, stuffed with straw, with real human hair, black button eyes, a beautiful sailor outfit, and a plush toy under its arm, a plush toy that made the whole ensemble even more endearing. Clearly, it was a one-of-a-kind piece, handmade, one that only the Otto's could enjoy. And the servant's words as she offered the gift were the following, take it, man. This is my farewell to the little one of the house. Now, many of you may think that Mrs. Otto's heart softened, that she apologized for her behavior and welcomed her back into the house,

but unfortunately, that wasn't a case. Mrs. Otto snatched the doll from the servant's hands, slammed the door in her face, went upstairs, barged into her son's room, and handed him the doll, without telling him who had brought it. Then she went back downstairs, entered the main living room, and took out all her rage on another servant. The little jean, the moment he saw that doll, was enchanted by it, He fell in love with all its tiny details. He fell in love with its soft hair, its beautiful sailor outfit, and the sweet plush toy it carried under its arm.

He loved the doll so much that he made it his best friend. And what better name for your best friend than your own? The Otto family's son was named Robert Eugene Otto. So, he decided to give his doll his first name, Robert. Robert and Eugene became inseparable friends. They walked together, bathed together, ate together. Yes, so much so that the boy asked the house staff to place a plate next to him. A plate that always had to be filled with his favorite food.

And that plate was for his doll, so that he wouldn't go hungry. At this point, you might ask, why didn't the autos, seeing their son feeding a doll, talk to him? Why didn't they tell him that this wasn't normal? Because, it was normal. until this point everything was normal people who owned these kinds of dolls belonged to high society and therefore this kind of play wasn't strange at all what started to become strange were the conversations conversations at all hours of the night conversations that the auto parents tried to hear from the other side of the door at first they heard nothing just their son and another voice

whispering a much softer voice they never heard what was being said. But little by little, those conversations became more intense, more disturbing, until they realized their son was talking with someone about subjects like life and death, or the value of human existence. Topics that a six-year-old does not discuss. Topics a six-year-old doesn't care about, or shouldn't care about. Slowly, stranger and stranger things began to happen in that house. The boy would do odd things. They'd enter his room and find everything in disarray. And when Mrs. Otto scolded him, he would confront her and say, My name's not Robert Eugene. My name is Jean. Robert is my doll, the mischiefs of their son

extended beyond that room. Some nights, when the parents returned home after dining out, they would find the entire house turned upside down. And when they went to scold the boy, he would say he had nothing to do with it, that Robert had done it. The boy began to experience night terrors. He started screaming in the middle of the night. And every time the parents rushed into his room to see what was happening, they would find him curled up in a corner of the bed, staring in terror at his doll, who always sat on a chair by the window. It was as if, in little Robert Eugene's mind, the only being that could make him happy was that doll, but at the same time, it was also the one giving him dreadful nightmares. The parents began to

believe this was a phase, a phase their son was going through, and they endured years of that horrific scene, with all of their son's personality changes. And the worst part was that little by little, they began to feel that the doll was to blame for those changes. They even came to believe that the doll was truly haunted. Because sometimes they heard laughter, whispers, children's footsteps in the halls, and when they went out looking for the culprit, they found no one. When all the house staff had already gone for the day, that's when the strange things would happen. That's when they found tiny footprints on the hallway floor. That's when a window that should have been shut wide open. That's when doors started slamming shut, even though no one

was around, and there wasn't even a draft that could have caused it. They felt chills, cold that moved from one side of the room to another. They felt presences. Eyes watching them. They felt so many things that they were going mad. Until one day, the neighbors began to give their opinions. First, it was small comments. Neighbors said that as they passed by the house, they thought they saw something hiding behind the curtains. Something very small moving through the rooms.

Something that looked like a doll. The autos laughed when they heard these things. They thought it was a joke. But then came the moment when the neighbor across the street. street spoke up. He said that from his daughter's upstairs bedroom, they could see directly into their son's room, into Jean's room. And he assured them that the doll changed expressions. That the doll made strange, mocking faces at anyone walking by on the street. And for that reason, they needed to get rid of it immediately, because it was a clear sign that the doll was possessed.

That same day, the autos sat down at the table with their son. They tried to talk to him, to make him reason, to make him want to give away the doll, to get rid of it. But the little boy refused to do so. Mr. Otto first suggested giving the doll to a child who wasn't lucky enough to have toys. But the boy said that Robert would never hurt them, because Robert was his friend. And they were only playing. To be continued, the little boy told them that Robert would never hurt them because Robert was his friend and they were just playing. Mr. Otto became enraged and demanded that he throw the doll in the trash, but in doing so,

he only caused his son to cling more tightly to his ragged friend and begin to cry. At that point, the autos agreed not to insist anymore, to let their son make the decision in time, since that would be the best way to one day get rid of that cursed doll. That very night, the night terrors began for their son, and as always, the autos burst into his room, but this time they didn't just find him curled up in a corner of it. of the bed and the doll placed on his chair next to the window. Upon entering, they found everything turned upside down as if a hurricane had destroyed everything, as if a hurricane had smashed the furniture, gutted those dolls, scattered papers, and clawed the bedspread of their son.

Mr. Otto, upon seeing that hellish scene, asked his son what the hell had happened there, to which he responded by pointing at his doll, pointing to his best friend, saying it had been Robert who had done it. It was then that Mr. Otto, desperate, grabbed the doll and took it to the attic, where he locked it in a chest, thinking that decision would be forever. Years later, little Robert Eugene Otto became a full-grown man, a highly recognized writer and visual artist in the United States. He married a woman named Anne, who came from high society. Life finally seemed to smile upon him when he received tragic news, his parents had just died, leaving him the house by the sea where he had grown up as a child, the house where he lived a terrible nightmare.

The nightmare of the haunted doll. At first, he didn't want to accept the inheritance, he didn't want anything to do with 534, Eaton Street. But then he thought it might be the perfect home, a wonderful home that would serve as inspiration to continue creating art. He thought moving there would help him forget that terrible nightmare, turn the page, face his demons, and finally grow up. So he decided to accept the inheritance. He decided to move in with his wife, to live again, dream again, and become himself again. From the first moment he stepped into that house, he knew he had to face Robert.

So, accompanied by his wife, they went up to the attic and opened the chest. He sat the doll on a dusty chair and asked, Do you remember me? The doll did not respond. So he continued, I'm back. The doll did not respond. So he assumed that perhaps all those strange memories he had in his head were nothing more than the product of his wild imagination. Still, his wife told him she didn't want that doll in the house, she wanted him to get rid of it, to lock it back in the chest, because she didn't want anything to do with it. The woman felt the doll could change expression.

She felt the doll's features slowly shifted until they formed a slight smirk. of evil, a grimace of disdain. But Jean told her that was just her imagination, and that the doll, to somehow reconcile with it, would have its own room. So he took the doll in his arms, brought it down to the guest room, and placed it by the window. Big mistake. From that point on, the same nightmare began to repeat. Whenever they placed the doll in one spot, it would disappear and be found on the other side of the house. They would leave it in the entryway, and it appear in the kitchen. They would try to sleep and hear footsteps all over the house, whispers, children's laughter. Furniture moved out of place. There was a strange aura throughout the house.

But the worst part was when Anne, his wife, grabbed the doll and placed it at the attic door, and upon going downstairs to the kitchen and turning around, would find it right beside her. The doll's feet were always covered in dust. The worst came with the neighbors gossip when they stopped them in the street and said, your doll has a life of its own. When you're not home, it peeks through the window and makes mocking faces at everyone who passes by. If I were you, I'd get rid of that doll because there's something very dark in it. But it was too late, Robert had complete control of the house, and Jean didn't want to lock him up again. In 1974, with the death of Robert Eugene Otto, his wife took control of the situation. She decided

to get rid of that cursed doll. At first, she decided to burn it, to burn away the curse the doll carried. But then she thought of all the love and affection she had for her husband. So instead, she simply took it, brought it up to the attic, and locked it back in the chest, thinking this time the decision really would be forever. Years passed, and after the woman's death, the house was put up for sale again. It was a wonderful house, one that anyone passing by would fall in with. The Ocean View was incredible, the neighborhood itself was wonderful. So a family of three didn't take long to make an offer and buy the house. This family consisted of a young couple and their 10-year-old daughter, a girl with a large doll collection. A girl who loved playing, loved

dolls, loved brushing their hair, dressing them, loved everything to do with them. So you can imagine her reaction upon discovering a beautiful doll hidden in a chest. She is a instantly fell in love with his sailor suit, his black buttons, the stuffed toy he held under his arm. She fell in love with the doll and made it her new best friend. But her new best friend didn't want to share her with the other dolls. So day after day, her dolls began to deteriorate, it was as if they suddenly aged, as if they turned fragile, their hair falling out in handfuls, their faces stained. The dolls were decaying, and she didn't understand why. Little by little, that deterioration turned into mutilated arms, legs, and heads.

It was as if someone, during the night, dismembered them, gutted their clothes, scratched their faces, as if someone couldn't stand those other dolls. Noises in the house became something tangible, they became real. The sound of footsteps, laughter, cold drafts moving from one side of the room to another. And the worst part was the neighbor's gossip, people saying that something was moving around the rooms when no one else was home. That something peaked through the curtains. That something made gestures at children walking down the street.

One neighbor said that there was a doll that moved its head, a doll that seemed to be alive. The couple began to get slightly scared. They started thinking that something strange was happening with that doll. That maybe their daughter's games with it were going too far. But still, they didn't want to believe there was something sinister about the doll, because it was still an innocent doll, a harmless toy that didn't do anything when you were looking at it. The fact that their daughter talked to the doll constantly, whispered things into its ear, that didn't make it a haunted doll.

And since they hadn't seen it move or seen anything the neighbors claimed to witness, they couldn't believe it. However, one day everything changed. One day they simply began to believe that curses were real. Their Labrador had disappeared. There was no way to find it. They searched everywhere, in the yard, in the rooms, in the attic, but the dog was gone. They thought it must have run away. So they went outside to look for it.

They asked around the neighborhood, but no one had seen the dog. But when they opened their front door, there it was, the dog, right next to the couch. It looked as if it hadn't moved from the house at all. But in fact, it couldn't have moved, because it was tied to the sofa with wires. Someone had gone to the trouble of tying the dog to that furniture with incredible strength. That was when the couple knew something was going on. That very night, their daughter's piercing screams woke them. When they entered her room, they found the same scene the Otto family had faced,

a little girl curled up in a corner of the bed, pointing at the chair next to the window and saying that what they were seeing had been done by her doll. Saying that the countless decapitated dolls, the papers, books, and destroyed obvious, had all been caused by that little ragged doll. So the girl's father repeated the operation, he grabbed the doll and returned it to the attic chest, once again thinking this time the decision would be forever. To this day, the house where Robert Eugene Otto and the girl from the last story lived as popularly known as the artist house. It's now a famous bakery in Key West. Discovery Channel has produced several documentaries about that house, including an episode of

believe it or not, in which they claim to have captured the specter of Mrs. and Robert Eugene's wife. But what interests us is knowing the exact whereabouts of Robert today. He is currently in the Martello Museum, and the staff there swear up and down that he is truly haunted. The anecdotes about him are endless. Some staff claimed that before being placed inside a display case, he used to wander around and move entirely on his own without anyone touching him. The proof that the doll moved by itself was that its feet were always covered in dust. Once they managed to lock him inside a display case, even then, both staff and visitors began to say that if you got too close, you could hear faint knocking sounds coming from within. You could even see the doll

move on its own or slightly change the expression on its face. Over time, being locked up gave him new ideas, new ways to hurt people. And what did this doll come up with? He came up with the idea that if visitors didn't ask his permission before taking a photo, he would curse them. The photos tourists take often come out blurry, as if the doll were moving its head at the moment the picture was taken. Many claimed that after failing to ask permission and returning home, they experienced horrifying events. That's why, if you go visit the Martello Museum, you'll see that behind Robert's display case, the walls are full of letters, writings, and photographs, all of them apologizing to Robert and begging him to lift the curse. And now comes my question,

what would you do if you encountered a story like the one I've just told you? The end. It wasn't the first time that after an argument, Romina left, she would go away for 10 or 20 days and then come back asking for forgiveness. So I assured everyone that they just had to wait, they had to be patient, because Romina always came back. But the days went by, and no one knew anything about her, no calls, no messages, absolutely nothing. Let's begin. Romina Celeste was a very cheerful, hard-working mother of two, very close to her family and friends. In August 2018, she married who she considered the love of her life and moved with him to a luxurious neighborhood on the island of Lanzerati. However, after months of living her dream, she vanished

without a trace. No matter how much her mother called, no matter how much her friends asked about her, no one knew anything, not even her husband. Apparently, the young woman left the house on the night of December 31st without saying anything, took her clothes, her phone, 200 in cash, and never returned. Unfortunately, that relationship didn't work out, so the couple ended up separating. It was then that Romina started to think about her future, realizing that in Paraguay, she would never have the resources to support her little one on her own and help her family at the same time. Upon arriving in Spain, Romina went to live with her aunt and cousin in a town called Alcabendis, and from there she held many different jobs, especially taking care of elderly

people. Everyone who worked with her or hired her spoke wonders, that she was hardworking, attentive, friendly, very pleasant, and a truly responsible woman. Her goal in life was to earn enough money to send to Paraguay and at the same time save up to bring her beloved son with her, and she wasn't going to rest until she achieved that. In Alcabendez, Romina fell in love again, this time with a young Ecuadorian man who worked as a bricklayer. In the early years, the relationship went so well that not only did they move and together, but they also had a child. However, according to several articles, arguments became part of their daily life, so they separated and Romina went to live with a friend.

That's when everything changed drastically, she was diagnosed with cancer. As expected, Romina was devastated by the news, but still she fought with all her strength and went through several chemotherapy treatments. Thanks to that, and never giving up, Romina was able to overcome the disease. Even though the treatment caused her to lose her hair, Romina didn't care. She wore wigs, extensions, and walked out into the world with the big smile that always defined her. Her loved ones had nothing but good words to describe her, she was a strong, fighter of a woman, a true role model. They were convinced that one day she would find true love, and not only that, but she would also be able to reunite with her two sons.

Apparently, one spring day in 2017, Romina's dreams seemed to come true. The young woman had just gotten a new job, so to celebrate, she went out partying with her friends. It was then that she met Raoul Diaz Chacon, a man 13 years older than her, and she fell in love almost instantly. From that moment on, Romina couldn't stop talking about him to her friends and family. She told them he was very caring, affectionate, that he showered her with gifts, flowers, orchids. Romina was very happy and excited. She said that finally she would be able to live with her two children and her new love. Roel was a 41-year-old man, divorced, and father of two daughters.

He worked for the company in Dessa as an industrial engineer specialized in energy technologies. Due to his job, he traveled a lot and that, if they were to live together, could become a problem. However, he was determined to make Romina his new wife. So he did everything he could to impress her family and friends, he called her mother every day, was super friendly to everyone. But even so, there was something about him that didn't quite sit right. He could seem very nice and responsible, but something about him didn't add up. No one could pinpoint exactly what it was, but they didn't like Roel. Everyone kept in mind that he was 13 years older than Romina, and that he was divorced from

a woman who wanted nothing to do with him, they didn't even communicate. That was very strange. But Romina was very happy with him, so eventually everyone accepted him. as part of the family. At the start of summer 2018, the couple decided to settle on the island of Lanzarotti, specifically in a luxury residential complex called El Palmyrol in the town of Costa Teguiz. There, Roel made her promises, that he would treat her like a queen, that she, her two sons, and he would be a happy family. That's when they decided to get married. Roll's idea was that after the wedding, the couple would spend some time without kids. Romina thought that was a great idea,

so she arranged for her younger son to go to Paraguay. He spent some time there with the family, she returned to Lanzerati, and married Roel on August 10th. But after the wedding, Romina's behavior began to change. She was no longer the cheerful young woman she had been. She seemed drained, lacking energy, with no motivation. And then came December 31st. 2018, the day Romina disappeared. From December 31st to January 7th, Romina's friends and family didn't stop calling her, asking about her, insisting, but her phone was off. They insisted and insisted and insisted, but there was no way to contact her. So they asked Roll directly, and he told them she had left the house. He said that for months his wife had wanted to bring her

two children to Lanzerati, but he wasn't ready for that yet, so he had been put her off. However, on the night of December 31st, Romina had had enough. She didn't want to wait any longer. So she started yelling at him and demanded 5,000 to bring her two children to Lanzerati, and he, to avoid an argument, left the house. There wasn't an argument, well, an exchange of words, I suppose, not something else. I don't know if there was, no, violence. No, no, no, No. God no. I mean, to avoid anything even remotely close to that, or anything leading to that, I just grabbed my things and left. I left. I spent the whole night and morning. Just walking around, watching the sunrise, drinking a few beers. I got home around three in the afternoon to

see if she had calmed down a bit. I got home, and when I got there, did she leave a note or something? No, she didn't leave any note. She took her clothes, she took my personal phone, she took some cash, maybe around 200. She took her toiletries, almost all of her clothes. It wasn't the first time that after an argument, Romina left, she would go away for 10 or 20 days and then come back asking for forgiveness. So I assured everyone that they just had to wait, they had to be patient, because Romina always came back.

But the days went by, and no one knew anything, nothing from her, no calls, no messages, absolutely nothing. So from Paraguay, her family began to put pressure. They demanded Roel file a report, that he report her disappearance. But he flatly refused. He kept saying over and over that Romina would come back, that she always left, that she always came back. He kept refusing to call the police, but eventually he gave him.

in, and on January 7th, he filed a report with the Civil Guard. Authorities, finally alerted to the disappearance of Romina Celeste Nunez, had many questions, questions Roel always answered with evasions or short replies. So he became the main suspect. Roel wasn't stupid. He knew the police were on his trail. So as soon as the media decided to interview him, he took the opportunity to make excuses and clear his public image.

So, up until the call from her family in Paraguay, I wasn't alarmed. Why? Well, because, she just left. She left to make a living, to earn that money, or, I don't know, where do you think she might be now? I don't know. I don't know. She could be on the island or on the mainland. If she's on the mainland, I know she has contacts for work in Madrid, in Valencia, in La Rioja, in Asturias, in Seville, and in

Granada, Romina's friends and family were convinced Raoul had something to do with her disappearance. They were convinced, and now it wasn't just them, all of Spain believed it. Who doesn't worry about their partner when they leave and don't come back? Who doesn't even ask friends or family how their partner is, who they're with, where they are? The whole case didn't make sense, and the authorities were very clear, they had to follow Raoul D.S. Chaconne closely. So they launched two investigations. one into his past and one into his present. And both bore fruit.

Regarding Raoul's past, he had an ex-wife and two daughters. An ex-wife who, coincidentally, didn't want to hear or talk about Raoul D.S. Chacon. She didn't want to hear his name, didn't want to know anything about him. And when asked why, she couldn't explain. She simply said, he's not a good man, so the police investigated his recent present. While Romina was telling her mother over the phone how wonderful the relationship was, on August 8th, 2018, she went to the police station in Eresifee to report her husband for abuse. However, while speaking to the officers, she got very nervous and withdrew the report on the spot. Just three days later, she married the man she had nearly reported.

According to several of Romina's close friends, arguments with him became constant. That, they said, was the only negative thing she ever said about the relationship, that they fought because she wanted to bring her children to Spain, because he was cold and distant, and because he made promises and never kept them. The fights grew more intense until they became physical. According to her relatives, she would text when he mistreated her. In fact, on one occasion, one of her cousins received a message from Romina saying Raoul had beaten her so badly that she feared next time it would cost her life.

Then came the night of December 29th. That night, Romina walked into the ER at Jose Molina Orosa Hospital in Lanzerati on her own. The hospital was crowded and all the doctors were busy, so she never made it to a consultation. But a nurse did check on her briefly, and with a quick glance, she saw Romina's arms were covered in bruises. Before she could bring her in, Roel walked in and rushed her out. This is when the testimony of a couple's friend comes into play. That night she came over complaining and saying she didn't feel well. She showed me the bruises on her arms and ribs.

She had trouble walking. Her whole body was in pain. Roel admitted to hitting her. He got on his knees and begged for forgiveness. Said he wouldn't do it again. Up to that point, the evidence against him was purely circumstantial. Romina had never officially. reported him for abuse. She had tried but couldn't follow through. There was no medical report,

and the WhatsApp messages saying she had been beaten proved nothing in court. So they decided to wiretap his phone, and discovered chilling details. Romina's phone was turned off on the night of December 31st and never turned back on. Rolls, however, remained active. So, if he was guilty, eventually he'd talk to someone. From December 31st to January 6th, police couldn't intercept his calls, since he didn't report Romina missing until the 7th. But they could still look at testimonies and his purchase records. And they found something truly suspicious, between January 2nd and 6th, he bought caustic soda and paint. The caustic soda, supposedly to clean the house. The paint, to redecorate. During the week of January 7th to 13th, when the police were already watching him,

Roel painted the walls, talked to people, made phone calls. And one call on January 13th set off all the alarms. That day, during a conversation with his cousin, he confessed something he had been hiding since January 1st. According to Roel, things didn't happen the way he initially said. On the night of December 31st, he and Romina had drunk. a lot and used drugs. Suddenly, she started yelling, demanding that he bring her two children to Spain, demanding money, demanding his attention. He didn't want to argue, so he left the house and wandered around for 30 to 60 minutes. When he came back, he found her unconscious in the bathroom. He tried to revive her, wake her up, but realized she wasn't breathing. He was under the

influence and terrified of calling the police. His reputation would be ruined, one way or another. So he thought the best thing to do was get rid of the body. He turned the grill on high and tried to burn the corpse. The grill stayed on almost until the next day's noon. But even then, Roel couldn't reduce Romina's body to ashes. So on January 2nd, he brought the barbecue inside, placed it near the washing machine, dismembered the body, and placed it in plastic bags. That same afternoon, he rented a car. On the night of January 3rd, he loaded the bags into the trunk and drove to a remote part of the island, where he threw Romina's remains into the sea. With this confession, authorities went to Raoul Diaz Chacon's house the next day and arrested him, charging him with homicide.

It was time for the truth, time to search for proof and for Romina Celeste Nunez remains. But again, the police hit a dead end. Raoul's new version was still not reliable. Everyone who knew Romina swore she had never used drugs and drank alcohol only responsibly. So when this new version came to light, the world condemned Roel, not just for murder, but also for lying. Social media rallied around the cause. Marches were organized in protest. Friends and family expressed their pain in every way possible.

They demanded justice for Romina and for her body to be returned to her homeland. At that point, all progress in the investigation was made public. On January 17, police inspected the rental car role had used on January 2nd. With the help of a water dog, the same one that found Gabriel Cruz's body, they discovered DNA traces in the trunk. Not only that, but DNA was also found in the garden of the couple's home. On February 21st, the Civil Guard found a piece of lung near the coast of Lanzerati. Authorities asked Romina's mother to send a DNA sample from Paraguay. After comparison, it was confirmed, the lung belonged to Romina Celeste Nunez.

To this day, Raoul Diaz Chacon remains in custody, awaiting trial. And the most shocking part. This man still claims to be innocent. He denies ever hitting Romina and, of course, denies killing her. Romina's loved ones continue to wait for her body to be found and return to her homeland. Now it's your turn, what do you think about this case? What do you believe is Raoul Diaz Chacon's level of involvement in Romina's death? The end.

Part 1. The rain started about 30 miles back, a slow drizzle that turned into a full-blown storm by the time I hit the state highway. Sheets of water flashed against my windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. It was the kind of rain that turned the world. into a hazy blur, making the lines on the road vanish. The plan had been to drive straight through the night, eight hours tops. But the storm had other ideas. By the time I spotted the glowing red vacancy sign up ahead, my nerves were shot. I pulled into the gravel lot of the sundown motel, my tires skidding slightly as I parked. The place looked like it hadn't seen a guest

since the late 70s. Fated yellow siding, a sagging roof, and a crooked neon sign buzzing faintly in the rain. But I didn't care. At that point, I just needed somewhere dry to crash for the night. The lobby smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke. A bored-looking clerk sat behind the counter, flipping through a dog-eared magazine. He didn't even glance up as I approached, just muttered, 40 bucks, cash only. I slid the cash across the counter, and he handed me a key attached to a flimsy plastic tag. Room six, he said, jerking his thumb toward the row of doors outside.

Thanks, I mumbled. He didn't respond. The room was, fine. Not good, but not awful. The wallpaper was peeling, and the carpet squished slightly underfoot, but at least it was dry. The single lamp on the nightstand cast a dim, yellowish glow across the room, barely bright enough to illuminate the stained comforter on the bed. I tossed my duffel onto the chair in the corner and collapsed onto the mattress, listening to the storm rage outside. The rain pounded against the window, the wind howling through gaps in the frame.

I told myself I'd just rest my eyes for a few minutes. When I woke up, the lamp was off. I sat up, groggy and disoriented. The room was pitch dark except for the faint glow of the motel's neon sign filtering through the curtains. I fumbled for the lamp switch, but it wouldn't turn on. The power must have gone out. Growning, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. That's when I noticed it.

The chair in the corner was gone. I stopped, blinking in the dark. I could have sworn I'd tossed my duffel onto that chair. My bag was still there, though, sitting neatly on the floor where the chair used to be. Great, I muttered. I'm losing it, I found the bathroom by feel and flicked on the light. It buzzed and flickered but stayed on. The bathroom was tiny, with cracked tiles and a faint smell of bleach.

As I washed my face, I tried to convince myself that the chair thing was no big deal. Maybe I'd moved it without remembering. Maybe it had been there all along. I shut off the light and stepped back into the room. And stopped cold. The chair was back. Only, now it wasn't in the corner. It was facing the bed.

My heart thudded in my chest as I stared at it. I told myself it was just my imagination, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was, off. Like the air in the room had changed. I grabbed my duffel and threw it onto the bed, half expecting the chair to disappear the second I turned my back. But it stayed put, unmoving, as I dug through my bag for my phone. No signal. Of course. I decided I'd had enough.

Chair or no chair, I was getting the hell out of there. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, yanking it open, and stopped dead in my tracks. The hallway outside wasn't the same. When I'd arrived, the row of rooms had all faced the parking lot. Now, the door opened into a dimly lit corridor that stretched endlessly in both directions. What the, I whispered, stepping back into the room. I slammed the door shut and pressed my back against it, my pulse racing. My breathing sounded too loud in the silence.

I stood there for what felt like hours before I worked up the courage to open the door again. The parking lot was back. The storm had let up slightly, the rain now just a steady drizzle. I stared out into the night, debating whether to just make a run for it. But something held me back. The same weird, oppressive feeling that had been hanging over the room since I arrived. I closed the door. When I turned around, the bed was gone.

Part 2, the bed was gone. It didn't make sense. I'd just been sitting on it. My duffel bag lay in the middle of the room, right where the bed had been, as if the bed had been erased from existence, leaving everything else untouched. I backed up, my shoulders pressing against the door. My head felt like it was spinning, my brain struggling to make sense of what I was seeing, or not seeing. Okay, I muttered to myself.

Okay, just, get out of here. Leave. Now, I didn't even bother grabbing my bag. I turned and flung the door open, desperate to see the parking lot again. It wasn't there. The hallway was back, the same long, dimly lit corridor I'd seen before. At this time, I could hear something. A faint shuffling noise, like footsteps, or something dragging itself along the floor.

And it was getting closer. I slammed the door shut and locked it. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the lock to click into place. I stumbled back, my eyes darting around the room, searching for something, anything, that made sense. But the room wasn't the same anymore. The chair was gone again. The lamp, too.

The walls were bare, the wallpaper stripped away to reveal cracked, yellowing plaster. The window was still there, but instead of the neon motel sign, all I could see was pitch black darkness. I stumbled toward the window, hoping, praying, that I could break it and climb out. But when I pressed my hands against the glass, it didn't feel like glass at all. It was ice cold, and it didn't budge when I pushed. It didn't even feel solid, it felt like, nothing. Like there was no window at all. And then I saw my reflection.

It was faint, barely visible in the dark glass. But it was there, staring back at me. At first, I thought it was just me, just my own terrified face looking back. But then it smiled. I staggered backward, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. The reflection wasn't me. It couldn't be. Its smile was too wide, its teeth sharp and crooked.

Its eyes were darker than they should have been, the whites completely gone. It was still smiling as it pressed its hands against the other side of the glass. I bolted for the door, not caring where it led. Anything, anything, was better than staying in that room. I yanked the door open and ran into the hallway, slamming it shut behind me. The shuffling sound was louder now, echoing down the corridor. I turned toward the noise and saw something moving in the distance. A shadow, hunched and jerking, its limbs too long and its movements too, wrong.

It wasn't walking. It was dragging itself forward, one twisted arm at a time. I turned and ran the other way, my shoes squeaking against the warped floor. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead of me, the doors on either side flickering in and out of existence like they were part of some glitching video game. But no matter how far I ran, I couldn't escape the sound of the thing behind me. Finally, I stopped. I don't know how long I'd been running, it felt like hours, but my legs were too heavy,

my chest heaving for air. I leaned against the wall, clutching my side, and turned to look behind me. The hallway was empty. The thing was gone. For a brief, blissful moment, I thought maybe I was safe. Maybe it was over. Then I noticed the door. It was right next to me, a single wooden door with the number six etched into a brass plaque.

My room. No, I whispered, shaking my head. That's not possible, but there it was. I didn't want to open it. cell and my body screamed at me to walk away, to keep running, to do anything but open that door. But I didn't have a choice. The hallway was gone. The second I touched the doorknob, I was back in the room.

It was different now. The walls were bare concrete, the ceiling so low I felt like I had to duck. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered weakly, casting long, shifting shadows across the floor. And in the middle of the room, there was a bed. I didn't want to go near it, but my legs moved on their own. The bed was wrong. The sheets were soaked with something dark and wet, and the mattress sagged in the middle, as

if something heavy had been lying there for far too long. The smell hit me all at once, damp, metallic, like rust and rot. I turned to leave, but the door was gone. The walls were seamless, trapping me inside. And then I heard it. A faint whisper, coming from beneath the bed. I didn't want to look. God, I didn't want to look.

But I couldn't stop myself. My body moved as if it wasn't my own, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress and lifting it, peeling the wet sheets back to reveal what was underneath. It was me. Or, at least, something that looked like me. My body lay twisted and broken, my face pale and bloated, my eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Its mouth hung open, as if frozen mid-scream, and the skin around its neck was blackened,

like it had been burned. The thing on the bed twitched. Its eyes snapped toward me, and its mouth curved into a smile. Room for one, it whispered. The light bulb shattered, plunging the room into darkness. I don't know where I am now. The walls are gone, and the air is thick and cold. I can still hear the whispers, though, growing louder and louder, echoing all around me.

If you ever see the sundown motel, don't stop. No matter how tired you are, no matter how bad the storm is, keep driving. Because once you check in, you never check out. The air between its pages cushioned the closing of the tattered 70s mechanical manual as Peter's fingers gripped them together. Another book, another miss. The soft noise echoed ever so softly across the library, rippling between the cheap pressboard shelving clad with black powder coated steel.

From the entrance, a bespectacled lady with her frizzy, graying hair tied up into a lazy bob glared over at him. He was a regular here, though he'd never particularly cared. to introduce himself. Besides, he wasn't really there for the books. With a sly grin he slid the book back onto the shelf. One more shelf checked, he'd come back for another one next time. She might have thought it suspicious that he'd never checked anything out or sat down to read, but her suspicions were none of his concern. He'd scoured just about every shelf in the place, spending just about every day there of late, to the point that it was beginning

to grow tiresome. Perhaps it was time to move on to somewhere else, after all. The cross-polished concrete floors his sneakers squeaked as he turned on his heels to head towards the exit, walking into the earthy notes of espresso that seeped into the air from the little cafe by the entrance. As with any coffee shop, would-be authors toiled away on their sticker-laden laptops working on something likely few people would truly care about while others supped their lattes while reading a book they just pulled off the shelves. Outside the windows, people passed by Bisley, cars a mere blur while time slowed to a crawl in

this warehouse for the mind. As he pushed open the doors back to the outside world, his senses swore to everything around him, the smell of car exhaust and the sewers below, the murmured chatter from the people in the streets, the warmth of the sun peeking between the high-rise as buffeting his exposed skin, the crunching of car tires on the asphalt and their droning engines. This was his home, and he was just as small a part of it as anyone else here, but Peter saw the world a little differently than other people. He enjoyed parkour, going around marinas and parks and treating the urban environment like his own personal playground. A parked car could be an invitation to verticality, or a shop's protruding sign could work as a

swing or help to pull him up. Vulting over benches and walls with fluid precision, he reveled in the satisfying rhythm of movement. The sound of his weathered converse hitting the pavement was almost musical, as he transitioned seamlessly from a climb up to a swift wall run, scaling the side of a brick fountain to perch momentarily on its edge. He also enjoyed urban exploring, seeking out forgotten rooftops and hidden alleyways where the city revealed its quieter, secretive side. Rooftops, however, were his favorite, granting him a bird's eye view of the sprawling city below as people darted to and fro. The roads and streets were like the circulatory system to a living, thriving thing, a perspective entirely lost on those beneath him.

There, surrounded by antennas and weathered chimneys, he would pause to breathe in the cool air and watched the skyline glow under the setting sun. Each new spot he uncovered felt like a secret gift, a blend of adventure and serenity that only he seemed to know existed. Lately though, his obsession in libraries was due to an interest that had blossomed seemingly out of nowhere, he enjoyed collecting bugs that died between the pages of old books. There was something fascinating about them, something that he couldn't help but think about late into the night. He had a whole process of preserving them, a meticulous routine honed through months of practice and patience. Each specimen was handled with the utmost care.

He went to libraries and second-hand bookshops, and could spend hours and hours flipping through the pages of old volumes, hoping to find them. Back in his workspace, a tidy room filled with shelves of labeled jars and shadow boxes, he prepared them for preservation. He would delicately pose the insects on a foam board, holding them in place to be mounted in glass frames, securing them with tiny adhesive pads or pins so that they seemed to float in place. Each frame was a work of art, showcasing the insect's vibrant colors, intricate patterns, and minute details, from the iridescent sheen of a beetle's shell to the delicate veins of a moth's wings.

He labeled every piece with its scientific name and location of discovery, his neatest handwriting a testament to his dedication. The finished frames lined the walls of his small apartment, though he'd never actually shown anyone all of his hard work. It wasn't for anyone else, though, this was his interest, his obsession, it was entirely for him. He'd been doing it for long enough now that he'd started to run into the issue of sourcing his materials, his local library was beginning to run out of the types of books he'd expect to

find something in. There wasn't much point in going through newer tomes, though the odd insect might find its way through the manufacturing process, squeezed and desiccated between the pages of some self-congratulatory autobiography or pseudoscientific self-help book, no, he needed something older, something that had been read and put down with a small life snuffed out accidentally or otherwise. The vintage ones were especially outstanding, sending him on a contemplative journey into how the insect came to be there, the journey its life and its death had taken it on before he had the chance to catalog and admire it. He didn't much like the idea of being the only person in a musty old vintage bookshop, however, being scrutinized

as he hurriedly flipped through every page and felt for the slightest bump between the sheets of paper to detect his quarry, staring at him as though he was about to commit a crime, no. They wouldn't understand. There was, however, a place on his way home he liked to frequent. The coffee there wasn't as processed as the junk at the library, and they seemed to care about how they produced it. It wasn't there for convenience, it was a place of its own among the artificial lights, advertisements, the concrete buildings, and the detached conduct of everyday life. Better yet, they had a collection of old books. More for decoration than anything, but Peter always scanned his way through them nonetheless. Inside the dingy rectangular

room filled with tattered leather-seated booths and scratch tables, their ebony lacquer cracking away, Peter took a lungful of the air in a wushing nasal breath. It was earthy, peppery, with a faint musk, one of those places with its own signature smell he wouldn't find anywhere else. At the bar, a tattooed man in a shirt and vest gave him a nod with a half-smile. His hair cascaded to one side, with the other shaved short. Orange spacers blew out the size of his ears, and he had a twisted leather bracelet on one wrist.

Vance. While he hadn't cared about the people at the library, he at least had to speak to Vance to order a coffee. They'd gotten to know each other over the past few months at a distance, merely in passing, but he'd been good enough to supply Peter a few new books in that time, one of them even had a small cricket inside. Usual. Vance grunted. Usual. Peter replied. With a nod, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a round ivory-colored cup, spinning around and fiddling with the espresso machine in the back.

There's a few new books in the back booth, since that seems to be your sort of thing. He tapped out the grounds from the previous coffee. Go on, I'll bring it over. Peter passed a few empty booths, and one with an elderly man sat inside who lazily turned and granted a half-smile as he walked past. It wasn't the busiest spot, but it was unusually quiet. He pulled the messy stack of books from the shelves above each seat and carefully placed them on the seat in front of him, stacking them in neat piles on the left of the table.

With a squeak and a creak of the leather beneath him, he set to work. He began by reading the names on the spines, discarding a few. into a separate pile that he'd already been through. Vance was right, though, most of these were new. One by one he started opening them. He'd grown accustomed to the feeling of various grains of paper from different times in history, the musty sense kept between the pages telling him their own tale of the books past. To his surprise it didn't take him long to actually find something, this time a cockroach.

It was an adolescent, likely scooped between the pages in fear as somebody ushered it inside before closing the cover with haste. He stared at the faded spatter around it, the way its legs were snapped backwards, and carefully took out a small pouch from the inside of his jacket. With an empty plastic bag on the table and tweezers in his hand, he started about his business. Did you find what you were looking for, came a voice from his right. It was rich and deep, reverberating around his throat before it emerged. There was a thick accent to it, but the sudden nature of his call caused Peter to drop his

It was a black man with weathered skin, covered in deep wrinkles like canyons across his face. Thick lips wound into a smile, he wasn't sure it if was friendly or predatory, and yellow teeth peaked out from beneath. Across his face was a large set of sunglasses, completely opaque, and patches of gray beard hair that he'd missed when shaving. Atop his likely bald head sat a brown-gray pinstripe fadora that matched his suit, while wispy tufts of curly gray hair poked from beneath it. Clutched in one hand was a wooden stick, thin, lightweight, but gnarled and twisted. It looked like it had been carved from driftwood of some kind,

but had been carved with unique designs that Peter didn't recognize from anywhere. He didn't quite know how to answer the question. How did he know he was looking for something? How would it come across if what he was looking for was a squashed bug? Word simply sprung forth from him in his panic, as though pulled out from the man themselves. I, ah, no. Not quite.

He looked down to the cockroach. Maybe, looking back up to the mystery man, collecting composure now laced with mild annoyance he continued. I don't know, he shook his head automatically. Sorry, but who are you? The man laughed to himself with deep, rumbling sputters. I am sorry, I do not mean to intrude. He reached inside the suit.

When his thick fingers retreated, they held delicately a crisp white card that he handed over to Peter. My name is mend. He slid the card across the table with two fingers. I like books. In fact, I have quite the collection, but aren't you, you know, blind? Peter gestured with his fingers up and down before realizing the man couldn't even see him motioning. He laughed again.

I was not always. But you are familiar to me. Your voice, the way you walk. He grinned deeper than before. The library, Peter's face furrowed. He leaned to one side to throw a questioning glance to Vance, hoping his coffee would be ready and he could get rid of of this stranger, but Vance was nowhere to be found. I used to enjoy reading, I have quite the collection. Come and visit, you might find what you're looking for there. You think I'm just

going to show up at some dash, Peter began, but the man cut him off with a tap of his cane against the table. I mean you no harm, he emphasized. I am just a like-minded individual. One of a kind. He grinned again and gripped his fingers into a claw against the top of his cane. I hope I'll see you soon. It took Peter a few days to work up the curate. to actually show up, checking the card each night he'd stuffed underneath his laptop and wondering what could possibly go wrong. He'd even looked up the address online, checking pictures of the neighborhood. It was a two-story home from the late 1800s made of brick and wood, with a towered room and tall chimney. Given its age, it didn't look too run down but could

use a lick of paint and new curtains to replace the yellowed lace that hung behind the glass. He stood at the iron gate looking down at the card and back up the gravel pavement to the house, slowly slipping it back inside his pocket and gripping the cold metal. With a shriek the rusty entrance swung open and he made sure to close it back behind him. Gravel crunched underfoot as he made his way towards the man's home. For a moment he paused to reconsider, but nevertheless found himself knocking at the door. From within the sound of footsteps approached followed by a clicking and rattling as mend unlocked the door.

Welcome. Come in and don't worry about the shoes. He smiled. With a click the door closed behind him. The house was fairly clean. A rotary phone sat atop a small table in the hallway, and a small cabinet hugged the wall along to the kitchen. Peter could see in the living room a deep green sofa with lace covers thrown across the

armrests, while an old radio chanted out in French. It wasn't badly decorated, all things considered, but the walls seemed a little bereft of decoration. It wouldn't benefit him anyway. Mend carefully shuffled to a white door built into the paneling beneath the stairs, turning a brass key he'd left in there. It swung outwards, and he motioned towards it with a smile. It's all down there.

You'll find a little something to tickle any fancy. I am just glad to find somebody who is able to enjoy it now that I cannot. Peter was still a little hesitant. Men still hadn't turned the light on, likely through habit, but the switch sat outside near the door's frame. Go on ahead, I will be right with you. I find it rude to not offer refreshments to a guest in my home. Ah, I'm all right.

Peter said, he didn't entirely trust the man, but didn't want to come off rude at the same time. I insist. He smiled, walking back towards the kitchen. With his host now gone, Peter flipped the light switch to reveal a dusty wooden staircase leading down into the brick cellar. Gripping the dusty wooden handrail, he finally made his slow descent, step by step. Steadily, the basement came into view.

A lone halogen bulb cast a hard light across pile after pile of books, shelves laden with and a single desk at the far end. All was coated with a sandy covering of dust and the carapaces of starved spiders clung to thick cobwebs that ran along the room like a fibrous tissue connecting everything together. Square shadows loomed against the brick like the city's oppressive buildings in the evening sky, and Peter wondered just how long this place had gone untouched. The basement was a large rectangle with the roof held up by metal poles, it was an austere place, unbefitting the aged manuscripts housed within. At first he wasn't sure where to start, but made his way to the very back of the room to the mahogany desk.

Of all the books there in the basement, there was one sitting atop it. It was unlike anything he'd seen. Unable to take his eyes off it, he wheeled back the chair and sat down before lifting it up carefully. It seemed to be intact, but the writing on the spine was weathered beyond recognition. He flicked it open to the first page and instantly knew this wasn't like anything else he'd seen. Against his fingertips the sensation was smooth, almost slippery, and the writing within wasn't typed or printed. it, it was handwritten upon sheets of vellum. Through the inky yellowed light he squinted and peered to read it, but the script appeared

to be somewhere between Sanskrit and Tagalog with swirling letters and double-crossed markings, angled dots and small markings above or below some letters. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. So, do you like my collection, came a voice from behind him. He knew immediately it wasn't mend. The voice had a croaking growl to it, almost a guttural clicking from within. It wasn't discernibly male or female, but it was enough to make his heart jump out of his throat as he spun the chair around, holding onto the table with one hand.

Looking up he bore witness to a tall figure, but his eyes couldn't adjust against the harsh light from above. All he saw was a hooded shape, lithe, gangly, their outline softened by the halogen's glow. A cold hand reached out to his shoulder. Paralyzed by fear he sunk deeper into his seat, unable to look away and yet unable to focus through the darkness as the figure leaned in closer. I know what you're looking for. The hand clasped and squeezed against his shoulder, almost an urgency.

What I'm looking for, they hissed to themselves a breathy laugh, our eyes. Their other hand reached up. Peter saw long, menacing talons reach up to the figure's hood. They removed it and took a step to the side. It was enough for the light to scoop around them slightly, illuminating part of their face. They didn't have skin, rather, chitin. A solid plate of charcoal black armor with thick hairs protruding from it. The sockets for its eyes, all five of them, were concave, pushed in or missing entirely,

leaving a hollow hole. His mind scanned quickly for what kind of creature this, thing might be related to, but its layout was unfamiliar to him. How such a thing existed was secondary to his survival, in this moment escape was the only thing on his mind. I need eyes to read my books. You, you seek books without even reading them. The hand reached up to his face, scooping their fingers around his cheek.

They felt hard, but not as cold as he had assumed they might. His eyes widened and stared violently down at the wrist he could see, formulating a plan for his escape. I pity you. They stood upright before he had a chance to try to grab them and toss them aside. So much knowledge, and you ignore it. But don't think me unfair, no. They hissed.

I'll give you a chance. Reaching into their cloak they pulled out a brass hourglass, daintily clutching it from the top. If you manage to leave my library before I catch you, you're free to go. If not, your eyes will be mine. And don't even bother trying to hide, I can hear you, I can smell you, they leaned in again, the mandibles that hung from their face quivering and clacking. I can taste you in the air. Peter's heart was already beating a mile a minute.

The stairs were right there, he didn't even need the advantage, but the fear alone already had him sweating. The creature before him removed their cloak, draping him in darkness. For a moment there was nothing but the clacking and ticking of their sounds from the other side, but then they tossed it aside. The light was suddenly blinding, but as he squinted through it he saw the far wall with the stairs receding away from him, the wall stretching, and the floor pulling back as the ceiling lifted higher and higher, the light drawing further away but still shining with a voraciousness

like the summer sun. What the fuck? He exclaimed to himself. His attention returned to the creature before him in all his horrifying glory. They lowered themselves down onto three pairs of legs that ended in claws for gripping and climbing, shaking a fattened thorax behind them. Spiked hairs protruded from each leg and their head shook from side to side. He could tell from the way it was built that it would be fast.

The legs were long, they could cover a lot of ground with each stride, and their slender nature belied the muscle that sat within. When I hear the last grain of sand fall, the hunt is on. The creature's claws gripped the timer from the bottom, ready to begin. With a dramatic raise and slam back down, it began. Peter pushed himself off the table, using the wheels of the chair to get a rolling start as he started running. Quickly, his eyes darted across the scene in front of him.

Towering bookshelves as far as he could see, huge doom-like piles of books littered the floor, and shells still growing from seemingly nowhere before collapsing into a pile with the rest. The sound of fluttering pages and collapsing shelves surrounded him, drowning out his panicked breaths. A more open path appeared to the left between a number of bookcases with leather-bound tomes, old, gnarled, rising out of the ground as he passed them. He'd have to stay as straight as possible to cut off as much distance as he could, but he already knew it wouldn't be easy. Already, a shelf stood in his way with a path to its right, but it blocked his view of what lay ahead. Holding a hand out to swing around it, he sprinted past and hooked himself around before running

forward, taking care not to slip on one of the many books already scattered about the floor. He ran beyond shelf after shelf, the colors of the spines a mere blur, books clattering to the ground behind him. A slender, tall shelf was already toppling over before him, leaning over to the side as piles of paper cascaded through the air. Quickly, he calculated the time it would take to hit the wall and pushed himself faster, narrowly missing it as it smashed into other units, throwing more to the concrete floor. Before him now lay a small open area filled with a mountain of books beyond which he could see more shelving rising far up into the roof and bursting open, throwing more. down a waterfall of literature. Fuck. He huffed, leaping and throwing himself at the mound.

Scambling, he pulled and kicked his way against shifting volumes, barely moving. His scrabbling and scrambling were getting him nowhere as the ground moved from beneath him with each action. Pulling himself closer, lowering his center of gravity, he made himself more deliberate, smartly taking his time instead, pushing down against the mass of hardbacks as he made his ascent. Steadily, far too slowly given the creature's imminent advance. He made his way to the apex.

For just a moment he looked on for some semblance of a path, but everything was twisting and changing too fast. By the time he made it anywhere, it would have already changed and warped into something entirely different. The best way, he reasoned, was up. Below him, another shelf was rising up from beneath the mound of books. Quickly, he sprung forward and landed on his heels to ride down across the surface of the hill before leaning himself forward to make a calculated leap forward,

grasping onto the top of the shelf and scrambling up. His fears rose at the sound of creaking and felt the metal beneath him begin to buckle. It began to topple forwards and if he didn't act fast he would crash down three stories onto the concrete below. He waited for a second, scanning his surroundings as quickly as he could and leapt at the best moment to grab onto another tall shelf in front of him. That one too began to topple, but he was nowhere near the top. In his panic he froze up as the book slid from the wooden shelves, clinging as best he could

to the metal. Abruptly he was thrown against it, iron bashing against his cheek, but he still held on. It was at an angle, propped up against another bracket. The angle was steep, but Peter still tried to climb it. Up he went, hopping with one foot against the side and the other jumping across the wooden slats. He hopped down to a rack lower down, then to another, darting along a wide shelf before reaching ground level again. Not where he wanted to be, but he'd have to work his way back up to a safe height.

A shelf fell directly in his path not so far away from him. Another came, and another, each one closer than the last. He looked up and saw one about to hit him, with the combined weight of the books and the shelving, he'd be done for in one strike. He didn't have time to stop, but instead leapt forward, diving and rolling across a few scattered books. A few toppled down across his back, but he pressed on, grasping the ledge of the unit before him and swinging through above the books it once held.

there came a call, a bellowing, echoed screech across the hall. It was coming. Panicking, panting, he looked again for the exit. All he had been focused on was forward, but how far? He wasn't sure he'd be able to make it, but now that he had no sight of it in this labyrinth of paper he grew fearful. He scrambled up a diagonally collapsed shelf, running up and leaping across the tops of others, jumping between them.

He couldn't look back, he wouldn't, it was simply a distraction from his escape. Another shelf lay perched precariously between two others at an angle, its inner strewn across the floor save for a few tomes caught in its wiry limbs. With a heavy jump, he pushed against the top of the tall bookshelf he was on ready to swing from it onto the next step but it moved back from under his feet. Suddenly he found himself in freefall, collapsing forwards through the air. With a thump he landed on a pile of paperbacks, rolling out of it to dissipate the energy from the fall but it wasn't enough.

Winded, he scrambled to his feet and weezed for a second to catch his breath. He was sore, his muscles burned, and even his lungs felt as though they were on fire. Battered and bruised, he knew he couldn't stop. He had to press on. Slowly at first his feet began to move again, then faster, faster. Tall bookcases still rose and collapsed before him and he took care to weave in and out of them, keeping one eye out above for dangers. Another rack was falling in his path, but he found himself unable to outrun the long unit this time.

It was as long as a warehouse shelving unit, packed with heavy hardbacks, tilting towards him. Oh, fuck! He exclaimed, bracing himself as he screeched to a halt. Peering through his raised arms, he tucked himself into a squat and shuffled to the side to calculate what was coming. Buffeted by book after book, some hitting him square in the head, the racks came clattering down around him. He'd been lucky enough to be sitting right between its shelves and spared no time clambering

his way out and running along the cleared path atop it. At its terminus, however, was another long unit, almost perpendicular with the freshly fallen one that seemed like a wall before him. Behind it, between gaps in the novels he could see other ledges falling and collapsing beyond. Still running as fast as his weary body would allow he planned his route. He leapt from the long shelf atop one that was still rising to his left, hopping across platform to platform as he approached the wall of manuscripts, jumping head first through a gap, somersaulting into the unknown beyond.

He landed on another hill of books, sliding down, this time with nowhere to jump to. Peter's legs gave way, crumpling beneath him as he fell to his back and slid down. He moaned out in pain, agony, exhaustion, wanting this whole experience to be over, but was stirred into action by the sound of that shrieking approaching closer, shelving units being tossed aside and books being plowed out the way. Gasping now he pushed on, hobbling and staggering forward as he tried to find that familiar rhythm, trying to match his feet to the rapid beating of his heart. Making his way around another winding path, he found it was blocked and had to climb up shelf

after shelf, all the while the creature gaining on him. He feared the worst, but finally reached the top and followed the path before him back down. Suddenly a heavy metal yawn called out as a colossal tidal wave of tomes collapsed to one side and a metal frame came tumbling down. This time, it crashed directly through the concrete revealing another level to this maze beneath it. It spanned on into an inky darkness below, the concrete clattering and echoing against the floor in that shadow amongst the flopping of books as they joined it. A path remained to the side, but he had no time, no choice but to hurdle forwards, jumping with all his

might towards the hole, grasping onto the bent metal frame and cutting open one of his hands on the jagged metal. Screens burst from between his breaths as he pulled himself upwards, forwards, climbing, crawling onwards bit by bit with agonizing movements towards the end of the bent metal frame that spanned across to the other side with nothing but a horrible death below. A hissing scream bellowed across the cavern, echoing in the labyrinth below as the creature reached the wall but Peter refused to look back. It was a distraction, a second he didn't have to spare. At last he could see the stairs, those dusty old steps that lead up against the brick.

Hope had never looked so mundane. Still, the brackets and mantles rose and fell around him, still came the deafening rustle and thud of falling books, and still he pressed on. Around, above, and finally approaching a path clear save for a spread of scattered books. From behind he could hear frantic, frenzied steps approaching with full haste, the clicking and clattering of the creature's mandibles instilling him with fear. Kicking a few of the scattered books as he stumbled and staggered towards the stairs at full speed, unblinking, unflinching, his arms flailing wildly as his body began to give way.

His foot finally made contact with the thin wooden step, but a claw wildly grasped at his jacket. He pulled against it with everything he had left, but it was too strong. strong after his ordeal, instead moving his arms back to slip out of it. Still, the creature screeched and screamed and still he dared not look back, rushing his way to the top of the stairs and slamming the door behind him. Blood trickled down the white-painted paneling and he slunked to the ground, collapsing in sheer exhaustion. BVVVVVVVVVV-V-V-V-ZZ-T.

The electronic buzzing of his apartment's doorbell called out from the hallway. With a wheeze, Peter pushed himself out of bed, rubbing a bandaged hand against his throbbing He tossed aside the sheets and leaned forward, using his body's weight to rise to his feet, sliding on a pair of backless slippers. Groaning, he pulled on a blood-speckled gray tank top and made his way past the kitchen to his door to peer through the murky peephole. There was nobody there, but at the bottom of the fish-eye seeing beyond was the top of a box. Curious, he slid open the chain and turned the lock, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his good hand.

Left, right, he peered into the liminal hallway to see who might have been there. He didn't even know what time it was, but sure enough they delivered a small cardboard box without any kind of marking. Grabbing it with one hand, he brought it back over to the kitchen and lazily pulled open a drawer to grab a knife. Carefully, he slit open the brown tape that sealed it. It had a musty kind of smell and was slightly gritty to the touch, but he was too curious to stop.

It felt almost familiar. In the dim coolness of his apartment he peered within to find bugs, exotic insects of all kinds. All flat, dry, preserved. On top was a note. It all began in the sleepy village of Saatchi, Scotland, a place so small that everyone knew everyone else. Back in 1960, Saatchi wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis. With just over 6,000 residents, it was the kind of place where people didn't bother locking

their doors, and the biggest news of the week might be Mrs. McGregor's new hat or someone's prize-winning turnip. Life here was simple, quiet, and utterly unremarkable, that is, until the Campbell-Four. family moved in. Thomas and Isabella Campbell were Irish immigrants who had settled in Saatchie to start a new life. Thomas found work in the mines, made friends easily, and became a respected member of the community. Isabella fit right in as well, chatting up neighbors and becoming a fixture at the local shop. They had two children, Margaret, aged nine, and Derek, who was six. Life for the Campbell's seemed idyllic at first, but things took a turn for the

strange when Thomas's sister Annie arrived from Ireland with her 11-year-old daughter, Virginia. Virginia's arrival was far from smooth. Back in Ireland, she'd grown up on a sprawling farm surrounded by animals and her beloved dog, Toby. Now, she found herself in a cramped two-story house in a new country, sharing a bed with Margaret. To make matters worse, her mother had taken a job that required her to stay away Monday through Friday, leaving Virginia feeling abandoned and utterly alone. It was the perfect storm for homesickness, but no one could have predicted what would happen next. The first signs of trouble were subtle, soft knocks on the walls, then scratches, and eventually whispers that seemed to come from nowhere. Objects started moving on their own

or disappearing entirely. At first, the Campbells brushed it off. Maybe the house was settling, or perhaps the kids were playing tricks. But the phenomena became impossible to ignore when the activity focused on the girls' bedroom, particularly near the headboard of Virginia's bed. One chilly November evening, the house descended into chaos. The children were upstairs, supposedly asleep, when shrill screams erupted from their room. Thomas and Isabella bolted upstairs to find Margaret and Virginia hysterical, babbling about an invisible figure and the sound of a bouncing ball. The parents were skeptical, thinking the girls had let their imaginations run wild. But after tucking them back into bed and turning off the lights, Thomas heard a loud

thud from behind the closed door. Annoyed, he reopened it, expecting to catch the girls' mid-prank. Instead, he found them frozen with fear, wide-eyed and clutching their blankets. The walls and near the headboards were alive with noise, knocking, scratching, even howling. Determined to get to the bottom of it, Thomas inspected the room, searching under the beds, in the closet, and every corner. Nothing seemed out of place, but the eerie sounds persisted. Convinced it was all in their heads, he moved the girls to another.

other room. Unfortunately, the disturbances followed them there, this time accompanied by a chilling cold that seemed to settle in the air whenever Virginia was present. By the next morning, Virginia was exhausted, having barely slept a wink. Her parents allowed her to skip school, but the strange occurrences continued unabated. That evening, as the family sat in the living room, things escalated. The sound of bouncing came again, followed by more knocking. Then, to everyone's horror, a heavy dresser began to tremble, slide away from the wall, and then settle back into place, all without anyone touching it. Desperate for help, Thomas reached out to Reverend Lund, a local clergyman.

Lund was a man of faith and reason, but even he had trouble believing the Campbell's story. Nevertheless, he agreed to visit their home. Upon arrival, Lund inspected the house, his skepticism intact. But when he stepped into the girl's bedroom, the knocking resumed, as if on cue. He placed a hand on the wall dear the headboard and felt an unsettling vibration, a kind of energy that seemed almost alive. As if to underscore the strangeness of the situation, a laundry basket in the room began shaking violently. Its lid opened and slammed shut repeatedly, sending Margaret fleeing from the house in terror. The family eventually found her hours later, but the Reverend left without answers, promising only to pray for them.

By the time November 24th rolled around, the Campbells were at their wits end. The activity had escalated, furniture moved on its own, the sewing machine turned itself on and off, and random objects like apples and knives seemed to fly or fall without explanation. The family noticed a disturbing pattern, all these events centered around Virginia. Wherever she went, the phenomena followed. This wasn't just happening at home. At school, Virginia's desk began to rattle during class, then opened and closed on its own. Her teacher, Margaret Stewart, initially thought the girl was playing a prank.

until the desk started sliding across the floor, untouched. Other children witnessed it too, and soon, chalk, erasers, and even the teacher's desk began to move or vibrate in her presence. The story quickly spread beyond the school, attracting the attention of journalists and curious locals. Virginia became the unwilling focus of public fascination. Reporters camped outside the school, pestering students and staff for information.

Her classmates tried to shield her, even helping her sneak out by swapping jackets and taking decoy routes home. But the scrutiny only added to the Campbell's misery. Amid the chaos, a local doctor named Nesbit stepped in. He gave Virginia a sedative to calm her nerves, but the disturbances continued even while she slept. This led Nesbit to conclude that while Virginia wasn't causing the events, she might somehow be the catalyst. The Reverend and other witnesses observed similar phenomena, including an instance where Virginia's pillow flipped over on its own, leaving an eerie impression.

of a face in the fabric. To investigate further, Virginia was temporarily moved to another location under the watch of two additional doctors. The activity followed her, confirming that whatever was happening wasn't tied to the house itself. The doctors even recorded the strange knocks and vibrations for posterity. Meanwhile, Reverend Lund organized a series of religious rituals to cleanse the Campbell home and Virginia's classroom. These efforts only seemed to fuel public curiosity. Local newspapers picked up the story, describing chilling incidents like Isabella being pushed to the floor by an unseen force. As the media frenzy grew, the BBC aired a special segment on the case, further cementing

its place in the annals of the paranormal. The relentless attention took its toll on the Campbells. Strangers sent letters, showed up uninvited, and even begged to touch Virginia, believing she had supernatural powers. The family had had enough. They packed their bags and left Saatchi, their final destination unknown. Years later, parents were not. paranormal researcher Malcolm Robinson revived interest in the case with his book The Poultergeist of Saatchi. He uncovered reports of similar phenomena occurring in the same neighborhood as late as the 1970s and 2000s. Families reported knocks, cold spots, and even violent events like being shoved by invisible forces. One particularly unsettling account involved a child seeing a ghostly

woman at the foot of his bed. So, was this a genuine case of the paranormal? Or was it all just mass hysteria and coincidence. That's for you to decide. But one thing's for sure, the story of Virginia Campbell and the Saatchi Poultergeist remains one of the most intriguing and unsettling mysteries of its kind. The darkest truths about our world, you know what's absolutely mind-blowing. Color isn't even real. Yeah, you heard me. What we see as colors are just signals our brains interpret when light reflects off different surfaces. Essentially, everything could actually be gray. Trippy, right? And get this, sound isn't real either.

It's just another signal created by your brain to interpret sound waves, like radio waves or microwaves. These waves are silent, but your brain processes them and tricks you into thinking their sound. Reality. It's just one massive brain simulation. Speaking of wild things, there's a fungus out there that can control the minds of ants and other insects. Yep, mind control. Once the insect ingests the spores, the fungus takes over its mind and forces it to a perfect spot with just the right sunlight, humidity, and all that.

Then, the fungus slowly kills the host and spreads. Imagine if this fungus ever adapted to humans. Scary thought. Now here's a bit of history that'll make you cringe, until the late 1980s, doctors performed surgeries on babies without anesthesia. Let that sink in. Open heart surgeries, major operations, babies, would feel every excruciating moment, unable to move or cry because they were given muscle

relaxants. It wasn't until 1987 that the U.S. decided, hey, maybe babies can feel pain. Real genius thinking there. Oh, and hyenas? Female hyenas have, uh, anatomical features larger than those of males. Their rank in the clan even depends on the size of these organs. Nature is straight up wild. A world on the brink. Here's a terrifying fun fact, Yellowstone National Park is sitting on a super volcano that erupts roughly every 725,000 years. When it goes off, it'll cover the entire planet in ash and most of South America too. Sleep well knowing that. And you know what really freaks me out.

Whale falls. When whales die in deep, cold waters, they sink instead of floating. Because the water is so cold, their bodies don't decompose quickly. Instead, they become massive buffets for deep sea creatures. These feasts can speed up evolution, causing bizarre genetic mutations. Who knows? Maybe Atlantis is real and filled with sea monsters spawned from these whale falls. If you've got pets, here's a morbid heads up.

If you die at home and no one finds your body for a while, your pets won't just mourn, they'll eat you. Cats usually start within 24 to 48 hours, while dogs might wait a week or two. Cats go for your lips and eyelids first. you wonder about those affectionate nibbles they give you, huh? Unbelievably Horrific facts, chickens. They can survive for up to 18 months after being decapitated. Yeah, 18 months.

Most don't make it past an hour, but the idea that your chicken nuggets might come from a bird that had a slow, agonizing death. That's nightmare fuel. Here's another shocker, you don't have to be bitten to get rabies. If the saliva of a rabid animal touches your mucus membrane, think mouth or nose, you're at risk. One time, someone fed a raccoon by mouth, yes, by mouth, and its nose touched their nasal passage. They had to rush for a rabies vaccine afterward. Moral of the story. Don't play kissy face with wildlife. And here's the dark truth about decapitation, a human head

remains conscious for about 20 seconds after being severed. That's 20 seconds of awareness, knowing you're no longer attached to your body. Society's dark side, in Russia, men have the highest suicide rate in the world. It's devastatingly common, and people pretend it doesn't happen. Families often brush it off as accidental deaths because no one wants to admit how broken things are. Male relatives work themselves to death, die young, and yet society expects them to stay silent, emotionless, and stoic. It's exhausting. Moving on to something equally depressing, every year, tens of millions of vertebrate animals are used for experiments. That doesn't even count invertebrates.

countries barely regulate this, meaning labs can pretty much do whatever they want. We justify it in the name of progress, but are we actually happier than our hunter-gatherer ancestors? Evidence suggests we're not. Meanwhile, we've trashed the planet and made life worse for every other species. Here's a sobering thought, within five generations, most of us will be forgotten. Our own descendants won't know our names, our lives, or what we stood for. Cheery, right? Legends and real-life nightmares ever heard of the Beast of Cavadden. This massive wolf-like creature terrorized 18th century France, killing around 200 people.

Armies were sent to hunt it down, and 6,000 wolves were slaughtered in the process. But the beast always came back. It wasn't until someone shot it with a silver bullet that the killing stopped. Yeah, that's where werewolf legends come from. Oh, and during JFK's presidency, the U.S. government actually planned false flag terrorist attack. to justify invading Cuba. It was called Operation Northwoods. JFK rejected it, and a year later, he was assassinated. Makes you wonder, doctors, they don't always know what's wrong with you. They make educated guesses and call it practice. Comforting, huh? On a related note,

Purdue Pharma fueled the opioid crisis by lying about how addictive OxyContin was. They raped in billions while people lost everything. And the Sackler family, who owned Purdue. None of them went to jail. The fragility of life. Here's something wild. If your immune system decides your eyes are a threat, you'll go blind. Autoimmune diseases are terrifying like that.

There are about 200 of them, each uniquely horrifying. For example, one person's immune system attacked the palm of their dominant hand, dissolving the flesh. They described it as feeling like being burned by red-hot metal. Yikes. Ever pulled an all-nighter? Staying awake for 24 hours is like being drunk, your brain's just as impaired. And here's a nightmare scenario, in 2009, a Belgian man woke up after 23 years in a coma. Turns out, he was fully conscious the entire time. He heard everything, including his mom saying she wished he'd die. Imagine lying there, unable to move

or respond, for two decades. That's a horror story in itself. Lost worlds and strange places, deep in the Amazon rainforest, there are uncontacted tribes who have never seen the outside world. They're so remote that even experts don't know how many there are. The jungle is so dense you could hide an elephant family, and no one would spot them from the sky. The Amazon is a whole other world. Then there's the Rainbow Valley on Mount Everest.

It's not named for actual rainbows but for the brightly colored jackets of climbers who never made it down. Their bodies lie frozen, some even used as not. navigation markers. One famous body, nicknamed Green Boots, serves as a grim reminder of the mountain's dangers. Threats from above and below, the murder rate has dropped over the decades, but weirdly, solving murders has become harder. Despite advances in technology and forensics, fewer cases are closed. Why? People are too scared to talk to the police, fearing false accusations or worse. And then there's climate change. Ancient bacteria and viruses,

frozen for centuries, are thawing out as the planet warms. Meanwhile, gamma-ray bursts or rogue asteroids could wipe us out with zero warning. There's even a brain-eating amoeba, nglaria fowlery, lurking in warm lakes. It can enter through your nose and destroy your brain in under 24 hours. Early symptoms are headaches, sensitivity to light, and nausea. If you experience any of these after swimming, get to a hospital ASAP. Humanity's dark history, the youngest confirmed pregnancy, A five-year-old girl.

Yeah, you read that right. The cases are listed on Wikipedia, and the details are gut-wrenching. Fathers, uncles, brothers, even a grandfather, were often responsible. It's a level of horror you can't unsee. And then there are tragic accidents. A 12-year-old boy in China was sucked into an uncovered drainage pipe at a water park. His parents fought to find him, only to discover his lifeless body several meters underground. The poor kid likely suffocated in those last terrifying moments.

The story of Andreas Prodromo, a flight attendant on Helios Flight 522, is equally haunting. When a pressurization issue and not everyone unconscious, Andreas stayed awake using an oxygen supply. He tried to save the plane but couldn't because he wasn't trained for the aircraft. Alone, surrounded by unconscious passengers, he fought until the plane ran out of fuel and crashed. It's the stuff of nightmares. The inevitable future, HIV symptoms can take five to ten years to appear, making it a silent predator. And while leaders debate climate goals, we've already passed the point of no return.

Even if we stopped emitting carbon today, we'd still need to remove CO2 from the atmosphere to stabilize the planet. The last time global temperatures changed by five degrees, we had an ice age. Now we're looking at the opposite extreme. We begin with the city of Pocatello, located in southeastern Idaho, which has always been known for being very peaceful. There were no crimes, no robberies, no kidnappings, absolutely nothing. Life there was calm, simple, and everyone knew each other. However, on September 24th, 2006, the lifeless body of a 16-year-old girl was found in one of the houses. This is when everyone's

perspective completely changes, and Pocatello is no longer seen the same way. The story begins with a girl named Casey Joe Stoddart. Casey was born on December 21st, 1989, in the same Pocatello, being one of the daughters of a happy marriage. We know almost nothing about her childhood and family, but what we do know is that Casey was a very good student. She liked art, music, and literature. She wanted to get a degree, become independent, get married Sunday, and at 16, she was a very popular girl at her school, Pocatello High School. She got along with everyone, but especially with three boys. First, there was Matt Beckham, her boyfriend, and second, there were Brian Lucha and Torrey Michael Adams. These two boys were best friends. Brian had recently moved to Pocatello

and, from the first minute, became Tori's best friend. They both loved horror movies. They were fans of Friday the 13th, Freddie Kruger, Scream, the more bloody, sinister, and dark the movie was, the more they liked it. They both dreamed of becoming filmmakers one day. They prepared sketches, scripts, and Casey dreamed of Sunday starring in one of their movies. They saw themselves as future directors, like Tarantino, and Casey saw herself as a Hollywood star. Brian Draper spent the whole day with a camera in his hand, recording in the halls, on the patios, in the boys' bathrooms, he recorded everything. He was convinced that one day these silly videos would make him millions. He saw himself as a creative mind, as a great artist, but the rest of the school didn't see him

the same way. His classmates saw Brian and Torrey as weirdos, sinister, dark, and distant. They didn't understand how Casey could hang out with them. Casey was a very cheerful, friendly, extroverted, and pleasant girl, and they were the complete opposite. This is when the boys decided to do something that would change the way people viewed them. They started creating scripts, writing stories, and were convinced that they would soon film their movie. But what they didn't know was how to get it noticed. That's when they came across the topic of school shootings. Seven years earlier, two boys named Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris stormed their school, armed to the teeth. These boys were apparently outcasts, people looked down

on them, ignored them, and mocked them. So, the boys decided to kill their classmates to be remembered forever. And it can be said that, seven years later, people were still talking about them. On one hand, Brian and Torrey were big fans of what Dylan and Eric did, and on the other, they were big fans of horror movies. So, they combined both concepts and decided to create a horror movie based on real events. The two friends made a list of all the names of the boys and girls they would target. They wrote down names, ages, addresses, family details, and every detail of their lives. Then they decided who to kill first.

They thought that Dylan and Eric made a terrible mistake by entering the school directly and opening fire. It wasn't very practical, they thought. So, Brian and Torrey decided to kill one of their classmates in the purest style of scream. They believed that a death like the one in Scream would be much more theatrical, more cinematic. So, they got to work on this project, and that's when they realized that the protagonist of their movie had always been Casey Joe Stoddard, especially since she would soon be alone in a secluded house between September 20th and 24th. Casey's aunt and uncle, Allison and Frank Contreras were going on vacation. They had a large house located on Whispering Hills Drive, and they had three dogs.

They asked Casey to take care of the house and the dogs during those days. The plan initially seemed uninteresting for a teenager, but the Contreras couple offered Casey something she couldn't refuse. First, they would pay her for it. Second, she loved animals, so spending four days of her. alone with the dogs sounded wonderful. And third, they told her that during those days, she could invite several friends. If she felt lonely or bored, she could simply call her friends and organize a movie night. This is precisely what Casey Joe Stoddard planned. She told her friends

Brian, Torrey, and her boyfriend Matt Beckham that on September 22nd, they were all invited to watch horror movies. Little did she know that with that invitation, she was signing her death sentence. On August 31st, 2006, Tori and Brian convinced Yall Lucero, 18 years old, to buy three knives for them. Tori paid $45, and Brian paid $40. For almost an entire month, the boys planned the perfect crime. They knew that Casey would organize a movie night in a vacant house, a huge house in the middle of nowhere, a house that could only be accessed by car. It was the typical house that would be featured in the Scream Saga. On the night of September 21st, they recorded the following. Against people I know, it's a wrong thing, but hell, you restrict somebody from it, they're going

to want it. We found our victim, and maybe she's our friend, but you know what. We all have to make sacrifices. Our first victim is going to be Casey Stoddard. She's going to be alone in a big, dark house out in the middle of nowhere. How perfect can you get? I'm mean, like, holy shit, on September 22nd, as I mentioned, Casey invited three people to her house, her best friends, Tori, Brian, and her boyfriend Matt Beckham. The boys arrived at the house between 6.30 and 7 p.m., and for two hours, they watched horror movies and ate popcorn. But at some point, Tori and Brian decided to leave to leave Matt and Casey alone. The boys said they were going to the cinema and would see them another day. They said

by, went downstairs, and before leaving, they left the back door slightly ajar. Then, Tori and Brian hid for 15 minutes and turned off all the lights in the house. At this point, Casey was very scared because she was convinced they were in a horror movie. She was so frightened that she asked Matt to stay the night. But Matt grabbed the phone, called his mother, and she refused. So, the boy grabbed the phone again and called Tori Adams to ask if he had turned off the lights. But Tori spoke very softly and said he was at the cinema. Obviously, Brian and Tori weren't at the cinema, they were hiding inside the house, waiting for Matt and Casey to come downstairs so

they could stab them. But after a long while, the boys didn't come down. So, Tori and Brian got into the car, went to the cinema, bought two tickets, then went to Tori's house. There, they changed into all black, put on gloves, put on masks, grabbed the knives, and headed to Casey's uncle's house. The initial plan was to kill Matt, but now they knew Casey would spend the night alone, and it was much easier to kill one person instead of two. At 10.30, Matt Beckham's mother knocked on the door. The boy had no choice but to say goodbye to Casey. He told her that if anything happened, if she heard anything strange, if she saw anything strange, no matter how small, to grab the phone and call him. She did so without hesitation. What she didn't know was

that 15 minutes later, the entire house would be in darkness. Brian and Torrey were hiding again in the lower part of the house. Their goal was to stab her when she came downstairs, but Casey was so scared she didn't move from her spot. She stayed still in the living room with the phone in her hand. So, the boys, in the darkness, snuck up the stairs and went to meet her. Once they were near her, they stabbed her 29 times. Twenty-nine stabs, one of which was fatal and ended her life. The boys got into the car and headed to Torrey's house, and on the way, they turned on the camera. After recording this video, the boys stopped the camera and entered Tori's house. There, they changed their clothes, put everything into a trash bag, including the knives, gloves, and masks.

Then they bought alcohol, went to the supermarket to buy matches, and from there, they went to Black Rock Canyon. In the canyon, they dug a hole, put all the evidence inside, set it on fire, and then covered it with dirt. But before they left, they realized the videotapes were also evidence. So, they grabbed them, reopened the hole, put them inside, and covered them up again. The next day, Matt hung out with Tori all day, and during that time, he kept repeating that Casey wouldn't answer the phone. He was so worried that he asked Tori to take him to his aunt and uncle's house. Tori had a car, so he could take him and pick him up, but the boy refused. He said that the gas had to last him all week and that if he used it now, his parents would get mad.

So, Matt let it go. But the next day, on September 24th, he received a call that changed everything. It was Casey's mother, calling in a panic, demanding to know what he had done to her daughter. At 1.15 p.m. On September 24, 2006, Casey's aunt and uncle returned home, and their 13-year-old daughter found Casey Joe Stoddart's lifeless body. The last person who saw her alive was her boyfriend Matt Beckham. So, the authorities had a suspect. This is when the interrogations began. On September 24, the police interrogated Matt Beckham and realized that the boy had an alibi. When he left Casey's house, she was still alive, and the boy's mother had waved goodbye to her.

There was no way Matt could have harmed Casey. The second person to be interrogated on the same day was Torrey Michael Adams, and Tori supposedly also had an alibi. The interrogation was conducted in front of his parents, so the boy repeated point-by-point the same version he had given Matt, that he went to the cinema, bought tickets, and watched a movie until late. But when the agents asked him what the movie was about, Tori didn't know what to say. He contradicted himself, went blank, and simply acted clueless. The next day, on September 25th, the police interrogated Brian Draper, and once again, Brian repeated point-by-point-point-the- same story. Tori had told, but when they asked him about the movie they had seen, Brian didn't know what to say. He didn't know the plot, the details, and said he had forgotten everything. This was very

strange because it had only been a couple of days since they watched that movie. If it had been a week, two, or three, it would have been understandable, but it had only been a few days, and that didn't make any sense. So, the two friends became suspects, especially when, on September 25, the police interrogated an anonymous witness. This person was supposedly a friend of Casey Joe Stoddard and had some unpleasant things to say about Torrey and Brian. The witness said that the boys were very sinister, that they were fans of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, and that they were obsessed with horror movies, especially scream. The witness also said that Tori had been in love with Casey for three years, but she never realized. So, the real motive behind the crime was

likely that. The police interrogated the two boys again, and this time, they broke down. Each of them told a different story. Tori blamed Brian for killing Casey. He said that he hadn't stabbed her, that he just wanted to scare her, but Brian admitted to killing her. He also said that Tori was the mastermind of it all, that Tori had contributed the most ideas. At one point, Brian led the police to Black Rock Canyon, where he handed over all the evidence, including the videotapes. On April 17, 2007, after long trials, Brian Lee Draper was found guilty of first-degree murder. On June 8th of that same year, Torrey Michael Adams was also found guilty of the same crime. On August 21st of that same year, both were sentenced to life in prison without the

possibility of parole. From then on, they began a battle for appeals they could never win. They requested parole, sentence reductions, and permissions, but justice denied them over and over. Another very interesting point in this case is that, in 2010, the Stoddard family sued Pocatello High School for not predicting this crime. In the minds of the Stoddarts, the school should have known that Tory and Brian were dangerous. However, the state Supreme Court dismissed this case. So, now it's your turn, what do you think of the story? Do you believe the school was partly to blame? The end. So, who was the boss in this wild story? The more you dig in, the weirder it gets. Mary Kay's life reads like a soap

opera, but not the glamorous kind. It's messy, it's tragic, and, most of all, it's filled with decisions and circumstances that make you stop and go, wait, what? Let's start with Mary Catherine Smith, born January 30th, 1962, in Tustin, California. She was the fourth of seven kids, smack dab in the middle of a family dynamic that could only be described as intense. Her parents, Mary and John Smith, were deeply religious Catholics with staunch convictions about pretty much everything. John, the dad, was no ordinary guy. He wasn't just any politician, he was a Republican who served in the U.S. House of Representatives and the California State Senate. He was also a proud member of the John Birch Society, a controversial far-right group.

But John wasn't just known for his titles. Oh no, he had a mouth on him. The man would say whatever he wanted, no matter how offensive or who he might hurt. Jews, African Americans, women, LGBTQ folks, no one was saved from his verbal attacks. And just to give you a cherry on top of that unfiltered personality, in 1972, he ran for president under the American Independent Party. Did he win? Of course not. But the shocking part...

He got a million votes. Let that sink in for a second. Meanwhile, Mary Kay's mom, also named Mary, wasn't just in the background. She was making waves in her own way. She campaigned against the Equal Rights Amendment and earned the nickname, Phyllis Schlafly of the West Coast. Yep, she was a piece of work too. But let's zoom in on Mary Kay herself. When she was about 10 or 11, her parents bought a stunning house in the exclusive Spyglass Hill neighborhood in Corona del Mar, California.

Picture this, a classic American dream home, huge rooms, multiple bathrooms, a sprawling green yard, a pool, and even a barbecue area. It was a house built for hosting parties, which is exactly what the Smiths did on August 11, 1973. They threw a barbecue that was supposed to be small, just a couple of friends. But as these things often go, it spiraled into a full-blown event with way too many people. Amid the chaos, Mary Kay's parents gave her a task, keep an eye on her three-year-old brother, Philip. Out of seven kids, Mary was the only girl, and naturally, the responsibility of caregiving fell on her.

But she was still just a kid herself. She got distracted, chatting and mingling, and before anyone realized it, Philip had wandered off. When they finally noticed he was missing, it was too late. He had fallen into the pool and drowned. The incident made the news as a tragic accident, but inside the Smith household, the story was different. they told the world it was unavoidable, within those four walls, the blame fell squarely on

Mary Kay, imagine being 11 years old and carrying that kind of guilt, pushed onto you by your own family. As she grew older, Mary Kay tried to find her place. In high school, she attended Cornelia Connolly High School, a Roman Catholic school for girls in Anaheim. She was a cheerleader, popular, and part of the in crowd. Her best friend, Michelle Reinhardt, was practically her twin, blonde, bubbly, and always ready for a good time. Life seemed good on the surface, filled with parties, movies, and boys. But the adults in her life, they had their own drama. Mary Kay's mom landed a TV gig on a show called Free For All, debating politics, family values, and other hot topics of the day. The Smiths loved presenting themselves as the picture-perfect,

traditional family. Yet, that image crumbled when John's double life came to light. Turns out out, John Smith wasn't just busy with politics and teaching philosophy in political science at Santa Ana College. He also had a long-term affair with a former student, Carla Stolley. This wasn't a short fling either. It lasted years and produced two children. Mary, his wife, had no clue. John somehow managed to juggle both families for about a decade. But secrets like that don't stay hidden forever. When one of Carla's kids fell sick, everything unraveled. Doctors discovered something disturbing, evidence of neglect and possible abuse. This led to an investigation, and Carlo was forced to reveal John's identity as the father

to avoid losing her children. The scandal exploded. It was all over the news, and John, in true fashion, didn't deny it. Instead, he owned up to it publicly, leaving Mary to deal with the humiliation. Even worse, their kids blamed her for the affair, claiming she was cold and distant. It was a mess. Despite everything, Mary Kay admired her father and decided to follow in his footsteps. She went to Arizona State University, where she enjoyed the typical college experience,

parties, boys, and late-night adventures. That's where she met Steve Leterno. They weren't planning to settle down, but life had other plans. Mary Kay got pregnant, and with her strict Catholic upbringing, abortion wasn't an option. Her parents insisted they marry, so they did, though the relationship was far from happy. The couple moved to Seattle, where they had four kids. On the outside, they seemed like the perfect family. But behind closed doors, Steve cheated constantly, and Mary Kay coped by throwing herself into

education. She managed to balance being a mom and a student, eventually earning her teaching degree in 1989. By the fall of that year, she was teaching second grade at Shorewood Elementary School in Burian, a Seattle suburb. Mary Kay loved teaching. Their students adored her, especially one little boy named Billy Fawlow. Billy, born on June 26, 1983, had a rough start in life.

His mom, Suna, worked long hours as a baker to support the family because Billy's dad was in prison for armed robbery. The dad, by the way, bragged about having 18 kids with different women. Talk about a role model. Billy's home life was tough, so he poured his energy into school. Mary Kay noticed him right away. He was bright and eager to learn, and she took a special interest in him. By the end of the school year, Billy had blossomed academically.

But life moved on, and so did he. Fast forward to 1995. Mary Kay, now teaching fifth and sixth graders, was promoted thanks to her stellar reputation. And guess who ended up in her class again? Yep, Billy, now 12 years old. Their paths were about to intertwine in ways no one could have imagined. Like in 1995, a 12-year-old boy named Billy Fow found himself at the center of a story that would end up shocking an entire nation.

He was just a regular kid in sixth grade, doing what sixth graders do, hanging out, learning, and trying to figure out life. But that year, he crossed paths with Mary Kay, a 34-year-old teacher who had just started teaching at his school. It seemed like a normal teacher-student relationship at first, but looking back, the signs were there, even if they were subtle. Mary Kay seemed unusually invested in Billy. She wasn't just his teacher, she became his tutor, offering free private lessons, taking

him to museums, and even inviting him on family outings. To anyone on the outside, it might have seemed like she was just trying to help a kid who didn't have the best home life. But as the school year wrapped up in April 1996, it became clear that Mary's attention toward Billy wasn't purely out of goodwill. Billy and Mary's connection didn't stop when the school year ended. In fact, it only grew stronger. Billy became close friends with Mary's 13-year-old son, Steve, which gave him even more reasons

to spend time at Mary's house. Neighbors started to notice strange things. Billy, barely a teenager, was seen smoking and drinking in Mary's backyard, and she didn't seem to care. Their interactions didn't resemble those of a teacher and her student, it was something else entirely. Over time, small details emerged that painted a clearer picture of what was happening. once bet a friend $20 that he'd sleep with Mary. On another occasion, he and a buddy hid in a classroom

closet, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary lifting her skirt. It was the kind of behavior you might expect from boys mimicking older siblings, but it was Mary's reaction, or lack thereof, that stood out. As an adult, she should have shut that down immediately. Instead, she let it slide, even admitting later that she went along with their antics. By October 1996, Mary couldn't keep her feelings bottled up anymore. She called her best friend, Michelle, in a whirlwind of emotions, describing Billy as the love of her life. She insisted nothing physical had happened yet but admitted they were thinking about it.

At no point in the conversation did Mary mention that Billy was only 12 years old. Weeks later, she called Michelle again, this time in a panic, she was pregnant, and the baby wasn't her husband's. Despite Michelle's attempts to calm her down, Mary was convinced her husband Steve would find out. Steve did find out, but not through a confession. Mary kept a journal detailing her relationship with Billy, including every intimate moment. When Steve stumbled upon it, he lost it.

Enraged, he physically assaulted Mary, kicking her in the stomach in an attempt to force her to abort the baby. He then told his mother, who advised Mary to terminate the pregnancy to keep up appearances. But Mary was adamant about keeping the baby. Eventually, the whole family learned about the situation, and one of Steve's cousins made an anonymous call to child protective services on February 25, 1997. This led to another call, this time to the Highline School District, reporting that Mary was having a sexual relationship with a 13-year-old and was pregnant. The police got involved, and when they questioned Billy, he confessed everything. Mary was arrested, and the media went wild. The story of a 34-year-old teacher pregnant by a 13-year-old student,

was splashed across headlines nationwide. Mary's father, John Smith, who had once had an affair with a student, also found himself back in the spotlight, though his situation was vastly different since the student in question had been an adult. But Billy? Billy was just a kid. Mary underwent psychiatric evaluations, which revealed she had bipolar disorder and depression.

She was prescribed medication and began therapy. In May 1997, she gave birth to a baby girl named Audrey. By July, her case went to court. Her lawyer negotiated a plea deal, Mary would plead guilty to child rape, serve three months in jail, and undergo treatment for six months. After that, she'd be on probation under strict conditions, including mandatory therapy in a ban on contacting Billy ever again. In August 1997, Mary appeared in court, looking polished and put together.

Her demeanor and appearance drew sympathy for many, including the judge, who seemed moved by her remorseful words. Mary's three-month sentence felt like a slap on the wrist to some, but it was a second chance for her to start over. But Mary couldn't stay away from Billy. Just two weeks after her release, on February 3, 1998, a police patrol in Seattle noticed a parked car with fogged up windows. Inside, they found Mary and Billy together.

She was immediately arrested and sent back to prison, while Billy was returned to his mother's care. This time, Mary didn't have the public sympathy. She appeared disheveled and unkempt, a stark contrast to her previous court appearance. The judge wasn't lenient, sentencing her to the maximum of seven and a half years in prison. And then things got even more complicated. While in prison, Mary gave birth to another child in October 1998, Billy's second daughter. Despite a strict no-contact order, Mary continued trying to communicate with Billy, sending letters, and calling him from prison.

In her letters, she swung between telling him to move on and urging him to marry her so she could get of prison sooner. Her manipulative behavior didn't go unnoticed, and she was temporarily placed in isolation for breaking the no-contact order. Meanwhile, Billy and his mother tried to sue the school district and police department, arguing that they had failed to protect him from Mary's abuse. However, the jury ruled against them, and they received no compensation. Mary remained in prison until 2004. Upon her release, she went straight back to Billy, and the two got married in 2005. Over the years, they sold their story as a tale of true love, publishing books and giving interviews that framed their relationship as romantic and pure. But cracks in their

narrative began to show. By 2017, Billy filed for divorce but later withdrew the petition. In 2018, the couple gave a bizarre interview that left viewers uneasy. Mary blamed Billy for seducing her, claiming he wasn't a child but a mature, intelligent preteen who knew what he was doing. Billy seemed uncomfortable throughout the interview, defending their past but visibly struggling to reconcile it. In August 2019, Billy filed for divorce again, this time following through. By 2020, he was ready to open up about his experiences, but before he could, Mary called with devastating news. She had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer and wanted him by her side. Billy agreed, spending her final days with her before she passed away on July 6, 2020, at the age of 58.

Today, Billy has moved on. He's remarried, has another child, and is even about to become a grandfather. Looking back, the story is as complicated as it is disturbing. It raises countless questions about power dynamics, accountability, and the long-term effects of such a relationship. Did justice truly prevail? That's a question only time and reflection can answer. It started exactly one week ago.

Last Tuesday. I came home from work, just a regular day. day, nothing out of the ordinary, and there it was, sitting on my doorstep. A small package, about the size of a thick novel, maybe a bit wider. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, the kind you get from a roll. It was sealed very thoroughly with clear packing tape, like someone really didn't want it to come open accidentally. The weird thing was, there was no return address.

No stamps. No postmark. Just my address. neatly printed in the center in plain, black, block capital letters. It looked like it had been typed on a label maker, or maybe printed from a computer. It was definitely my address, perfectly correct. My first thought was that a neighbor had dropped something off, or maybe a local delivery that didn't go through the usual channels.

I wasn't expecting anything. I picked it up. It wasn't particularly heavy, but it felt solid. I shook it gently. Nothing rattled. I brought it inside, set it on the kitchen counter, and just stared at it for a bit. There's a certain level of unease that comes with an anonymous package, you know, especially these days.

But it wasn't ticking, it didn't look suspicious in that way. It just looked, blank. Impersonal. I considered opening it right then, but something held me back. A little niggle of. I don't know. caution. Or maybe just the fact that I was tired from work and wanted to unwind. I left it on the counter and mostly forgot about it for the rest of the evening. The next day, Wednesday, another one

arrived. Identical. Same brown paper, same meticulous taping, same typed label with my address. No return info, no stamps. Just, there. On my doorstep, waiting for me when I got home. Now, two is a pattern. This wasn't a misdelivery or a friendly neighbor anymore. This was intentional. I felt a prickle of anxiety. I picked it up, and it felt exactly the same as the first one. Same size, same weight, same lack of rattling.

I placed it next to the first one on the counter. They looked like twins. My mind started racing. Was it some kind of weird marketing gimmick? A prank? I asked my immediate neighbors if they'd seen anyone drop anything off. Mrs. Henderson next door, who sees everything, said she hadn't noticed anything unusual. I even called the local post office, described the packages, and asked if they had any record of a delivery service that might operate this way. The guy on the phone sounded bored and

unhelpful, basically told me if it didn't have postage, it wasn't their problem. Could be a courier, could be anyone, he'd mumbled before suggesting I called the non-emergency police line if I was concerned. Thursday. Another package. Same as the others. Now I had three of them lined up on my counter. The anxiety was definitely stronger. This wasn't funny anymore. It felt invasive. Someone knew where I lived, and they were deliberately, repeatedly, sending me these mute, anonymous things. I did call the non-emergency line. I explained the situation to the officer who took my call. I tried to keep my voice calm, rational. Look, I know it sounds minor, I said, but it's three days in a row now. Identical packages, no sender info. It's just, unsettling. The officer listened,

or at least I think she did. She asked if the packages seemed threatening, if I'd been threatened by anyone. I said no, not overtly. They just were. She suggested it was probably a misguided prank, or maybe some company's bizarre sample distribution. You could just, not accept them. She offered, as if I had a choice when they were just left on my doorstep. Or throw them away if they're making you uncomfortable. Unless there's an actual threat, sir, there's not much we can do about someone leaving items on your property if they're not has us. Helpful. So helpful. Friday. Package number four. I actually felt a nod in my stomach when I saw it. I didn't even want to touch it this time. I nudged it with my foot first,

then reluctantly picked it up. Same. Exactly the same. The pile on my counter was growing. It felt like they were watching me. Saturday. Package number five. I was starting to feel besieged. I wasn't sleeping well. Every creek in the house made me jump. I kept looking out the windows, hoping to catch whoever was doing this. I even stayed up late on Friday night, watching the porch from the darkened living room, but I must have dozed off because there it was on Saturday morning when I went to get the newspaper.

Sunday Package number six. My weekend was ruined. I barely left that. house. I just kept staring at the six packages. They were a silent, oppressive presence in my kitchen. I'd walk past them, and my eyes would be drawn to them. What was inside? Why me? The questions looped endlessly in my head. I thought about taking them somewhere, the police station maybe, and just dumping them on their desk. But what would that achieve? They'd already told me they

couldn't do anything. I considered opening them, of course. Many times. The curiosity was immense, a burning itch under my skin. But it was mixed with a potent dose of fear. What if it was something horrible? Something dangerous. The not-knowing was torment, but the knowing could be worse. My imagination, fueled by lack of sleep and growing paranoia, was conjuring up all sorts of grim possibilities. And then yesterday, Monday, the seventh package arrived. I saw it from the window as I was making coffee, my hands shaking slightly. Another one.

Seven days. A full week. That number, seven, it just, it felt significant. Ominous, even. Like an ultimatum, or a countdown reaching its end. I didn't go to work yesterday. I called in sick. I couldn't have focused anyway. I spent the day pacing, staring at the seven packages now lined up like grotesque brown bricks. The kitchen felt smaller, the air thicker.

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I couldn't let this go on. I had to know. The not knowing was eating me alive. So, I decided. Last night, I'd wait until a it was late, until the world outside was quiet. Then, I would open them. All of them. The hours crawled by. I tried to distract myself with TV, with a book, but my gaze kept drifting back to the packages. They seemed to hum with a silent, expectant energy. Or maybe that was just the buzzing in my own head. Finally, around midnight, I couldn't stand it anymore. The house was dead silent. only sound was the frantic thumping of my own heart. I went to the kitchen. The seven packages sat there, accusingly. I took a deep breath, grabbed a utility knife, and picked up the first

one, the one that had arrived last Tuesday. My hands were clammy. The tape was tough, layered. It took some effort to cut through it cleanly. I peeled back the brown paper carefully, as if disarming a bomb. Inside, there was a simple, white, unsealed envelope. Standard letter size. My name and address weren't on this inner envelope. It was completely blank. My heart hammered against my ribs. I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out what was inside. It was a single sheet of plain white paper. A four size, like printer paper. On it, there was a drawing. A child's drawing. Or at least, it looked like one. Done in what looked like black crayon, or maybe a thick marker. It was crude, simplistic. It depicted a house.

Two windows, a door, a triangle roof. Simple. But, it was my house. Unmistakably. The shape of it, the placement of the front window, even the slightly crooked gutter I've been meaning to fix. It was my house. To the far left of the page, almost at the very edge, was a stick figure. Just a circle for a head, a line for a body, two for arms, two for legs. In one of its stick hands, it held another, smaller line, with a blob of red crayon at the tip. A knife. A bloody knife. Above the drawing, at the top of the page, were two words, also seemingly handwritten in that same black marker, in messy block letters, day one. I stared at it, a cold dread seeping into me. Day one. This was the package from last Tuesday. My house. A stick figure

with a bloody knife, far away. What did it mean? My breath hitched. I reached for the second package, the one from Wednesday. My fingers fumbled with the utility knife, my movement's jerky. I sliced it open, pulled out the identical white envelope, then the single sheet of paper. Another drawing. The same house, my house. The same stick figure, holding the same red-tipped knife. But this time, the stick figure was a little closer to the house. Not dramatically, but noticeably. It was no longer at the very edge of the page. It had moved perhaps an inch or two inward, towards the drawing of my home.

And above this drawing, day two. A wave of nausea hit me. Oh God. No. I scrambled for the third package, tearing at the brown paper with frantic energy. Envelope. Paper. Drawing.

Day three. my house the stick figure closer still now it was about a third of the way across the page marching steadily towards the depiction of my sanctuary the red on the knife seemed brighter somehow more deliberate i didn't need to be gentle anymore i ripped open the fourth package day four the stick figure was halfway to the house it's crude featureless circle head seemed to be staring right at the front door. My front door. My breathing was shallow, ragged. A whimper escaped my lips. This couldn't be happening. It was a sick joke. It had to be. But the sheer, methodical commitment, seven packages, seven days. Package five. Day five.

The stick figure was now much closer, maybe three-quarters of the way there. It was almost in the yard of the crudely drawn house. The knife it held seemed larger, or maybe it was just my terror magnifying it. I was shaking uncontrollably now. My hands were slick with sweat. I could barely grip the utility knife. Package number six. The one from Sunday.

I slashed it open, not even bothering with the envelope, just ripping the paper out. Day 6. The stick figure. It was practically at the porch steps in the drawing. Looming. Its presence filled that side of the page. The red on the knife was a sickening smear. One package left.

The one from yesterday. Day 7. I hesitated. A part of me, a screaming, terrified part, didn't want to see it. Wanted to burn them all, to pretend this wasn't happening. But I had to. I had to know how this grotesque storyboard ended. With trembling fingers, I picked up the seventh package.

It felt colder than the others, heavier, though I knew it was an illusion, a product of my fear. I cut it open. Pulled out the envelope. Pulled out the page. Day 7. The drawing. My house. And the stick figure, it wasn't just close.

It was there. standing right in front of the door. Its stick arm was raised, the one with the bloody knife. It was positioned as if it was about to knock, or to slash. Its featureless head was tilted slightly. I stared at the page, my blood turning to ice. The silence in the kitchen was absolute, save for the roaring in my years. Day 7.

Today The stick man was at my door. In the drawing. Knock. Knock. Knock. I screamed. Not a loud scream, more like a choked gasp, a sound ripped from my throat. The sound had come from my actual front door. Three distinct, solid knocks. My heart leaped into my throat, threatening to choke me. I stumbled back from the counter, knocking a glass to the floor. It shattered, the sound unnatural. It shattered, the sound unnatural loud in the charged silence. The drawings, the stick man at the door in the day seven picture, and now this. Who? Who's there? I managed to call out, my voice a hoarse whisper.

I didn't expect an answer. I didn't want an answer. Silence. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd imagined it. The stress, the horrific drawings. Then it came. Not a voice. Not another knock. It was a tapping. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It was light, almost delicate, like fingernails on wood. But the rhythm, it was a melody. A perverted, skeletal version of a lullaby.

Slow, deliberate, chillingly patient. Each tap seemed to resonate through the house, through me. I was paralyzed. Every horror movie cliche, every primal thing, fear, it was all real, all crashing down on me. The drawings were a countdown, a warning. And the clock had just struck zero. The lullaby tapping continued, a soft, insidious rhythm against the wood of my front door. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Over and over. My mind, finally jolted out of its frozen terror by a surge of adrenaline, screamed one word, police. I fumbled for my

phone, which I thankfully left on the counter. My fingers were clumsy, slick with sweat. I almost dropped it. I dialed 9-1-1, my breath coming in ragged gasps. 9-1-1, what's your emergency? The operator's voice was calm, professional, a stark contrast to the chaos erupting inside me. Someone's, someone's at my door, I stammered, trying to keep my voice from cracking. They're trying to get in. I think. I think they're dangerous. Okay, sir, what's your address?

I gave it to her, my eyes darting between the kitchen doorway, which led towards the front hall, and the drawing spread out on the counter. That day seven drawing seemed to mock me. Is the person still there, sir? Yes. Yes, I can hear them. They're, tapping. Like a song. My voice was trembling so badly I could barely form the words.

Please, hurry. I got these, these packages, they showed this happening. Sir, I need you to stay on the line with me. Are you in a safe location in the house? Can you lock yourself in a room? I'm in the kitchen. The front door is, it's locked, but... But what if a lock wasn't enough?

What if the stick figure wasn't bound by now? normal rules. The tapping stopped. The silence that followed was somehow worse. Pregnant. Expectant. Sir. Are you still there? The operator asked. Yes, yes. The tapping, it stopped. My voice was barely audible. Okay, officers are on their way. They should be there in approximately five minutes. Can you see the front door from where you are? No, not directly. The layout of my house meant the kitchen was towards the back. But I'm not going near it.

The operator tried to keep me calm, asking questions, but my attention was fractured. Every shadow seemed to move. Every tiny sound the house made, the settling of wood, the hum of the refrigerator, sounded like a footstep, a breath. Those were the longest five minutes of my life. I clutched the phone, staring at the drawings. The progression. The relentless approach.

It was so methodical. So patient. Then, finally, I heard it, the blessed sound of sirens in the distance, growing closer. A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled my knees, washed over me. Soon, there were flashing blue and red lights painting my windows. I heard car doors. voices outside. Then, a firm, authoritative knock. Police. Open up. This time, I almost ran to the door. I fumbled with the dead bolt and chain, my hands still shaking, and threw it open. Two officers stood there,

expression serious, hands near their holsters. Are you okay, sir, one of them asked, his eyes scanning past me into the house. I. I think so. So. They were here. At the door, I babbled, ushering them in. The knocking, the tapping. I got these packages. I led them to the kitchen, my words tumbling out in a jumbled mess as I tried to explain the week

of anonymous deliveries, the decision to open them, the horrifying drawings. I pointed to the seven sheets of paper laid out on the counter. The officers exchanged a look. One of them, older, with tired eyes, leaned down to examine the drawings. He picked up day one, then day seven, his expression unreadable. The other, younger, walked through the ground floor, checking windows and the back door. Everything secure, no sign of forced entry, the younger officer reported when he returned. The older officer looked at me.

Sir, when we arrived, there was no one at your door. We checked the perimeter of your house as we approached. No one. But. I heard them. I insisted, my voice rising with a new kind underscore of panic. The knocking, the tapping lullaby. It was right there.

We understand you're upset, sir, the older officer said, his tone carefully neutral. These drawings are, disturbing, I'll grant you. Could be some kind of very elaborate, very cruel prank. A prank? I felt a surge of frustration. This isn't a prank. This thing was at my door. We have a street-facing camera down at the corner, the younger officer interjected.

It sometimes catches activity on this block. We can check the footage from the time you called, see if anyone was approaching or leaving your property. A small flicker of hope. Yes, please. You'll see. They called it in. We waited. The kitchen felt cold again, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving me exhausted and raw. The older officer asked me more questions, if I had any enemies, any recent disputes, anyone who might want to frighten me this badly.

I couldn't think of anyone. My life is, quiet, normal. Or it was. After about 20 minutes, the younger officers radio crackled. He listened, then looked at me, then at his partner. His expression was, strange. Not quite pity, not quite skepticism. Well, I urged. He cleared his throat. Dispatch reviewed the camera footage from the last half hour.

There's no one, sir. Nothing. No one approached your door, no one was on your porch. The street was empty at the time you made the call. The words hit me like a physical blow. No one. The camera showed no one. But I'd heard it.

The knocking. The tapping. It was real. I know it was. The officers were sympathetic, in that professional, detached way. They suggested I might have been under a lot of stress, that the drawings had understandably freaked me out. They implied I might have imagined the sounds, my mind playing tricks on. me after such a disturbing discovery. One of them even gently suggested I might want to talk to

someone, a doctor, maybe. They documented the drawings, took my statement. They said they'd file a report for harassment, but without a suspect, without any physical evidence of someone actually being there, there wasn't much more they could do. They assured me I was safe. They even did an extra patrol around the block before they finally left. I locked the door behind them, the multiple locks clicking into place with a sound that offered zero comfort. Safe. They said I was safe. But I didn't feel safe. I felt more exposed, more vulnerable than ever. If there was no one there, then what had I heard? What was tormenting me? I gathered the seven drawings, my hands still trembling. I couldn't bring my

myself to throw them away. They were evidence, even if only I believed it. I put them back in their envelopes, then back in the brown paper wrappers, and tucked the whole terrible collection into a drawer, as if hiding them would hide the truth. I didn't sleep at all last night. I sat in my living room, in the dark, listening. Every creek, every groan of the house settling, was the prelude to that knock, that tapping. But it didn't come. Until tonight, It's now, just after midnight. The same time I opened the packages last night. The same time the knocking started.

And it's happening again. As I'm typing this, I can hear it. Knock. Knock. Knock. From the front door. Clear as day. Or, clear as night.

My heart is a frantic bird in my chest. I called out, who's there? just like last night. My voice was a pathetic, shaky thing. No answer. Just silence for a beat. And then. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The lullaby. It's back. Fingernails on wood, a delicate, horrifying rhythm. I know if I call the police, they'll find no one. The cameras will show nothing. They'll think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. But that tapping, it's real.

I'm listening to it right now. It's soft, persistent. It's not demanding entry. It's just, there. Reminding me. The stick figure from day seven might not be physically standing on my porch. But something is. Something invited by those drawings, or something that sent them.

I don't know what to do. I'm trapped in my own home, terrorized by a sound no one else can verify the END. Hello, most of this story takes place in Oklahoma. I have had so many strange experiences, most of which I don't even know how to categorize. Anyway, one night I was in bed, asleep. It was just an ordinary night, but this night I fell asleep on my back. It's kind of strange for me to fall asleep on my back. I usually sleep on my side.

I woke up in the middle of the night, at about ten. 2.30 or 3.30. As soon as I started to look around, and as my eyes adjusted, I felt a horrible presence in the room, with me. I immediately, felt goosebumps rush up from the bottom of my legs, up my arms, and to the back of my scalp. I started to cry, because I felt like I knew what it meant. I tried to move, but I couldn't. It felt like someone paralyzed my voice box. Because I couldn't even scream. The only thing I could move, were my eyes. So I glanced over to my left, and I saw what looked like a gray alien, but his eyes were completely round and smaller than a typical gray alien and its skin was bumpier and it seemed

more demonic. It's dark, hollow, inky, black, evil, empty eyes were rummaging through my mind, going through extremely personal memories, going through my thoughts, it was so intrusive. Later I realized that it accomplished this through the eye contact, if you could even call them eyes. I couldn't look away. I just kept looking into those two horrible pits. It was like looking into, two wells in the ground.

I tried to scream and yell at Moim, but nothing came out. It seemed amused by my struggling. And it showed me a slight Mona Lisa smile that slowly grew on its face. It enjoyed seeing me try to move and yell for help. I had never been so scared. Helplessly gripped in a horrifying moment. Then darkness. I woke up the next morning, thinking it was all a dream, course, I didn't know what sleep

paralysis was. Later on, I drew a picture of what I saw. I also scoured the internet for any images of something similar to what I saw, and after a week or two, I found it. An image of exactly what I saw, and what I drew. This creeped me out a lot because the thing that led me to that image, was what I thought was a dream. Also later on that year, my stepdad, and my step siblings were having a small nighttime backyard party. It wasn't anything crazy. Everyone was just sitting around the fire pit. Smoking, drinking, and talking. When I wasn't looking at the fire, I looked up to look at my window. I saw that the light was on, this really confused me, because I specifically remember turning it off. I went inside to investigate, and looked for my

remote control to my ceiling fan. Quick side note, my light switch on my wall didn't work. I had to use a remote to turn on my ceiling fan. While I was inside, I noticed nobody was in the house. Everybody was outside even the dogs, so I went upstairs to my room. I noticed that my remote control was right where I left it. I turned it off and went downstairs. As soon as I made it outside, where everybody was, I looked up at my window and saw that my light was on again. I immediately thought something was wrong. So I ran back upstairs.

And I saw that the light was off. So I left it off and went back downstairs. When I went back outside, I looked up my window where, one last time, and saw that my light was on again. I didn't tell anybody, then, I reluctantly walked back into to the dead, dark, quiet house. I could feel eyes on me. In my living room if you look up, you can see a loft with half a wall where you can look over into the living room from the upstairs. It looked pitch black, I felt like, someone's watching me from up there. Even though there was a party going on, it felt weird, walking through such a quiet, dark house.

I flipped on lights as much as I could. I made it upstairs and was walking to my room. I could see that the light was on. And when I opened the door, my jaw hit the floor of my room. The floor of my room, where all of the drawings of the thing that was standing over me were spread out. My room was completely torn up. It looked like there was a tornado in my room, or like my room was a snow globe and someone shook it up.

It looked completely different than when I was up there a few minutes ago. that could have been thrown on the ground was couch, cushions, blankets, paintings, DVDs, books, and all of my drawings of that awful night. I begrudgingly started to clean up. And while I was cleaning up, I had a weird feeling that I was being watched. I had a feeling someone was in that very room looming over me while I was on my hands and knees picking up the mess. As terrifying as it was. It still felt unfair that I had to pick up this horrible mess that I know I didn't make. And while I was cleaning up, I realized I should go outside and ask if anyone was responsible. I went outside where everyone still was, and told them about the mess I discovered, and asked if

anyone was responsible. All of them looked at me like I was crazy. They told me that everyone was outside the entire time and, you were the only one in the house. After everyone shrugged it off, it seemed like nobody wanted to hear it. Everybody was already drunk and under the influence. So I just hung out there and slept downstairs in the living room below the darkness of the loft. Later on I told my stepdad about the sleep paralysis episode, and I showed him a picture I found of the entity I saw looming over me. Later on he gave me a painting of the same thing I saw.

But the creature or entity in the painting was dressed in a kind of weird ceremonial outfit with a pentagram necklace, holding a staff, and it had the same eyes but with crusty orange pupils. He said, Hey, Luke, here I painted this for you. I thought it was weird. I didn't want to hang it up, it would just remind me of the scariest night of my life. I remembered my stepdad has a weird seance-type room under the stairs. Moreover, he happens to be a 33rd degree Freemason, a member of the Hermetic Order of the

Golden Dawn, and probably some other secret societies as well. One day I was home and it was the weekend, I would occasionally fall asleep downstairs because I was afraid to sleep in my room. So when I woke up on Saturday, I started walking upstairs to use the bathroom. And while I was halfway up the stairs, I heard what sounded like, everybody who lived in the house talking with each other. Upstairs in one of the rooms. The kind of conversation you really want in on. The only thing was I couldn't tell if they were arguing or joking.

I realized that it was coming from my sister's old room. So I walked to the door. I could clearly hear people talking behind it. I wasn't keeping track of what was being said because I was so sure. that I could just walk in and ask them what they were on about. But I opened the door and my heart sank, along with two tears. There was nobody there, it gave me waves of negative goosebumps. I felt like I had stepped into a web, of a demon or something worse.

I yelled for my brother. No response. I yelled for my sister. No response. I yelled for my mom. No response. I walked outside. No cars were out there.

I walked into the garage. No car. I glanced over toward the door to the seance room that it was under the stairs. I don't like that room. I showed my stepsister the picture of the thing I saw that night, when I slept on my back and had sleep paralysis. She said that, her boyfriend saw that same thing, intensely watching him from the kitchen window of the house as he was walking through the yard to the front door.

A while after that I was home, it was just me and my brother home. We were both upstairs, I was in my room and he was in his. I was just laying on the small couch in my room when I heard a loud slam in the hallway. I was curious so I went to investigate what it might be and I saw a bunch of books on the floor laying on the floor in A.S-like shape. They were laying on top of one another like knocked over dominoes. I looked as the bookshelf where one of the shelf rose had nothing wrong with it apart from having no books on it and it being dusty.

My brother had a look and he took a picture of it for proof. He sent it to me and I still have the picture. I asked my brother about it and he didn't do it, he would have taken credit for such a prank. I couldn't explain it. There weren't even marks in the dust on the shelf. I had walked past that bookshelf about five minutes before, and there was nothing on the floor. It was as if they were levitated off the bookshelf and onto the floor. I've always had strange things happen to me.

For example, when I was at my mom's old house and I was young, me and my stepbrother shared a bunk bed. One night I woke up and I was floating in the air, in the middle of the room. When I woke up and realized what was going on, I instantly fell on the toys scattered across the floor hurting my back. When I got older, I was at my mom's house and I was upstairs in one of the empty rooms when I watched as a cross pushed off the wall and broke. I would hear long slow scratches on the walls.

In those rooms upstairs I would often come across hundreds of dead ladybugs along the bottom of the windows, including my room. I couldn't ever figure out where they came from. I don't remember when this next thing happened, but I remember it was around the same time. I was parked outside my mom and stepdad's house at night with the headlights on. I thought I saw something in the corner of my eye. I followed it with my gaze. It was a shadow too fast to see and it appeared to dart back and forth across the street and three yards and behind trees.

A week later I was with a friend from school in his car as he was driving down the same neighborhood road. It was night. I thought I saw something in the corner of my eye. I didn't say anything about it because I thought it was my eyes playing tricks. But when he said, what is that? Do you see that? I looked up and saw the same shadow darting across the road, three yards, and behind trees too fast to see. We both freaked out as we watched it disappear into the shadows.

I still call and text him about it to make sure it really happened and that he really saw it too. Funny this is, he does the same thing. Later on February 25, 2016, I was home and my mother and stepfather were asleep. I let the dog in the backyard when I noticed it was a little warmer than usual out. Also it was a pretty clear sky, so I went out back to stargaze. While I was outside I felt something in the air. Some sort of static buzz, I felt it in my stomach and it felt like my bones were vibrating. I followed the feeling and looked over the fence to see where it was coming from. I couldn't believe my eyes, it was a triangular UFO craft landing on the street

in front of my house. I couldn't tell if the craft had legs or not. It had orange, purple, blue, green, red, and white lights on it along the side of the craft. I remember thinking that it was weird nobody on my street was seeing it. I saw a door open on the craft that formed a ramp that touched the street. Baffled and babbling I went inside and as I rushed to the kitchen sink I said to myself, it's not real you're just crazy. It's not real you're just crazy. I washed my face with some cold water and looked out of the window above the kitchen sink. I saw a little girl in an old school pink dress with blonde hair. I estimated her age at about five to seven years old and she was holding the hand of a shadow

person leaving the craft with her. I couldn't see any details of the silhouette she was holding the hand of or inside the craft due to the bright white light. I thought it was weird how I could see the details of the girl, but not the other thing. As I saw this, I heard a little girl's voice say, Luke. Come with me. Daddy. It's so good to see you, Daddy. Don't you want to come with me, but it was said inside my mind. I went from baffled and babbling to terrified and panicked to the highest degree. I left the kitchen and ran slash stumbled into the living room. The voice of the little

girl died down. I began wondering if I was having a nightmare. I looked at the time, it was 1033. I then thought to myself, if I was dreaming, how could I possibly know the time? I felt an approaching presence. I slowly turned around and saw a silhouette of the shadow-type man at the front door. If you could call that thing a man. I could see it through the foggy glass of the front door that still had Valentine's Day decorations on it. It had long spidery fingers that it deliberately flaunted. As if it knew what I was seeing through the mind. It began to laugh, but not out loud, in my head. As it did I saw its mouth open and close like when a cartoon character laughs. I was shaking and trembling. I immediately tried to

plan a route to my mom's room, but I decided on a shortcut that would lead me through the fireplace to the left of me and into my mom and stepdad's room. I ran to the double-sided fireplace. And as I started crawling on my hands and knees, I heard it tell me, you won't escape, we've taken you many times before, and there is nothing you can do. I looked at my ash-covered arms as I tried to continue to crawl through the fireplace. I looked into my mom's room. My mother and stepfather were both laying in bed on their backs, but with their heads facing me. Their eyes were screaming. It was like they both were having sleep paralysis. The dark voice said, They can't help you, they are frozen. Then I heard the buzzing in the air

turn into rumbling and I heard a chant that sounded like the chant of a dead language, the chant was very repetitive and the same syllables were chanted over and over. As the rumble intensified a white light was washing over everything. I tried to move, but as it grew stronger, I grew weaker. It became so loud and so bright I was blind and deaf, overloaded from too much light and too much sound. Everything went white. I woke up in what seems like a half second later.

Face down and tongue out on my bed, shoes on and fully clothed. My boots were on my pillow, almost as if whoever took me didn't know that it was for my head so they placed me on my bed backwards and face down. I sat up in shock. I ran into the bathroom to check on myself in the mirror. I opened my mouth and saw that my tongue was cracked, dehydrated, and dry. It was like a dead man's decaying tongue. I could peel pieces of skin off it, it was so dry.

I washed my mouth with water until it was hydrated enough for me to talk. I remember, sitting there in front of the mirror for a second, thinking about what happened. I remember thinking how do I explain something like this? I broke down and began crying hysterically. What made it worse was if that little girl was my daughter, would I ever see her again? Would I ever get to know her? Is she safe? Is she okay?

I don't even know her name. How do I find closure in knowing a daughter I never knew I had is out there without me, and with whatever took me? How do I move on from knowing that I'll never get to see her grow up? How do I cope knowing I can't reach her, and I can't help her? I practically fell downstairs to tell my mom and stepdad what happened. I knocked on their door and my stepdad answered. I was babbling, shaking, and crying the story out of my mouth.

But it made no difference, because my stepdad said, last night, I don't know what you're talking about and he closed the door. I sat on the couch in the living room and quietly cried as I questioned my sanity. It was 5.55 a.m. These things that happened eventually put me in a mental hospital. I was struggling to rationalize it all. After I moved and I was on my own things died down. However things continue to happen every now and then even to this day. All of this really happened. Typing this and recalling this has me in tears. I've had odd, unexplained, and supernatural incidences occur my whole life, but when I lived in that house at that time. It was bad. I won't go back. Not to that house. It would just remind me of the worst days of my life. You never know what someone might be going through.

Thank you. All right, so buckle up, because what I'm about to tell you might sound like something out of a horror novel or a campfire tale your uncle tells after too many beers. But it's not fiction. This is something that has clung to me for nearly three decades, living in the corners of my memory and sometimes sneaking out into my dreams. I'm sharing this now not because I want attention or sympathy, but because I think it's time I got it off my chest. If anything, maybe someone else who's gone through something unexplainable will feel less alone. This whole thing started in the early 90s. I was just a kid living in a sleepy little town up in New England.

We were tucked close to the Canadian border, surrounded by thick forests and even thicker snowbanks during the winter. Not much happened there. No malls, no movie theaters, just a couple of diners and gas stations. The kind of place where you made your own fun or lost your mind trying. Luckily, I had my best friend Jacob to make sure we always had something going on. We were your typical outdoor kids, always outside, even when the snow made it feel like you were walking through a freezer. We'd go hiking, fishing, canoeing, hell, even just building forts out of branches and snowbanks

felt like an epic adventure. Our imaginations were on overdrive. There was this patch of forest right next to our neighborhood that we'd explore all the time. We'd created names for parts of it, like we were mapping some undiscovered world. There was the devil's throat, basically a bunch of trees that had fallen and created a sort of cave-like shelter. Then there was the lake of the dead, a small pond that was more mud than water. And beyond that, the forest of lost souls, where the trees grew so thick it always felt like twilight in there. We had a rule. We never went past the forest of lost souls.

Not because anyone told us not to, but because that part of the woods felt, off. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was more like your gut whispering, don't push it, but kids don't listen to whispers. One fall afternoon, when the first dusting of snow had started to coat the ground, Jacob showed up at my house with a bunch of neon green tree markers. We're going further, he said, eyes wide with that fire of excitement only ten-year-olds can muster. We started marking trees every few yards, making sure each tag could be seen from the last, creating a glowing breadcrumb trail behind us.

About 50 yards in, we found something, strange. The trees abruptly ended, giving way to a steep dip in the ground. At the bottom of this crater-like hole was the entrance to what looked like a small cave. We stood there for a long moment, staring. Jacob was grinning like he'd found buried treasure. Skeleton Cave, he announced. That's what we'll call it. I laughed, but in my chest, something felt cold.

Like a weight had settled in my stomach. Even though we couldn't see anything in the cave, I had this irrational feeling that something in there was staring back. We didn't go in that day. The sun was setting, and our parents would have freaked if we weren't home by dark. But a few days later, we went back, flashlights in hand, hearts pounding with excitement and nerves. We carefully climbed down the slope and stood at the mouth of the cave. That cold feeling hit me again.

But Jacob was practically vibrating with anticipation. We went in. The cave was narrow but not so tight that we had to crawl. We saw some weird rock formations and joked about naming them, Dragon's Claw, Wizard's Hat, that kind of thing. It felt fun, almost like we were explorers. But then we hit a dead end, about 15 minutes in. As we were debating whether to head back, Jacob tripped. He screamed, and we both swung our flashlights down to his foot.

At first, it looked like a snake had coiled around his ankle. But then we saw it wasn't smooth like. like a snake, it had hair. Before either of us could react, Jacob was yanked backward into the dark. I froze. I mean, I literally couldn't move. I just stood there, listening to his screams echoing off the stone walls. My flashlight dropped to my side. Somehow, I found the strength to lift it again. When I did, I saw Jacob, upside down, thrashing, suspended in the air. Behind him, something moved. I didn't get a full view. Just a flash of glowing eyes, burning with fury. Then Jacob was slammed into the ground with a sickening crack. He was still alive, gurgling

and trying to crawl. Then the thing picked him up again. That was it. I ran. I don't remember how I got home, just that I burst into the house screaming for my dad. He and a few neighbors went back with me, along with the police. I told them most of the truth, cave, Jacob falling, me running. I didn't mention the hairy snake or the glowing eyes. Who would have believed me? They found Jacob. Or what was left of him? I didn't see it, but years later I overheard someone say he was barely recognizable. After that, I was sent to my grandparents' house for a while. My parents eventually moved us closer to the city. I never saw Jacob's family again.

There were a few follow-ups with police and even a child psychologist, but my mom put an end to that quickly. She said they were harassing me, trying to twist my story. I think they thought I did it. That I killed my best friend. But they never found any evidence. Even now, the nightmares come. I'm running through skeleton cave. Jacob's screams chasing me.

In the dream, I always try to turn around and save him. But I wake up before I do. Fast forward a couple decades. I moved to Canada, still obsessed with the outdoors, maybe trying to prove to myself I wasn't afraid. One fall, deer season opened, and I invited my buddy Kyle on a hunting trip. He owns a couple miles of forest near a river.

You can only get around by ATV. We packed up my truck, grabbed some beer, of course, and headed out. Set up camp by nightfall, grilled some burgers, cracked a few cold ones. Standard stuff. But around 10 p.m., I went to look for my phone near the ATVs. That's when I heard the scream. It was, wrong. Not human, not animal.

Just this shrieking, soul-piercing whale. The kind that vibrates in your bones. I turned back to camp and saw Kyle standing with his rifle. Dude, what the hell are you shooting at? I asked. He was pale. I saw something. It wasn't human.

The screen came again, and I felt like I was back in that cave. We stayed up until nearly 3 a.m., clutching our guns, eyes darting into the trees. Eventually, Kyle passed out. I tried to sleep, but that same scream woke me up not long after. Enough was enough. I grabbed a flashlight and my rifle, pushed into the woods. About 30 yards in, I saw it. A shape crouched low in the clearing.

When I aimed my light, it stood up. Eight feet tall, arms dangling past its knees, body like something starved for centuries. Pale, dead eyes locked onto mine. We left everything, tents, gear, food, all of it. As we crossed the river on the ATVs, we saw something on the bank. A deer carcass, ripped apart, head missing. We didn't talk on the drive back. We didn't need to.

I still haven't gone back to get our stuff. And that brings me to another part of this story. My name's Caleb Hudson. I run a YouTube channel called Hudson Hornet. What happened to me isn't fiction. It's not a prank. It's something that changed how I see the world. In 2015, I was living in South Carolina.

Ex-military, outdoorsy, loved horror movies and scary stories. Thought they were just entertainment. But I was dead wrong. My house was surrounded by woods. I was working on my truck late one night, listening to music, when something felt off. The song paused, and I realized the world around me had gone completely quiet. No bugs, no wind, nothing. Like nature itself was holding its breath.

I grabbed a flashlight and scanned the trees. That's when I saw it. Yellow eyes, staring back at me. I thought it was a dog. But it was too big. And its shape, was wrong. Its fur looked diseased, its eyes too huge. I tried to shoe it off. It didn't move. That's when I remembered the stories. Skin walkers.

Creatures that mimic animals, take the form of the people they've killed. I slowly backed into my garage, locked the door, and turned off all the lights. That night, I didn't sleep. These things, whatever they are, are real. Maybe they're not in every forest, or maybe they don't show themselves to everyone. But they're out there. And once you see them, you never see the woods the same way again. So next time you hear a story like mine, don't just laugh it off. Because one day, you might be the one running through the trees, trying not to scream. And maybe, just maybe, something will be watching you back. All right, let me take you on a journey, a story that stuck with me for years, haunting the edges of my memory like a shadow that just won't leave.

I don't care if you believe me or not, but I'm finally ready to get this off my chest. This all started one evening that, to this day, still freezes my blood when I think about it. It was just past dusk, that weird time when the sun's gone but there's still a hint of light hanging in the sky. I was outside near the woods behind my house. The air had this uneasy stillness to it, like nature had hit paws. Not even the usual chirps of crickets or the rustling of wind in the leaves. It was silent, eerily so. That's when I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a deer. It had a vaguely animal shape, but something was just, off. The skin looked wrong. Not in a grotesque way, not like blood or wounds, but it didn't line up. Like someone had stretched it too tight over something that wasn't the right shape underneath. A glitch in the fabric of nature. It stood there, still as a statue. and its eyes locked with mine.

Not blinking, not breathing, just, watching. My brain was screaming at me to run, but my feet wouldn't move. I felt frozen, like prey under a predator's gaze. Five, maybe ten minutes passed, but it felt like hours. I never saw it breathe. It didn't flinch. I never saw a tail either, come to think of it. Not sure if it even had one.

But the longer I stared, the more my instincts told me one thing loud and clear, I was in danger. My skin started to crawl, like ants marching across every nerve. My heart was pounding like a drum, my throat dry. I kept thinking, if it comes at me, what can I do? Scream. Run. Fight. But I knew if it charged, I was done.

I'd vanish into the night, and no one would know what happened to me. Still locked in that staring match, I slowly began stepping backward. I figured maybe if I didn't take my eyes off it, it wouldn't move. Might sound dumb, but in the moment, it felt like the only strategy that made sense. One step, then another. Shaky legs. Back hit the side of my house. I shuffled sideways along the wall, never breaking eye contact.

I found the door, blindly reached behind me for the house. handle, slipped inside, and slammed it shut. Locked it. Deadbolt two. Then the lights came on. Safety washed over me, like when you're a kid and you hide under the covers from the monster. I collapsed right there against the door, tears streaming down my face. That survival adrenaline finally drained and left me in shambles. I don't know how long I sat there, but I remember hearing it. A scream from outside, high-pitched, unearthly. Like something not of this world was letting out a wail of rage or sorrow or maybe both.

I ran around the house, locking every window, every door. I ended up huddled in the middle of the living room, all the lights on, eyes darting to every shadow. It was only later, after digging through online forums and creepy lore sites, that I found the name for what I likely saw, a skinwalker. Whether you believe in those legends or not, I'm telling you, there's no other explanation that fits. I told my wife. I told a close friend. But then I read that even mentioning them out loud, especially to people you love, can draw them near. So I stopped.

It's been years since that night, but every time I step outside after dark, I feel it again. The watching. I always scan the tree line, flashlight in hand. I still live in the same house. Still take the same steps every night before bed. Just in case. So if there's one thing you take away from this ramble of mine, let it be this. There are things out there we don't understand.

Trust your instincts when they scream at you. And if you ever lock eyes with something that shouldn't be real, stay calm, don't speak, and whatever you do, don't look away. Now, that's just part one of what I have to share. Because I haven't even told you about Melissa. Back in 2003, I was living in upstate New York in this apartment complex that was all about the red, white, and blue. Post, 9-11 vibes were heavy. Every balcony had a flag, and everyone was still emotionally raw and hyper-patriotic.

I was in my early 20s, single, still figuring myself out. We had internet, but no smartphones. No swiping left or right. You had to actually talk to people. Terrifying, I know. There was this girl at my gym named Melissa. 5-9, green eyes, this gorgeous tan skin with long blonde hair. She looked like she belonged on a beach in California.

I was hooked. We talked. We flirted. Turns out, she lived in the same apartment complex. I eventually asked her out, trying to be smooth about it. She hit me with the classic, you seem like a nice guy, but I just got out of something. Yeah, that line. But I kept hope alive.

We hung out a lot. We had these evening walks around the lake in the center of the complex. Talked about life, jobs, random stuff. Then one night, she kissed me. Just grabbed me and went for it right in front of it. of my truck. She said, I'll see you next Tuesday. Gave me this smile that burned itself into my memory and walked off. But Tuesday came, and she didn't. No calls. No replies. Nothing. I tried reaching out. Even left voicemails. Nothing. Weeks passed. Then months. Eventually, I convinced myself

that she just wasn't into it. Maybe she ghosted me. It sucked, but what could I do? Then one night, three a.m. to be exact, I got a phone call. Groggy, I answered. It was her. Carlos, she said. Do you still want me?

Her voice was hollow. Flat. Like reading from a cue card. She asked me to meet her by the lake in ten minutes. said she'd explain everything. I was confused as hell, but curiosity and feelings won over. I threw on some clothes and headed out. She was there, sitting on a bench under the big oak tree.

The lights were off around the lake, and the only thing providing a glow was a light from one of the nearby buildings. But I didn't approach. Something in my gut screamed, no. I stood there, maybe 20 yards away. Watching. Then she stood. Her head started twitching violently, like a glitching video game character. Her body jerked in impossible angles. Then she crawled towards me. Crawled like an animal on all fours but in this horrifying, twisted way. I ran. Full speed back

to my apartment. Flew up the stairs. Thank God I hadn't locked my door. As I closed it, I heard her, or it, call out from below, don't go, Carlos. Same voice. But wrong. It was like something was imitating her, and not doing a great job of it. I slept with a gun pointed at the door until the sun came up. Melissa. Never heard from her again. No one at the gym remembered her. The job she claimed to work at said no such person ever existed. It hit me like a freight train, although walks, all those conversations, no one else had ever seen us together. To this day, I don't know who or what Melissa really was. Fast forward to summer 2015. Alabama. My friend Michael had this huge property out in the woods with a private lake. He invited a bunch of us over to hang

by the RV his parents had just parked out by the water. There were five of us, Mike, me, Jake, Derek and my, let's say, friend with benefits, Carrie. We brought booze, pizza, weed, the works. Typical summer night stuff. We were laughing, swimming, drinking, just being dumb and young. At one point, Derek, who was blitzed, pointed across the lake and shouted, look, a moose. We laughed. But I looked. And I did see something. Antlers, a bulky shape. But it wasn't a moose. It was something pretending to be one. Derek wandered off to take a selfie with it.

We told him not to, but he wouldn't listen. Then we heard this wail from the woods. Not human. Not animal. Something else. We were scared, but tried to play it cool. Then Derek vanished. We split up to look for him.

Carrie and I stuck together. She got cold, so we turned back toward the fire. That's when it happened. I heard a grunt. Turned my flashlight. And there it was. The thing with antlers. But it was standing over something bloody.

Derek. Then it stood up. On two legs. It wasn't a moose. I grabbed Carrie and we ran. She tripped, I dragged her. Jake caught up with us. Mike was gone.

When we got back to the house, Mike's parents called the cops. They searched, found blood, but no bodies. We were suspects. But there was nothing they could pin on us. The case went cold. Mike and Derek? Still missing. I know what I saw.

It wasn't a guy in a costume. It wasn't an animal. I believe it was a Wendigo. and since that night every shadow feels like it's watching me so yeah that's my story believe me or don't but remember trust your gut don't look away and never ever answer a three a m call from someone who should no longer exist the end