Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Crime & Horror: Long Night Stories

Episode Date: January 22, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #truecrime #mysterythriller #darktales #nightmares This collection fuses crime and horror into a gripping marathon of unsettling tales. Each story explores human darkness, mysterious deaths, and paranormal encounters, making listeners question the line between reality and nightmare. Perfect for anyone who loves suspense, terror, and long nights of storytelling horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, darkstories, mysterythriller, crimehorror, nightmarystories, supernaturalcrime, terrifyingtales, suspensefiction, hauntedcases, chillingnarratives, serialkillerstories, nocturnalhorrorstories, crimeandhorror, unnervingtalesThis episode includes AI-generated content.

I'm a woman from the Midwest, and I was 21 when all this chaos started. I dated a guy named Stan for about three years, and honestly, it was a wild ride from the beginning. We met in high school, just two kids in the same halls, and he seemed like your average guy at first. We started dating pretty quickly, like, within a couple of weeks, and right before he was about to ship off to basic training for the army, things started getting weird. The funny thing is, even though we were together for years, I only saw him in person for maybe six months total. Most of our relationship was through letters, phone calls, and the early days of online chats. I thought long distance was just part of the deal since he was in the Army, but it was way more complicated than that. I started noticing red flags super early, like, for days in, Stan told me he loved me.

Four days. I was young and naive, so of course, I thought it was fate. I mean, who doesn't want to believe in that kind of instant love? But then, as the months went by, he started saying things that made me really uncomfortable. He'd say stuff like, I'd end it all if you ever left me. At the time, I just brushed it off. I thought it was dramatic but somehow romantic. Turns out, it was the beginning of a nightmare.

Stan started having serious mental health issues. He got diagnosed with depression and was put on medication that messed with his moods, violent mood swings and panic attacks that scared me. On top of that, he was drinking a lot. Alcohol and mental illness together made things explosive. He basically cut himself off from everyone except me and his mom. It was like living in a pressure cooker, I was the only one who saw how bad things got. Years passed, and honestly, I got worn out.

Caring for someone so fragile, watching him struggle and isolate himself, it drained me. I also just got tired of waiting for his four years in the army to be over so we could have a normal life. So, finally, I broke up with him. And that's when everything fell apart. At first, it was the non-stop phone calls. I ignored them at first, thinking he'd get the message, but they just kept coming. Then the voicemail started, some sweet, some terrifying. I love you.

Please come back to me, followed by, you fat cow, you deserve to die. It was like I was living with two different versions of the same person, one who loved me, and one who wanted to destroy me. Then the harassment exploded online. Stan hacked my Facebook, leaving nasty messages all over my profile. I blocked him, thinking it would stop, and for a few days, it did. But then, I got this voicemail that's burned into my brain forever. It started with silence, just a long, heavy silence, and then a gunshot. Five minutes of silence after that.

My heart stopped. Had he shot himself? Was I responsible for this? I sat there, crying, not wanting to believe it. Then, ten minutes later, I got a text from him. It said something like, Hope you learned your lesson. You're going to hell for what you did to me. It was cruel, terrifying, and heartbreaking all at once. There were some smaller incidents after that, he changed his number, there was a protective order in the mix, but I finally started trying to move on. I had friends and family who stuck by me through the worst of it,

and I thought I could leave Stan and all his chaos behind. But the nightmare wasn't over. I went back to college after winter break, pulling into the driveway of the house I shared with two roommates. I was the first one back that day, and when I got to the front door, I noticed it was a jar. My hand started shaking. I should have stopped right then and called the cops. But I was panicking, and my brain was in overdrive.

I grabbed my pistol from my purse, something I always carried for self-defense, chambered around, and stepped inside. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst. I cleared every room, checking closets, bedrooms, the living room, and finally my own room. When I turned the corner and saw the destruction, I felt sick. My room was trashed, my roommate's rooms were untouched, but mine looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Things that were important to me were gone, perfumes that Stan had bought me, my jewelry, a pair of high heels I loved, paintings I'd done, my camera, even my travel satchel covered in

patches from all over. The worst part. The places where I usually hid my gun had been rifled through. I called the police, and they showed up within the hour. I had all the locks changed and told everyone what I suspected. But Stan was gone from the picture after that. I never heard from him again, though I know he still lives near my hometown. I made a habit of avoiding places I thought he might be. I don't even want to imagine what could have happened if he had gotten hold of my gun. That thought still freaks me out sometimes. After moving out of that house, I became way more cautious about who I led into my life. Looking back, I feel like I survived that mess smarter and stronger, but man, it was a brutal lesson. But, honestly,

This wasn't my first bad relationship. When I was a teenager, I got into my first serious relationship, and it was a disaster from day one. I was shy, insecure, and clueless about what healthy love even looked like. The adults around me set terrible examples, so I fell hard for this guy who, looking back, was controlling and abusive from the jump. He hated my friends and family. It was like he wanted to isolate me completely. I fought to keep the relationship alive, but as I got older, I got tired of the constant emotional battle.

One weekend, when my family was out of town, I decided to have some friends over. I wanted to feel normal, to laugh and hang out without drama. Of course, my boyfriend wasn't happy about it. He blew up my phone all night, demanding I kick my friends out and come to his place instead. My friends noticed and started talking openly about how toxic he was. They told me I deserved better, that I should get rid of him. We had a great night, and by 1 a.m., my friends were heading home. I wasn't scared to be alone, I had a Rottweiler who was protective but usually sweet.

One friend stayed behind a little longer, pulling me aside to say what everyone else was thinking, my boyfriend was a controlling, abusive jerk, and I needed to move on. As my friends left, I went to grab my phone from the kitchen to charge it. That's when I saw him, standing right outside the kitchen window, soaking wet in the rain, wearing a hooded jacket and scowling at me with pure hatred in his eyes. I screamed. He moved away from the window toward the back door, and I knew I had to face him. I stepped outside onto the patio, rain pouring down, and there he was.

was, just a few feet away. His breathing was heavy, his eyes bloodshot. Before I could say anything, he bent down and picked up a broken broom handle. What are you doing? I stammered. You didn't listen to me. Now, I'm going to hurt you, he snarled. I froze, heart racing. I was drunk and terrified. He swung the broom handle, smashing a flower pot above my head. Dirt spilled down my shoulder. Then he grabbed me by the throat. That's when my dog leapt out and bit his arm, shaking him violently. His face changed from anger to fear instantly. He collapsed, crying. He admitted he'd snuck into the house hours earlier, hiding under the stairs and listening to everything my friends and I had said about him. I took my dog back inside and locked the door behind me.

When I looked out the window, he was still lying in the rain, crying. That was the last I saw of him. Thinking about still being with that guy now makes me sick. There's another story I can't forget, about my mom, my sister, and a guy named Will. Will dated my mom when my sister and I were little, I was about three, my sister nine. They were together for a while, but then my sister found out he'd been doing hard drugs and told my mom to break up with him. Will didn't take it well. At first, it was just awkward run-ins and phone calls begging for her to take him back.

But then it escalated to threats and stalking. My mom didn't feel safe in our apartment anymore. I started staying with my dad more, even though he was an alcoholic. One morning, my mom woke up to find her windshield shattered, a rock in the driver's seat. We never proved it, but we all knew Will was behind it. Once calmed down after that, until they didn't. Months later, after my mom and sister moved back into the apartment, she got a call. It was Will.

He was inside the apartment. The cops came fast since they'd been called before. They found Will sitting in a chair, facing away from them. When he stood up, they saw the knife in his hand. They hauled him off, but while searching, they found a broken window, alcohol poured all over the bed, glass shards everywhere, and a lighter on the bedside table. Will was dangerous. After his arrest, one night when my mom came to get me from my dad's, she caught a man sitting in the passenger seat of our car. He bolted before she could get help. The police were called.

Cash and medications were left untouched, but personal items like my mom's social security card and driver's license were stolen. We believed Will had hired this man. Even with a restraining order, will kept contacting my mom. Desperate, he shot himself in the leg, hoping she'd feel sorry and take him back. But he shot an artery and bled out. That story still chills me to the bone. My family only told me about all this years later, after my sister begged to stay at our grandparents. If she hadn't, things could have gone horribly wrong. So yeah, I've been through some scary stuff. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's this. there's always a reason to be afraid.

And sometimes, that fear can save your life. When I think about all this, I realize how naive I was. Back in high school, I didn't really know what healthy relationships looked like. I thought love meant being there through everything, no matter how bad. I thought if someone said, I love you early, it meant they were genuine, not a warning sign. Stan's story was a tough one. He was struggling with his demons, mental illness, alcoholism, the pressure of the army. I tried to be there for him, but I was only 21.

How could I fix a broken person? Spoiler alert, I couldn't. And the way he spiraled after the breakup, man, it broke me. The voicemails, the threats, the hacking. When you're young, you think people who say things like, you deserve to die, are just angry, but when those words come from someone who once promised to love you forever, it's terrifying. After the house break in, I remember lying awake at night, jumping at every sound. I thought about how lucky I was my roommates weren't targeted.

I kept thinking about the thing stolen, not just stuff, but memories and pieces of me. I've never told many people that part, about how he went through all my hiding spots for my gun. I still carry it with me, but now I'm extra careful. The thought that he could have gotten it makes my blood run cold. Then there's the other relationship, the one where I invited friends over, trying to take back my life. That night with my boyfriend standing outside in the rain was surreal. I'd had a few drinks and was scared, but my dog was my hero. She saved me that night.

Looking back, I realized how lucky I was to have her. I remember the look on his face when she bit him, like he'd been slapped by reality. He broke down, crying like a kid. Hearing him admit he hid in my house listening to me, it was creepy as hell. That night was a turning point. I stopped pretending everything was okay. I knew I had to get out, but it took a while. And then my mom's story with Will, that's a whole different level of nightmare.

It's crazy how some people don't stop, even when the law says they have to. My mom's strength through all that, moving us for. around, dealing with threats, watching out for us, she's a warrior. Will's final act was so desperate and tragic. Him shooting himself just to manipulate my mom. It's heartbreaking and horrifying. I'm thankful every day that my sister pushed for safety. If she hadn't, who knows what might have happened. All these experiences shaped me. I learned to trust my instincts, to set boundaries, and to never ignore the warning signs. Sometimes, love isn't enough to save a relationship.

Sometimes, the best thing you can do is walk away and protect yourself. So yeah, that's my story. Messy, painful, but real. I'm still healing, still learning. And if you ever find yourself in a situation like mine, remember, you deserve to be safe, to be respected, and to be loved the right way. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The end.

Have you ever met a murderer? It's the kind of question that sends an uneasy chill down the spine, doesn't it? For me, the answer is a haunting, yes, not just once, but on multiple occasions. These aren't tales from a crime show or urban legends whispered around a campfire, These are my stories, fragments of real life where the shadows of humanity showed their darkest faces. Let me take you through them. The pub manager with a past. Years ago, I worked as a private taxi driver in East London.

Among my regular customers was a woman who managed a pub. She was always polite and chatty during our late-night rides home, a sharp contrast to the rowdy patrons I often dealt with. One evening, as we made our usual small talk, she casually mentioned that she'd spent several years in prison. Curious, I asked why. Her answer was chillingly nonchalant, murder. She explained, as though recounting a mundane event,

that she'd killed a man who had violently attacked her, or her friend, the details are foggy in my memory. According to her, she'd tied him to a tree and inflicted grievous injuries before leaving him there alive. As she walked away, he hurled threats and obscenities, vowing revenge. That was when she decided to finish it. Returning to the scene, she ended his life with a sharp object. Despite this startling confession, our dynamic didn't change. She remained a friendly, generous customer who always tipped well. I left the taxi job and not long after, and we lost touch, but I still wonder how someone so outwardly pleasant could carry such a story. The face in the background, it was December 2011, and the news was buzzing with the disappearance of a seven-year-old

girl in Canton, Georgia. She'd been playing in the park, returned home to grab drinks for her friends, and then vanished. As the local news broadcast live from the parking lot of a nearby by hotel, my eyes were drawn to a young man lingering in the background. His demeanor was cold and detached, as if he were a ghost in the middle of the chaos. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong about him. So much so that I jotted down his description and called the tip line. A day later, the girl's body was found in a dumpster, and not long after, they arrested a suspect.

My stomach churned when I saw his face on the screen, it was the man from the broadcast. His name was Ryan Brun, and he'd committed unspeakable acts against that little girl. Later, he took his own life in prison. To this day, I feel the weight of that eerie moment, realizing I'd unknowingly witnessed a killer lurking in plain sight. The serial killer house guest. In the early 1970s, my aunt and uncle rented a room to a hunter during pheasant season in South Dakota.

The man who introduced himself as, John, was courteous, respectful, and a model guest. He claimed to be a police officer from Florida, visiting the area for some downtime in the great outdoors. Years later, they discovered the horrifying truth. John was actually Gerard John Schaefer, a serial killer responsible for the brutal murders of numerous women. At the time he stayed with my family, he was already under investigation and had been fired from his job as a sheriff's deputy.

Based on the timeline, it's believed he had killed at least two women mere months before staying in their home. The thought of such a man sleeping under the same roof as their young children still sends shivers down their spines. The glamorous family's dark secret, when I was a teenager, I babysat for a family that seemed to have it all, a beautiful home, two adorable kids, and an enviable lifestyle. The parents were the epitome of charm, polished, successful, and deeply in love, or so it seemed. One day, everything shattered.

The husband snapped. In a fit of rage, he murdered his wife in their bedroom while the kids were at school. Afterward, he picked them up, took them to McDonald's, and dropped them off at their grandparents' house before returning home to live with his wife's mutilated body for two days. When the grandparents couldn't reach their daughter, they called the police for a welfare check. The crime scene was described as one of the most gruesome the responding officers had ever encountered. I'll never forget the shock of realizing that beneath their picture-perfect facade, there had been a ticking time bomb. A best friend's breaking point, my husband's best friend was like family to us. We'd all grown up together, sharing countless memories.

But one day, he shattered everything we thought we knew about him. After picking me up from school one afternoon, he dropped me off at home, pale and agitated, muttering an apology before speeding away. Later that evening, I learned the unthinkable, he'd been arrested for murdering his mother. Apparently, years of abuse had driven him to the breaking point. In a moment of rage, he snapped and took her life. He pled guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to 40 years in prison. Years later, he reached out, sharing a heartfelt letter explaining his past and the torment

he'd endured. While we've reconnected and he's doing well now, the experience serves as a sobering reminder of the hidden struggles that can lead people to dark places. The Predator at the Tram Stop. In high school, I used to see a man named Adrian at my Tram Stop. He was in his thirties, far too old to be hanging around teenage girls, but he was always polite and complimentary. One day, he invited me to see something cool, in a nearby park. I hesitated but started to follow him. Before I got too far, a couple stopped me, warning me not to go.

I turned back, and Adrian stayed in the park, shouting my name and trying to coax me back. Years later, I saw his face on the news. Adrian Bailey had been arrested for the brutal assault and murder of a woman named Jill Maher. He had a long history of violence against women. To This day, I'm grateful to those strangers who stepped in that day, they may very well have saved my life. A killer in the store. While working at a small retail shop during college, a disheveled man came in asking to use the phone. Not knowing how to refuse, I handed him my cell. He made a call, was picked up by someone, and left his beat-up car in our parking lot. Days later, detectives arrived, inspecting the abandoned vehicle.

It turned out the man had stolen the car and was wanted for questioning in a double homicide. Using the phone records, the police tracked him down, and he was eventually convicted. The realization that I had unknowingly helped a wanted murderer left me shaken. The garage invitation, at a restaurant job I had briefly, a co-worker often invited me to hang out with him and his friend in his friend's garage. Something about him made me uneasy, he was overly familiar, almost desperate for my company despite us barely knowing each other. I left the job after a month and didn't give it much thought until I saw his face on the news.

He and his friend had been arrested for kidnapping and murdering a local woman. Their motive? They wanted to see what it was like. These encounters have left an indelible mark on me. They're stark reminders that evil can hide in plain sight, often wearing a friendly face. While most people we meet are harmless, it's those rare, chilling exceptions that stay with us forever. Who knows how many girls these guys tried to approach, pick up, or whatever? From what I remember, this incident was only partially reported, if at all.

The police eventually got evidence from a man who said he and his friends were out the night the girl disappeared. They spotted a girl outside, and two of his friends tried to talk to her. Later, the group split up to head to their cars and planned to meet at one of their houses. However, the two guys who had approached the girl never showed up. When questioned by the police, both men denied having anything to do with her disappearance but admitted they'd offered to help her get a taxi. One of them eventually cracked during interrogation, just enough for the police to sense they were involved. They needed more evidence to catch them,

though. The police found a warrant for a traffic violation against the guy who had broken down and arrested him. While he was in jail, his sister called the police, saying her brother had asked her to bring him some bags of lime and a shovel, and to keep it a secret. The police put a tracker on his car, allowed the sister to buy the lime and shovel, and then released him. Unbelievably, the man went straight from jail to his sister's house to pick up the lime and shovel, then drove directly to the spot where the girl's body was hidden. The police followed him along those dark rural roads. Eventually, he confessed that he and my former coworker had abused and killed the girl.

My ex-co-worker had hit her on the head with a stick, and the other guy had strangled her until she stopped breathing. The last I heard, both of them were serving time in the city where all. all this happened. I sent this story to a few true crime TV shows because it's such a strange and tragic case. Stranger on stranger murders are rare, even more so with two perpetrators and absolutely no real motive. Neither man had any criminal record, just minor traffic incidents. They both led seemingly normal lives. One was married with a child, and my former co-worker had a girlfriend living with him. Nothing about them would have set off alarm bells. One time, a friend and I were

backpacking through the Spanish Basque country in July or August of 2004. We camped out near a small town one night and had one of the scariest experiences of our lives. I can't remember the name of the town, but it was along the railway line. We didn't know much about the place, nor did we care to. It was just a stop on our train route. We decided to get off there because it was getting dark. After spending some time at a restaurant and then a bar, we befriended a cool local girl. Unfortunately, the friendship didn't progress to the point where she'd invite two random strangers to crash at her place. So, at the end of the night, we had to figure out where to sleep. With our backpacks in tow, we left town, walking along the main road by a river.

The area was hilly and densely forested, making it tough to find a good spot to set up camp. After maybe 30 minutes of wandering in the dark, we stumbled upon what looked like a flat area in front of an abandoned factory. The building was about 100 meters off. the road with tall grass concealing it from passing cars. It seemed like the perfect place to pitch our tent. Not long after we set up, we heard a car coming down the main road. Instead of passing by, though, the car turned on to the narrow path leading to the abandoned building. We were stunned. Who would come out here at 2.30 in the morning? Naturally, our first thought was the police, and since we were smoking weed, we started to panic a little. The car drove right past us,

maybe five meters away, its headlights illuminating our tent. Luckily, the tall grass hit us well enough that the people in the car didn't notice. The car stopped about 15 or 20 meters ahead. The area was dead silent, and my friend and I stayed absolutely still, not making a sound. We heard the car doors open and shut, followed by the trunk. Then there was a short conversation, less than a minute, I'd say, though it felt much longer because we were so paranoid. And then, we heard it, two gunshots.

I'd never heard gunfire before, but in the stillness of the night, I knew immediately what it was. It wasn't especially loud, but it was unmistakable. The situation suddenly made sense, and it was utterly terrifying. It sounded exactly like an execution. My first thought was that they'd kidnapped someone, transported them in the trunk, and killed them right there. I immediately opened a small flap in the tent door and began pulling out the metal stakes holding the tent poles in place. flattening the tent seemed like the best way to avoid being seen. Luckily, the people didn't notice us.

They got back in their car and drove away. We sat there for what felt like hours, unable to process what had just happened. Eventually, we worked up the courage to step outside and see if there was any evidence of what had occurred. Thankfully, we didn't find anything. We ended up sleeping there, but it was a night I'll never forget. I've had three notable encounters with questionable people in my life. One was relatively mundane, another involved two guys who might have just been trying to show off, and the third still haunts me to this day. The first case happened during college.

I spent my summers working at a beachfront hotel in a tourist town. There was a guy who had done some contracting or construction work for the hotel and would occasionally drop by to chat with one of the managers. As a receptionist, I'd often be nearby when he was around. He was short, maybe five feet five inches, but very muscular, with tattoos and a few missing teeth. Somehow, the topic of his past came up, and he casually mentioned that he'd been in prison until a couple of years prior. When I asked why, he said he'd killed a man in a bar fight. I'm pretty sure he told me the details, but I've forgotten them, this was over 20 years ago.

What I do remember is that he served over ten years, so I'm confident it wasn't accidental. He must have intentionally killed the guy during the fight. He was a nice enough guy, I never had any issues with him personally. But knowing his past definitely made me a bit wary around him. The second case happened in high school. I occasionally hung out with a guy from a different school. He came from a wealthy family and lived in a big house by the river in my hometown. His mom was actually my piano teacher, so I'd be at their house once a week for lessons

and would sometimes hang out with him afterward. One evening, I was at his place, and there were two friends of his there whom I'd never met before. Both were tall, while my friend and I were pretty short at the time. It turned out these guys were around 18 or 19. From the start, they gave me a bad vibe. I couldn't articulate why at the time, but in hindsight, they had that unsettling energy, the kind that makes you think they'd be the type to commit a school shooting. My friend and his dad were big into hunting, which is pretty common where I'm from.

These two guys tried to convince my friend to show them his dad's guns. Thankfully, my friend wasn't stupid enough to do that. They then started talking about how they were planning to join the military. This was just before the first Gulf War. The conversation shifted to killing people, and the two guys told me they'd enjoy going to war and taking lives. I expressed my discomfort with this idea, and they laughed at me. Then they claimed it was easy to kill people and said they'd already killed a couple of homeless

people because, no one would miss them. I'm pretty sure I looked visibly terrified. When I got a chance, I pulled my friend aside and asked him what the hell was going on. brushed it off, saying I was naive for believing them and that they were just trying to scare me. I left shortly after that. While I liked to believe my friend was right and they were just messing with me, that night has always stuck with me. I eventually lost touch with my friend, though I can't say it was directly because of that

incident. The third encounter is the one that truly unsettles me. In my twenties, I was performing with a classical music group. After finishing a series of performances, we had a party. One of the older ladies in the group brought her husband along. I ended up sitting with them for a while and having a conversation. Somehow, the topic of war came up, maybe because we were on the brink of invading Afghanistan, and it turned out her husband was a Vietnam veteran.

He'd had a few beers by then and started telling us a story. He said that during the war, he was a squad commander, and they were in a village when a Vietnamese woman approached them carrying a baby. She was hiding a weapon or maybe a grenade in the bundle. They managed to disarm her before she could do any harm, but in retaliation, he ordered his men to assault and kill her. After that, he shot her himself and left the baby there. What shocked me most was the way he told this story.

There was no hint of remorse or regret. His tone suggested he thought we'd all agree it was justified. I'll never forget the look of absolute horror on his wife's face as she listened to her husband. She tried to express her shock, but he dismissed her reaction with a comment like, it was war. To this day, that conversation sticks with me as a defining moment for my anti-war stance. If war can make ordinary men like him think such actions are no big deal, then it's something we should avoid at almost any cost. Through my career, I've had to interact with some truly horrible people.

I've met individuals who abused their own children with special needs, broke dozens of bones in their babies, locked their kids in closets, and fed them only salt as punishment for hours. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Some went on to kill their children or other adults. Usually, I encountered these people after they'd been caught, often in extremely controlled environments. However, there was one person I knew personally who still chills me to this day. While attending university, I met a guy who had spent most of his life in California's

juvenile detention system. He entered at around 13 and, due to crimes committed while incarcerated, remained there until he was 21. We went on a date once, and as we passed a girl walking on the street, he said, she has a restraining order against me. When I asked why, he said they'd gotten into a fight, and he'd thrown a cell phone at her. That didn't seem too severe, so I brushed it off. But then he added, but she doesn't know I know the perfect place to hide a body, the way he said it sent chills down my spine. He was obsessive and relentless, and it took me months to get him out

of my life. He eventually ended up in jail and would call me collect. I never accepted the calls, but he'd yell at the operator, threatening to beat me with a gun and spit in my face. I tried to get a restraining order, but the officer I spoke to advised against it because it would require giving him my address. Years later, I googled his name and discovered he'd been in another relationship that ended badly. His ex-fiancee had a new partner, and this man stalked them, violated restraining orders, lost his job, and spiraled.

He eventually attacked and killed the new partner and kidnapped the woman. He was convicted and sentenced to death. When asked during a press conference if he had any regrets, he said, I regret not killing her too. He's still on death row. Let that be a lesson, pay attention to red flags. They're there for a reason. What secret will I take to the grave? Here's mine, told in its raw and unfiltered truth. I got married to a woman during university. We spent seven years together before she divorced me. We have a beautiful daughter who has been asking for a sibling since she was three. She's twelve now and still lamenting.

being an only child. I can't bring myself to tell her the truth, her mother terminated the pregnancy that could have made her wish come true. As much as I dislike my ex-wife, I know this knowledge would only hurt my daughter. For the record, the child she aborted wasn't even mine. She also tried to terminate our daughter's pregnancy four times before I managed to convince her otherwise. That's one negotiation I'll always be proud of winning. When my brother took his own life, I was walking into his house to hang out. We were so close that I never knocked, his house was my house. I grabbed some food from his kitchen and thought maybe he had company since I didn't hear him greet me as usual.

I figured I'd let him be, but about ten minutes later, I heard the gunshot. To this day, I tell people I found him like that. I'll never admit that if I'd knocked on the door or gone to check on him, I might have saved his life. The note he left was short and haunting, I'm sorry if you think I'm being selfish. I've been selfless my whole life, and it left me with nothing. Rest in peace, brother. I miss you. I used to work at a shipping company's customer service desk.

One day, a known drug dealer came in to send a package. He didn't recognize me. The package was wrapped in layers of duct tape. I took it, walked to the back, and slid it into my backpack instead of processing it. When my shift ended, I opened the package and found $37,890 in cash. I never went back to work and left Texas with the money within a month. It's a true story, one I'll never tell anyone in person. A few years ago, a friend invited me to a party at a girl's parents' house in the countryside.

He said there'd be lots of people and plenty of girls. I agreed and even brought some friends along. During the party, my friend whispered that he thought there was a stash of weed in a locked room upstairs. He claimed the girls' parents were big-time dealers. I brushed it off as nonsense and kept drinking and smoking until I passed out around two in the morning. I woke up three hours later to my friends frantically packing up. Groggy and confused, I started the car while they threw their stuff into the trunk, and we drove two hours home.

When we got back, they asked me to help unload the trunk. That's when I noticed how heavy their bags were in herd glass clinking. I opened a bag and found four large jars of weed and three sealed bricks, each half a kilo. I panicked. I had just driven with all that in my car, terrified that the girl's parents would find out and come after us. But we were never caught. We sold most of it and made a lot of money for a few months.

To this day, I've never told anyone about it. I don't even know who that girl was, who her parents were, or what happened when they discovered their stash was gone. Who throws a party in a house where their parents grow weed? The girl never contacted my friend again, and we assumed she wasn't expecting us in the first place. My dad was a biker. He died in a motorcycle accident. He had an old barn garage where he spent hours tinkering.

One day, my sister and I were cleaning it out and found a locked suitcase buried in a closet. We opened it to discover women's clothing, stockings, lingerie, and the like. They weren't my mom's size. At first, I was furious, thinking he had cheated on my mom. Then, while closing down some of his online accounts, I found years worth of usernames and profiles, all related to stockings and women's lingerie. That's when it clicked, the clothes were his. My sister and I swore never to tell anyone. We destroyed the evidence and threw the suitcase in the dumpster. My mom is extremely conservative. While I don't share her views,

I know this revelation would destroy her. The suitcase is gone, and the secret dies with us. My sister once worked as an escort. She confided in me one day, probably because she needed to get it off her chest. At some point, a pimp she was involved with found her after she tried to leave that life and beat her up. Our strict Christian parents sat me down and demanded to know why someone would attack their daughter. They were insistent, and I usually cave in these situations because I can't lie. But this time, I said, I know, but trust me, there are things you don't want to know. This is one of them. I fully expected my mom to yell at me and keep pressing. Instead, she just nodded and said, okay. They never brought it up again. I suspect

they guessed the truth from my reaction and chose to live in ignorance. My sister is doing great now, married, with kids, a dog, and a picturesque life in a new country. I miss her, but I know it's better this way. When I was 12, my parents took me for a hearing test because I often didn't respond when they called my name. During the test, I faked not hearing some of the beeps. As a result, I wore a hearing aid for two years. I have no idea why I did that. Here's a secret I discovered about myself. I was accidentally switched at birth.

I'm 25 now, and a private investigator approached me recently to inform me of the mix-up. The family I was switched with always suspected their son didn't look like them, so they did a DNA test when he was 12. They waited until we were adults to contact me, fearing we might disrupt each other's lives. Turns out, my biological mother is a somewhat. famous entertainer. I've seen her on TV, and my mom even commented once that I looked like her. I dismissed it and went back to playing perfect dark on my N64. At the time, no one knew about the switch. Because of my biological mother's generosity, I've inherited millions of dollars,

among other things. I'll never tell anyone, not even my non-biological parents who raised me. People will notice the sudden wealth when I start buying extravagant things, but I'll figure out an excuse when they ask where it came from. When I was younger, we had neighbors who turned their yard into a junkyard and let their kids wreak havoc on the neighborhood. I tried resolving it civilly, but they accused me of being racist and threatened to report me for supposedly harming their kids. Fed up, I anonymously reported them to the police for selling drugs. I even got friends to file similar reports. After months of this, I came home one day to find the police raiding their house. They found pills, cocaine, and marijuana stashed all over the place.

The parents were arrested, and the kids were taken away. I'm not sure if what I did was right, but at least they stopped ruining the neighborhood. Not too long ago, I responded to a car accident and watched a girl I went to high school with Die. She was screaming and begging to live, and then she was gone. It wasn't surreal or like the movies. If someone asks me that again, I'll punch them. I've seen my share of fatal accidents, and they've never bothered me before. My first call was a gruesome accident, and all I cared about afterward was dinner. But this one got to me. I nearly broke down because this girl was one of the kindest people I'd ever met. Back in ninth grade, I was bullied, and she was one of the few cool girls who treated me kindly.

I didn't know her well, but I'm angry that she had to die that day. Please pay attention when you're driving. When I was eight, I watched my mom shoot my dad in the face with a shotgun. The smell of blood, when there's that much of it, is something you never forget. She got off on a self-defense claim, and I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened. I've been pretending to be a stable, well-adjusted person ever since. Spoiler, I'm not. In fifth grade, I was the quintessential nerd, glasses, straight-A student, teacher's pet. One day, during recess, three bullies hit me in the face with a basketball, breaking my glasses, and ran off laughing. In a blind rage, I picked up a rock and threw it, not even aiming. It hit one of the kids in the back of the head, and he

collapsed, bleeding. Panicked, I ran to my classroom and pretended I'd been there the whole time. When the other two kids tried to pin it on me, I denied everything and even cried to make my case. Everyone believed me, and the bullies never bothered me again. The kid recovered, and the three of them grew up to be deadbeats, an absent father, a drug addict, and a Walmart cashier. Do I regret it? Not really.

I'm happy to report that all three of them grew up to be absolute disasters. One became a deadbeat dad, another, a drug addict who still lives with his mom, and the last one works as a cashier at Walmart. Once, I went on a week-long trip to London, and my mom asked me to bring her back a small rock as a souvenir. Neither of us had ever left the country before, so she wanted something simple but meaningful.

Throughout my entire trip, I scoured the city for the perfect rock. Eventually, I found one that felt just right and thought, fantastic, she'll love this when I get back. When I returned home and was going through my souvenirs, I realized the rock was missing. Panic set in as I remembered I had last seen it on the nightstand in my hotel room in London. Frustrated, I ran outside, found a decent-looking rock in our backyard, cleaned it up, and wrapped it carefully. She was a bit of a hassle to hide, but I made it work.

When I gave it to her, I told her I had found it in a castle garden. She loved it, and to this day, she has no idea the rock came from our own yard. This little secret? Yeah, it's coming with me to the grave. When I was seventeen, my best friend and I were reckless idiots. We weren't mean or rude to people, nothing like that. But we lived for risky and downright stupid activities. fights at parties, mixing all kinds of substances, lighting firecrackers and holding them

until the last second before throwing them, stuff like that. Looking back, I think we were both kind of suicidal but didn't have the courage to go through with it directly. We cared just enough about the people in our lives to avoid hurting them that way. The most ironic part about us was our hero complex. Both of us had been suspended from school at least eight or nine times for getting into fights. But the fights?

They were mostly against bullies. We'd defend the underdogs, even when it meant getting beat up ourselves. One night, we picked a fight with the wrong guys at a party. They beat the crap out of me, but my best friend came to my rescue, literally saving my face. He dragged me to my feet, but before I could get my bearings, I felt something wet soaking into my shirt. My friend collapsed against me, pushing me into a wall. That's when I saw it, blood everywhere.

One of those guys had pulled a gun and shot my friend three times in the side. The party cleared out faster than I've ever seen, with people screaming about calling 911. But deep down, I knew, and so did he. My friend wasn't going to make it. He looked at me, calm despite the chaos, and said something I'll never forget, I'm sorry you have to live with this, but I'm okay. This is what I want. His words came out broken, gasping, but they were clear.

After that, he lost consciousness and was gone. There was nothing peaceful or serene about it. My best friend died in my arms, apologizing to me. To everyone else, I've told a different story, that his last words were something sweet, like telling his family he loved them. It's a lie, but it's easier for them to remember him that way. I'll carry the real story with me forever. Back in August 2010, I went on vacation to Miami with my mom.

At the time, I was in college and living with my girlfriend of three years, someone I'd been dating since high school, and a few roommates. Only my girlfriend and one roommate were home during that trip. A couple of weeks after I got back, my girlfriend broke down during an argument. She confessed that she'd had a one-night stand with that roommate while I was in Miami. To everyone else, she was the perfect girlfriend, and I agreed, except for this one thing. That roommate? He'd been one of my closest friends for over a decade.

Today, I'm married to that girlfriend, and the roommate was the third groomsman at our wedding. I've never told anyone about what happened, not even our other friends. It's the only immoral thing she's ever done, and I decided it wasn't worth losing two valuable relationships over. But sometimes, late at night, I still think about it. One of my childhood best friends once asked me a strange question, what's worse, hanging yourself or shooting yourself? I told him that if you mess up the ladder, it could be so much worse.

I explained that hanging might hurt less because you just fade out. The next morning, local teenagers. found his body hanging from a tree by a lake. He had taken my words literally. It took me a long time to forgive myself for that conversation. When I was about seven years old, my little sister made some homemade candles in school. She was so proud of them and always begged our mom to let her light them. Mom always said no, not wanting to risk the house smelling weird from those candles. One night, we lost power, and we couldn't find any flashlights. My sister excitedly suggested using her candles. We lit them, and for hours, we sat together, enjoying the soft glow.

My sister was the hero of the night. Even Mom admitted she'd saved the day. That story became a cherished family memory, brought up countless times over the years. What my sister never knew was that our dad had gone to the basement, flipped the circuit breaker, and pretended to restore power later that night. He did it just to give her that moment of joy. I told this story for the first time while standing at his funeral, looking at my sister. I told her, Dad took that secret to the grave because that's the kind of person he was. He just wanted you to be happy. When I was a kid, I used to put on lipstick and dress up like a girl sometimes.

But I've always identified as male and never felt confused about it. Oddly enough, my fiancé and I are a perfect match. I'm a somewhat feminine guy, and she's a somewhat masculine woman. She grew up with three brothers and a household full of military men, while I grew up with just my mom and sister. Our relationship fills in every gap for each other in terms of gender roles. A few years ago, my best friend took his own life. Most people didn't know he'd been battling depression for years. I had saved him a couple of times before, but those incidents were never serious enough to force real intervention. One day, though, he called me and said he was serious

this time. He'd reached his breaking point because people were treating him differently after they found out about his previous attempts. It pushed him further into isolation. He told me what he planned to do but not where. Two days later, they found his body. As his best friend, I helped his family with the funeral arrangements, speaking with his parents and friends. All the while, I carried the guilt of knowing that their well-meaning kindness had unintentionally pushed him over the edge. I'll never tell them that. They were just trying their best to help. My dad cheated on my mom with her sister when I was born. My aunt moved in to help with the baby, me, and my mom found out about their affair later.

She told me this when she was drunk at dinner one night. It started with, you know, sometimes I sound like I hate you, but there's a reason. Until then, I've been told we didn't see my aunt because my mom didn't like her husband. Turns out, my dad was the real problem. Over five years ago, I was part of a group of three to five people who took the MCAT for others, for a fee. We were experts that taking the test, and our clients were wealthy kids who either couldn't or wouldn't put in the effort to pass. For $1,000 plus expenses, we'd handle everything, fake fingerprints, IDs, prosthetics, you name it. I rationalized it by thinking, if they can't pass the test, how will they handle med school and beyond?

They'll fail eventually. And that's mostly what happened. But one client managed to graduate and went on to rack up several malpractice cases. Nothing catastrophic, but it was enough to haunt me. I tried to end my life over the guilt. Therapy helped, and the group disbanded for unrelated reasons. I'm in a better place now, but this is a secret I'll carry forever. A few months ago, I slept with my ex-girlfriend.

The next morning, we both agreed it was a mistake and decided to move on. But that mistake turned into something bigger, she got pregnant. We wrestled with what to do next. I suggested abortion, but she refused to move on. consider adoption, and the thought of telling our parents terrified both of us. Her parents had always said they'd disown her if something like this happened. Mine would be disappointed but ultimately supportive. For weeks, we argued and cried, unsure of what to do.

Then, at eight weeks, she called me late one night, saying she was bleeding heavily and in severe pain. At the hospital, they confirmed she'd had a complete miscarriage. Even in the middle of that horrible experience, she insisted no one could ever know, not about the pregnancy, not about the miscarriage, nothing. I've been sitting with that weight ever since. It's been a strange and difficult few days. When I was seven or eight years old, I accidentally killed someone.

I was a manipulative little kid who bullied others and got away with it by acting sweet around adults. I forced kids to give me their toys and made it look like they deserved it if they refused. One day, a neighborhood kid showed me his Game Boy. Back then, in 90s South America, owning a Game Boy was a game boy. like a kid walking around with a gold Rolex. I begged him to let me have it, but he refused. Anger bubbled up inside me. I picked up a brick from the ground and threw it as hard as I could. It hit him square on the back of the head, and he collapsed. I didn't feel bad or scared. If anything,

I felt exhilarated. But then I realized I couldn't take the Game Boy without someone figuring out I'd been with him. So, I left him there and went home. A couple of days later, his body was The police questioned his abusive father, but nothing came of it. The case went cold. I've never intentionally hurt anyone since, but sometimes I wonder if I could find that same. Trapped at home, this happened yesterday and I'm still pretty shaken up. A bit of context, I'm a 25-year-old woman, and my boyfriend and I have jobs that allow us to work both from home and at the office.

Yesterday morning, I was extremely tired, so I decided to work from home while my boyfriend went to the office. I was alone all day, just me, my dog, and my cat at home. The day was as normal as any other work from home day until around 1.30 in the afternoon. That's when things took a turn. I had just started a work meeting when the doorbell rang. We have one of those ringed doorbells with a camera that notifies my boyfriend's phone when someone is at the door. I texted him to check who it was, and he told me it was an older man who looked a bit suspicious. He told me not to open the door. So I ignored the doorbell and went back to my meeting.

Twenty minutes later, I finished my meeting and decided to check my phone. I always keep it on do not disturb while I work. As soon as I checked, I noticed all the missed calls and messages from my boyfriend. Scared, I called him immediately. He frantically asked why I hadn't responded. I explained I was in a work meeting. Then he told me to look out the window because the man still hadn't left our property. I quietly walked to the front windows of the house and peeked out.

Sure enough, the man was still in our driveway and had parked his old, beat-up truck next to our car. He was looking around suspiciously. He was wearing dirty jeans and a grimy gray t-shirt. I immediately ran to our bedroom. At this point, my heart was pounding in my chest. I tried to reassure myself, thinking maybe he had the wrong house, but no. The man started peeking through our windows, trying to see inside. Then he proceeded to try and open our back door, which was locked.

As I mentioned earlier, I have a large dog. At this point, my dog was barking and growling at the front door. I still had my boyfriend on the phone, and he was watching the man through the camera app on his phone. I asked him what I should do, since I was in a total panic and completely alone. Call 911, he told me firmly. So I did as he said. With trembling hands, I called. While I waited for the police to arrive, I texted my mom to inform her of the situation.

She dropped everything and said she was on her way. The man was still lurking around the house, peeking through windows. At that point, I had no eye. idea what his intentions were, but judging by his behavior, they didn't seem good. I was really scared that he would see me. As soon as the man saw the police car coming down the street, he jumped into his truck and sped off. I ran outside toward the officer, and at that moment, my mom also arrived. In tears, I explained to the officer what had happened. Fortunately, my mom had written down the man's license plate number. The police took the plate and

his description and told me they'd be on the lookout. I know this might not seem as terrifying as other stories, but when you're alone and a man is peeking through your windows and refusing to leave your property, you have no idea what his intentions are, it's absolutely terrifying. I couldn't sleep last night because I was so scared thinking he might come back to finish what he started. I hope the police call me with an update since we have a license plate number. If they do, I'll post an update. And to the strange man, who didn't want to leave my property, please never come back. The night of the strange visitor, a few years ago, when I was 18, I lived with my father. But he worked long shifts away from home,

so I spent a lot of time alone. One day, I stayed home while he was working and decided to study in my room. It was around 7 p.m., already dark outside, and I was used to studying alone with my headphones on, as I did every night. My room was at the back of the house. facing the garden, which had a back gate leading to a large field. It wasn't uncommon to get distracted by noises from the field since I often saw people walking their dogs. However, that night was different. As I was trying to focus on my homework, a bright light passed by my window. At first, I thought it might be someone walking their dog, but I couldn't see where the light came from.

I went back to my task, assuming it was just a passerby who had accidentally lit up my window. But the next day, it happened again, a bright white light passed by my window. But this time, I saw no walker, no dog. I started to feel frustrated and wondered if it was the same person acting strangely or trying to look into my room, since I kept the curtains open. I decided to take a closer look from the window, trying to identify the source of the light. I soon realized it was coming from somewhere nearby, possibly the garden itself. Also, the gate that led to the field appeared to be open.

My heart started to race, and I didn't know what to do. I quickly texted my dad to tell him I thought someone was in the garden. He replied, telling me to make sure all the doors were locked and that he'd come as soon as he could. I went downstairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert whoever might be outside that I was there. I went to check the garden door, and just as I was about to look at it, I saw the door turned downward, someone was trying to open it. Fortunately, that door was locked too. But the person tried multiple times to open it. I felt absolute panic and started to shake. Then I heard someone trying to open the kitchen window, but they didn't succeed. Trying to see who it was, I could only

make out that the person was tall and white. It was too dark to see any more details. They seemed frustrated and then started banging on the window, as if trying to break it or force it open. I looked toward the front of the house and noticed my dad's car hadn't arrived yet. I was growing more and more worried. That's when, luckily, I heard the neighbor's back door open, and their big dog started barking loudly. They must have noticed the stranger and let the dog out to scare him, and it worked. I never saw the strange man again.

I'm incredibly grateful that my neighbor's dogs were the same. there that night. Since then, I always make sure the doors are locked, more than I used to. The night we almost died, my name is Thomas, and this story happened one night when my friend Aaron, name changed for privacy, was alone at home for the weekend. His parents were away on a business trip, so he invited me to spend the night at his house. Around 7.30 p.m., I arrived by bike, entered through the back door, and greeted him. Then we ordered a pizza and place. played some video games. After a while, we got bored, so we decided to watch a movie. Halfway through the movie, we came up with a fun idea, ring some doorbells and then run. We laughed

a lot, but when we returned to Aaron's house, something strange happened. Suddenly, we heard knocking at the front door. We froze in fear, but when we opened the door, there was no one there. Instead, we found a note that said, I'm coming for you. We quickly shut the door and locked it with both locks. Aaron lived in a two-story house, so even though we locked the doors, we still felt uneasy. We tried to calm ourselves, thinking maybe it was a prank by some classmates, we were in the middle of a prank war at the time. But half an hour later, something much scarier happened.

We heard the front door open. We both froze, remembering the terrifying note. We ran to his room upstairs. That's when I realized I had forgotten to lock the back door. Suddenly, we heard the sound of the back door opening, as if someone was trying to come in. When I looked, I saw the silhouette of a man, about six feet tall, looking inside through the door, but I don't think he saw me. Aaron quickly came back down and joined me.

I signaled for us to go back to the room. Once inside, we closed the door, but it had no lock due to his parents' strict rules. I suggested calling the police and his parents, but he refused, afraid of getting in trouble for inviting me over. With no other options, we hid under the bed. Suddenly, we began to hear strange noises. The house seemed to be getting ransacked, doors being slammed, things breaking, and the sound of footsteps getting closer. Then, Aaron's bedroom door slowly opened. We heard the closet open and clothes being moved around, then everything went silent.

The fear grew. Twenty minutes later, I asked Aaron if he thought it was time to run, but just then something terrifying happened. Aaron was pulled out from under the bed, and I heard his blood-curdling scream as he struggled to free himself. That's when I knew I had to act, or someone would die that night. I quickly crawled out from under the bed and saw Aaron fighting to escape the man's deadly grip. I desperately searched for something to defend us and found a screwdriver.

I ran toward the man and stabbed him in the back with all my strength. The man let out a chilling scream and let go of Aaron. We quickly ran into Aaron's backyard, which led into a dark forest. To be continued. I ran toward the man and stabbed him in the back with all my strength. The man let out a chilling scream and let go of Aaron. We quickly ran to Aaron's backyard, which opened into a dark forest. We hid in some bushes near the entrance to the woods.

From there, we saw the man come out the back door, now with a knife in his hand. He had probably taken it from the kitchen. I felt his eyes sweep over me, and Aaron whispered, Oh God, oh God, we have to run. I responded, why run now? We've made it this far. Better to keep going. But Aaron was right.

The man was coming straight toward us. Despite being in total darkness, the man saw us and ran toward us. Somehow, I managed to trip over a tree root and fell to the ground. Aaron stayed with me, trying to lift me up, but the man was only seven feet away. He was wearing a black hoodie and white pants. I don't know how, but finally luck. was on our side. The man ran past us without seeing us and went in the opposite direction. We got up quickly and started running even faster. I was the slowest, but I felt his footsteps

getting closer. When we reached the back door of the house, we secured the lock tightly. At that moment, I decided it was time to call the police, no matter the consequences. I told Aaron to call the police, since the situation had gone from a joke to something very serious. With much hesitation, he finally called. While I waited for the police to arrive, I kept watch to see if the man returned. Everything was dark, but at one point I made the mistake of turning on the flashlight. I saw his tall, dark figure in the forest. I thought he would run toward us, but to my surprise, he turned around and went deeper into the woods.

The police arrived, but they didn't find the man. They found the knife he had taken from the kitchen. but without more evidence, I doubted there would be a real investigation. We never received any updates about the case, and my guess is that the man is still out there causing harm. So, that was the story of how my best friend Aaron and I almost died while we were alone in his house. Always remember to lock your doors and windows, because someday, that might be what saves your life. The night the alarm saved us. These events happened about five years ago, in the winter of 2017, and my mind will never let me forget them.

It was around 9.30 at night, and it was very dark outside because it was winter. As a kid, I was very paranoid about home invasions, so every time the slightest thing happened at night, I always imagined the worst. My dad was out of town at the time, and my mom was asleep. I was sitting in my bed watching YouTube like any other night. Our house had an alarm system and a bell that rang whenever a car entered or left the driveway. Suddenly, I heard the bell ring, and my paranoid mind started imagining the worst. But after a while, I calmed down and forgot about it.

Then, after about five or ten minutes, I realized something, I never heard the bell ring again, which meant the car hadn't left. I started to panic. I looked out the window, and my worst fears came true, there were two very tall guys dressed entirely in black taking things out of their car. Then, one of them looked up directly at me. Since our house's exterior lights were bright, I could see him giving the most chilling smile I had ever seen. At that moment, my heart was pounding a thousand beats per minute.

Tears started running down my face, and I didn't know what to do. The men ran to the doors and started jiggling the handles, trying to open them. After a while, they seemed frustrated. They probably thought I was alone, so they were. were determined to get in. I ran to wake up my mom. She was panicked too and called the police. I ran back to the window and saw the two guys pulling out a crowbar and a hammer. Suddenly, the alarm system activated just as they managed to get inside. Upon hearing the alarm, the two men ran off. But before one of them got in the car, he turned around and waved at me. After that,

I practically fainted until the police arrived. Since that day, my dad rarely left us alone, and we hired a security guard to come at night. I still think about what could have happened if we didn't have the house alarm, what they would have done to me, and why that guy was smiling and waving at me. That man literally managed to get inside the house. I'm so lucky we had an alarm. The unexpected visit. My story takes place a long time ago, when I was about 10 or 11 years.

years old. My family and I had moved into a new three-story house located in the beautiful and quiet area of Vienna, Virginia. As we settled in, the light switched to the basement stopped working. Since we were renting, my mother called the owner to schedule a repair appointment. The owner promised to call us back with a date and time that worked for him. A couple of days passed and we hadn't heard back. One day, I felt sick with a cold and sore throat, so I decided to stay home the next day. Though I insisted I was fine and could go to school, I ended up staying home. My dad left first, followed by my mom, who took my three siblings to school before heading to work. Being home alone was normal for me and my siblings back then, it was quite common for kids of my

generation in the 70s and 80s to stay home alone. Even though we lived in a nice neighborhood, my siblings, and I would always check the windows and doors multiple times a day when left alone. So once everyone left, I did my security checks. Everything was locked. Mission accomplished. Then I headed to the kitchen for breakfast. After that, I spent my time as usual, playing with my dolls, watching TV, and playing with other toys. When I got tired, I lay down on the living room floor in front of the fireplace,

wrapped in my favorite blanket to rest. It's worth mentioning that the fireplace wasn't in use, and the reason I was left. sleeping on the floor was because our furniture hadn't arrived yet. We only brought the essentials when we moved in, and sleeping on the floor wasn't that bad. The whole house had brown plush carpet, except for the basement, laundry room, foyer, guest bathroom, kitchen, hallways, and bathrooms, but that's a minor detail. Back to the story, I fell asleep, and I don't know how much time passed when I was woken up by the distant sound of the doorbell. At first, I was disoriented, but then I realized someone was at the door.

I stayed still and listened quietly. I heard two male voices. I assumed they would leave soon, but they didn't. They began knocking on the door, alternating with ringing the bell. I was nervous and scared, but I didn't move. If I did, they could see me through the door's window. And if I went to the kitchen, I'd have to open the door to reach the phone. I didn't want to risk it, so I decided.

it to stay still. The insistence continued, and my stress level rose. I curled up in the fetal position and covered myself with the blanket, praying for it to stop. Eventually, the knocking and bell ringing began to fade. I thought it was over, but I was wrong. Just when I was about to come out from under my blanket, I heard the doorknob turning, followed by the sound of keys. There were no voices, just the sound of the door slowly opening. I said, stayed completely still. I heard one person enter, then the other, both were men. One of them said, I don't think anyone's home, and the other replied, yeah, looks like it. Then silence. Crouched and trembling, I tried not to move. I thought maybe they were there to rob us or even

hurt me. I didn't dare cry, afraid they'd hear me. I was alone, just a kid, and I didn't know what to do. I heard them open the kitchen door and enter. They stood in front of the stairs, one leading to the third floor, and the other down to the basement. Since we had no furniture, they asked each other if anyone lived there. They talked amongst themselves. My mind was in chaos. I pulled the blanket tighter over me, trying to look like I was still asleep. As the men approached the stairs, one of them started heading down to the basement, but the other came toward one. I was. I stayed completely still, not breathing, with my back to him. I felt that he knew someone was under the blanket. Then the man cleared his throat and said, Hey, are you awake? I didn't answer.

I just pretended to be asleep. He repeated it, a little louder this time, which made the other man come back up. I acted like I was waking up, slowly rising from under the blanket and facing the two men. I pretended to be clueless and asked, Who are you? There was a pause, and the men looked at me. I was alone with two grown men and felt completely terrified. I thought maybe I could run to the front door to escape, taking advantage of the lack of furniture. The man who had woken me up said, Hi, we're here to fix the basement light switch, right? With a trembling voice, I answered, yes, that one. The same man added, Okay, we'll fix it. it now. We didn't want to wake you. You can keep sleeping. They headed to the basement to work,

and I was able to breathe again. I stayed in my place silently until they finished. About 15 to 20 minutes later, they came back up, and the other man announced, we're done. Everything's ready. I got up quickly, approached them, and thanked them. They said goodbye and left. I quickly made sure the door was locked. Once I confirmed it, I broke down in tears. I thought about what could have happened if I hadn't reacted that way. I called my mom when I calmed down but decided not to tell her what happened. I don't know why I did that. Maybe I was afraid she'd scold me for not calling her when the bell started ringing, or maybe I was ashamed of not handling the situation better. Later, my mom asked me to get ready so we could pick up my siblings. When we go, we go to. We

got home, my older brother noticed the light switch now worked. My mom figured the repairman had come while we were out and fixed it. I still haven't told anyone what happened. I've always felt uncomfortable with how I reacted, but I learned a valuable lesson, always listen to your intuition and act accordingly. I'll never know if those men were really the repair guys or if they tried to rob the house, but I thanked them for fixing the switch, though I really wish they had come when I wasn't alone. The end. Wiping the sweat off my head happy to be out of that hot stuffy cave. Me and my long-time partner in crime Manganchui walked to the waterfall just next to the entrance of the cave and wash ourselves from the smells of that cavern and our own B.O we were

emitting. Being near a waterfall most think that it would smell nice, but not from the moisture that builds up over periods of time and from other things that may inhabit it for the short time being doing what they do. Manganchoey yells under the waterfall out to Sick Obaba while smirking. Don't forget the gear I don't want to replace these this time around Sikababa. Sick Ababa smiles. Yes, I won't forget it. I have it at the entrance to the cave so it don't get wet. Sick Ababa stares at Manganchori back while they were washing off.

Hey, your tattoo didn't grow as much this time must be a real lucky day. Manganchi puzzled but kept a straight face. That's good, better than our finding today. I hope it should lead us to the next spot. She giggled a bit. Imagine if it grew and we did. didn't do anything with what we found." Sikababa laughed.

As Sikababa stepped out of the waterfalls, Sikababa called out to Munganchui. Ima put the gear in the boat so we can just be done and get out of here. Koroho, Ubav, Moya. Munganchui replied, I'm still drenched from washing I got to grab the gear from the entrance of the cave. Recounting the items we brought before putting it in the boat. While I was counting a sweet aroma was coming from the entrance. a bit the explorer in me wanted to see if it was further inside I stared deep into the cave

with mystery of what it could be coming from but didn't want to go back alone and just wanted to leave and make sure we had everything first. I'm sure it was coming from the bag maybe Manganchery sprayed something in it. All 22 items were there plus the extra bag. I gathered everything and brought it to the boat. I moved the log that was preventing it from floating back into the ocean but kept the custom-made anchor weight in the sand buried deep with a metal bench on top of it. The makeshift anchor was buried at least 30 feet deep in the sand and requires two people to take it out even with the manual retraction lever. After loading up the boat with the gear I look into the distance ocean and admire the sun on its way setting and was relieved and happy

to have another successful exploration. I walked back to the waterfalls with a towel from Manganchery and I and before entering the brushes of trees a breeze went past me and what I thought was cold in my eye and thought it went past me I rubbed my eye trying to get it out but something made me turn around to see it was still moving and going into the sunsitting and I kept rubbing my eye, and then it vanished before it made it to the boat. Me thinking nothing of it because I'm 100% sure it was cold in my eye, I continued my walk to Manganchui. I laid the towels on a dry huge rock and went next to Manganchoie.

The women continued to wash themselves off and started to go back to the boat and go to their homes. The smell of that place was insane right. Sick Ababa said, Yeah, out of a lot of them this one really took the cake on really having at all, which there was incense lit here like the previous one we explored. Manganchi replied. Yeah. I giggled.

We started walking back to the boat and we started to take out the makeshift anchor out the sand. Manganchery went to grab the shovels and start the mechanism to help us get the anchor out. As I started digging I could see Manganchuji just enjoying the sunsitting as it got close to golden hour. Gorgeous, isn't it? Yeah, it was a amazing day hope to have more like it. Sikobaba replied. Manganchui made her way towards me and we both began to dig out the anchor for us to leave before it got dark.

While digging Manganchi asked me, It's insane we found this place and no one got the things and data we got from here today. Yeah, I'm glad we came out here before sunrise to get all this data before anyone else could. Sikobaba replied excited. Manganchi gave a firmed look. We have been looking at this place for years. Ain't it's amazing to see it build itself right in front of our eyes on the satellite? Yes.

It's amazing this island has only been on satellites for only 120 years, but the last 10 years watched this cave be built and no one showing up at all to do it. Sikababa replied excited. But we have to make sure there's no presence of us ever being here. Wanna leave it like it was before we got here. Sikababa replied with a sharp tone. When we get back I'll be the one to turn the satellite back online and make sure no ever noticed.

Manganchiwi replied, The ladies finished digging out the anchor and setting to leave the island. It started to get dark and the women were well out on sea heading home. As I continued driving us back home Manganchery went to the storage with the gear to check the extra bag and look at our findings and used a monitor handheld device to check them out. I'm sure she want to get some small data before getting home. The excitement she had. I smiled to myself. She couldn't wait to get back to the office and used the standard equipment we discovered ourselves and made to analyze materials that's made from the supernatural and other phenomena other than this world. I'm guessing she made another device and had it with her just in case.

She very cautious and that's why I respect her work even though she's a bit on the wild end she still makes sure everyone's safe and is having fun. She continues to scan the items and I would hear a static-wearing noise as she passed it amongst the findings and one of them made a noise like teeth chewing on a bag of empty chips. And she put it to the side and continued her small scans. I proceeded to put my headphones on while rushing to get to shore so we can be home. I miss being behind the wheel of a car and wanted to be. to be home to rest. It was a long day and wanted to take a proper bath. We finally make it

to shore and I tell Manganchuri to park the boat while grab the car. I noticed when she went and grabbed the wheel I seen her hieroglyphics tattoo that had the symbol for listening was coming out in full picture and was not almost there but have grown to see the list part of it before it fully came out. Hey Manganchoie your tattoo is showing four letters right now. I said very concerned. We are far from the sight so it shouldn't be showing anything and I didn't feel the heat in my hands yet. Menganchui replied sounding confused. Maybe we might have a good find here in this bag and one of the items is actually something of a origin from the supernatural. Could you check the other tattoos on my back if the others are showing any more letters?

Manganchoie said with enthusiasm. I checked her back and seen the other 17 tattoos were okay and only the listening tattoo was growing that a bit nervous because I wanted to check the findings in the office where we can be in a more safe environment and can neutralize anything if it need be. But I got my guard up and was ready for anything now, but I couldn't let her know my awareness was completely up so I just told her to. Make sure everything collected is put back in the bag and no material is left on the boat." Sick Ababa replied smiling with a soft voice. You got it, Captain.

Manganchery replied while saluting. I give her the hand signs all is good with her tattoos and proceeded to get the car. It felt so good to be behind the wheel again and the smell of car all around me. I pull up next to the boat and tell Manganchui to put the load in the car and we can pick up the boat tomorrow or let one of the lackeys handle it. She gets in and we start driving to our homes. On the ride notice we have the road to ourselves tonight and it's like the universe was on our side and wanted me to have that victory bath I so deserve. I saw Manganchi fall fast asleep with her device on her lap and on it was on showing some of the items and it was next to another item in guessing in the database of the device. I'm guessing she did some extra research and made a separate database just for this exploration.

We made it to my house and I decided to bring her in and let her sleep with me instead of being alone and I wanted to keep watch over her since I saw one of her tattoos grow. Gumi-Sing kamaganda. I said to Manganchui while tapping her shoulder. Come on you're going to stay with me tonight, today was a success and in the morning we can celebrate, Sikababa said with so much warmth. Do I have to? You don't really have to I can make it home and we can celebrate in the morning at the black gold star restaurant. Manganchoie replied while stretching. No, it's okay, I want you to stay tonight, and we can go over some of the stuff you gather with that fascinating device.

Sikababa replied, I can see Manganchuri eyes open wide with a slight grin. I mean if you really want to know and see how cool it is, then I guess that leave this flymaster no choice. Mangenshuri replied with pride and laughing. Yes, oh, wise one, please teach me the ways so I can myself be on the mountain that has no lava and peek into the clouds of mysteriousness. Sikababa replied laughing. We make it into the house and started unpacking everything. I've made a small room for when we bring exploration items home. We both have a self-made room like this in both houses just in case things go beyond what we can handle without the proper tools from work.

We sit at the dinner table after setting everything where they need to be. Manganchery pulls out her device. I haven't given it a name yet but working on it but using DMF for the time being. Manganchery says excited. What does DMF stand for? Sikababa replied curiously. Displacement material finder. Manganchi replied happy showing all teeth.

It has the ability to let us know that when an item is here if it passes through any matter before it arrives here. And some of these items showed to be brought here by something else, but this one item has nothing but was making my DMF hunger. Manganchi replied, That's amazing I didn't even know you can make that on the fly and so small and portable as well. Sikababa replied. Is that why you think you're going to do that? tattoo grew a bit while we was on shore." Sikababa said curiously.

Could have been, but I didn't get the hot hands that follow after any tattoo grows especially when the chest tattoo turns my hair white if it's something not from this existence. Manganchi replied, Yeah, you're right, but it's good to cover our bases and make sure everything is good. Sikababa replied. We continue the night talking about the exploration and have a few beers before going to bed. Manganchoie went to bed first. She was very tired and I knew the effects her.

tattoos does to her so I let her be and left her alone to rest. I was still up and just got out the bath and was in the kitchen grabbing another beer in solitude and drink to today's great find. I walk to the porch and stare at the night clear sky and admire how much still needs to be done down on this planet before exploring up there. I finish my drink and head to bed to begin the real celebration with everyone. While sleeping I got up in the middle of the night to check on Manganchery to see if she okay. It's something I do normally after a long exploration and one of her tattoos starts to grow. As I walk down the hall to the room I made just for her. She has a room built just for me in her house for when I visit and for after explorations. I knocked softly and

open and saw she was sound asleep, breathing and resting good. Wild sleeper she is the sheets and blankets knocked and hanging everywhere but not a single sound coming from her. I checked the other tattoos to see if anything was happening while she was sleeping and all was good. I went to the kitchen to grab a drink of water and the only light was coming from the fridge door while I kept it open while drinking my glass of water. And from the corner of my eye, I could see something dark obstructing the shadows of the corner of the wall that meets between the window to the porch and in the living room. As I didn't feel like giving any eye contact to it and just felt like leaving it alone. I didn't want to stir anything up in my head and was going to want to stay up for

it. I just wanted to finish my glass of water and go back to bed. But this thing kept getting more darker than the already dark part of the wall where no light can shine nor illuminate. I finished my glass and put it in the sink and as I was about to close the fridge my gut feeling didn't let me close the door. It's like my body knew if I got rid of the last light source in the kitchen that thing will come my way. As I didn't want to linger more in the kitchen, I tried to summon up enough mental to close the fridge door. As I closed the door slowly my right I unattentionally looked towards the corner it was at while closing the door and with the light slowly fading away I could see a silhouette of a tall figure but no shape I can make out

but the top part, where my mind would make out to be a mouth looked like a checked mark and that was the darkest thing you could make out of all the darkest in that corner. And a strong pause came over me with the fridge, a pink way from closing me and thing obstruction in the darkness was have a stare off. Not even sure if it was looking at me, but I can feel with every breath I was taking the share anxiety that pulse through my body was like a rhythm that felt like a voice was speaking through it to my mind telling me not to look it with both eyes. But with the one I was scary but yet intriguing and that checked mark on its face wasn't moving. In fact, the thing wasn't moving at all and I started to think maybe this is all in my head

and I'm just nervous and anxious from the celebration we're going to have. Manganchui was doing okay and the findings was in the holdings room. There was nothing for me to worry about and I began to feel a big relief come over my body and without control I closed the door to the fridge. But while closing I distinctively turned to look at it again and and with both eyes trying to catch it before the light went out and it was right in front of my face and on closer inspection the checked mark on its face from a distance looked like a faint smile, but it was a mouth with sharp dark teeth like a giant serpent like it could eat a prehistoric,

beast with ease. But I could only see the sharpen part of the teeth hang out its mouth as if it was trying to contain itself from devouring me and a cool black mist was emitting from its mouth, but with just the mouth features showing clear to me in darkness my mind made eyes and a shape to it since I couldn't comprehend what was in front of me. with the fridge door closed and alone in the kitchen with this darkened thing. With it in front of me I could make out and completely understand what darkness really was for the first time it was as if what I thought was black is now a soft gray dipped in black compared to how dark this thing was. The fear I was feeling that was now starting to trickle up my ankles to my spine because I've never encountered this before out of all my encounters with the supernatural.

It was making my anxiety speak to me in ways I've never felt and it felt as if it was going to eat me just for being around and looking at it with both eyes. The darkened thing mouth opened just a little bit to see more of its teeth, and it got even more darker to it looked like my eyes couldn't process what it was staring at and my mind was drawing blank cause it's something never seen. I then hear Manganchery scream upstairs when the darkened thing mouth open and a loud subtle noise came from the house but near the Holdings Room. And she kept screaming and I didn't want to lose eye contact with this thing. I felt if I took my eyes of it that was going to be my head. As Manganchery screams began to sound blood gurgling and me frightened to say or move. My cat comes down the stairs meowing and rubs up on my legs but not knowing startled me and I jumped and looked and there was Manganchery severed head and I whitened with black veins and unique markings with blood everywhere. This gust of wind that felt like a vacuum pulls my body and I feel my body bend backwards where my head touched the back of my ankles.

I felt the pain but didn't die right away. I screamed and cried and wished for my father to be here with me to do the exploration and see the world for what it really is. And I woke up on the floor with my cat licking my face cleaning my tears. I must have had a nightmare and crying I then get up from the floor and look at the time it was 6.47 a.m. I then make my bed and clean whatever else I had knocked down during this nightmare. I grabbed the cap and walked out the room and closed the door. I walked down the hall to Mangansary Room and checked on her and saw she was still sleeping. The feel of relief hit me and was happy she was doing okay.

That dream felt so real like it was a realm that was on the verge of reality and dreams. I remember long ago there was a finding we had that did the same thing, but we both didn't have the Holdings Room at that time and we was fairly new at this explorations. But we're veterans at this and Manganchery has more tattoos now so we are more skilled at this. I go to the kitchen and start to prepare breakfast and feed the cat. I put food into her bowl and noticed there are a crack in the Holdings door. It is made up of the strongest wood on this planet and craved with inscriptions to keep all things that don't have the same body and biometrics matter as me or Manganchery no one could even put

a dent in this door. The restart of the dream I had last night started to reply in my head and I started worrying. I didn't want to open the door nor touch it. I run upstairs to check on Manganchery and her door was opened and I went to the edge of the door and heard someone else in her room speaking Cebuano and I couldn't make out what was being said because it was in such, a low tone. I went to peek in the room to see if she was okay. I saw she was up facing the window of the room and her back to the door. And I could see five of her tattoos grew in size and the full words was showing with owner symbol above them. Scared never seeing five present themselves with the owner symbol.

That only happens when all the tattoos is showing for that to happen. I call out to her. Sweetheart okay Kallang. Sikababa says frightened. Not moving nor answering me, I ask her again. Sweetheart okay Kallang. From the left side of my ear I hear a man say loud and clear, Camus Suta Sampai D. Wiliu Dan Jiamiliku Sekharang.

I turned around quickly to see if he was next to me, but as I turned I heard Manganchui footsteps rushing towards me and when I looked back to see her she had whitened eyes with black veins and the mouth of that darkened thing smile I had to dream about and I woke again. Thanks you for reading I will make a continue to this. This is something I'm just working on seeing how making a horror story would work hope you enjoy I promise to get more better at this as the days go by, smiley face. Me and my now ex best friend were closer than ever. We shared our problems with each other, had good laughs,

had a good friendship. Like any other friend's ship really. But she was special to me that I loved her in a platonic way, of course. For this I shall name her as Zoe. I moved to her school at around January of this year, I knew everyone there. It was a fresh start. I was in the same science class as her, but we weren't close. Skip to around June of this year her best friend of that time ditched her for someone else that she was getting closer to. I don't know what really happened, but all I knew was that. Zoe started asking to hanging out of me, and of course I agreed as any nice person would.

We started getting closer and I felt like she was my best friend for eternity. At about around August her and her ex-best friend because friends again but weren't to close, but I was happy that she had healed her friendship with her. Life would go on as normal. During summer break me and Zoe didn't talk much, but we still had that close bond. When we came back to school, I noticed that Zoe started to get annoyed at me with for minor things. By the way, I have been diagnosed with ADHD and its everyday struggle. Zoe knew that I have ADHD and would always support me.

But after she started getting irritated at the things that I couldn't help it made me feel uncomfortable, and felt like I was just annoying and too much to be around. This would go on for ages that they had planned a sleep over without me knowing and I only knew on the day because they were talking about it, but not directly to me. I dealt with it because I didn't want to upset her and make her feel uncomfortable. I had always told Zoe about how much I struggle with my mental health and my ADHD. But she also had her struggles. Obviously, I'm not going to name them.

But I don't know if recently I have just become more sensitive, but any time she would get angry with me it would make me feel more upset than usual. I didn't say I word to her in case it would ruin our bond and upset her. But it would upset me so much that it just made me feel horrible. Then she decided to make situations worse by getting closer with her ex-best friend. I had no problem with it. I was happy that she was healing their friendship, but she started to laugh and joke with her more and whenever I would talk she would just talk over me or whenever I made a joke she wouldn't laugh. Not like she had used to it made me feel so left out and alone. That after months of keeping myself together I had relapsed. This made me feel disappointed in myself.

On a Friday, last week I was in my biology lesson and I was overwhelmed and over-stimulated the class was too loud and we didn't have our usual teacher so it was out of control. Zoe was completely ignoring me not even asking if I was okay. And she was turning around talking to her ex-best friend planning for her to come round her house on Zoe's birthday. And Zoe helping her with decorating her room that I keep thinking about that and I was probably overreacting. But I thought to myself it's going to be the weekend and it will give us a little break. We didn't talk, but we were still sending each other TikToks. After the weekend we went back to school. I was waiting for Zoe outside of school and she was late and one of the teachers were telling me come inside.

so I had two. Zoe came to my first class. I didn't say anything to her. I just smiled because I was listening to one of my other friend's conversations. Zoe had walked away angrily and that had made me feel bad like I keep making mistakes. After that I had physics, but this time we were working in the library. I was say on one side of Zoe and her ex-best friend was say next to her on the other my other friend. My friend who was sat next to me went to the toilet.

Zoe and her ex-best friend were laughing and talking and I felt left out. I got a little closer to Zoe and she said, can you move away from me? You're too close. This wasn't in a nice tone. It was horrible. I walked out the library and went to the toilet to find my other friend I'll call her Ella. I was upset and Ella said, are you okay? And I explained what Zoe had done. And Ella sat with me on the window seal and spoke to me about it.

Ella had told me. On that Friday that Zoe ignored me in biology. I had obviously walked outside of the lesson to keep my self. self-com. Zoe made a bitch comment and she said, oh, m.g. Why is she even overwhelmed? Nothing's even happened. This had obviously made upset and furious with her. After that me and Ella walked back to the library. Zoe had asked why I walked out and where I had been and I said I went to the toilet. After that physics had finished and instead of walking with Zoe I walked with Ella to English. After English had finished I went to go meet with Ella to give me and Zoe

some space. I walked past Zoe and I smiled at her. It was like as I walked past her out, friendship had ended. She had me a horrible look and walked off. I felt like I had made a bad decision, but I decided that I would text her and confront her about it. School had finished I got home and I was scared of what to say. I ended up texting her really late at night. I explained to her why I didn't hang out with her and explained that I wasn't comfortable with the fact she would ignore me and joke with her ex-best friend instead of me and it would make me feel left out. I had also explained that it's okay if she wants to take her time and have some space between us and possibly be okay with each other again. I woke up and she had read it but

ignored my message and sent me a blank snap instead. So I decided to put an end to it and unfriend her on snap. Since that day we hadn't talked at all and I've been missing her and feel like I've made the wrong decision. And I haven't been myself. I don't know what to do in this situation. I have told my other friends and they all think she's in the wrong. She also kept reposting things about me on TikTok saying she hopes I get ran over by a car and if I don't keep my mouth shut she's going to do something. But I haven't said anything bad. All I've done is explained to people why our friendship had ended. I have also heard that she had told a boy that I liked that I liked him. And she's been spreading my secrets.

Sorry if this doesn't make sense I'm not good at explaining things. We begin. This story begins on February 28, 1973, in the District of El Augustino, Lima, Peru, with the birth of Pedro Pablo Messias Lodenna, the third of nine children of Maria Lodena and Jose Messias. Pedro was born into a dysfunctional and low-income family, and there is hardly any information about them. What is clear is that due to the problems, the children were distributed among different

homes, they could not afford to support them all. Furthermore, within the home, there were many conflicts, so at some point, the children would run away, or at least try to. Pedro's father, Jose, was an alcoholic, and whenever he got drunk, he became violent. His mother had an unidentified mental disorder. Some sources say it was bipolar disorder. Others say schizophrenia, but whatever the case, the environment at home was terrible. Both parents were unstable, and according to Pedro, they were not present. My family is bad. My parents always fought. My dad beat my mom a lot. I would run away from home, but I would return because I had

nowhere else to eat. Two of Pedro's sisters would later be diagnosed with schizophrenia and depression, one of them even took her own life. Another brother was sentenced to death in Japan, but we will return to that point later. Returning to Pedro's life, his childhood was a nightmare. His older brothers made fun of him, insulted him, beat him, humiliated. at him, dressed him as a girl, and took him out onto the street that way. They wanted people to see him, to laugh, to point at him. All of that was humiliating for him. According to him, he was also sexually abused at home, which caused him to develop a deep hatred toward homosexuality. He thought a lot about religion, about sins, and these beliefs would later leave a mark on him.

Inside the house, everything was chaos, hell. But outside? More of the same. At school, they mocked him. They had seen him in the street dressed as a girl, and the bullying continued in class. They beat him, humiliated him, insulted him. He had no friends. He felt alone and, overall, found no meaning in life.

It was from all of this that two very important concepts arose in his mind, justice and revenge. His brothers were many against one, many beating and humiliating him, he couldn't win. And when his father beat him, he was much stronger, he couldn't fight back with the same force. It was physically impossible. So he began to torture defenseless animals, stray dogs, cats, birds. He found them, tortured them, and killed them. And this practice became very common. He dropped out of high school in the third year and started working as a mechanic. From that point, something very strange began to form in his mind. He thought about God, about faith, religion, sins, justice. He believed society was rotting, that there were evil,

sinful, twisted people, a group poisoning the rest, and that these people had to be eliminated, scammers, thieves, prostitutes, homosexuals, drug addicts. He wanted to wipe them out. He wanted to learn how to do it, and that's why in 1990, at 17 years old, he enlisted in the army. There he would learn strategy, how to use weapons, how to kill, to do it legally. The more he worked, the higher rank he would obtain, earning merits, badges, admiration. He would become powerful, purging society. In his mind, it was the perfect plan.

But sooner rather than later, they realized something wasn't right. There was something off in his mind, something that didn't make sense, something so dark that they subjected him to a psychological evaluation. Then they discovered he suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and also had psychopathic traits. Someone like that couldn't be allowed to use weapons, so after two months, he was expelled. From that point, rage and men. madness took over. He left home, found another job as a mechanic, and slowly gave into his thoughts and visions. According to him, God began to speak to him. As you can imagine, at that time

he wasn't taking any medication, had no psychological follow-up, no check-ups. As soon as he left the army, he returned to what he knew, he had to survive, make money, move on, keep going. But his mind wouldn't allow it. Some sources say that in this phase, he committed his first crimes, for which we have no records. It's believed he may have committed them between 1991 and 2003, but again, we have no information. What we do know is that in 2003, he paid a Japanese man to adopt him legally. He paid him 800 Saul's, the equivalent of about $200, and I must tell you, he succeeded. Pedro was already an adult, so the adoption may sound very strange, except that this is actually a very common tactic used by criminals. By doing this, they can escape local justice.

They pay a foreigner, obtain their surname, and with it, they can emigrate to their country, which suggests that Pedro had already committed crimes and wanted to flee, hide, and felt that in Peru he would be caught. From that moment, his name became Pedro Pablo Nacada Ludena. He could emigrate to Japan because now he was also Japanese. One of his brothers, Byron Jonathan, did exactly the same, paid this man, obtained the surname. But Pedro couldn't leave, while Byron did manage to. However, I must tell you that in 2015 he was arrested for stabbing six people in three days, specifically in the Satama Prefecture.

Byron was, logically, tried and for his actions was sentenced to death. Unable to grow in the army or flee the country, Pedro's mind descended into chaos. His religious ideas intensified, as did his obsession with sin. He believed the world was corrupt and that society needed to be purged, especially of drug addicts, homosexuals, and criminals. And according to him, God was commanding him to do so. He began to hear voices, requests, very clear messages. According to Pedro, God was asking him to do so.

kill, telling him it was his mission. However, there's a very curious part to this story, his alleged victims were bad people, thieves, criminals, thugs, aggressors. Everything they did was sin, and therefore, they deserved punishment. But he too committed crimes, he robbed, killed, assaulted. Yet he justified it. If he stole, it was to obtain materials, materials with which to kill wicked people. So, according to him, the ends justified the means. I'm not a criminal. I'm a cleaner. I have freed society from homosexuals and vagrants. That's how the terrible crimes began. On January 1st, 2005, Pedro crossed paths with Carlos Alberto Marino Aguilar, 26 years old. According to him, he believed Carlos was going to assault him, terrified, he pulled out a gun and

shot him. After killing him, he approached the body and stole money from him. From there, he decided that would be his modus operandi, always use a firearm, specifically in nine millimeters. But not only that, he would also create his own silencers. He made them out of the rubber from sneakers, shoes he occasionally stole from his victims. For a year, he remained silent. But on May 31st, 2006, he attacked again, this time a 50-year-old woman named Teresa Katrina Abbot. Supposedly, he was walking down the street and found this woman on a corner smoking a cigarette. He saw her as a drug addict, a woman of bad life, and therefore, he took out his gun and shot her in the head. Afterward, he felt no remorse.

He walked away calmly. The next attack was on July 20th of that same year, he shot Walter Sandoval Osorio, 44. years old, in the head, claiming he knew he was a criminal. This time, the victim didn't die on the scene, he was found badly injured and immediately taken to a hospital. But unfortunately, he lost too much blood and died a few hours later. There were already three victims in a short time, but the police couldn't link them. The first victim had been the previous year, and between the three, there was no connection, not in age, gender, work, or family. They couldn't connect them, they were random victims.

So at first, they thought they were isolated cases, which allowed this man to continue acting with total impunity. As I told you earlier, Pedro could commit crimes without them being sins, he had justification, a reason. Committing crimes allowed him to fulfill his mission. To be continued. As I told you earlier, Pedro could commit crimes without them being sins, he had justification, he had a reason. Committing crimes allowed him to fulfill his mission, and for some of them, he had a partner, a 30-year-old man named Harardo Leonardo Cruz Libya. The business they had was quite lucrative, as they dedicated themselves to stealing cars.

On the one hand, they stole and sold them as is, on the other, they sold them for parts. Either way, with both options, they made a lot of money. But sometimes, the victims resisted, and on one occasion, they had to kill. kill one of them. Over time, Pedro wanted out. He wanted to look for other ways, other alternatives. But Harardo said no. He told him they couldn't quit, that they made too much money, and he hinted that he would call the police and report him for that crime, something Pedro couldn't allow. So on August 8, 2006, he shot him in a head twice. Ten days later, on August 18th, he took the life of the next victim, Carlos Walter, Arizona Toledo, 21 years old.

The reason for his death was supposedly that Pedro found him smoking. At this point, he no longer measured his actions. He was out of control, and a clear example of this was the crime committed on August 19, 2006. Pedro went to Santa Rosa, where there were supposedly drug addicts, at least according to him. He was looking for smokers, problematic people, and in the middle of the street, a bicycle appeared. He pulled out a gun, shot at it, and upon approaching, realized he had killed an innocent girl, a 15-year-old named Maria Veronica Tolentino Pajulo. According to his own words, he always regretted this death because this girl didn't deserve to die. He killed her

just because, he confused her. So his reaction was to drop the gun and disappear. Maria's body was found that same day at 8 p.m., but again, the agents didn't know what to look for. She was attacked in the middle of the street, shot. This girl hadn't committed any crime, had no problems with anyone, no record, she was just a child. So the case temporarily went unsolved. Pedro paused his crimes for several months, and we really don't know why, although I must tell you we have three hypotheses. The first is that he felt remorse, he killed an innocent by mistake, so he didn't know what to do. The second is that he was. The second is that he had a lot of he was planning the next crimes to avoid making mistakes. And the third is the most interesting,

that Pedro was distracted. It seems this man had a romantic interest, specifically with a nurse. We have no information about her, not her name, age, or which hospital she was at. We know he was interested, that he believed he was in love, but we also know he was very insecure, and sooner rather than later, he felt jealous. According to him, a man named Hugo Vilcess Palomino was pursuing her, showing interest in her, always with her, chatting, flirting. So on November 18, 2006, he killed him in the middle of the street. And not content with that, he robbed him, took a by-call pistol, a mobile phone, and a Sony

disc man. The next day, November 19th, he committed a crime that seemed very well planned. He took the life of Wimmer Jesus Munoz Vianueva, 42 years old. Outwardly, Wimmer was a completely normal person. But here comes the dark part, Pedro heard rumors that Wimmer did bad things. At that time, he was a cosmetologist in a salon called Wiesel. He did his job, and people had no complaints. But there was a rumor that the salon was actually a front, that yes, it offered beauty, hair, and makeup services,

but also visual services. And that Wimmer specifically had HIV and transmitted it to his clients. People said he knew it perfectly well and still gave the service, he didn't care about infecting others. Upon hearing this, Pedro was filled with rage. Wimmer was homosexual and sold his body, things that for Pedro were great sins. So on November 19th, he went there, pretended to be a client. His version of the story was this, he showed up, asked for services, and Wimmer accepted. That's when, in a moment of carelessness, Pedro pulled out a gun and killed him.

And again, not content, he stole money, 1,900 Saul's. Three days later, on November 22, Pedro killed three men, Luis Enrique Moran Cervantes, 32, Pedro Omar Carrera Carrera, 24, and Inoc Elisio Felix Cirilla, 22. According to him, these three used a taxi to assault people. But according to another version, this wasn't true, Luis Enrique was a taxi driver, and both Pedro and Inoc were clients. Either way, the point here is that, according to Pedro, they were criminals, and he was doing justice. On December 10th, he killed the next victim, Nell Cajl Leon Pajulo.

The reason was very simple, he was riding a bicycle on the street, crossed paths with Pedro, who demanded the bike. Nell firmly refused. So Pedro pulled out his gun, shot him several times, and threw him in a ditch. He wasn't a criminal, wasn't involved in trouble, he was just passing by. That's all. And that same month, he committed another crime, against two men, Nazario Julian Tamp. Amariz Perez and Didier Jesus Sepada Delanto.

According to Pedro, they were homosexuals, walking hand in hand, smiling, appearing very affectionate. And that image, according to him, contaminated society. Some sources say Nazario was indeed homosexual, but Didier was not, he was newly married, had children. But according to Pedro, they were a couple. At this point, I want to pause because there are several versions. Didier was gay, Nazario was not, and also that they were a couple. But in reality, this is the least important part. The important thing is that Pedro went completely mad, because supposedly the voice of God told him to kill them.

So he pulled out the gun and opened fire. Nazario was the first to die, and Didier was next, he allegedly begged for his life, but Pedro had no mercy. And the worst part is that after killing them, he robbed them of the little they hand. had, took their shoes, and threw them in a ditch. His crimes were sloppy, and the last ones had witnesses. Among them were two friends, Augustine Andres Magena Oropesa, 46, and Luis Melgarajos signs, 54. Apparently, both were alcoholics, and according to Pedro, that alone made them deserve to die. So between that and the fact that they were witnesses against him, he took their lives on December 24, 2006, using, of course, the same modus operandi, a firearm.

The last crime committed by this individual occurred on December 27, 2006, and the victim was Nicholas Tolentino Pissaca Gamboa. The motive for the crime was that he supposedly used drugs and also stole. By this time, the police already had evidence against him, witnesses, proof, they had many pieces. But they believed Pedro had only committed eight crimes, no more. Several patrols were organized. They surrounded his workplace, went in, and Pedro got nervous and pulled out a gun, starting a shootout. For several hours, there was great tension, and one officer was injured. But in the end, Pedro ran out of bullets, and the police managed to arrest him. Once at the station, they thought this man wouldn't confess, that it would take time, be difficult, that he would deny

everything. But what they saw was something completely different. Pedro was proud. He laughed at them when they accused him of only eight crimes and confessed to up to 25, of which, over time, only 17 were proven. What's more, he said he had the perfect plan for New Year's, he planned to throw a grenade at a nightclub in Whirl. On New Year's, there would be a big party full of lost and corrupted people. So according to him, it would be the perfect hit. Unfortunately for him, his time as a criminal had ended. He kept talking about the crimes, almost laughing, and then he started talking about why he did it. He said that God gave him this mission, that he had the order, the demand, that the voice of God told him what to do, and that he just obeyed.

It was his mission, his duty, his obligation. With these words, he was submitted to a psychological evaluation. They suspected he might suffer from schizophrenia, but the experts concluded that he had antisocial personality disorder. For that reason, on July 14, 2010, he was sentenced to the maximum penalty, 35 years in prison. They believed he was fit to stand trial and understood what he had done, so the sentence at that time was considered fair. However, from here on, very strange things began to happen. In prison, Pedro started talking to himself, gesturing, murmuring, having conversations with himself. He said his parents were

talking to him and that God was giving him orders. God was asking him to kill, to bring justice, to find more victims, but at that moment, he couldn't do anything. He was locked up, isolated, couldn't move. So, desperate, he harmed himself, banged into walls, scratched himself, screamed, and the guards tried to stop him. I hear my parents' voices and an evil voice telling me to kill all the corrupt people, homosexuals, thieves, alcoholics. But I can't fulfill God's mission anymore because they captured me. Now I still hear that voice telling me to kill myself. With this story, the previous diagnosis was questioned. So another evaluation was requested, and this time he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. So on January 13, 2011, he was declared

not criminally responsible and sent to the psychiatric ward of Lurigenko Prison. In recent years, Pedro has remained confined, monitored, controlled, treated. And one very striking thing is that he has constantly given interviews, and in some of them, he has said the following. If I'm released, I will continue my cleansing mission. So now it's your turn, what do you think about the case? Do you believe this person will ever be freed, or can we rest easy? The end. So, I got this wedding invite in the mail, right? All white and gold and fancy, looked like any other invitation. But when I opened it, boom. My brain short-circern. it was an invitation to the wedding of my freaking ex-boyfriend, and my mom. Yeah. You read that right. My actual mother is marrying my ex. If you're confused and wondering how the hell this even happened, you should probably go check out my last post, because that whole disaster explains how I walked in on them in my hot tub, mid-action, like something out of a twisted soap opera. It's been a whirlwind since then. My dad, my sister,

and I, none of us knew what to do with ourselves. We've talked about it non-stop for weeks, like somehow talking about it will make it make sense. Spoiler, it doesn't. My dad was very clear about his stance from the beginning, he wants absolutely nothing to do with my mom anymore. He's heartbroken, betrayed, and honestly. Who could blame him? She slept with my boyfriend. That's like betrayal on level 9,000. He said he'll never forgive her, and honestly, I don't think I would either if I were him. But for me and my sister, it's complicated. She's still our mom.

The woman who gave birth to us, kissed our scraped knees, and made pancakes in funny shapes. It's hard to just erase that. So we were stuck between fury and heartbreak. How do you hate someone who raised you? How do you forgive someone who nuked your entire family? Eventually, my sister and I sat down with some ice cream, had that, do we go to this wedding, talk? Should we show up and be civil? Or should we go full petty and ghost the whole thing?

We even debated reaching out to her beforehand. See if she even realized how much damage she'd caused. I mean, part of us just wanted our mom back, even if she was acting like she belonged in a reality TV train wreck. And here's the kicker, my ex-boy-foy-for. friend, the guy I used to binge watch Netflix with, who once forgot our anniversary but made it up with tacos, is now going to be my stepdad. My stepdad. That's some next level awkward.

Before we could reach out, though, he called us. We were planning to call her, and instead my phone rings, and it's him. My ex. Soon to be stepfather. I almost didn't pick up, but curiosity got the best of me. I answered, and he was like, hey, can I talk to you alone? Ugh. Gross.

But fine. So I locked myself in my room, heart racing, and he starts with some dramatic apology. I didn't mean for it to happen, he said. It just did. I fell in love with your mom. I didn't plan it, and I'm sorry. And then, get this, he had the audacity to say he still loved me. that he still couldn't get me out of his head.

I lost it. Full on yelling, crying, hyperventilating, mess. I told him he was sick, that he destroyed two entire families, and that I never wanted to hear from him again. And then he says, your mom's hotter than you, and she deserves more than your boring, ugly dad. I didn't even say anything, I just hung up. My dad is the sweetest man alive,

and this punk thinks he can insult him like that. Over my dead body. A couple days later, my sister and I decide to try again, this time with my mom. We call, and guess who picks up again? Yep, him. Again. I told him straight up to put my mom on the phone. He hands it over, and the moment my sister hears her voice, she breaks down crying.

Just lets it all out. She's sobbing, saying she means. misses her, wants her back, all of that. And our mom? She goes, oh God, don't be such a baby. Like, what? Who is this woman? It was like someone stole our mom and replaced her with some cold stranger. We asked her to meet up, to talk in person. She said she couldn't, she was in Europe, said she didn't know when she'd be back. We begged her, just for an hour, a coffee, anything, but She said no. Said we'd talk soon, and hung up.

My sister and I just sat there in silence after that. Felt like a gut punch. We knew things had changed, but we didn't think we'd lost her completely. Then, weeks later, the doorbell rang. I opened it, and there they were, my mom and my ex standing side by side, looking like a couple from a Hallmark movie. I wanted to slam the door in their faces, but I didn't. My dad wasn't home, so I let them in.

They sat on the couch like they belonged there. My mom looked at both of us and said, I want you girls to be my maids of honor. My sister and I just looked at each other, stunned. I grabbed my mom's hand and said, Maybe we should talk first. She agreed, but added, make it quick. I want to be gone before your dad gets back.

Classic. We asked them to tell their side. And what they said. Few. Buckle up. They claimed it was love at first sight. That when they picked us up from the airport, sparks flew. She swore she didn't mean to fall for him.

Every time I saw him, my knees went weak. I wanted to get on top of him, she said. I gagged. Like, T. Am I, much? Then he added, we're so passionate, we want to start a family, have sex all the time. I could have thrown up right there. Out of rage, I asked, was it worth it? To destroy our home, they were calm. Said love comes first. That my mom hadn't loved my dad in years, but she didn't want to be alone. She asked for our forgiveness. And then circle back to the

question, would we be her maids of honor? We said no. Absolutely not. But we would come to the wedding. Because no matter what, she's still our mom. She said she understood and told us she loved us. Months passed. Then came the wedding day. My sister and I wore beautiful dresses, blue silk, sparkly heels, the works. We stopped by my dad's new place to show him and his new girlfriend. When he saw us, he started crying. Told us we looked stunning. We hugged him tight. He told us he'd be okay, he had two amazing daughters and someone knew. It meant the world. Then we headed to the church.

In the bridal suite, my mom looked like a movie star. Elegant, glowing, but still not done with her makeup. My sister helped with her eye shadow and I picked up around the room. It was strange, being there, helping her prepare to marry my ex-boyfriend, but we did it. Then my ex's mom, my former mother-in-law turned future mother-in-law to my mom, walks in. She gave my mom her bouquet and a cup of tea. She looked, confused. Not entirely happy, but trying.

I respected it. She was supporting her son the way we were trying to support our mom. Make-up done, hair pinned, everything in place. The ceremony was at 3 p.m. At 2.30, we realized we hadn't heard from the groom. My mom tried calling him. No answer. She said, he's probably on his way, not checking his phone.

But as the minutes ticked by, she started to panic. She called again. Texted. Nothing. She even asked his mom to try. Still nothing. Then it was 3 o'clock. Guests were arriving.

People were in the pews. Still no sign of him. Then, sirens. We heard them in the distance, police and ambulance. We didn't think anything of it. But at 3.30, the cops walked into the church. They asked for my mom and the groom's parents. We all moved to the side room.

One officer looked my mom in the eye and said, Ma'am, we're very sorry. There's been a shooting. Your fiancé was found dead, gunshot wound to the head. My mom fell to her knees, screaming. His parents collapsed beside her. My sister was sobbing. I just stood there, numb.

It didn't feel real. Who would do this? Why? Then, just as we were processing the shock, another officer walked over to me. You are under arrest for the murder of, Groom's name. You have the right to remain silent. I froze. What? I screamed. I didn't do anything, but they didn't care. They cuffed me right there. My mom screamed my name. My sister begged them to stop. I was crying, shaking,

trying to explain. But none of it mattered. They dragged me outside, into the squad car, while the entire wedding party watched. And that is how my mom's wedding turned in to a crime scene. And how I ended up in jail on the worst day of my life. The end. We begin. CBOT remembers in full detail the last time she saw her son, it was the morning of the tragedy, April 20, 1999. She heard him coming down the stairs past the door of their room, and he quickly headed toward the entrance as if he were running late. She called him by name, and he answered simply, goodbye. After that, he closed the door. When she received the call from her husband, she couldn't believe it. He told her there was a shooting at Dylan's school, and they didn't

know exactly what was happening or how many victims there were. Absolute chaos invaded her thoughts, was her son okay? Was he hurt? What was happening there? Later, after a long and agonizing wait, the authorities approached the CBODA family and gave them information that would change their lives forever, Dylan was involved. The police were there, and helicopters were flying over the school, she stated. She remembered thinking, if this is true, if Dylan is really hurting people, someone has to stop him. At that moment, she asked God that he die, she begged God not to let him hurt anyone else. And her prayers were heard.

Dylan Bennett C. B.O.T. was born on September 11, 1981, in Lakewood, Colorado, as the second child of Thomas and Susan Klebold. Everyone who knew him said he was a good kid, reserved, sweet, and compassionate. They said he was a very special boy and much smarter than children his age. Dylan attended Normandy Elementary School in Littleton, Colorado, during first and second grade. In his early school years, he played t-ball, baseball, and soccer. He was also part of the Boy Scouts and became very good friends with a boy named Boy. Brooks Brown. However, the teachers realized the boy didn't really fit in and informed his parents.

The reason? The little one was much smarter than the rest of his classmates. Because of this, they recommended transferring him to another school with a special program for that kind of student. Following these recommendations, the kbots enrolled Dylan at Governor's Ranch, where he joined the CHIP's program for students with demanding and high intellectual potential. That made the boy very very happy. He integrated quickly there and became motivated by his studies. His life was now perfect. He had friends from one school and the other, the academics were at his level, and little by little, that made him a more open person. However, in 1994, when he was just 13 years old, his parents switched his school and enrolled him at Ken Carroll. The Clebolds told inspectors that Dylan was somehow

more protected at Governor's Ranch than at Ken Carroll, so this change was very difficult. for him. He became much more reserved and cold, but they didn't think much of it. After all, switching schools is often hard for many kids. At Ken Carroll, Dylan became much more introverted and sullen. He was still the same pleasant boy as always, but little by little, he closed himself off until, in seventh or eighth grade, he met someone who would mark a before and after in his life, Eric Harris, a gifted boy like him. But how did they meet? Remember his friend. friend Brooks Brown. Brooks met Eric on the school bus, and they got along so well that he introduced Eric to Dylan. Not long after, Eric introduced Dylan to his friend Nathan Dykeman, who coincidentally

also attended Ken Carroll, and the four boys became very good friends. They had the same tastes and hobbies, and because of that, they formed a closed group that no one else could enter over the following years. In 1995, the four friends enrolled at Columbine High School, That school had just been renovated at the cost of $15 million, and they were part of the first class to see the new cafeteria and the Southern Library. Eric, starting his first year at Columbine, met a girl named Tiffany Typer, with whom he attended the welcome dance. She was his only date, so he thought maybe they should go out, but the girl didn't feel the same and rejected him. Not getting his way infuriated him, so he decided to make her pay. Eric didn't want to fill her locker with rotten eggs or accidentally drop a bucket of paint on her head.

No, he wanted to target her emotions directly. So, with Brooks Brown's help, he invited the girl to his house, and while the three were walking through it, Brooks started talking to her to distract her. That was when Eric set his evil and twisted plan in motion, pretending to commit suicide. He separated from them and hid in a room on the other side of the house. Once there, using the fake blood left over from the previous Halloween, he stained his head, part of his neck, and a rock. After that, he lay on the floor and let out a scream, a scream that was the signal for Brooks to lead Tiffany to the room where they would find the corpse. The scene was nightmarish, even more so when Brooks played the part of the frightened friend.

Eric lay completely still on the ground, covered in fake blood, holding in his hand the supposed murder weapon. For several minutes, they tortured the poor Tiffany's mind, she couldn't stop crying, completely anguished. Then the two boys couldn't hold back anymore and burst out laughing at her. Why am I telling you this? Because this is just a glimpse of what Eric Harris was really hiding. Both Eric and Dylan were completely obsessed with the video game Doom. In fact, Eric loved the game so much that he created a series of levels that would later be called Harris Levels, which today can be found on various websites.

Eric used many aliases, among which were Reb, which will hear more about later, Rebel Doom Maker, Reb Doom Mine, and Reb Dumer, while Dylan only used one alias, vodka, due to his great fondness for alcohol. We should also note that Eric Harris had a website, a site called, You Know What I Hate, where he presented a long list of things he hated in his daily life.

Among them were lies, careless people, freedom of the press, and personalities like John Bonae Ramsey, the subject of whom we talked about in a previous video. Unfortunately, this site no longer exists, as the FBI, after the Columbine massacre, decided to take it down. The first investigations after the massacre indicated that both Eric and Dylan had been victims of bullying. Other students rejected them because they dressed very differently from the rest, were not good at sports, and didn't have many friends. That's why they were called The Outcasts, The Excluded. A simple theory without foundation.

I don't think so. In one of their many home videos, you can see that as they walk down the school hallways, a group of popular kids approaches. You can see that when this group passes by the boy who's filming, he is hit. According to some sources, Dylan and Eric went through this every day, and their friends were witnesses to the verbal and physical abuse they suffered daily. This constant harassment generated a lot of resentment in them. In fact, in their diaries, we can see clear signs of it.

On one of the pages of Eric Harris's diary, we can read the following, I hate. I am full of hate, and I love it. We can also see Nazi symbols and drawings of characters with weapons in pure doom style. Although Dylan's diary is also full of resentment and allusions to anger, it is much less aggressive than Eric's. In his, we can see that Dylan is not an irascible boy but rather someone with depressive tendencies. He constantly mentions that life had been very unfair to him and that he had neither happiness nor love.

This fact later led many to consider Dylan a mere puppet of Eric, a sad boy who had been manipulated by Eric's twisted mind. But they were very wrong. In the summer of 1997, Eric and Dylan started working at blackjack pizza, a place where they would later purchase one of the weapons they would use in the shooting. Together, Eric and Dylan pulled many pranks at Blackjack Pizza, they set off fireworks in the back alley, set up an explosive trap on the sidewalk, and even set fire to the sink on one occasion. They enjoyed this so much that they began to dream of perpetrating a massacre at their school.

In 1998, in their junior year at Columbine, Eric and Dylan were arrested for trying to steal tools from a van that was parked, but they were released into parental custody on a condition that they joined a juvenile delinquency prevention program. On his side, Eric Harris was forced to attend anger management classes, where he made a very good impression on his instructors. Dylan's parents couldn't believe it, how could their shy and reserved little boy have been capable of such a thing? They tried to talk to him, to ask what was going through his head, but the young man swore over and over that it had all been a misunderstanding. From here, both young men decided to take their homicidal fantasies more seriously.

They were underage, so they turned to someone who was already 18 to acquire weapons, Robin Anderson, a girl who had always been in love with Dylan. She, without hesitation, helped the boys acquire the shotguns and rifle they used in a shooting. And now you'll ask, did she buy the guns alone at a store? No, she went with them to a gun show and showed her ID when the two young men chose their weapons. With the weapons bought, Eric and Dylan recorded a video at Rampart Range with Phil Duran, Mark Maney's, and his girlfriend, practicing their shooting. For over a year, they meticulously planned everything, and much of the information about those plans is found in

their diaries. They left behind a great number of written plans, drawings, and home videos, documents in which they warned what was going to happen, and they were fully aware of how society would react and how the media would cover the case. Some of the most remarkable notes included the following, 1110 was the time underlined in Dylan's diary, corresponding to April 20th. In another paragraph, Eric, the more expressive one, spoke about how he and Dylan planned to stockpile explosives to blow up half the country, it'll be like the L.A. riots, like the Oklahoma bombing, like World War II and Vietnam, like Dakey Doom, all mixed. I want to leave my mark on the world. Another note in Dylan's agenda. To be continued. Flying across half the country

will be like the Los Angeles riots, like the Oklahoma bombing, like World War II and Vietnam, like Doom, all mixed together. I want to leave a mark on the world. Another note in Dylan's journal seems to lay out in full detail what would happen on April 20th, meet at 6, gather at 1030, prepare at 1112, get ready at 1116, bombs, use bombs, covering fire, raid, aim for the head, suicide. But why April 20th? Why not another day? Because the radical ideas they had developed up to that point had drawn both of them toward Nazism. They both liked watching documentaries about Nazi Germany and deeply admired the figure of Adolf Hitler. That's why they chose the Fuhrer's birthday to carry out their plan, it was their way of honoring his memory.

But they didn't just want to honor his figure, they also wanted to show the world how easy it was for two simple teenagers to organize a massacre without anyone noticing. For that, they spent the whole year of their meticulous preparation acting normal with their friends and loved ones. As I said before, both boys acted normally. Dylan actively participated in theater productions as the light and sound coordinator and was also involved in producing videos for the school's Rebel News Network. He was often praised for helping his classmate Rachel Scott with her performance of Watch the Lamb, since when the tape broke,

Dylan provided a backup copy, saving the whole show. Because of his great passion for computers, Dylan helped manage all the school servers. In fact, related to this, we know that on January 15th, 1999, he sent an application to the University of Arizona to study computer science there, and guess what? He was accepted. His relationship with his parents was very good, especially with his father. In his diaries, he had nothing but good words for them. However, he couldn't say the same about his uncles, to them, he dedicated the following words, You made me what I am, you fueled my rage. He didn't get along well with his older brother Byron either, claiming Byron and his friends constantly mocked him.

When the prom was held on April 17, 1999, Dylan showed up in a limousine, accompanied by many friends, and talked about staying in touch with them after Columbine. He also kept talking about how excited he was to study computer science. His family had already paid the deposit for a dorm room at the University of Arizona, and everything pointed to Dylan having a bright future. His date for the dance was none other than Robert. She attended the party as a friend, but deep down, she held hopes, in fact, she told many classmates, I convinced Dylan, who hates dances, hates athletes, and has never gone out

with a girl, to come with me. Either I'm very pretty or very persuasive. In the farewell message recorded half an hour before the massacre, Dylan said the following, Hey mom, I have to go. We're about half an hour away from our little judgment day. I just want to apologize for any, underscore underscore, I might cause you. On the morning of April 20th, 1999, NATO planes were bombing Kosovo indiscriminately. After the terrible event, U.S. President Bill Clinton announced the news of the massacre in Europe with triumphalist airs, as if death were the start of something much bigger. Ironic, isn't it? While this was happening, Eric and Dylan were dressing in military uniforms and covering their bodies with long black

trench coats. They packed their backpacks with hundreds of bullets and got in the car to head to the bowling alley, since it was an elective course they were taking. After playing for a while, accounts differ. Some say the boys showered together because they had feelings for each other. Others say the opposite, as Eric wrote in his diaries, the only thing I want is to feel a woman's flesh. Then they went to school armed with two shotguns, one sawed off, a TEC 9-9mm semi-automatic pistol, and a high point 9-95-9-millimeter semi-automatic carbine, along with several homemade explosives and a bomb made from a nine kilograms propane tank. Outside the school, Eric saw his friend Brooks Brown and told him,

things are going to get really bad in there, and I like you, so listen to me and don't go back. Many students saw them placing explosives in certain areas like classrooms and hallways, but thought it was a prank, so they did nothing. However, when some of these started to detonate, the massacre began. It started in the cafeteria. Armed to the teeth, they went up the stairs to the West Wing at 11.19 a.m. Rachel Scott, 17 years old, was sitting on the grass-eating lunch with her friend Richard Castaldo. They saw Eric and Dylan throw an explosive toward them, but it didn't detonate, so they thought

they were joking, until both pulled out their guns and pointed at them. Rachel was hit four times and died instantly. Richard, meanwhile, was hit nine times and fell. unconscious. Inside the school, students thought it was a prank, but they would soon realize it wasn't. Eric and Dylan turned and shot at three more students, despite severe injuries, none of them died, and two managed to escape without the attackers noticing. It was at this moment that one of the most shocking scenes of the Columbine massacre occurred. Dylan walked down the steps to the cafeteria, approached one of the boys lying injured on the ground, who was begging and pleading

for his life, and coldly said, sure, I'll help you. He then shot him in the face, just like in the video game Doom. While all this was happening inside the school, art teacher Patty Mielsen decided to go out to see what was happening. She wanted to ask the kids joking outside to quiet down, thinking they were filming some kind of short film. But when she realized what was really happening and was badly injured, she ran inside and told her students to hide under the library tables while she called 911. Columbine High School, there's a student here with a gun, S.H.

I don't know what's in my shoulder, it has, and the school is in panic, and I'm in the library, got under the, the SC. The time from when the 911 call was answered until the shooters entered the library was four minutes and ten seconds. Just before going in, the shooters threw bombs into the cafeteria,

which exploded, and then threw a third into the library hallway. At 1129, Eric and Dylan entered the library, where 52 students, two teachers, and two librarians were hiding. Upon entering, Eric shouted, stand up. A shout that was recorded in a 911 call. When no one stood up, Eric said, fine, I'll shoot anyway. And that's what happened. After massacring a large number of students and noticing the police helping evacuate the school outside the windows, they did decided to shoot at them. They then turned their shots back into the library. It was then that two deaths occurred that to this day still send chills down my spine. In the first, Eric approached

a table, banged on it twice, and crouched down saying the word, peekaboo, I found you. Under that table was Casey Bernal, 17 years old, and without giving her time to react, he shot her in the head. Holding the shotgun with one hand, the recoil broke his nose. Next, Dylan went to another group of tables where he discovered three popular athletes hiding. That's when the boy's voice echoed through the room, hey, there's a. N. asterisk, asterisk, asterisk, asterisk here. His name was Isaiah, and he was ridiculed and insulted for several minutes before ultimately being killed by Eric Harris. After killing, injuring, and psychologically torturing everyone present, the boys left the library at 1136 a.m. cautiously and fearing their return, the 44 survivors, 10 of them seriously injured, fled.

The killers roamed the school, occasionally firing. At around 1141, security cameras caught them in the cafeteria. At 1202, they returned to the library, and at 1208, Patty Nielsen heard a shout coming from the library. there, the voices of Eric and Dylan counting, one, two, three, just before a huge explosion was heard. The boys had killed themselves. Eric shot himself in the pallet and Dylan in the temple. On April 21st, bomb squad agents carefully combed the school and at 10 a.m. declared it safe. At 11.30, the sheriff's spokesperson publicly stated that the investigation was underway. At 2.30 p.m., Jefferson County District Attorney David Thomas and Sheriff John Stone held a press conference, saying they suspected the boys had been helped. Formal identification of all the bodies had not yet been completed, but some families had already been notified privately. Throughout the afternoon, the bodies were removed and taken to the Jefferson County Coroner's office. By 5 p.m., all bodies had been identified, and the following count was made public, 15 confirmed. deaths and 27 injuries related to the massacre. After the massacre, authorities said they had no

reason to believe Eric and Dylan had been violent. However, when their belongings were searched and their diaries, videos, and statements were found, things weren't so clear. That's when all the alarms went off, how was it possible that no one had noticed? Their diaries were ruthless, full of hatred and resentment, full of bloody drawings, plans, and writings detailing with great precision how everything was going to happen. In fact, both boys marked a photograph taken days before the massacre, the one you see on screen. It's terrifying to think that later, all of them would be dead. One line of investigation revealed that Eric Harris had planned to hijack a plane and crash it into New York City, something that would actually happen two years later

during the attacks that destroyed the Twin Towers. But at that time, the police dismissed the idea as adolescent fantasy. At the site where all those deaths occurred, the Columbine Memorial was built, and a cross was erected for each victim, including Dylan and Eric. However, some time later, the father of one of the victims tore down and burned those crosses because he couldn't bear the idea that his son's murderers were being remembered alongside him. After the massacre, no one knew what had happened to Eric and Dylan to make them do that. Some pointed to the intense bullying they suffered, but others believed the reasons went much deeper.

But now it's your turn, what do you think pushed Eric and Dylan to commit the massacre? Was it really bullying, or was it something more? The end. Before we begin today's story, I would like to make a brief introduction about the historical origins of Australia, as it is said that a land stained with blood and pain always demands more. In the 17th century, the first English explorations of the Great Island of Australia concluded that this vast expanse of land held no wealth. Therefore, the King of England decided to give it a special use, one that only such an arid and

extensive place could have, to house hundreds of prisoners. The first convicts arrived there in 1788 under the command of Captain Arthur Philip, in the so-called First Fleet. A total of ten ships carrying 750 prisoners were sent there, and all of them disembarked at Port Jackson. That first settlement was established in New South Wales on January 26, a date-stst celebrated today as Australia Day. Quickly, the city and population grew due to the number of prisoners arriving. It is estimated that a total of 165,000 were sent there between the years 1788 and 1868. They began a new life there as the necessary workforce to build roads, ports, houses, bridges, everything a forming colony needed in order to receive new inhabitants. As we can see, the origins of

Australia are truly grim, not only because it became the home of the most incorrigible prisoners of the English crown, but also because of the tortures and suffering endured by the Aboriginal people who had lived on the island long before European colonization. However, today we will not delve into that topic, for we will travel back in time to reach the other sinister part of the country, the paranormal. But that will happen if you dare to accompany me. In the year 1876, Christopher William Crawley, who at that time was 35 years old, was determined to prosper financially. His dream was to acquire a large plot of land, start farming it, and create a legacy for his descendants. After several months of searching, he found vast lands in Junie, New South Wales, and he didn't

hesitate for a second to acquire them. Locally, one of them covered 400 hectares and another 120. Many called him crazy and urged him to rethink his dreams, however, according to written testimonies, he was not that kind of person. Christopher William Crawley was a determined man with a strong character. If an idea, no matter how stupid it might seem, crossed his mind, he had to carry it out. With his deep and hoarse voice, he would silence anyone who invited him to stop. At that point, he didn't want to hear the words, it's impossible, or, you don't know what you're doing. He simply rolled up his sleeves and fought for years to prove everyone wrong.

He worked the land with blood, sweat, and tears, and after much effort and hardship, he became rich. Mr. Crawley soon became a force to be reckoned within the region. In fact, he became the founder of the town. As a devout Roman Catholic, he donated a parcel of his land to the church and helped finance the construction of St. Joseph's Church, among many other civic projects, something that, in the eyes of society at the time, made him a role model. However, over the centuries, he would not be remembered precisely for that, but rather for building between 1884 and 1885 the most haunted house in Australia, Monte Cristo homestead.

Conceived as the largest house in the region, the nobility of Monte Cristo managed to become the ultimate status symbol. The house was designed as a feudal castle, it was the center of local power, and for that reason, it was built atop a hill. Its views were the best, its colors the most striking, and the vast land surrounding it made it a paradise on earth. In its day, the house was popular because it was where multiple meetings and lavish parties were held, in addition to being the place where the crawlies raised their seven children in perfect harmony. Everything in that family seemed perfect. Elizabeth, Mr. Crawley's wife, according to testimonies of the time, was an exact copy of Queen Victoria, in her bearing, in her elegance. She generally always wore long lace dresses in black. However, more than for her appearance, the woman would be remembered for her terrible character. It is said that both Elizabeth and her husband ruled the estate with an iron fist, and the victims of that difficult temperament were undoubtedly the servants who worked for them.

Legends tell of terrible stories of mistreatment, men, women, and children suffered the Crawley's wrath practically daily. But we're not just talking about beatings, there were also alleged deaths that stained the walls of that house with the blood of innocence. Unfortunately, in those times, no one dared stand up to the Lords, especially if they were people as admired and respected as the Crawley's. William Christopher Crawley died on December 14th, 1910, at the age of 69, from heart failure. His place of death, his beloved residence, Monte Cristo. After his death, the property was never the same. Something had changed. Elizabeth, the lady of the house, had lost the will to keep fighting against the world.

Legend has it that after her husband's death, the woman left the house only twice over over the next 23 years of her life. She spent all her days and nights turning her room into a small chapel, compulsively reading the Bible and praying. Apparently, the estate no longer mattered to her, and her only source of happiness was her Catholic faith. On August 12, 1933, while lying in bed, Elizabeth Crawley followed her husband at the age of 92.

The cause of her death, heart failure. From this point on, no family member wanted to, to stay there any longer, and little by little, they left the house until, in 1948, they definitively abandoned the Monte Cristo property. In 1968, the Ryan family fell in love with the building. From the outside, it seemed like a true gem, and it really was. Monte Cristo was indeed a historic two-story house, with wide terraces and wrought iron decorations. Its colors blended beautifully with the surroundings, and its lovely gardens made it an o'est,

in the middle of the desert. It was impossible not to fall in love with it. So, after making a first visit, the Ryan family didn't hesitate to make an offer. After acquiring it, they began restoring it to turn it into a museum. The first days there were total chaos. The house was filled with boxes packed with clothes, accessories, toys, hangers, and all kinds of furniture piled up in the hallways waiting to be placed in their final rooms. Even so, the Ryan family felt very happy. They had found the home of their dreams, and that was all that mattered to them. After three days of trying to get everything in order, they decided to go to the town center

for supplies. Everything seemed absolutely normal, the people of Junie were really pleasant, and the weather was unbeatable. So, after shopping and loading everything into the car, they decided to have a coffee on the terrace of a restaurant. Time flew by between laughs, and when they realized it, it was already night. So, the family returned to the car. On the way back home, everything was dark, there were hardly any lights on the streets, and everything was covered by a thick fog. This felt very strange since just a few hours earlier, a radiant sun had been shining over everything.

But the most sinister part was yet to come. As they turned down a street on the avenue to continue to continue straight toward the house, they saw in the distance a light on in every window. Monte Cristo was entirely lit up. Greg Ryan, the father of the family, slammed on the brakes. Everyone was shocked, they didn't know exactly what to do. Call the police. Keep driving normally. They remained sitting inside the car for several minutes, silently watching as their new,

splendid house stood completely illuminated in the middle of that blanket of darkness and thick fog. Mrs. Ryan, in a panic attack, didn't want to go any further, she was convinced there was a thief inside. However, after discussing it for a while, they decided to cautiously move forward, and just as they reached the main entrance, all the lights went out at the same time, causing the house to once again disappear into the fog. To be continued. And just as they reached the main entrance, all the lights went out at the same time, causing the house to disappear once again into the fog in the night. Once they had finished settling in, they decided to invite a family friend to show them their new home. The atmosphere was casual, the man entered Monte Cristo, throwing his arm over

Greg's shoulders. However, as soon as he crossed the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks and, with a lost look, turned pale. He then rushed out of the house, exclaiming the following, I'm leaving, I will never come back. But that was not the only time someone outside the family reacted so strangely to the house. One afternoon, Greg's wife invited a neighbor from the village and her young daughter over for coffee and pastries. After spending a lovely afternoon with them in the sitting room, she decided to show them the rest of the house. She showed them the entire lower floor and told them about her intention to turn the house into a museum. The guests were completely fascinated and followed her upstairs toward the upper floor.

However, they were unable to reach their destination because, halfway up the stairs, their legs stopped responding. The woman said the following, I can't go up, it's as if invisible chains are grabbing my ankles. After those words, the little girl began to scream. She didn't feel chains tightening around her ankles, no, she felt that cold, invisible hands were grabbing her and pushing her downward, sending her into a terrible state of panic. The Ryan family didn't understand anything, they weren't experiencing anything strange in the house, only the guests seemed able to see and feel strange things. It was then that Greg

began his search for information, a search through the town archives, completely fruitless. However, it wasn't if we count the legends of Monte Cristo. A neighbor from Junie told him the following, it said that tremendous misfortunes happened in that house. The Crowleys didn't hesitate to punish their workers. They say Mrs. Crowley pushed a boy down the stairs, and he fell in such a way that he died instantly. When Greg asked for the boy's name, the man replied, who knows? It said that many of the victims didn't even get a gravestone in the cemetery.

Anyway, no matter who you ask, they'll tell you that boy is not your only tenant, and they weren't wrong. In the year 1922, a nephew of the family and his girlfriend visited the house. At one point, the girl asked her boyfriend to accompany her to the bathroom because she felt extremely uneasy walking alone down the hallways of that house. In Greg Ryan's own words, she was a good girl. She apologized to us and then confessed she didn't feel safe in our house. She confessed that she felt the walls had eyes. We thanked her, of course, She was the first person to be honest with us without running away. The couple walked to the bathroom.

Once she finished and they were about to go downstairs, something made them stop in their tracks, an almost unintelligible murmur, something like a whisper. It was a voice, an electric voice, coming from an unlit part of the house. Both, full of fear, decided to approach, curiosity was stronger than fear. So they walked slowly and cautiously toward it. And then they saw her, a young woman dressed in white who, looking them in the eyes, said the following, don't worry, the rights will belong to everyone.

Then she took a step toward them and repeated, don't worry, the rights will belong to everyone. And in a simple blink, she disappeared. One night, the Ryan couple was getting ready to go to a play, so they sent their youngest daughter, Shirale upstairs to check if her little brother was still asleep. Shearalee returned after just a few seconds, very distressed, her eyes soaked with tears, trembling like a leaf in the wind. She was unable to utter a single word. So her mother hugged her and tried to calm her, and once she managed to do so, the little girl pronounced the following words, a man, there's a man next to the staircase. A young man in work clothes. He's standing there, there's a hole in the sleeve of his jacket. He's watching Lauren. Greg ran upstairs while his wife remained on the lower floor with their two daughters, trying to calm the little one.

It took them hours to fully reassure her and be sure there was no intruder in the house. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be the last time the children felt terror in their own skin. The Ryan daughters slept together in one room. This detail shouldn't surprise us, but the next one might, almost every night, they would wake up their parents with screams, swearing and insisting that a man would stand on the other side of the window, watching them while they slept. They described him as a young man with a stained face, dressed in work clothes. But no matter how much Greg ran, no matter how much he searched, he never found the intruders the girls described. Over the years, the girls stopped screaming, they understood that no matter what they did, that man would return.

They came to see him as their guardian. We felt that with him there, nothing would happen to us while we slept, maybe something happened to him while he was sleeping, and that's why he watches over us, declared one of the girls. At night, there was always movement in that house. The entire family would hear someone walking upstairs, coming down the stairs, and 15 minutes later, going back up. At first, it was terrifying, but later they got used to it. After hearing it so many times, they learned to distinguish whether those feet were walking on linoleum or on wood, but most of all, they learned to tell who that person was. In the main balcony during the day, it was common to hear those footsteps. One day, Mrs. Ryan sat down to sew there, it was nice weather,

so she thought it was the perfect opportunity. That's when she heard it, the unmistakable sound of a woman's heels walking across the upper terrace. It was undeniable, that was the lady of the house. It seems the dining room was the place where the presence of Mrs. Crowley was most strongly felt. On a visit to the house, a psychic, several times during the meal, got up and left the room without any explanation. She waited a few minutes and then returned to her seat. She later told the Ryans that Mrs. Crowley had ordered her to leave the room. Many visitors have fled in terror the moment they entered the house, such as a journalist who wanted to film the room where Mrs. Crowley had been confined for 23 years. It proved an impossible task,

and she fled, overcome by fear. There's also the case of a teenage girl who, upon entering Mrs. Crowley's room, suffered an asthma attack, the strange part. The girl didn't have asthma. Now the house is open to the public, it has become the museum the Ryans wanted. Tourists who visit the house say that screams and whales can be heard in the stables. Apparently, in Crowley's time, they kept a mentally ill servant's son chained there. And what happened to that man? He died there, of hunger, of thirst, of cold, he died from abandonment.

Over time, it has been shown that Mrs. Crowley's spirit especially targets women and children, as historical records indicate the woman deeply despise their presence in the house. Monte Cristo Homestead is a house marked by tragedy. Most events happen to outsiders, tourists, the curious, such as the case of a little girl found crying in a corner of the garden. The girl had gotten lost after separating from her group, and the guide who found her declared the following, I found her in the garden and accompanied her until we found her mother.

On the way, she anxiously told me she had faced a woman, a bad woman, on the stairs, a woman dressed in old-fashioned black clothes, who yelled at her to get out of her house. There are countless experiences of children who claim to see people dressed in period clothing, standing still in the middle of hallways, in the middle of rooms, as if they were statues. But this video will not end with mere words. I'm not going to let you leave thinking this story was just a tale invented by the Ryan family. On screen, you will be able to see some of the images taken by tourists. Some, while wandering through the residents, say they capture strange orbs or even bluish lights

that can only be seen with their cameras. Others capture dark, blurred silhouettes in spots where there should be light. Even so, I'd like to show you an image that personally impacted me greatly. There is a testimony published on Reddit that tells us the experience of a woman who, while waiting for her tour to begin, started taking pictures in the garden. She had been told that faces were often seen in the building's windows. She was a very skeptical person, so she decided to try her luck. She activated the burst mode on her digital camera, and in one of the many photos she took, the following appeared.

Can't you see it? Let's zoom in. And now it's your turn. Would you dare spend an entire night at Monte Cristo Homestead? The end. Part 1. It's Sunday morning and my husband has just left to go help his brother fix a bike, but I'm left wondering what he does anymore. There was nothing unusual in how he acted this morning. He let me sleep in a bit while he made breakfast. I couldn't bring myself to walk down to the kitchen in my usual t-shirt and panties. I put a full cotton pajama set on because I'm struggling with what to think. He noticed that I was aloof and stand-offish right away. I usually thank him with a hug and kiss, but couldn't bring myself to touch him or even look at him for that matter.

He asked me if I was okay and all I could muster is, I'm fine, just feeling a bit icky. I couldn't eat and the coffee quickly turned my gut upside down. I apologized to him for not staying but said that I needed to rest and went to our bathroom. I stayed there until he had to leave, he yelled, goodbye, get better, through the door before he left. It all started yesterday when we went dirt biking in the mountains. We like to get out at least once a month and it's getting late in the fall now. Pretty soon we'll be switching over to snowmobiles. We had a group of six.

My husband Ian, his longtime friend Leah, 30F, her man Rob, 32M, my friend. friend and client Carrie, 27F, and her husband Will, 27M. Ian and Leah would be considered expert riders. They both grew up near the mountains and have biked, hiked, ran, skied and snowmobiled them all their lives. I've been riding for the past three years since I started dating Ian. We've been married just over a year now. Rob, Carrie, and we'll have all just started this past summer. All three of them are athletic and brave enough to enjoy riding, but I do find myself split between the two groups often. Yesterday I decided to keep up with the thrill-seekers and leave the noobs behind.

I was so proud of myself when I did it. I've learned to control my bike. When to hit the gas and when to lay off. How to recognize a good line to take versus a dangerous one. How to avoid shale and stand or lean when necessary. I truly held my own and both Ian and Leah were very impressed. I even was able to help Leah get dusted off and back up out of a rock gorge that she failed to avoid. I could see the surprise in her eyes when I pulled her up. I don't think she ever realized

how strong I am. I was a swimmer in college. I even tried out for our country's Olympic team and finished sixth. Just a bit outside of being asked to continue training with them as an alternate. I've always been very fit and I take pride in how strong I am for my size. I'm all woman though. All of my gear and my bike are pink. I bought them when we started, and I've always loved my choice. Leah didn't though. She would always tease me about being too girly for the mountains and would get downright mad if my bike had issues. Calling it a pink piece of shit.

It wasn't yesterday though, I held my own and she knew it. We always gather at someone's house when we're done the day and after we drop our equipment off. Last night we were at Leah and Rob's. They have a small house but a big fire pit in their backyard. It's probably the last night of the year for that as well. We did our usual talk about the day, sharing war stories and showing off bruises. Will had a good fall that will leave quite the bruise on his hip.

I got to brag about pulling Leah up and helping her get her bike out of the gorge. Leah got pretty messed up and was trying to brag about climb she had done in the past that I couldn't do at the time. No one gave her much airtime though. She was starting to get emotional the more inebriated she got, sitting in her lawn chair, staring at me and crying a bit. It was weird behavior for her. We shut it down around midnight and Rob had to guide Leah into the house because she was struggling to keep her balance. I say all of the above to give what I view as the context for the text Leah sent at 3 a.m. that I read this morning.

It said, I'm so sorry what we've been doing Amanda, I hope someday you can forgive me. I think it's obvious how I'm interpreting this text, but there is a small hope that it could be just referring to her disdain of my writing ability up to now. I'm looking for some thoughts on how to proceed and I'll answer questions in an update. Thank you for your time and advice. Part 1B, I sent Leah a simple text, W-D-YM. Of course, it's still unread and there hasn't been a response. Thank you to those of you that have commented that this could be as simple as a drunken, stupid text. It hit me so hard this morning that I didn't consider the possibility.

The longer she leaves me hanging, though, the worse I feel about it. My husband, Ian, called me to check in. He wanted to know how I was feeling. I told him I was feeling better. He asked if I wanted him to come home early, but there was still some work to do. I said that I was fine. I usually head to the shop on Sundays to join him, so this is a little different from our usual routine. He and his brother had inherited the shop four years ago when his dad passed away due to COVID.

It's known throughout our area as the best place to get your mountain and lake toys fixed up. They do everything from repairs of boats, dirt bikes, ATVs and snowmobiles to aftermarket improvements. They even buy and sell used vehicles when it makes sense. I'm a CPA and I usually get the books up to date on Sundays. It's the only real time that I have to keep them up to date. I work in the city for a large public accounting firm. Between the demands of the job and the daily commute I'm gone about 60 to 70 hours during the week. The shop is just as busy, and Ian works about the same hours, so we don't really have times when either of us is working while the other isn't.

Friday nights and Saturdays are our days together. We go for dinner, we go hiking, skiing, biking, or sledding. We just go for adventures and enjoy our time with each other. I say all this just to state that I don't know how he would have time to cheat on me. But my gut is telling me that something is up. Why would she apologize for something we've done? She's the only one that has been bullying me. Why would she need forgiveness?

I called my friend Carrie to just ask if she felt Leah was acting weird last night. She agreed that Leah was acting like she was struggling about saying something. I like Carrie, but she isn't close enough to me that I would confide a worry like this with. She is a client that owns a high-end antique shop that she inherited from her grandparents around the same time as Ian and his brother took over the shop. I like her, but I don't know if she's a trustworthy, empathetic person. I have access to all of Ian's social media accounts. I pretty much manage them for the shop. There's nothing there and no indication that he has some hidden account.

He's not big into that type of stuff, so I didn't expect to find anything when I looked. We have always shared locations, and I've never noticed day trips to Leah's or anything weird like that. The only person that I would trust my concerns with this is my mom. I'm thinking of heading into the city later this afternoon to give her a visit. She lives near downtown, and I do go in from time to time on a Sunday evening to visit her, stay overnight and then work the next day before coming home. If anyone has any ideas on how I can find out if he's cheating,

Please help. Previous post, update, I called Leah and there was no answer. I didn't leave a message because I didn't trust myself to not freak out. I then called Ian and let him know that I was going into town to visit my mom because she wanted to see me and it's been a month. He said that they were working out the winter parts order so his brother and he will be working later today anyways. We both said, I love you when we ended the call, but it just feels dirty right now. I can't believe I'm writing this, I really can't believe I'm sitting here typing this at midnight. My therapist said it'd be good to get everything out, that writing it down would somehow release all the stuff that's been bottled up inside, festering like a clogged pipe.

I don't know if I buy it, but here I am anyway. I've tried everything else to sleep, so maybe this will do the trick. He told me words can be toxic, the way thoughts can poison you, and you have to let them out, like draining an infected wound. But how many times do you have to drain a wound before it heals. That's the part he didn't say. Honestly, I don't know if I can do this. I've been carrying these memories around for so long, heavy like stones at the bottom of a dark lake. I thought if I just buried them deep enough, I wouldn't ever have to touch them again. But the truth? These memories haven't gone anywhere. They've been with me all along, haunting my nights and ruining every relationship I've ever tried to have. I've been given so many different

diagnoses over the years, Survivors' guilt, PTSD, schizophrenia. They've tried to explain it away a hundred different ways. But none of it captures what really happened that summer. It was 1977, and I was just an eight-year-old kid. I went to an all-girl summer camp, my parents thought it'd be good for me to make some friends. I ended up in what they called tent six. Technically, it was tent seven if you counted the counselor's tent, but who cares? It's not like any of us paid attention to the numbers. We were all part of the same group, the Kiowa group, packed into these tiny tents with mesh walls that felt way too flimsy to keep anything out. I remember clutching Mr. Beans, my stuffed bear, so tight that night. I tried to hide him from the older girls

because they said stuffed animals were for babies, and I desperately wanted to seem cool. These were the Arapahoe girls, older, cooler, and somehow effortlessly perfect. They wore lip gloss, talked about boys, and made fun of me during dinner. I kept telling myself that maybe they were teasing me because they liked me. That's what my mom always said, if people tease you, it just means they want to be your friend. I wanted so badly to believe that was true. That night, I woke up to the sound of something outside the tent. Rustling, soft at first, like someone sneaking around.

My first thought was that it was the older girls coming to pull a prank or maybe see if I was tough enough to hang with them. I didn't wake the other girls because I was afraid they'd cry and ruin everything. I figured if I could just keep quiet and play along, maybe, just maybe, I'd get to be one of the cool girls. But then the tent flap opened. And it wasn't any of the girls. It was a man. A stranger. He wasn't a counselor or anyone I recognized.

Just a man, crouching there, looking into our tent with this weird, twisted smile. I remember the way his eyes moved, counting us, one, two, three, four little girls. When his gaze landed on me, I froze. He put a finger to his lips, the universal sign for a s'hitch. And like the obedient kid I was, I nodded. I didn't scream. I didn't run. I just lay there, clutching Mr. Beans behind my suitcase, hoping it would all go away.

The man slipped back out into the night, leaving the flap swaying behind him. I lay there, heart pounding, listening to the silent stretch out like a thin wire about to snap. At some point, I must have fallen asleep again, if you can even call it sleep, because the the next thing I remember is waking up at dawn. The sky had that pale blue tint it gets just before the sun fully rises, and for a brief moment, everything felt okay. The nightmares always stopped when the sun came up. I needed to pee, but I was too scared to go right away. I peaked out of the tent, expecting to see something, maybe the man, maybe nothing at all. But the campsite looked peaceful, almost normal. I figured the worst was over. It wasn't.

On my way to the bathroom, I saw them. Three little girls, lying at the base of a tree. Two were zipped up in their sleeping bags, and one lay sprawled on the ground. Her pajama top was pushed up, and she wasn't wearing any bottoms. There was blood, more blood than I'd ever seen in my life. A red flashlight lay next to one of the bags, its beam still faintly glowing. They weren't moving. They weren't breathing.

I knew all their names. I still know their names. But what does it matter now? I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just kept walking. I don't know why, but I went straight to the bathroom, peed, and walked back to my tent like nothing had happened.

Maybe I thought if I ignored it, it would stop being real. When I got back to tent six, the other girls were still asleep. Tent seven, though. It was empty. I crawled into my sleeping bag and closed my eyes, pretending everything was fine. It was the last time I ever slept without nightmares. I told myself it had to be a dream, just a bad, twisted dream that would fade away with time. But the dream didn't fade.

It stayed with me, festering like a sickness I couldn't shake. The next morning, the counselors woke us up early. They said there was a problem with the water supply and that camp was being cancelled. We had to pack our things and go home. Some of the other girls whined about it, complaining that they'd sold too many cookies to have camp end after just one day. But I kept hearing the counselor's voice in my head, camp is cancelled. Camp is cancelled. I knew it wasn't about the water. The bus ride home was a blur. One of the other kids said I cried in my sleep, but I don't remember. When we pulled into the parking lot,

reporters were waiting for us, shouting questions. My mom scooped me up, hugged me so tight I could barely breathe, and whispered, no more camp. She threw out my sleeping bag as soon as we got home. The police came a couple of times after that, but I never told them what I saw. My mom told them I slept through the whole night and didn't see anything. I think she knew I wasn't ready to talk. Honestly, I still don't know if I'm ready now. Would it have made a difference if I had said something back then? Every time I thought about telling someone, that man's face would appear in my mind,

his finger pressed to his lips, and I'd feel sick to my stomach. I've lost count of how many times I've thrown up just thinking about it. years went by, but the nightmares never left. I can't hold a job for more than a few months. I've never been able to keep a boyfriend, the screaming and thrashing in my sleep always drives them away. I've tried therapy before, but nothing ever helped. Until now. My new therapist says it's not my fault. That writing everything down will help. Maybe he's right. Maybe it's time to let go of the guilt, the fear, and the silence I've carried with me since that summer. But here's the thing I've never told anyone, not even my therapist. Never again. It's been years, but I still can't go into

the woods. I can't even look at pictures of forests without feeling like I'm drowning. And now, every time I try to sleep, I see those twisted little bodies under the tree, clear as day. I hear the man's voice whispering in my ear, telling me to stay silent. And the worst part? Somewhere deep inside, I know he's still out there. Watching. Waiting. And I'll never feel safe again. Shadows on the lawn, I found myself leaning against the railing of my porch, a cigarette hanging from my lips, watching the empty stretch of grass before me. It used to be a lively place, filled with the sounds of children laughing, kicking soccer balls, or tossing frisbees under the sun. Now, all I saw was an expanse of green that seemed to mock my memories.

My daughter, Susie, used to be the ringleader of those games, racing around with a spirit that could light up the gloomiest day. Sometimes, she'd even roll a mrs. grass, her giggles echoing like music in the air, or lie back, staring up at the clouds, dreaming up stories of adventures unknown. But those days felt like they belonged to another lifetime. These days, Susie barely stepped outside. It was as if the magic of the great outdoors had been replaced by the allure of screens. I'd call her to join me, hoping to recapture those moments, but she'd just shake her head and

retreat back into the house. It was puzzling. Our neighborhood, a quaint estate with about 80 homes, should have been a haven for kids. Quiet streets, friendly neighbors, and, until recently, a sense of safety that parents cherished. Yet, somehow, it had all turned into a dull routine. The nearest shopping center was a 15-minute drive, and parents had begun to voice their dissatisfaction with the lack of entertainment for kids. A couple of years back, there had been a push for change.

Parents sent letters to the estate's owners, suggesting a playground for at least some soccer goals for the kids. It seemed like something was finally happening when the owners announced plans for a playground back in November 2016. I remember the excitement buzzing through our little community. But as time passed, that excitement fizzled out, and soon enough, life resumed its monotonous pace. Technology had seeped into every corner of our lives, just like it had everywhere else, and the need for outdoor play seemed to vanish. Then, three months ago, everything changed. It was a typical evening when I stepped outside for my routine smoke. The sun was setting, casting orange hues across the sky, and I glanced down at the patch of grass,

expecting to see nothing. Instead, I was taken aback by a series of wooden fences that had popped up overnight, enclosing what appeared to be an empty area. I shrugged it off, thinking it was probably some maintenance work or something. The following day, I noticed wooden beams rising where the fences had been. Curiosity peaked, what on earth were they building? Day after day, the mystery unfolded. Each evening as I smoke my cigarette, I watched the area transform.

A seesaw appeared, followed by swings, and then a little cubby house, all culminating in a small, sturdy playground. It was almost surreal. But as the playground materialized, questions arose. Who was behind this unexpected construction? The owners of the estate denied any involvement, claiming they had no clue who was building it. Yet, week by week, the playgrounds. grew, and soon enough, it was complete. It was a modest setup, but it finally drew children

out of their homes again. I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope watching kids rediscover the joy of playing outside, running and laughing as they swung higher and higher. For the first week, everything felt right. But that piece was shattered with the disappearance of a young boy named Jeremy. He had been last seen playing at the new playground. Initially, there was no mass panic. Parents were concerned, of course, but kids said, still played. Then, a few days later, another boy, Daniel, vanished. The sense of safety in our quiet neighborhood began to crumble as parents grew more anxious. When my son asked if he could go outside and play, I felt a tight knot in my stomach. No, buddy, it's too dangerous, I told him.

Panic escalated as twin sisters went missing a week after Daniel. Each time, the playground became a haunting backdrop to the unfolding nightmare. The authorities launched a thorough investigation. but after two months, there were no leads. Night after night, I sat on my veranda, watching that once vibrant playground, now cloaked in a heavy silence. The laughter of children had been replaced by a suffocating stillness. I still went out for my evening smoke,

keeping my eyes trained on the grass, hoping for a glimmer of normalcy, but it never came. One evening, while lost in thought, a neighbor strolled by. We exchanged concerned glances and small talk, mostly about the unsettling events that had been plaguing our community. She mentioned plans to move away for her family's safety. I nodded in agreement, it seemed like a reasonable choice. How's Susie? She asked, a hint of surprise in her voice when I mentioned her new siblings.

Oh, I didn't know you had more kids. I shrugged, the weight of those words settling heavy in the air. Yeah, three girls and two boys, just as those words escaped my lips, a chill ran down my spine, and I felt an unsettling connection to the shadows lurking within the playground. The sense of dread continued to creep in. I was about eight when everything shifted for me. We had moved to a town that was supposed to be an upgrade, a cleaner, quieter place that felt almost too good to be true. It was a community where children roamed freely,

playing in the vast public park that sat right in the center. The playground was massive, featuring rows of swings, slides, and those twisty, snake-like tunnels that seemed to invite adventure. There was even a merry-go-round that seemed to beckon kids with its constant, lightly eerie spin. Life felt perfect, or so I thought. My parents enforce strict rules, be home before dark, a mantra I adhered to without question. It was a Friday evening when I burst through the door with excitement, knowing that the weekend was mine for the taking. I tossed my school bag aside and slipped into my play clothes, ready to dive into a world of fun.

My friends, Billy and Tom, and I quickly hatched a plan for a new game we called Murderer. It was a spin on hide-and-seek, but with an added element of a excitement that had us all buzzing. As we played, the chill of impending winter seeped into the air, but our laughter filled the park, pushing away the cold. As I navigated the tunnels, trying to find the perfect hiding spot, I lost track of time. Billy was the seeker, and Tom had found a hiding place behind the merry-go-round. I called out, I give up, and that's when I heard it, a shuffling noise echoing from the tunnel's depths. I froze. Something didn't feel right. Billy would have called out to tease us or congratulate us on hiding so well.

Instead, the shuffling grew louder, and as darkness began to creep in, I felt a cold grip of fear wash over me. I started to back away, but the noise only intensified. Come out, it's time to go home now, a creepy voice echoed, sending chills down my spine. I could feel my heart racing. Why would an adult be in the tunnel? Panic set in, and I turned to scramble away. The shadowy figure of an old man emerged in the darkness, his hair wild and his clothes

tattered. His grin revealed teeth that looked like they hadn't seen a toothbrush in weeks. I panicked and crawled faster, heart pounding in my ears. He chased after me, his voice growing softer, pleading. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk. I pressed myself against the wall of the tunnel, listening to him shift around, desperately trying to find a way out of this nightmare.

I laid there, trembling, for what felt like hours. The blue lights from police cars began flashing in the distance, accompanied by frantic voices calling out names. When I finally gathered the courage to crawl out, I was met by a scene that would haunt me forever. My parents rushed toward me, relief flooding their faces, but it was overshadowed by the grim reality of that night. Billy and Tom were never found. The news hit me like a freight train, they had been brutally murdered, their young lives extinguished

in a moment of horrific violence. The memories of that night haunt me. The wet dirt in the tunnel wasn't just mud, it was a mix of the earth and blood, billies and Tom's. The man who had smiled at me, who had played a game with me, had taken them from this world. He had won his twisted game. Now, I often find myself staring at that empty stretch of grass, wishing for those carefree days when laughter filled the air.

I can still hear the echoes of joy, the innocence of childhood, and yet, in the shadow of that playground, the past feels hauntingly distant. The world has changed, darkness has seeped into our safe spaces, reminding us that sometimes, the worst monsters hide where we least expect them. As I lean against the railing, I can't shake the feeling that those shadows might still be lurking, waiting for another chance to emerge. A haunting return, two encounters with darkness. Part one, a mother's strange welcome. Jesus, man. It's wild what life throws your way. So, recently, I patched things up with my mom after a 10-year fallout. I hadn't talked to her since that one ugly night all those years ago.

Pride and stubbornness got the best of both of us back then. You see, after my dad passed away when I was a kid, she became overly protective, thinking love meant drowning me with her fears and anxieties. It was suffocating. We fought. I walked out, and that was the end of it, for a decade. Then, out of nowhere, she called during the holidays, asking if we could talk. Honestly, my startup had just tanked, and I figured, what's the worst that could happen?

So, I packed my things and headed back to the place I once called home. Or so I thought. When I arrived, the house looked familiar, but it felt off. My mom's family came from old money, and even though times had changed, we were still comfortable growing up. But the house had lost its shine. She'd swapped our old housekeeper for a new one, an older lady with something unsettling about her. This new housekeeper was way too spry for her age, with sharp, calculating eyes buried deep in her

sockets. She leaned on a cane that didn't seem necessary, more like a prop. She showed me to the living room, which was a whole other kind of weird. All the art and antiques I remembered from childhood were gone. Instead, the house was now full of eerie statues, saints, but not like the ones I remembered from church. They were twisted, almost monstrous. One life-sized crucifix had five eyes, the smallest one smack on its forehead, and it wore this grotesque grin. Everywhere I looked, things were just, wrong. St. Peter had a monkey's head. The Virgin Mary?

A skeleton, crowned like some grim queen. St. Sebastian had three faces, and each was stabbing one of the others with a knife. It was like the house had turned into some bizarre museum of nightmares. Then I heard footsteps from upstairs, slow, deliberate steps, and down came my mom, dressed in a flowing white gown, plain and somber. Nothing like the designer clothes she used to wear. She even had this weird hat that looked almost like a bishop's mitre. But the real kicker.

She wasn't alone. Trailing behind her was a little girl, no more than seven, with hair cascading all the way to her ankles. The girl was just as strange, plump, dressed entirely in white, and bouncing along like this was some twisted fairy tale. My mom greeted me with open arms, saying how much she missed me, and I could. couldn't help but feel unsettled. She acted as if we were still this perfect family, even though I was sure I was her only child. So, who was this girl? Reading my confusion, my mom smiled and said, Don't worry, Jordan. You're still the apple of my eye. Then, with

a bizarre, almost reverent tone, she added, This little girl is God incarnate. She's here to feast on our sins, I felt my stomach turn. The way she said it, like it was the most natural thing in the world, made my skin crawl. The girl's eyes gleamed with something, not human. And in that moment, all I knew was that I needed to get out of there. Fast. Hashtag hashtag Part 2, a midnight drive through the bayou. A few weeks later, I found myself on another surreal journey. It was the Sunday night after the 4th of July, and I was driving back to campus from my parents' house. My mom had guilt-tripped me into staying for dinner, which meant I was now stuck driving through the night.

And the route? Straight through the back roads of southern Louisiana, right next to the bayou. Now, I've always hated driving along those swamp roads. The way the cypress trees rise out of the dark water, twisting and looming, messes with your mind. Sometimes, it feels like the shadows are alive, watching you from between the trees. I cranked up the radio, hoping some music would distract me from the creeping sense of dread. But, of course, the static hit.

No, no, no, I muttered, fiddling with the knobs. The static grew louder, drowning out everything else, until it was all I could hear. Just as I glanced back at the road, something appeared in my headlights. Too late to stop. I swerved, feeling the sickening thump as the car rolled over whatever was in the road. Heart pounding, I slammed on the brakes and skid it to a stop. Oh, no. What did I just hit?

I whispered, gripping the wheel in panic. I stepped out of the car, the summer air heavy with humidity and the hum of mosquitoes. About 30 feet away, a dark figure lay crumpled on the road. Dreading the worst, I approached, calling out, sir. Are you okay? When I knelt down to check, my heart nearly stopped. It wasn't a person, it was a dummy. A stuffed figure dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, its chest ripped open from the impact.

What the? I whispered, stepping back in confusion. Before I could think too hard about it, a cold breeze rustled through the bushes, and a low, eerie moan echoed through the air. Then I heard a scream, sharp, desperate, and full of terror. I spun around and saw a face peering from the bushes, illuminated by the beam of a flashlight. It was a young woman, her face streaked with blood, a gash across her forehead. She screamed again, more blood spilling from her mouth.

Before I could react, my car door slammed shut. The engine roared to life, and my car sped off, leaving me stranded in the dark. I turned back to the woman, but she was gone. In her place was a lifeless body, throat slashed and covered in burns and bruises. Panic set in, and I started running. That's when I heard it, the high-pitched giggling of someone pretending to be a child. It echoed through the trees, sending chills down my spine. I ran faster, heart hammering in my chest.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a clearing where a group of people, stood around a fire. They wore deer masks made from sticks and twine, chanting in strange, guttural voices. At the center of the ritual, a man in a goat mask held a book, reciting something in a booming voice. Then, without warning, the others pounced on him, stabbing him repeatedly as they laughed and cheered. I backed away, horrified, only to come face to face with a young girl, blonde hair, red eyes, and a sinister smile. She pointed at me, and with a snap of her fingers, the masked figures turned and began chasing me. I bolted into the swamp, splashing through the murky water as the cultists closed in.

Every time I thought I was safe, another figure would appear between the trees, staring at me through hollow eye sockets. I tripped over a skeleton, its decayed flesh clinging to bone, and nearly lost it. At last, I found a hiding spot, sinking into the water until only my head remained above the surface. I stayed like that for hours, praying they wouldn't find me. Eventually, the sounds of their pursuit faded, and the sun rose. When I finally made it out of the swamp, I stumbled onto a dirt road and found a gas station.

The clerk looked horrified, but I managed to call the police. They found the girl's body, along with dozens more hidden in the swamp. To this day, I avoid those backroads. It might take longer, but I'll stick to the interstate, thank you very much. Because out there, in the twisted heart of the bayou, something dark still lingers, and I have no intention of meeting it again. A different kind of lockdown experience. If you went to school anytime from the 90s onward, chances are you've experienced at least one lockdown drill. Maybe you've even gone through an actual lockdown. Not every lockdown ends in tragedy, in fact, many are triggered

by reasons that have nothing to do with an active threat. It could be because a crime happened somewhere nearby, or maybe a parent forgot to sign in with a visitor batch. There are a million reasons, most of which aren't tied to anything life-threatening. Still, schools would rather be safe than sorry, right? I grew up in a post-Columbine world, where every lockdown, real or not, was treated with the utmost seriousness. Even though I lived in a relatively isolated community where most people knew each other, the fear was always there. Discussions about letting teachers carry guns were regular occurrences. People knew it could take a while for the police to arrive if the worst happened. But this isn't about done control, it's about a different kind of fear, and a personal experience

that shook me to my core. Most lockdowns are just drills. But the one I'm going to tell you about wasn't. It still messes with me to this day. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a nervous kid's worst nightmare, I've always been a bit paranoid by nature, even as a kid. Cafeterious made me uncomfortable because I often get stuck at a table in the corner, far from the nearest exit. The thought of having to run across the entire room, even in something as harmless as a food fight, made me anxious. In classrooms, I'd stare out the window and wonder if a jump from the second floor would leave me with a broken bone or worse. I liked sitting by the windows too, partly because it helped me daydream, but also because it gave me a mental escape route. If you've ever worked

in a school, you know how lockdowns are supposed to go, teachers lock the doors, turn off the lights, and push students into a part of the room that can't be seen from the small window in the door. It always seemed a bit ridiculous to me. I once had an English class in a room where the only hidden spot was directly next to the door, the worst possible place to hide. Imagining us crouching right by the door while someone tried the handle on the other side. Pure nightmare fuel. What scared me even more was the thought of getting caught outside the classroom during a lockdown. If that ever happened, what was I supposed to do?

Should I bang on the nearest door and hope someone lets me in? Should I hide in a closet? Or would I have to make a run for the exit? If the situation ever felt real, I always told myself I'd bolt for the exit, no way was I taking any chances. We were never officially told if a lockdown was real or just a drill, but there was always a kid who knew. Usually, it was someone whose mom worked at the school.

They'd whisper to the rest of us, it's just a drill, or fire drill tomorrow, too. One girl named Kelly swore there was a special code for when it was real. She said, if they say lockdown three times, It's a drill. Four times. That means it's the real deal. It sounded dumb at the time, but I couldn't help counting every time the principal's voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

Three times. Relief. Four. Panic. Hashtag hashtag hashtag when routine turns real. By the time I hit 11th grade, I had a new level of confidence. As an upperclassman, I felt like I owned the place. I was 16 and almost done with high school.

In my head, I had already graduated. I didn't rush to class anymore, instead hanging out in the hallways, teasing freshmen, and chatting with teachers like I was one of them. That overconfidence almost cost me dearly one morning. It all started when someone spilled what I hoped was iced coffee on me during the bus ride. I spent too much time in the bathroom trying to clean my shirt with a wet paper towel, which meant I was cutting it close to the first period bell. As I stood there, frustrated at the stubborn stain, the loudspeaker crackled to life.

At first, I thought it was the morning announcements. But instead, I heard, asterisk, lockdown, lockdown, lockdown, lockdown, lockdown, lockdown, asterisk, I froze. Kelly's words came rushing back. Four times. This wasn't a drill. Hashtag, hashtag, hashtag alone in the bathroom. For a moment, I stood completely still, my mind racing.

What the hell was I supposed to do? All the classroom doors were already shut. I was stuck on the second floor, with no one around. Panic settled in my stomach like a rock. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they just forgot to announce it was a drill. I tried to remember if the voice on the loudspeaker had sounded calm or scared, but I couldn't tell. I retreated to the last stall in the bathroom, the one meant for wheelchair access, and climbed onto the toilet seat. Should I lock the stall door? No, that would only give me away. I thought about lying flat on the ground and crawling from

stall to stall, but I knew it wouldn't matter. If someone came in, I was done for. As I crouched on that grimy toilet seat, my mind spiraled. What if the shooter found me? What would I say? Could I reason with them? Would I recognize them? What if it was someone I knew? My heart pounded so hard I was sure they'd hear it if they walked in. Then, I heard it. Footsteps. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the moment of truth. The bathroom door creaked open. My heart stopped. I felt like I was floating, completely disconnected from my body.

Each stall door groaned as it was pushed open, one by one, getting closer and closer. I tried to squeeze my eyes shut, but fear kept them wide open. I could hear their breathing, soft but deliberate. My mind raised with possibilities. Could I fight them? Could I survive if they had a knife instead of a gun? I started making ridiculous bargains with myself. If I survived, I'd never complain about school again.

If I could just go home, I'd do whatever it took. The footsteps stopped right outside my stall. Then, the loudspeaker crackled again. Asterisk, lockdown is now complete. Thank you for your cooperation. Asterisk, the person outside my stall paused. After a moment, they turned and left, the bathroom door clicking shut behind them. I stayed frozen on the toilet seat for what felt like an eternity.

When I finally climbed down, my legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand. Hashtag, hashtag hashtag the aftermath. When I got to my first period class, my teacher gave me an annoyed look for being late. I told him what had happened, and he called the vice principal. She listened to my story but seemed skeptical. It was just a drill, she insisted. No one was supposed to be in the bathroom, but I knew the truth. Someone had been in there with me.

And they were one stall away from finding me. hashtag hashtag a college lockdown. Now, as a second-year college student, I've experienced a few more lockdowns, most of them uneventful. But one sticks out in my mind. It started like any other day, until the alert came in around 8 a.m. The entire campus went on lockdown. At first, my roommates, Ali and Samantha, and I thought it was just another drill. But hours passed with no updates. We heard distant shouting at one point, which made Samantha jump. Internet and cell service were spotty, and we couldn't reach anyone outside the dorm. Samantha tried calling her mom, but there was nothing on the news about a lockdown.

If it had been a school shooter, the media would have been all over it. Eventually, Samantha decided she'd had enough. She went to check the hallway, saying she'd be right back. Ali and I stayed behind, too scared to follow. Samantha never came back. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the final moments. We tried calling the police, but they kept half. hanging up. Social media was filled with confused students, but no one knew what was going on.

I passed out at some point, only to wake up to police sirens the next morning. The hallways were drenched in blood. Over a quarter of the student population was missing, and those who weren't missing were dead, ripped apart by something. To this day, no one knows what really happened. The police told us they try to keep situations like this quiet. If your school or college ever goes into lockdown, don't take it lightly. Barricade yourself. And if anyone knows what happened to Samantha, please tell me. Number 1A 32 year book Hunt ends, wanted to take time to tell a story, something kind of mind-blowing that happened to me last night, I promise it's all heartwarming in PG, book lovers, listen up. First, got to go back to when I was 12.5 years old, though. I am in

junior high in Jamestown, North Dakota, in the junior high library. Nothing special, yet I've tried to recreate this otherwise nondescript reading session in my mind a million times in the 32 years since. Why, you ask? Because I read the most mind-blowing short story I'd probably ever read that day. As I remembered it all those million times, in my imperfect memory, this was a story about secret knowledge. It concerned a man who, by deep meditation while staring into candle flame for many years, developed basically X-ray vision, ultimately using this profound new power to earn huge sums of money gambling. But there was more to it than that, as the story was so well woven by the author. Ultimately, like all good stories, this was about what it meant to be

human, to face the limits of ability and in going beyond, getting somehow back to the simplest, most important things in life. I'm telling you, it was a great story. My junior high self hadn't expected it, in that 15-minute after-lunch library layover. The way many bits of that once-read story have stuck with me indicated was an amazing experience, but hey, I had to run to class, so as quickly as I'd picked the book up I put it back on the shelf and moved along. Well, in the intervening years, many, many times I remembered this awesome story. As time went on, bits of the plot were lost and filled in with bits from other good stories I'd read along the way. I began to remember something about a citadel on a hill that was central to the story.

I started wondering if the story had been set in space, or maybe in some kind of steampunk setup. That main protagonist sometimes had friends with him, co-workers, enemies. What seemed sure to me was this central bit about staring into flames really intensely being the path toward some kind of mystical ability of vision and revelation, but that was about it. Oh, I was also pretty sure it was in an anthology book of some kind, so I was always thinking it was a sci-fi, best-of-type book, of which many, many were printed from 1955 to 2000. Every few years when the urge struck, I googled things like, stare into candles see-through playing cards, and, gambler X-ray vision short story, but I could never come up with what the story might be.

And I'm a pretty good Googler. I'd go down Goody's threads, cross-referenced the works of sci-fi legends like Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov, I was sure it was an Asimov story I just couldn't locate, but nothing. When Chat GPT came down the line, I even asked it all about locating this story for me, in a chat the bot titled Flame Reveals Hidden Card. Chat GPT told me in no uncertain terms this was The Nine Billion Names of God by Arthur C. Clark, which sounded solid and feasible, so I was excited, but then I read. read the story online. Great story, but it wasn't my story. Damn you, chat GPT. Well, imagine my

shock last night, turning on Netflix and starting the new short film from director Wes Anderson, the wonderful story of Henry Sugar. Wherein, Ben Kingsley appears on screen, telling a doctor, and we the viewers, that he had acquired yogic powers of inner vision that allowed him to see through anything, wherein, my jaw drops to the floor as Benedict Cumberbatch arrives on screen as a soulless rich man who stumbles across Kingsley's character's secret and method, the candle, which leads him to make millions of dollars by seeing through playing cards, leading him virtuously not to riches, but to great insight about what is important in life. This was my freaking story.

On Netflix. I can't believe it happened. Finally. I'm not really exaggerating. I've been searching out that story, fruitlessly, for 32 years. I've mentioned it to my daughter a time or two. All the Googling, all the searching, nothing. But I just had to wait long enough for Netflix to churn that great story back up as fresh

quickbait content, I guess. Hallelujah. It really was a special thing, one of those kind of coincidences of the universe that seems destined for you. I should go play Powerball today. I ordered the book off Amazon immediately and I cannot wait to read the story again as soon as it arrives. The movie was fun, but I know the story surely takes the cake. I imagine Wes Anderson and all those great actors in the film know that as well. I'm just glad somebody over in the

Anderson creative camp loved that story as much as I did. I'm glad they took down the title and the author's name to come back to later, like I forgot to do as I sprinted to class. It was rolled doll. More of a fantasy guy than a sci-fi guy. The book is titled The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six more, which is what always had me thinking it was an anthology. I was definitely on a mislaid path in my search. Thank God, or Dahl, or Anderson, or sugar, or somebody, the universe finally showed me the way here. Number two, I'm ghosting my family and my fiancé. I was 21 when my fiancé asked me to marry him. He was the absolute light of my life. We had known each other since preschool, our families are very close. He would come and have dinner with us on a daily basis and

vice versa. He doesn't have any siblings, but I have two older sisters, which is very important as he was also very close with them. We grew up together. When we started dating, I don't think our parents stopped celebrating for weeks. He helped me deal with a lot of my anxiety, and even when I gained a little weight and my mother berated me saying he was going to leave me, he told her off and said he loved me for who I was, not for what I looked like, even though he claimed I was the most beautiful girl in the world to him. We were only engaged for six months before the incident. My middle-oldest sister, let's call her Nikki, was a very cold person, she never showed any affection, she only ever opened up to my fiancé as she said she saw him as a

brother and he also helped her through a lot of her dark times such as battling drug addictions and breaking the law. She and I never saw eye to eye, I loved her dearly because she was my sister but didn't like her as a person. Out of the blue she tells me she wants to take me clubbing as we had never been together before and she felt bad that she was so distant to me. I agreed and that night we went out. Clubbing wasn't really my style, but once I had a few drinks, I loosened up a little and began having fun. The night was going smoothly until Nikki spotted a guy across the room whom she claimed she wanted to, climb like a tree, she walked over to him and within a few minutes she was back and she had a sour expression on her face. I asked her what was up, but she

never said anything. I kept pressing because I didn't want our night to be ruined, she then told me the guy didn't want her number, but he wanted mine instead. I told her he was a loser and there were plenty of guys around who would kill to be with a girl like her, she didn't budge though. She told me she needed to use the restroom and then we would leave. I waited for other an hour, during this time I was sipping on a lot of different cocktails, I then started feeling really dizzy and lightheaded. I figured I'd just cab at home as I was certain Nikki had left. On the way out though, I bumped into a friend of Nickies whom she had briefly dated. He asked me if I needed a hand to my car and I explained I was getting a cab he said he was getting ready to

leave and we could share one. I told him okay and we walked out of the club together and into the first cab we saw. I tried to find my phone in my purse, but I felt myself getting dizzier and I don't remember what happened next as I blacked out and the next morning I woke up on a hard sofa, my head pounding. When I came to, I realized I was in Nikki's friend's house and my phone was sitting on the glass table in front of me, but it was flat. When he noticed I was awake, he offered some tablets and water and explained that I had passed out in the cab and he didn't remember my parents' address so he just picked me up and took me back here where he laid me on the sofa. I told him I needed to go home as my fiancé would be worried.

He called a cab and I left. When I arrived at my parents' house, my mother, father, Nikki, my fiancé and his parents were all standing in the living room. I thought they were worried about me but the instant I opened my mouth my fiancé asked how could I do this to him. I tried to explain that my phone went flat but he then went on screaming about how could I cheat on him. I was baffled.

Why would he think that? I tried to explain the night's events, but I kept getting cut off. Nikki then chimed in and said I was a lying ass and how could I be so heartless to a man who has been there for me through thick and thin. She went on to say I kept flirting with random guys all night and then when she went to the bathroom, she saw me leave with her friend. I told her what had happened and she showed me photos on her phone where as we were leaving, his hand was on my back ushering me outside, yes, the photo did look horrible and I was

so drunk I didn't even realize his hand was on my back at all. My fiancé was so angry, he kept shouting and his mom and mine were both crying. I then asked Nikki to call her friend and he would confirm nothing happened, but when she called him, he told a completely different story. He said I begged him to take me back to his and when he did, we slept together multiple times. I saw red and started crying and yelling at Nikki because I knew she had organized this whole thing to make me look bad.

I begged my fiancé to believe me, but he just shook his head and left. When everyone had cleared out, my mother slept. slapped me across the face and told me to get out. I left and went to a friend's house where I stayed for a few nights. During those nights I called my fiancé crying and pleading with him to believe me that nothing happened, but it all fell on deaf ears as he never returned any of my calls or texts. My mom texted me and told me she was kicking me out and that she couldn't believe I would do such a thing and a lot of hurtful other slurs I don't think I could repeat here. She didn't even give me time to get my things as she threw everything out. I was now homeless.

None of my family would take me in, as they chose my fiancé and mother's side. I was homeless and single in less than a day and a half, my entire world had been taken away because of Nikki's lies. Now for weeks I tried everything to get my fiancé back and my family. The limit for me, though, was when Christmas time had come and I went over to my mother's house to try and reconcile. I was sleeping from couch to couch during this time. When I got to my parents' house, I knocked on the door, but no one answered. My friend then called me and told me she just saw on Facebook that my family were in another state celebrating Christmas and they had posted pictures online. Everyone was there, my sisters, parents, grandparents and even my fiancé in his family.

When I myself saw the photos, I couldn't stop crying as they all looked so happy. I cried for days and days before deciding to block them all. I even returned my engagement ring. My friend knew someone a couple hours away who was looking for some help in his restaurant and he even had living arrangements above where he worked so I could get rent at a cheap price and work at the same time. I wanted to start over with my life as it hurt me that none took my side and they all left me to fend for myself. I was able to move pretty quickly and was doing well, the apartment was tiny and I had to work 10 plus hours almost every day, but I was able to save a lot of money. I'm not living in the

apartment anymore, I was able to rent a much nicer condo, but I am still working at the restaurant as assistant manager. Now it has been roughly two years since I left and have not spoken to any of my family. I have no idea what is going with them until I got a knock on my door. It was my ex-fiancee. I was shocked to say the least, all these feelings came rushing back and all I wanted to do was jump into his arms. But then I remembered the pain I had felt and tried to slam the door in his face, but he stopped it and asked that I let him explain. He said that Nikki had gotten married and she had confessed that she lied about the situation because she had found someone she loved so much and realized what a horrible thing she had done. I asked him how he found me and he said

my friend told him. My entire family had been trying to get in touch with me and want to see me. I told him I needed time to see if I even wanted to have them in my life. He left and I have been a mess since. Number one, my ex-husband ghosted me. It's been almost three years since my ex-husband more or less ghosted me. When this happened, we, me 26F him 25m at the time, were together for three years and married for a year and a half. It was a bit of an unorthodox scenario for us, we decided to do the 90-day fiancé visa and get married so we could live together, but we were both very intentional that we wouldn't go through with such a thing unless we were sure in our hearts and to the best of our beliefs that we wanted to get married the right way, one day.

This was also an expensive venture, our immigration attorney's fees were over $10,000. Well, we got married about three weeks before the pandemic. And it really messed up the already brutal visa processing times. My ex-husband was unable to obtain a work permit for over a year. When he finally did, he took a short contract job in another state, at the company we both used to work at and where we met. He originally only signed on for six weeks, but he extended his contract to 12 weeks once he was over there as he was enjoying it more than expected. I was fine with this and was happy to see he had a sense of purpose again. A few weeks go by and he decides he would really enjoy working their long-term and year-round. I had no issues

with this, as we both didn't like the city we were living in and I held a remote job, so we really did have the freedom to live in whichever state we wanted. We researched the towns and apartments nearby and signed a lease slash paid the deposit. This was at the end of July to move in at the end of August. He was due to be home from the work contract in mid-August and would help get ready for the move. Then strangely, his communication with me ceased. I didn't hear a from him for a week. I blew up his phone and tried texting and calling him and nothing. Finally, about five days before he is due home, he tells me he isn't coming home. He refused to give me a reason or have a conversation with me. He just literally never came home. He did this just two

weeks after I had abandoned our lease, signed a new lease across the country, sold furniture, and made moving arrangements. He wanted to collect his things, but I wouldn't let him unless he signed the divorce papers. I didn't want to legally be seen. I didn't want to legally be stuck married to him, especially if he was going back to his home country. He signed, he collected his belongings without making I contact or saying a single word, and I never heard from him again. The irony is, his green card interview was scheduled right around the time he ghosted me. I had never been ghosted before, or broken up with in general, and I'll be damned if I ever get closure. I have no idea what happened or what went wrong. There were no prior indicators of

tension or unhappiness. My perception was we had a healthy and loving. relationship. I don't know why I felt compelled to share my story now. Perhaps I have been carrying shame around my failed marriage and the manner in which it dissolved. Number two, I am pretty sure I was almost human trafficked. This takes place when I was 16. At the time, my teenage brain was not able to comprehend the situation. Looking back as an adult, my lord. I am so grateful I got out of the situation. I was approached by a much older man named Jason, approximately 40, and a woman named Amanda, approximately 40 as well, at the gym I regularly worked out at. They complimented my physique and asked if I would be willing to teach them some workouts.

I agreed. I showed them some machines I used and walked them through my usual routine, answering their questions about how to do certain exercises and such. Afterwards, they asked if I'd be interested in working out with them again, I said, sure. I saw them the next day around the same time, they joined me in my workout. We conversed in small talk. They seemed very friendly. They talked about their kids and families.

All the things. At the end of our workout, Jason asked me if we could exchange numbers in case I wanted to work out with them again. I was hesitant which he sensed. He told me no worries, and that he never wanted to make me uncomfortable. I thought, what a respectful guy. Two or so days later, see them at the gym again around the same time. I approached them this time and asked if they wanted to work out.

We got to talking as usual and the topic landed on cars. I told Jason what car I drove and how I was really hoping to get some colorful LED lights for underneath it. He said he could totally do it for me for free. So we exchanged numbers to set up a time and day. Smooth, wasn't he? Jason texted me a few days later and asked if I wanted to meet at a Starbucks to grab a coffee and check out my car to see what he needed to do to install the lights.

I thought it was a little weird, but agreed because I really wanted the lights done. We met at Starbucks and he offered to buy me a drink. I said yes. He asked if I wanted to sit down and talk for a bit before he looked at the car. So we sat and drank coffee. Talking about all sorts of things, we got deep in conversation. Before we got up, he proceeds to say, look. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I think you're awesome.

I enjoy talking with you a lot. I know this is crazy, but I have a favor to ask of you. I asked what it was and he says, Amanda is going out of town and I am supposed to attend a wedding this weekend. I need a plus one and Amanda suggested I asked you to go. She thinks you're awesome as well. Plus, I figured this could be your payment for the car sort of. He then proceeds to show me the fancy hotel it was at,

said he'd buy me a dress if needed, etc. I said I would think about it and get back with him. He checked out the car and I left soon. after. I never talked with him again because the warning signs were finally going off in my head. Never saw him at the gym again either. I cannot imagine what would have happened if I went. Number one my family's forcing me to share a room with my horrible sister. I, 17F, have an older sister, 19F, and to put it bluntly she's horrible. I do not like her, but I didn't realize the extent of my hatred until she went to college and I was finally free of her.

We shared a room before and it always had to be her way. We couldn't shut off the light until she wanted it shut off, and I would always have to get up and wait until she was comfy in bed to turn it off. I'm not very good at standing up for myself, but I've gotten better at it this past year. But whenever I do try to stand up for myself, she always resorts to hitting me. She's a transphobic and homophobic bigot, and always tries to get me to go to church with her despite knowing I'm an atheist. She always makes fun of my interests and told me I'm being too soon.

sentimental, over my dead dog, he died this summer and we were extremely close. There was an argument we got into this summer over her dog that ended in her tackling me and punching me. She stupidly decided to throw out her mattress and the part of our bunk bed that like held it up to put her dog's kennel there. So she didn't have a mattress, this is important. Our uncle came to stay with us this December, when my sister found out she said that she's moving back into the room, she had been sleeping on the couch, without even asking me. We have a free room, but we'd need to clean it first. I protested this. But my mom told me I don't have a choice in the matter, and that I'm being a scrooge. Flash forward to the past two days. My sister decided to

buy an air mattress, that is loud a-f when she airs it up. She rearranged my room, and made me put my dead dog's kennel out in the garage and called it trash. She put the air mattress in the room, which was fine. But then decided to take it down the next morning, then when she got off of work late at night she woke me up to get me to turn off my music. Then decided to air up her mattress again, at 11 a.m. I told her she can't keep doing this every night since I'm trying to sleep and I have school. She replied that she's trying to sleep too, and I told her just to leave the mattress aired up during the day. We had an argument which escalated to her hitting me. I don't fall asleep easily and ended up going back to sleep around 1 a.m. My mom told me to

just suck it up for a few weeks, because she's family. To be honest, I don't even consider. I don't even consider my sister family. I want to pull my hair out. I don't really want advice, this is just event. Edit, I will ask my mom about cleaning up the spare room when she gets off work. Number two witness to incest. I've told this story to two people, my GF at the time, this was almost 20 years ago, and my most recent ex. Other than that I've kept this secret, and I wish I could tell every one of my friends who know the parties involved. I went to high school in New England. We had pretty good sports teams so we would go to the weekday games in a big group of guys. We would drink beforehand, we would have been 16 for 17 at the time, and usually pre-game

at someone's parents' houses, we would be there while they were at work. Beirut, card games, the like. This one time in particular we were at my buddy's house, we'll call him Frank. Frank had a little sister, we'll call Margarine. They were close, in a weird way, but siblings can be like that, I guess. It love my two siblings but not like what I witnessed. So the day goes on and we are all drinking and smoking pot. I had just started smoking pot and I fucking loved it, still do, more than drinking.

So the groups are packing up as we are getting ready to drive to the arena for the sporting event, trying to be a bit vague but New England you can guess the sport. My friend, we'll call him Garth and I are riding with Frank, waiting for him to close up the house. He's taking a good while. We're all pretty fucked up. So I go into his house to look for him. This is where it started to feel like a fever dream. My ex at the time said it, was the pot, but I'd been smoking weed for 20 years now and have never had a moment like this, the way I was experiencing time and sounds.

I was walking through his hallway, calling his name. No answer. I check his room, no one there. As I turn back down the hall, I pass his sister's room. Door creaked open. I can see inside. I wish I didn't. I heard her say, and you're going to be a good boy and not tell Mom and Dad, and swear to God,

he was inside her. I lingered for a moment. Truly could not believe what I had witnessed. I then ran outside, told Garth I couldn't find Frank and we just waited outside. I must have been pale as a ghost. My ex at the time said it dreamed it. I've blacked out before. This wasn't that.

Number one my son was diagnosed with something far worse than cancer. Mommy, my privates hurt, was there any way for me to know how frightening those four words were at the time? Like any mother would do, I got on my knees. Let me see, my five-year-old son pulled down his pants and showed me. As I looked, a shock of fear went through me. His testicles were red and swollen. I tried not to panic and thought about what it could be.

Nothing, other than the worst-case scenario, came to mind. The night before, during bath time, his privates looked normal. What the hell happened? Trying my best to not scare my son, quietly, I told him to pull up his pants and put on his shoes. We arrived at the doctor's office twenty minutes later. After the examination, the doctor sent my son into the waiting room and called me in to have a private conversation.

Private conversation, no pun intended. Is it bad? I asked. The doctor gave me a look that I had scarcely ever seen. As if what I just asked was the biggest understatement of all time. Is it cancer? Please sit down, he said. I haven't seen anything like this during my time as a doctor, that's for sure.

I've already had a colleague of mine on the phone. We're going to need an ultrasound, tears welled up in my eyes. Tell me he's going to be okay. I can't say for sure, but I can tell you that if it is some type of cancer, testicular is the easiest to treat. He paused. You said he's five years old. I nodded and said, I don't understand how his.

You know, he hasn't reached puberty yet, so, this can't be nor. for a boy his age." Kenneth, before we jumped to any conclusions, the doctor said, we need to see the ultrasound. Before paying for the visit, the doctor handed me a note with the date and location of the hospital where the ultrasound would be done. He also advised that I set an ice pack over my son's groin every two hours in case the irritation got worse. First thing the next morning, I drove to the address on the note and met with a man named

Dr. Jasper Harris. Hello, he said to me, and then he looked down at my son. He kneeled to his level. Hello. What's your name? My son answered. The small talk was making me nervous. All I wanted was to get the procedure done and over with.

The faster this would get done the faster my baby would get back to normal. Dr. Harris led us both into a room and gave my son a hospital gown. I sat in the waiting room with a book while my son was scanned. Though I was looking at the pages, I wasn't reading. My mind was elsewhere, on my son. Later, Dr. Harris came into the waiting room with a dour look on his face. Come with me. He said.

He brought me into a room full of medical computers. Please take a seat, he pulled up a chair next to a large screen. He then showed me the x-rays. Oh my God, I said and covered my mouth. The x-rays showed two testicles that were larger than any you'd see on a grown man. Both of them came up white on the ultrasound. Surgery must be done immediately. Mr. Harris said, I've never seen anything like this.

It seems as if the tumors have encapsulated his testicles, I whimpered in the chair. A hand rested on my shoulder to console me. It didn't help. Please, I said, save my son. Nothing could be done that day because of complications due to the coronavirus. I was lucky enough to even have gotten an appointment for the ultrasound that day, so I counted my blessings and stayed patient. At this point, my son was almost completely in the dark about the whole thing, or so I thought.

We were driving home from the hospital, he was sitting in his booster seat when he asked, Mama, I looked at his reflection in the mirror. Yes, when we die, do we go to heaven like Grandma says, I was speechless. What was I supposed to say? And how did the idea of death get on his mind? Did the doctor say something to him? Was it just a coincidence? Or was there some kind of primal intuitiveness that made him aware of how severe his illness was?

A single tear slipped down my cheek. I don't know. baby, he lay there on the operating table, unconscious. The surgeon and his helpers were shuffling about, preparing for the incision of the cancerous bulbs hanging between my son's legs. Before my son was put under, he cried and made it clear that he wanted me in the room while the surgery was performed. I want you with me, he'd said.

To me it sounded as if he hadn't finished the sentence, as if he was trying to say, I want you with my in case I die, I stood in the corner of the cold operation room wearing a medical apron, rubber gloves, face mask, and a pair of goggles. I was looking at my feet, waiting for the inevitable. Would he be a freak to his peers? An outcast to society? Would he ever find someone to love him?

Not as a mother, but as a lover. These strange, unwanted thoughts floated in my mind like a rocket on a predetermined trajectory through the star systems of the cosmos. They told me not to watch if I didn't want to. I wasn't, but once I heard the scalpel cut through flesh, there was this sound. A wriggling sound. A sloppy, greasy, writhing sound. The bodies of the medical professionals surrounded my son so I was unable to see him.

I stood on my toes but I still wasn't tall enough to see. Oh my God, a nurse said. What the, the surgeon said through his covered face. Whet slapping sounds came. Something was dropping on the room's floor. Blood? The doctor and nurses stood back. One nurse yipped and dropped a stainless steel tool she had been holding.

She ran out of the room, the doors swinging behind her. The sound of wet drips still came. I looked at the surgeon's feet. Something was wiggling on the floor. Snakes. No, too small for that. Centipede? No, they didn't have legs.

As the surgeon and the remaining nurse moved away from the table, I was able to see everything. Everything. Cracked open like eggs. Honey, breakfast is ready. Coming mom. Mommy? Yes. My privates hurt.

Parasite. Wet goo and slime from a world far beyond the comprehension of the human imagination spewed out from between my baby's legs. But no, let's not be too melodramatic. I'll just say it clearly and simply, my son's testicles had a nest of fucking worms inside of them. They writhed and squirmed and moved and slopped over the table, down to the floor, and over the shoes of the surgeon and nurse.

And guess what? Next thing I remember was blackness. I fainted and cracked my head on the tile floor. I was removed from the room and woke up in a chair located in the large waiting area. I remember squinting because the chair I was sitting and faced the windows where the sunset was. Where was I? Right, the hospital, third floor. A nurse with scrubs that were a size too small for her came over with a cup of water.

How did they allow nurses to wear that? Her boobs were practically hanging. "'Ma' I blinked, and then my eyes focused on the nurse's face. "'Why, yes.' "'I said, "'Please drink this. "'My son, I bolted straight up, where's my son?' "'Those things.'

"'Is he all right?' "'Water tipped over the rim of the paper cup as she put a hand on my shoulder to sit me back down. "'He's fine,' she answered. "'There were just a few minor complications. "'Miner complications.' "'Ha, very funny, wiggle, wiggle, woo.' "'He lost some blood, but the procedure is a little.

over. You can see him in a few hours, I talked to the surgeon about what happened at the operation table. The only answer I got regarding what was inside of my son was, we're not completely sure what they are or what species of parasitic organisms they belong to. We've run some tests to see if he still had any left inside, but we're not sure if he's clean. We'll have to put him on mebendazole. It's the best we can do for now, and that was it. The men in the black suits showed up to interview me, my son, the surgeon, and both nurses. Who were they? The fuck would I know? It's been two months since the operation. My son had to stay in a rehabilitation center for about a month and a half, which wasn't fun for either of us. I'm now on anxiety medication. It started the day after I took

my son home for the first time in a while. I just lay awake at night worrying about him. Frequently, like every five minutes, I would get out of bed and go into his room to check on him. I wouldn't get any sleep and I had to spend time away from work. Things have been hard lately because of it, child support is next to nothing, no thanks to my ex-husband, at least it seems like the medication is working, so now I'm able to sleep. They sent my son home with a clean bill of health minus two testicles, or so they thought. I'm sitting in a waiting room once again. Yesterday, while eating a bowl of cereal and watching the idiot box, my son stepped out of his

bedroom and shuffled into the kitchen. He said four words. Tommy, my eyes hurt. Number two, there are voice narrators who are forcing writers to write horror stories. My weekly scary stories that I post on subredits to include our slash scary stories and our slash wholesome en asleep had caught the attention of a moderator on the Discord app group, only the best writers, where a collaboration of other writers were also invited to work together and discuss current reader trends. There were 10 other horror writers who were selected for the exclusive Discord group where each writer had a minimum of 100,000 Reddit post karma points

from the various stories that they have have posted and had over 500 Reddit followers. The moderator who went by the username, U-Slas-Miducidawar was a really nice woman who went out of her way to make sure everyone was properly introduced to the group and felt welcomed. Being that we are all writers, it didn't take long for us to start typing away and finding additional information about each other. All of the writers in the group are from the United States and our occupations vary from being professional writers to construction workers, where there are a mix of five woman and five men. U.S.S. Midyussed-Doller was proactive in the group where she created icebreaker activities,

where we even learned more about each other like our occupations, ages, and where each other lived. Though we were all talented writers, we all felt like individual islands prior to joining the discord and now there was a sense of a community within the group. As the weeks went on, U-S-Miducidolr started her own narration business where each of our stories would be narrated on YouTube. In the past, this was quite a common thing to occur to have our stories narrated, but you slash mid-usadolr promised us $1 per 100 views which was by far the best offer any of us writers in the Discord group had ever received especially considering some YouTube videos could receive 100K

views or more. You-slash Mid-Yus-a-dollar had us link her subreddit page that contained all of her YouTube links at the bottom of our stories, so our readers could access her YouTube account. All of the Discord members in the writers group would check their respective YouTube narrations and we would all comment on how the number of views would rise each day. One of my stories was at 50,000 and was continually growing. Another writer had close to a half million views, and we were celebrating every day knowing we were eventually going to get more and more money.

You slash Midyus Adolar had us all open a PayPal account, and we would all check it daily to see when we would receive our first payments from her. Weeks went by and we continued to send you slash Midyusadala our stories, where she would narrate them and we were all talented writers in the Discord group so most of our stories would get well over the 1,000 upvotes on the various subredits that we posted them on. However, one writer in our Discord group U.S. 6-Headed Toad posted a message on the Discord saying that he had received a private message from U.S. Mid-Euse a dollar that the stipulation of our contract for the narrations was that each one of our stories we posted had to get a mandatory 1,000 upvotes and that he was in violation for not meeting the contractual amount of upvotes. You slash six-headed Toad then said, I'm being threatened that I have to personally reach out to my followers to beg for upvotes and also has anyone actually been paid yet? The comment from you slash six-headed toad set off a title wave of other comments from writers in the Discord group where everyone was getting pissed off because no one else had actually received any money either.

Also the so-called contract was embedded in small print in the rules section of the Discord group that no one had bothered to read. U-slash-S. Headed Toad commented on our Discord group that he wasn't reaching out to any of his followers until he was paid. as promised for the six previous stories that were narrated by U. slash Midyousadol, which everyone agreed was an appropriate measure. Two days later, U.S. six-headed Toad posted on our Discord group that he got suspended from his elementary school teaching job because of bogus photos of him with an unknown underage boy. He swore that the photos were photoshopped and he has no idea of the identity of the photographed Korean-looking boy.

To make matters worse, the mother of the boy came forward to the superintendent of the school district and corroborated the story so he'll likely face criminal charges and be fired from his job. There was collective silence in the group because not only did we feel an eerily coincidence to U.S. threat towards you slash six-headed toadot and his current demise, but if you listen really carefully to U.S. meducidola s narrations you can pick up on a very slight Asian accent. An accent where English was her first language, but she probably also spoke an Asian language frequently at home, based on approximately one in 20 of her words she spoke that would have an Asian tone to it. It kind of reminded me of watching the movie, The Goodfellis, where you could tell

the characters. First language was English, but they talked with Italian slang mixed in. With all the stuff going on with U.S. 6-Headed Toad, U.S. Miducesa dollar sent him another private message saying that his most recent story was still below the 1,000-up vote mark and that he needed to fix it immediately or there would be consequences. You slash 6-Headatoad posted that message on our Discord group in a panicked state saying, I can't even go to the grocery store without someone calling me a pervert for something I had no involvement in and now I'm be threatened with consequences if I don't get more upvotes on my story. What do I do? Everyone in our Discord group was in a panic as well and we all felt unsafe posting anything negative in our Discord

group for fear of reprisals from U.S. Mid-us-a-dollar. I could really start to see the panic in U-S. 6-Hedatatode where he started posting messages nearly every hour on our Discord group such as, I reached out to all of my followers to upvote my story but I'm still short. What do I do? The sad part was that nobody responded back to him for fear from you slash mid-usadala. So the next hour he said he randomly gifted other Reddit users coins with a message begging them to upvote his story. By the end of the day and spending close to $500 of his own money, he finally got the

1,000 upvotes. I could only assume that you slash mid-usadolar's motivation for the 1,000 upvotes was for her listeners to see that she only gets the best quality stories and also to force us writers to write good quality stories, but also she is a deranged psychopath who has control issues. U.S. 6-headed-toed messages changed gears to him being suspended at work to him pressuring the police to further question the unknown Korean women and her son, who he apparently had an inappropriate relationship with based on the, bogus photos. Today is Friday and U.S. Midyusa dollar posted on the Discord group that our stories must be

posted by Monday morning. The joy we all once received from entertaining our readers on Reddit has now turned into absolute fear. For we know that we have to get to get a story. For we know that we have to at least 1,000 up votes or else you slash midyus a dollar will do something to terrorize us. The scariest part that we all learned from you slash six-headed-toed situation was that you slash mid-usadolar knows everything she needs to know about us, which includes our names, where we lived, where we worked in our families, so we couldn't even just leave Reddit and stop writing. Monday came and we all posted our stories on our chosen subredits. Then each one of us vented on the Discord group saying things like,

my story is crap because I felt so pressured, or I'll be lucky if I get 10 upvotes. It seemed like last week we were all waiting to see how much money our narrations would bring us, but now not only did none of us expect any money, but we were much more worried about if our individual stories would get the minimal 1,000 upvotes, so we wouldn't be terrorized. So now everyone's posts on the Discord group were forgiven updates on the status of their upvotes. For some, the upvotes were trending to a point where they would exceed the required upvotes, but for about two others they knew they were far short and were going to have to to rely on some desperation tactics to gain more upvotes.

Fortunately for me, I knew that I would be fine for this week because I had a good quality story already written about a month ago that I was holding on to, but I was more concerned about the following week. U-slash-6-Headatode had posted on the Discord group that the photos were taken to the police crime lab where indeed they were determined to be photoshopped. Also, U-S. 6-Headatode said that the original Korean women who had stepped forward had also vanished. He went on to say that the damage has been already done and he will always be labeled as a pervert in his school district even when he gets reinstated in his job. Today is now Friday

and U.S. Dark Night Killers, who had only gotten 500 upvotes, posted that when he returned from work yesterday his house was burnt down by a suspected arsonist. To try keep herself safe, U.S. Feminine Rocky has been sending random Redditors lude pictures of herself to try to garnish more upvotes because U.S. Midyousadolr had been threatening her but hasn't done anything drastic yet. By Friday night U.S. Feminine Rocky might have sold her soul by sending the lewd photos, but she managed to get the 1,000 upvotes. She was really emotional in her Discord postings commenting how she's married with kids and just sending photos wasn't good enough for some of the Redditors to get an upvote,

so she had to do some really regrettable things just to protect her family and her job. We also received another message from U.S. Midusa dollars saying that our stories were due on Monday. The whole week, I was working on a story about being the only passenger on a plane and landing in an abandoned Airport. It wasn't my best and it wasn't my worst story that I have written, but it had hope. Everyone else on the Discord group were posting that they couldn't come up with any good stories because they were too stressed out to think clearly. Six of the Redditors on our Discord group had deleted their Reddit accounts and their Facebook accounts. After I posted my story on Monday, I tried calling each of the six Redditors' respective employers, where I was told for each six

of them that they had abruptly quit, so I have no idea of their whereabouts or what happened to them. The sad part is that you slash mid-usadaller found six new replacements for them on the Discord group, where you slash Mid-Eusadolr repeated the same cycle of initially being nice and welcoming in order to gain their personal information from the new group members. I have a wife and a young daughter so I was really feeling the pressure. I have a federal job with good pay where I couldn't just run and hide somewhere, where I work as a psychologist in a federal correctional institution. A lot of my stories are derived from hallucinations that the psychiatric inmates have told me or actual real-life events that the inmates have told me as well,

so I have no shortage of horror stories that I have a tendency to add my own twist. My mindset was that, I just had to do what you slash mid-usadolor expected of me so my daughter, Grace could continue her happy suburban life. However, I also had a plan up my sleeve, where I was going to wait for you slash mid-usadolar to get sloppy and leave a clue to her actual identity whether if it was through her discord harassment posts, or through her narrations, or through one of her henchmen or henchwomen that she contracts to carry out her evil deeds, but I was determined to find her real identity. I know U.S. 6-headed Toad told the police about you-slash-Mid-Usa-Doller, but once he was cleared

of his charges he didn't want to pursue you-s-Mid-U-Sadol or the unknown Korean woman for fear of further retaliation from you-slash-Mid-U-Sadolar, and the police had such a backlog of other criminals to pursue that they were more than happy to drop the case. So on top of my job, I continued to post my weekly stories where some weeks I barely came close to the 1,000-up votes. I even sent a private message to one of the new Discord writers, warning her not to reveal any personal information on the Discord group and in fact leave Reddit altogether before it was too late, but she foolishly forwarded the message to you slash Midyousadolern luckily the only thing that happened to me was that my 2006 Camry was fire bombed in the parking lot of my job. I figured an old car was much easier to replace than my house or the loss of my wife and daughter. So now I post nothing in the Discord group and watch as these poor new writers dig their own graves. Once you slash Midyus Adler gets all the personal information she needs on the writers, then she'll start getting more and more evil and nonchalantly throw out you slash six-headed toad or you slash feminine rocky usernames to the new members and brag how she altered their lives.

She would even post how erroneous accusations against her to YouTube are pointless without actual police charges or an arrest. She really was a true sociopath who lived off of power and fear from others. As much as I tried to just post my stories on Reddit and pretend that I had never met you slash Midusadoller, I found myself constantly looking at the Discord app to she if she would mistakenly post a comment that was too revealing about herself that she was too slow to erase or I'd listen for countless hours to her narrations for any type of background noise, that she inadvertently let slip into her recordings. As the weeks went on my wife made me go see a therapist because I looked horrible, and because I was more and more detached from her and grace, where I never told either of

them that I was being forced to write stories under the threat of physical harm. So I went to the therapist and blamed my lack of sleep and emotional detachment on a midlife crisis versus some psychopath who was trying to use me as slave labor. Ironically as I was driving home from a therapist appointment, I was painfully listening to you slash mid-usadoloress voice in one of her narrations, when I almost slammed my car into a tree when I heard a voice that wasn't hers in the background. I knew she just posted this story, so I quickly pulled over knowing that she would erase the story at any moment once she realized the mistake she made. I pulled over and listened over and over to her narration and I yelled out, I got you, I got you, you dumb witch.

I got you, because after replaying the recording at least ten times, I was certain that I heard the distant automated voice on a passing train say, Temple University. I had visited Temple as a potential college when I was in high school and I remembered hearing that voice then taking the train to go see the campus of Drexel. I figured she must have a house or an apartment on Temple's campus and for whatever reason, she got sloppy for this narration and inadvertently left a window open or something for the train sound to be heard. Though this woman was a complete psychopath, I also knew for my years as a psychologist that she wasn't dumb and more than likely she probably held a faculty position at Temple. I was really fortunate that I pulled over when I did

to listen to the mistake in the background of the narration, because she had erased the story from YouTube no more than five minutes later. When I got home, I went right on Temple's website and sifted through all the women that fit the profile of you slash mid-usadolr, which I narrowed the candidates down to 10 potential women. Because it was 9 p.m. at night, when I attempted to call each of them, I got their voicemails which made my job ten times easier of trying to hear hear their voices. I wasn't a voice expert, but some of the woman could be easily excluded based on the pitch of their voices or more so if they had a distinct accent.

Then I was in total disbelief when it came to voicemail number seven on my list, because based on only about 20 quick words she spoke on her voice recording, I was 100% certain it was her, because I had listened to thousands of hours of her voice narrations, where I just wanted to stick a butter knife in both of my ears. But all those painful hours of listening to her recordings had just paid off. Her name is Mary Kim and she is an associate professor at the university. Out of all the years, I worked as a psychologist in the prison, she wins the prize for being the biggest sociopath, where she thought she could just terrorize people under an alias of you slash mid-usadolour and never having to show her face, so she could hide and live a

normal life. One of her students had actually posted a short YouTube video of her lecturing in front of the class, where I was even more convinced after listening to her lecture that she was you slash midiucidaroller. The next thing I did was reach out to all the current and past Discord group members and I sent them the YouTube message of Professor Kim lecturing in front of the class. I learned that not a single one of the discord members went to the police, but instead took matters into their own hands where they had each devised their own ways to torture you slash Midyusadoller or who they just call Professor Kim now. You slash Midusadolar. You slash Midusadol. like me just couldn't leave her job, so when she gets kidnapped for the weekend, or comes home

to her apartment by the train station and finds everything missing, it's no wonder she's developed a terrible stuttering problem and probably couldn't do the YouTube narrations anymore if she tried. This mysterious fire was the beginning of an unusual chain of events that would go on to captivate a whole town. It all started with one fire, but before long, it seemed like one fire was simply replaced by another. The sequence of flames grew relentless, with the same thing happening over and over again, fire after fire, out of nowhere, without explanation. The first fire started in the work overalls of William Miller. After that, it spread to the covers of a book, then a wall, and eventually a ceiling.

It was from 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. that the firemen managed to put out about nine fires, and from there, they began losing count, as new fires kept breaking out. This story has its roots in a peculiar little house located northwest of the small town of Odin, Indiana, in the 1840s. It was here that a settler by the name of Marshall Kittam decided to start over, moving from Tennessee to begin a new life. His decision, as time would show, was to be quite fortuitous. In 1852, he married Margaret Sherwood, and by the 1860 census, the couple had two children,

although it's believed they might have had more. Life seemed idyllic for the family. The land around their house stretched over 100 yards, and the house itself was a large two-story building with many rooms. But in 1880, tragedy struck. According to the Mitchell Tribune, five members of the Kidham family died from a fever, most likely typhoid. From then on, the family's life was never the same.

There were rumors that the family's joy had disappeared, that they were never the same after the deaths. In 1899, after the Patriarch's death, the Kidham family decided to leave the house, burdened by too many painful memories. They sold the property to Andrew J. Wilkie, a spiritualist, and his wife. The Wilkes were a charming family. They were known for their kindness and well-mannered children. But, like the Kidams, tragedy soon struck.

The Wilkie's young son died in a hunting accident shortly after moving in. In an attempt to cope with the loss, Andrew Wilkie did something unusual. Instead of burying his son in a regular cemetery, he had a special coffin built, a normal one, but with a small window to see his son's face. He then buried the child in his garden, something that seemed deeply unsettling to his wife. Andrew claimed to be in constant communication with his son's ghost. He said that his son's spirit was present in the house, that he could speak with him at any moment. His wife desperately tried to convince him to bury their son in a proper cemetery, but Andrew refused.

When he died, his wife exhumed the child, replaced the coffin, and had him buried in a regular cemetery. In the 1930s, the house was bought by the Acker family, William, Minnie, and their five children. The Ackers were well loved by the local community. They farmed the land, producing goods for themselves and their neighbors, and their smiles were ever present. But on the morning of June 21, 1940, everything changed. At 8 a.m., William Acker woke up, got dressed in his work overalls, and stepped outside. He immediately noticed a strange smell of smoke in the air.

It was so intense, yet he couldn't find the source. There were no plumes of smoke or fog, just the smell of fire. He was concerned, he went inside and woke his family, believing the fire must be nearby or possibly inside the house. The family split into two groups, one went upstairs, the other stayed downstairs. It was the group upstairs that discovered the source of the smell. They found that a piece of wallpaper on the wall was in flames. This was no small fire. It was intense and rapidly spreading.

The Akers immediately called the fire department. But from this point on, their day would be filled with one bizarre event, after another. After extinguishing the first fire, the firemen thought they knew the cause, a faulty chimney. Old houses often had two chimneys, one downstairs and one upstairs. When one would break, the owners would simply plaster over it and pretend it wasn't there. But when the fireman inspected the wall, they found no chimney at all. Confused, they suggested the fire might have been caused by faulty wiring. But William Acker corrected them, explaining that there was no electricity in the house. They had never installed anything. Just as the firemen were preparing

to leave, a second fire broke out in a different part of the house, this time in a mattress. After this, the sequence of strange events seemed unstoppable. The firemen put out one fire, only for another to flare up. The sequence of inexplicable fires continued until 11 a.m., when the firefighters had extinguished a total of 28 fires. There was no logical explanation. It seemed like an invisible force was setting fires all over the house. Curtains, mattresses, wallpaper, everything seemed to catch fire without warning. The firemen were stumped. They tried to find explanations, but none seemed to make sense.

Local rumors began to spread. Some said the Akers were setting the fires themselves, but the firemen ruled this out. Others believed it might have been due to an electromagnetic field or some sort of gas being emitted from an old well. But none of these theories could explain the mystery of the fires. Theories ranged from the plausible to the supernatural. Some believed the house was haunted by the spirits of the former residents. Others suggested it was a poltergeist, playing tricks on the family. No one knew for sure.

Even after extensive investigations, the fire department couldn't provide an explanation. The Ackers, terrified and exhausted, moved out of the house and had it dismantled, brick by brick, and rebuilt several miles away. They never returned to that house, and it was eventually abandoned. Over the years, the strange events surrounding the Ackers' home became a topic of fascination. People from all over the world heard about the mysterious fires, and theories about the cause of the fires spread like wildfire. Was it a cursed house? A place where the supernatural took hold? Was there a rational explanation?

The mystery was never solved, leaving the house and its tragic history as one of the most enduring unsolved mysteries in Indiana. The Ackers, traumatized by their experience, eventually moved to a new house, but the strange events didn't stop there. In 1964, after remarrying following Minnie's death, William's new house also caught fire. The house in which they lived, on Fountain Drive, seemed like a safe place. However, on September 8, 1987, something strange occurred. Minnie, now 77 years old, took a bath in the evening. When she got out, she noticed drops of blood all over the floor. The blood appeared throughout the house, in the bedroom, the hallway, and even in places that seemed impossible for a person to reach. As they searched for answers, they speculated that it could be the

blood of a rodent, but no dead animals were found. The blood was later determined to be human, though it didn't match the blood type of the elderly couple. As the authorities began their investigation, they concluded that there was no logical explanation for the phenomenon. The mystery of the blood left the town in a state of shock. Was it some sort of elaborate hoax? A terrible, incomprehensible event. The investigation ultimately went nowhere, and the mysterious bloodstains were never fully explained. The town became obsessed with the story, with people from all over trying to uncover the truth. Rumors ran wild, and soon, the story became a local legend. Despite all the speculation, the case was never solved, leaving behind another eerie, unexplained event that

would linger in the minds of those who lived nearby. The mystery of the Acker's home, and the strange occurrences that followed them, would become just another eerie chapter in the town's history. It was a warm summer night, one of those evenings where everything feels peaceful and still. My wife and I were in bed, reading quietly, with the windows open to let in a faint breeze. It was late, and the quiet was only broken by the occasional chirp of crickets. Suddenly, the calm was shattered by someone screaming loudly. It sounded close, maybe just a block away, which was unusual for our quiet suburban neighborhood. At first, we couldn't make out the words, but then we clearly heard, help me.

I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding. The cry pierced the night, sending chills down our spines. For a minute, the screams continued, but then they faded into the distance. I got up and looked out the window, scanning the street, but there was nothing unusual, just the still, empty road bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. My wife was visibly shaken. Don't go outside, she urged.

Her voice trembled, and I could feel her fear. My heart was pounding too. Clearly, someone needed help, but there was also a strong sense of danger. I decided the best course of action was to call the local police. I explained what we'd heard, and within minutes, a patrol car drove past, heading in the direction of the screams. A little while later, I saw an officer with a flashlight running through a nearby yard. We double-checked that all our doors and windows were locked, then waited.

The minutes dragged by, each one feeling like an hour. Finally, unable to stand the suspense, I called the police again to ask what had happened. The dispatcher told us it had been a false alarm of sorts, just a local teenager who'd had too much to drink. Apparently, he'd been trying to get the attention of a girl who had recently broken up with him. In his drunken state, he broke a window and cut his hand, then panicked when he saw the the blood and started screaming. When the police arrived, he tried to run, but they caught him soon enough. The explanation, while much less terrifying than what we'd imagined, still left us

rattled. Eventually, we managed to get some sleep. That's just one story. Let me share another, this time one my father told me. He was 22 at the time and had just moved into a new house closer to his job. The neighborhood was pretty remote, with only about four houses within a mile and a half radius. Beyond that, there was nothing but open fields and forest. It was a regular night during his first week there. After watching some TV, he dozed off on the couch. Around 1 a.m., he woke up and decided to head to bed. On his way to his room, he remembered he'd left the bathroom light on at the far end of the house. As he walked through the living room, he glanced toward the kitchen and dining area, which were shrouded in darkness. Something

caught his eye, a tall figure standing in the corner of the dining room. He froze. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw it more clearly, an older person, either a man or a woman, with white hair and a white robe. Hey, he shouted instinctively. The figure moved, no, sprinted, toward him at an alarming speed. Terrified, my dad bolted back to his room, where the light was still on, and got into a defensive stance, ready to fight. The figure followed but stopped abruptly at the doorway, seemingly confused. Then it sped spoke, why are you in my house? The words caught my dad off guard. Thinking quickly, he apologized, pretending he'd made a mistake, and slowly backed into the nearest bathroom, locking

the door behind him. From there, he called 911 using the landline. It turned out the, intruder, was a woman from about half a mile away. She suffered from dementia and had wandered into his house while he was asleep. Though the situation ended without harm, it left him deeply shaken. Fast forward a few decades. About a year and a half ago, I had a similarly eerie experience. I was home alone one afternoon and decided I didn't feel like cooking lunch. So, I went out to grab a quick bite. I was gone for maybe 20 or 25 minutes.

When I came back, I noticed something odd, my dog was outside in the backyard, staring at me through the sliding glass door. That didn't make sense, I never left the dog outside when I went out. As I got closer, I realized the sliding door was partially open. Now, I was certain I hadn't left it that way. My heart began to race. I called my dad to ask if he'd come home from work early, but he said he hadn't and was on his way. Grabbing a large kitchen knife, I called my best friend and stayed on the line with her as I checked

every room in the house. By the time my dad arrived, we both concluded we'd been robbed. The unsettling part was realizing whoever had broken and must have been watching, waiting for me to leave. The police were called, but they couldn't recover much evidence. These unsettling moments stick with you. My dad had another story from when he was nineteen and visiting his grandmother in Indiana. She had to be hospitalized, so my dad and his mom took turn staying at her house.

One night, he woke up to the sound of the screen door slamming shut. Sitting up, he noticed a chair beside his bed that hadn't been there before. Alarmed, he got up and went to the front door. It was wide open, only the screen door was closed. out, he saw a man walking away across the lawn. The man didn't seem hurried or suspicious, just casually strolling away. For some reason, my dad didn't feel afraid, maybe it was the lack of urgency in the man's movements. However, the whole thing didn't sit right. Later that day, he realized the toilet seat in the bathroom had been left up, odd, considering it was just him

and his mom in the house. There are always rumors about strange places and the people who live there. In my hometown, there's a legend about a hidden community in the woods that hates outsiders. One day, my friend and I decided to check it out. We drove my truck to the area, following directions we pieced together from various stories. On Google Earth, it looked like nothing more than a cluster of small ranch-style houses. As soon as we arrived, things got weird. The first house we passed had an unsettling number of dogs that all started barking like crazy the moment they saw us. We sped up, but that seemed to be.

to trigger something. People began emerging from every house, shouting at us. Panic set in as we realized we'd stumbled into something we shouldn't have. We sped up even more, looking for a spot to turn around. As we made a U-turn, rocks began hitting my truck. I saw a man step out of a garage holding what looked like a shotgun. Thankfully, he didn't fire, but the damage from the rocks left some noticeable dents. We got out of there as fast as we could, and I told my dad the dents were from debris on the highway.

Another time, when I was about eight, something even more personal happened. Our family's dryer had broken, so we were using a clothesline in the backyard. I was outside hanging laundry when the boy next door called out, hey, I'd go inside if I were you. Confused, I asked why. Because my dad's recording you, he replied. At first, I didn't understand. Recording? Like with a voice recorder.

Before I could say anything, the boy's dad yelled at him to get inside. That's when I saw it, the man was hiding behind some trees, holding a video camera. I didn't know what to do. Just then, one of our kittens ran up to me, playfully biting at my ankles. Using the kitten as an excuse, I picked it up and went inside, my heart racing. Years later, another unsettling experience involved a late-night encounter on a beach trail. It was the summer of 2005, and my friends and I were setting off fireworks. We'd gone to the beach at the end of our street, which was bordered on one side by a steep cliff

and on the other by dense woods belonging to a state park. After we'd finished our fireworks, it was about 3 a.m., and we started heading home. The trail was pitch black, and we had no flashlights, only the dim light from our phone screens. As we walked, we heard leaves crunching to our left. At first, we assumed it was a deer, but the sound. didn't stop. We paused to listen, and the crunching stopped too. UnEasy, we continued walking, only to hear the noise again, this time closer. Suddenly, a man stepped out of the woods. He was wearing a pinstriped suit, a matching top hat, and round glasses. In the dim light, he greeted us

with a simple, good evening, gentlemen, we bolted. Running faster than I'd ever run before, we didn't stop until we reached the end of the trail. To this day, I have no idea who he was or why, he was out there in the middle of the night. Sometimes, the scariest things happen when you least expect them. One night, my wife and I were staying at a motel. She'd fallen asleep quickly, but I was lying awake in the dark, unable to drift off. That's when I heard it, a whisper. It was faint but unmistakable, I think they're asleep.

My body reacted instantly. I jumped out of bed, turned on every light, and began searching the room. There was no one. The door was locked, the windows secured. My wife woke up, startled by my frantic behavior. Eventually, I realized it must have been a hypnagogic hallucination, a strange phenomenon that can happen as you're falling asleep. Knowing that didn't make it any less terrifying.

Lastly, there's the story of my mom's college boyfriend who became her stalker. Years after she broke up with him, he somehow tracked us down. One night, while we were watching a Harry Potter marathon, the phone rang. My mom answered, and her face turned pale. She told me to wake my dad. I'd never seen her so scared. When my dad came down, he took the phone and exchanged a few words with the caller before hanging up.

That's when they told me, her ex had found us and had been driving past the house, watching us. To this day, I'm haunted by how much he might know about our lives. These stories, though unsettling, remind me of how unpredictable life can be. They've taught me to stay vigilant and trust my instincts, because you never know what's lurking just out of sight. When it comes to creepy stories, nothing beats real-life accounts. I work as an insurance adjuster, and there is one case that still haunts me to this day. It's a story as strange as it is terrifying, and I'll never forget it.

My client was a divorced woman in her early 50s, living alone ever since her 18-year-old son had moved out six months earlier to attend college, about 300 kilometers away. Her life had been tough, the divorce in the past five years had taken a toll, and when her son left, she decided to reinvent herself and focus on her studies. Every Monday morning, she would leave her house and not return until Friday night, staying in a rented apartment near the university during the week. One Friday night, she returned home only to find the front gate closed as usual. But when she tried to open it with her key, it wouldn't work.

Thinking it might be stuck due to the weather, she climbed over the fence and headed for the front door. To her surprise, none of her keys worked there either. Alarmed, she called the police and a locksmith. Once they got inside, the true nightmare began. The house seemed almost intact, but something was undeniably wrong. Someone had been there, manipulating her life in ways as disturbing as they were cruel. Every lock in the house had been replaced. All the framed photos on the walls had been altered, in each one, someone had cut out a person

from the image. it was her, other times it was her ex-husband or her son, but it was never consistent. The photos had then been carefully re-hung, as if mocking her. It didn't end there. All the spoons in the house were gone. You opened a cutlery drawer, and there were only knives and forks, not a single spoon. Even the picnic set stored in the shed was without spoons. The TV had been turned to face the wall, and the contents of the fridge and freezer had

been swapped. Fresh food was now rotting in the freezer, while frozen food had thawed in the fridge, leaving a putrid mess. Perhaps the most unsettling discovery was in her son's old room. He had left behind some things, including his high school uniforms. But instead of the five school uniforms hanging in the closet, there were now five schoolgirl dresses. The boys' uniforms had disappeared entirely. To top it off, the water tanks, capable of holding thousands of leaders, were completely empty. The insurance company eventually paid a substantial sum to repair the damage, but the woman never returned to live in that house. The police couldn't find any evidence connecting the case to her, her family, or anyone she knew. The last

I heard of her, she had been institutionalized, unable to cope with the psychological trauma. Even months later, she claimed she still found things manipulated in the house. It was as if someone had invaded not just her home, but her life. Another story that that comes to mind happened to me personally. I had just turned 18 and had received a new car as a birthday gift. One afternoon, while I was alone at home with my brother, someone knocked on the door. It was a man in his twenties, wearing a reflective vest and holding a clipboard. He claimed to work for the water company and said they needed to investigate a broken pipe under our driveway. Since there was a fire hydrant nearby, it didn't seem out of place.

He politely asked me to move my car. Without thinking much, I went outside and parked it further down the street. When I came back to the door, I noticed the man was holding a strange tool in his hand, something that looked like a tube. Just as I was about to enter, my older brother came out to see who it was. He asked the man where his work truck was. The man hesitated and then said it was parked around the corner. My brother asked to see identification.

That's when the man ran, no walking, but running. We called the water company and the police, but there were no reports of broken pipes in the area. To this day, I shuddered to think what might have happened if my brother hadn't intervened. A few years ago, during my wilder days, I sold marijuana. One of my regular customers was a former cop, a truly unsettling character. He bought small amounts for his two children, who seemed straight out of a horror movie. The ex-cop was always too friendly, constantly inviting me and any friend I brought to dinner. We usually met on the other side of the city and ended up sitting in the back of his creepy

red truck. He spent more on food than on the marijuana, pulling out thick bundles of cash to pay. Things took a darker turn when one of his kids pointed a gun at me over some pills. It didn't go well for him, he wasn't alone, and we outnumbered him. I immediately cut all contact with them. Later, I found out the ex-cop had been holding elderly people in his basement, cashing their social security checks. All the time I had been selling to him, he was running.

this twisted operation. When I was a child, my dad used to bring co-workers home for dinner or just to hang out. Most of them were rough guys, but my dad always tried to be kind and supportive. My mom, however, hated it. With four kids in the house, she didn't want strangers around. Eventually, she stood her ground, and the visit stopped. Years later, we found out that one of my dad's co-workers, a man who had been to our house several times, was convicted of murdering a young girl. He had discarded her body in garbage bags, leaving them in a container not far from our home. The girl was the same age as my sister at the time, and the crime happened during the period he had been visiting us.

After that, my dad never brought anyone else home. Here's a story my mom told me about her teenage years. She and a couple of friends were driving through a canyon one night when an unmarked police car pulled them over. The man pretending to be an officer asked my mom to get out of the car. But when he saw her friends in the back seat, his attitude changed. It seemed he hadn't expected her to not be alone. Nervously, he asked her they were going.

My mom gave a vague answer, growing more uneasy. After a moment, she saw a case of beer in the car. They were underage, but instead of finding them, he demanded they hand over the beer and warned them to head back to the city because strange people lived in the canyon. They obeyed and left. Weeks later, my mom saw a news report about it. a man posing as a police officer to assault women. The description of the car matched the one that had stopped them. She realized how lucky she and her friends had been. When I was little,

my brother and I shared a room divided by a wooden partition because we fought a lot. It was Easter, and one night I heard noises. Innocently, I thought it was the Easter bunny. Peeking out from under my blanket, I saw what I thought was him, a figure with a black vest, chains, and a pocket watch. He walked towards me, and I quickly hid under the blankets. The figure sat on my bed, and I was terrified. My sisters had told me that the Easter Bunny hurt children who tried to see him, and I believed it. I gripped my blanket tightly, feeling him lean over me. When I peaked out, I saw an eye staring at me. Then, a pillow was pressed against my face. I struggled to breathe, but finally managed to turn my head and take a breath. The figure eventually got up, and I heard

chains jingling as he left through the window. The next morning, I told my family I had seen the Easter Bunny. But when my parents saw the broken screen and the footprints outside the window, they called the police. Years later, I learned that a man had broken in, seeking revenge on my dad. He had been a motorcyclist, which explained the leather vest and chains. That wasn't the only time he tried to hurt me, but it's the incident I remember most vividly. During university, I lived in a century old house with nine other students in Ireland. The place was huge, three stories tall, and definitely eerie. My room was on the ground floor, in an extension.

One weekend in October, I was the only one home. Too scared to be alone, I asked my boyfriend to stay with me. Around 4 a.m., I woke up with an overwhelming sense of dread, as if someone was in the room. It was completely dark, and I couldn't see anything, but the feeling was overwhelming. I screamed at my boyfriend that someone was there. He tried to calm me. Then we heard it, a loud crash of glass breaking in the hallway. My boyfriend locked the bedroom door while we listened in silence, too scared to move.

After an hour, we gathered the courage to investigate. The skylight in the hallway had shattered, but only the inner glass, the outer glass was intact. It seemed like something had hit it with incredible force. were no signs of anyone else in the house, and we couldn't explain what had happened. Other strange events occurred in that house, but this was by far the most unsettling. And finally, here's a story where I could have been the creepy one. My family has a cabin on a lake in northwestern Ontario, surrounded by countless small islands.

It's a place rich in history, from abandoned gold mines to ancient indigenous rock paintings. One summer, I decided to explore a small creek that led into the lake. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans to protect myself from scratches and insects, carrying a stick to navigate the terrain. After an hour of walking, I reached the other side of the island. Thirsty, I knelt by the water to drink. That's when I came across a group of campers. They weren't expecting to see anyone, and my sudden appearance startled them.

A woman screamed, then another. Exhausted and dehydrated, I shouted back at them before turning and disappearing into the bushes. I'm sure they thought I was some kind of hermit or forest spirit. Looking back, I probably ruined their camping trip for a while. We begin. The seas and oceans of this world are full of wonders and mysteries. In fact, there are hidden corners within them where one can feel as if, by swimming, they could dive into the very bowels of the planet.

And this is the case with the blue holes, extraordinary vertical rock structures that were formed during the ice ages when the sea level was about 100 meters below its current level. This geological phenomenon, which appears before us as an almost perfect circle of intense blue color, occurs when a cave or sinkhole fills with water and becomes a vertical void drawn into the landscape. Some descend hundreds of feet, and others connect with mysterious tunnel systems. Due to their depth and narrow configuration, the water exchange inside them is not very fast, which makes their deepest areas very low in oxygen, a fact that allows life only for bacteria and a few adapted organisms.

However, these places, far from scaring people away, invite them to dive fully into their mysteries. In fact, on the Egyptian coast of the Red Sea, there is one of the great mechas for divers, the blue hole of Dehab, a place as beautiful as it is enigmatic, which has become the grave of more than a few divers. According to Egyptian authorities, this place is a place. has already claimed the lives of 40 men and women, although other sources raised the death toll to 100. But let's understand a little about what lies beneath this great mass of water. The blue hole of De Habe is a coral lagoon connected to the open sea through a large arch or tunnel

26 meters deep. The mission of the thousands of divers who visit it every year is to dive 60 meters into its waters to cross the arch and emerge again outside. It sounds easy, right? But the real danger of this dive is that the blue hole is deceptive. Only those who know this place well know exactly where the entrance to the famous arch is. And those who, by mistake or ignorance, go beyond the 60-meter depth limit never see the light of day again. Upon exceeding 60 meters, divers begin to have problems, the accumulation of nitrogen causes many divers, even the most experienced, to become disoriented and continue descending, thinking they are heading outwards. They then reached the bottom of the hole, where they find a sandy bed completely covered

with the mortal remains of all those who could never escape this deadly trap. The most shocking case was that of Yuri Lipski, a 22-year-old Russian-Israeli diving instructor. The young man entered the blue hole with only one oxygen tank and without calculating his ascent rate. He died at a depth of 115 meters after falling into an uncontrolled descent, while his video camera recorded everything. The video shows him sinking deeper and deeper in an uncontrollable and involuntary descent to 115 meters. Finally, the young man lands at the bottom of the sea, removes his breathing gear, and tries to inflate his buoyancy device, but cannot lift himself. At such a depth, the human body is subject to nitrogen narcosis, which can severely impair judgment.

Nitrogen narcosis causes euphoria, hallucinations, overconfidence, and, of course, confusion. Next, I will show a fragment of the video in question. But if you are highly sensitive, I do not recommend watching it. The next day, Tariq Omar, one of the world's most renowned deep-sea divers, dived into the blue hole at the request of the young man's mother. His mission was initially to recover the body for a proper burial. But what he found there would become known worldwide, turning that place into one of the most sinister on the planet, and what he found was one of the most chilling deaths ever caught on camera. The phenomenon of the bloop is probably one of the most famous since it was discovered in 1997.

Nevertheless, I found it appropriate to bring it up again and share some of the most bizarre and terrifying theories that exist about it. But for those unfamiliar, here is a brief summary, during the Cold War, between 1940s. in 1947, the U.S. Navy built a wide range of submarines equipped with powerful listening devices to detect and track Soviet submarines in case of attack. These hydrophones were placed at a depth of approximately 4,800 kilometers, a distance known as the deep sound channel, where, due to low temperatures and high pressures, sound waves travel great distances. After the Cold War ended, instead of completely shutting down the activity, the U.S. Navy donated the technology to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, NOAA, so they could better study whale migrations,

ocean currents, ice shifts in Antarctica, among other things. For years, NOAA didn't pick up anything unusual, or at least not until 1997, when their equipment captured a sound that baffled everyone. It was a powerful, low-frequency audio signal. At first, there were several, lobs, and then a loud roar that seemed to emerge from the bowels of a gigantic animal, one whose voice had to be far more powerful than that of a blue whale. Several articles in the years that followed popularized the idea that the bloop had to be an unknown, biblically large animal. Many experts were convinced of the sounds organic nature.

Thus, the bloop rose to the level of the great unsolved mysteries. In fact, CNN published an article titled Turning into Deep Sea Monster in which they suggested. suggested the sound might have been produced by a mega-octopus. However, this theory was not viable for Ph. Lovell, a marine biologist at Boston University. He stated, cephalopods do not have internal sacks that can be filled with air-like lungs, which act as sound sources. This animal has no way to generate such sounds. Nonetheless, Lovell did agree that the origin of the sound was biological. As I said before, for a creature to emit such a powerful sound, it would have to be much larger than a blue whale, the largest animal ever to exist on Earth. Therefore, Noah stated

the following, the wave pattern indicates it was made by an animal, but for an aquatic being to emit a sound that can travel over 5,000 kilometers, and considering the amount of ocean noise, it would need an incredibly large sound-producing apparatus, much larger than that of a blue whale. While the blue resembled a living being, the system classified it as unknown because it was too strong, several times stronger than the loudest known biological sound. These declarations gave rise to countless theories, each wilder than the last. Horror fiction enthusiasts were quick to note that the sound's origin was located just 1,760 kilometers from the sunken city of Relya, the mythical dwelling of the legendary beast Cthulu, according to Lovecraft. A creature that fit part of the sunken city of Relya, a creature that fit perfectly into the imagination of those who believed a giant sea monster could emit such a sound capable of traveling thousands of kilometers underwater. Others linked it to the great sea monster Tannan, but the theories did not stop at Cthulhu. They reached into the sacred scriptures, forcing many to consider this question, what if the creature they were looking for was none

other than the Leviathan, a marine beast cited in various ancient religious texts. In Mesopotamian religion, it appears as the primordial serpent Tiamat. In Judaism, through hymns and prayers. And in Christianity, Leviathan is mentioned six times in the Bible. But for those who don't know what it is, here's a brief summary. Leviathan is a sea monster from the Old Testament, created by God during the fifth day of Genesis. Sailors of the past identified it as a horrible dragon serpent or as a gigantic monstrous whale that swallowed entire ships with its jaws and love to eat human flesh. To understand its origin, we must turn to the Old Testament.

There it is admitted that God included sea monsters in creation, among which he made two Leviathans, one male and one female. These beings measured over 40 meters and had jaws like real caves. Supposedly, with time, God realized that these creatures were too powerful. So he decided to kill the female, because if they reproduced, the world would be thrown into terrible chaos. Which leads us to the next question, could that deep sound be the roar of the male Leviathan? The study of the bloop has been hindered because it hasn't been detected again since the summer of 1997.

That's why, in 2012, Noah published a new article comparing the sound to powerful underwater earthquakes. Through this, they determined that all these sounds had common spectrograms, and so the bloop was automatically considered to have been caused by the shifting of an ice platform located in Antarctica. But many didn't believe this new theory. Why did it take so many years to reach this conclusion? Why did Noah remain silent from 1997 to 2012? Did they really need to wait that long to compare spectrograms? Of course, the final word belongs to you.

There are many myths about lost cities, cities that were once prosperous, but, due to the bad habits of their inhabitants, were erased forever by the gods and time. However, not all are myths of sunken cities beneath the sea. In many cases, there are historical records confirming that many large cities have disappeared without a trace. Historical data mixed with legends speak of vengeful gods or resentful seas. Such is the case of the mythical city of Dvarka. The sea, which had been crashing against the shore, suddenly broke the limits imposed by nature. It rushed into the city, flowed through the streets of the beautiful city. The sea covered the entire city in seconds.

Arjuna saw the beautiful building submerged one by one. He gave a final glance to the mansion of Krishna. Within minutes, it was all over. The sea was now as calm as a lake. There was no trace of the beautiful city that had been the favorite place of the Pandavas. Dvarka was only a name, only a memory. These words are from the Mahabharata, an epic mythological text from India. which describes a great catastrophe that struck the dwelling of the god Krishna.

According to Hindu texts, Krishna lived the rest of his life in this city, which he built to protect his most loyal followers. However, after being accidentally shot by an arrow while meditating under a tree, he died. After the god's death, the city he had founded with all his love was swallowed by a massive flood, for the ocean wanted to reclaim what had once been taken from it. For many, the majestic descriptions of ancient cities written in India's ancient texts were just myth. But after discovering ruins exactly where Dvarka was said to lie, everything changed. In May 2001, India's Minister of Science and Technology, Merli Minoher Joshi, announced that the ruins of an ancient civilization had been discovered 20 kilometers off the coast of Gujarat in the Gulf of Kumbat.

The site was discovered by the National Institute of Ocean Technology during routine. pollution studies using sonar. It was described as an area of regularly spaced geometric structures, nine kilometers long, and located at a depth of 30 to 40 meters. In his announcement, Joshi presented the site as an urban settlement older than the Indus Valley civilization. He also said that the site featured regularly spaced homes, a granary, a bathhouse, a citadel, and a drainage system. If the data were correct, this would be the oldest city on the subcontradict. by more than 5,000 years, given that the Harrapan civilization dates back 4,000 years. But of course, this will never be fully known.

Just like many other theories proposed in recent years, this one can't be studied, because the Indian government has banned excavations there. Research and investigation have been prohibited. The reason, to this day, remains a complete mystery. But now, it's up to you. If the city of Dvarka was found Do you think Atlantis will ever be discovered? The end

Number 1 I'm just a kid and my life is a nightmare. Hello everyone, my name is Tom, I am 16 years old and today marks two weeks since they found a tumor in my cerebellum and four weeks since my little sister passed away also due to cancer. August 2024 will probably be remembered as the worst month of my life, the two objectively biggest injustices that can happen to a person occurred to me this month, the loss of a loved one, getting sick, and I decided to write about it since writing has always helped me on troubling times. I'm extremely bored and to celebrate this hell spawn of a month is finally coming to an end. I already have a thousand stories to tell related to this and I may be will in the future,

but for now ill I need to do is vent, going through mourn while having to fight this battle myself is the closest thing to a war on two fronts one can't even begin to describe. The pain myself and my parents are experiencing right now. I miss my friends, I miss my life, I miss my classmates, I miss being treated normally and when treatment actively starts on Wednesday, I will start missing some food, some drinks, hot showers, and so on and so forth. My sister was arguably the person that gave my life the most meaning, the only person I could truly geek out with and each talk would go along swiftly regardless if we had any disagreements or not. She was one of the persons that got me through my other

Loeblands before this, which seem hella insignificant now, and the pain and sadness of losing her even though I subconsciously knew it could happen any day since we had the pathology of her condition in our minds. That doesn't mean the mourn has been any less painful and sad that the one of a normal or accident caused mourning. And for those worried about me, don't worry me and my sister's conditions related to the disease are very different. Her treatment was palliative, mine is curative and doctors are just generally way more optimistic about my case after some first tests and exams came out looking positive in a good way. Which means I'm most likely going to end up in a psych ward cause of this disease rather than getting killed by it. This might be the

sadness, rage and boredom speaking, but living through it doesn't seem all that great tbh. Also, yes, I'm having an extensive mental health support net. I've just always been an emotional wreck and well having an actual reason to be one is destroying my emotional and mental state way away more than my physical state is suffering right now. Well, there we go. I know this definitely is oversharing and but like I said, just writing this shit down has made me feel way better and calm that I had been whole afternoon, I'll prolly return soon with like a story from this whole process or an update when I start the act of treatment. But for now you think that's all relevant to what I wanted to vent about, I could ramble about many other things, but I'll

leave those for when I have thought better about them. Thanks for reading. Number two the time my landlord hit a camera in our bathroom and we didn't notice for six years. Okay, so first, we've obviously moved out. We moved about a year ago and I've never been happier. The household consisted my me, 14F, and my mama, 46F, and my dad sometimes. He doesn't live with us yet, but he will be soon. We moved into the apartment and lived there for about six months. For a few years, the landlord, an older man and his wife, were pretty okay. The downstairs was a shop of sorts so we saw them often. However, year three was when they started to be rude. Getting upset over minor stuff such as the outer door rotting with was not our fault. The house was

falling apart and he refused to fix anything. Other than other sink, I'd Quich one, at one point in the winter the front door broke and our house was freezing because the heater was working fast enough to block out the cold. In my bedroom above my bed, the roof was sagging down at would leak when it rained. Because my room was small, I couldn't move my bed anywhere else without obstructing my door. On to the camera. I was using the bathroom and you know when you get bored on the toilet and you don't have your phone so you're just kind of stuck looking around. That was essentially what was going on. To the right was the sink and it was rectangular so the bottom had storage.

There was a inch or so of space between the ground and the storage part. Our ground in the room was covered by fake tiling and it was starting to come up there. There were two small holes in the tiling, which I hadn't ever thought anything of until I was looking at it. From the angle I thought it looked like something was in it so I started to peel-packed the tiling as saw something black. I had been watching TikTok a bit before and had seen those horror stories. of finding a camera in their hotel rooms and stuff, so I thought I'd check on the off chance it was. I grabbed my phone and shined the light at the holes and started freaking out because the bigger hole actually looked like there was a camera lens. So, of course, I ran to my mom, at midnight

LOL, and told her about the camera. She sighed and said it probably was wiring or something and she'd have dad check it tomorrow when he came up for dinner. Well, when he did he fully peeled back the tiling at that area and sure enough, there was a camera. Of course we checked the rest of the house and there weren't any others. That we found at least, my dad brought the camera to his cousin who was a cop and they looked into it. Apparently it was one that you could connect to your phone and watch where it was set up. He said that based off everything, it quat, it looked like it hadn't worked for about a year or so. However, he found that it was bought at 2018 which was about when we moved in. My parents wanted to press charges but because

of everything we never did. Well, my mom capped him, at least I think that's how that's spelled. thing where you can see any criminal history. She found that he'd previously been charged for three counts of sexual assault of a minor and sexual harassment of a woman. I don't entirely remember why, but I guess the charges were either dropped or lessened. So, for six years of my life, me and my mother lived in that house, being watched for at least five years. Our bathroom was small, so where the camera was placed was a perfect spot to see us getting undressed if we were showering or changing. Not to mention if we were wearing a dress or skirt. Every time I think about it I feel so violated. Not to mention that he had a ladder to the room right next to my

bedroom windows and unlike my mom, I didn't have any curtains because the rods were broken for the first three years. I feel so grossed out that we were being watched without knowing, especially in such a vulnerable spot. It's not even like the camera was in a spot that could possibly be justified either. So, to all those who are renting, please be careful. You never know who's watching you. Even if you think you're safe, you never know. Number 3 A run-of-the-mill horror story, Lester and his wife of 10 years, Emily, recently moved into a very large Victorian house in rural Maine.

Their marriage had been ripped to shreds by the death of their five-year-old son, and while they loved each other, they had not been coping well. Lester developed an anger problem, while Emily drank a bottle of wine every night. Seemingly everything reminded them of their late son, and Emily had bad dreams every night about the moment she saw her boy being hit by a pickup truck driven by a bigoted man in his forties. One night, Lester found himself unable to sleep, and wound up sitting on the edge of his bed staring into the wall as if something was about to crawl out of it. Emily could not sleep either, but she remained lying on her side with her eyes half open. Lester, what are you doing?

It's 2 a.m. Lester groaned and lit up a cigarette. I can't sleep. I keep thinking about what went wrong with our kids. Toby. I couldn't run fast enough, despite going on four-mile runs every morning. Emily sat up and stared at her husband. Why are you smoking? Because I have writers block, Lester barked. I am a somewhat recognizable novelist who publishes a whole book every seven years, but these days, I can hardly string together a few sentences. Trust me, I know all about

disappointment. As a stay-at-home painter, I sell one piece a month, and I have depression. Still, we can afford this beautiful home, so why dash? Their conversation was promptly cut off by a loud thud coming from the hallway. They looked up in silence before another thud rung out. Lester put on his slippers and bolted towards the door. What are you doing? Ask Emily. What do you think?

I'm going to go see what that sound was. He almost went to the closet for his gun, but then he realized that a weapon would not be conceivably useful in that sort of situation. He figured that if there was something out there, he could yell loud enough for it to run away. So, he simply cleared his mind and exited the room. Lester stepped carefully down the hallway before noticing that a door to his right was open. He knew he closed that door before going to bed, so he thought this was strange. Still, without a second thought, he entered the room and closed the door behind him. The room was pitch black, but he did not think to turn on the lights.

Instead, he retrieved a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his sweatpants and flicked it on. From the other end of the room, he heard a faint growling sound. He thought that it must be a dog that the previous homeowners left behind, so he approached it without hesitation. With each step, the growling got louder and louder, but this did not deter him. He thought this dog must have been starving, so he bravely pushed on. When he got closer, lightning flashed and he could not believe what was illuminated. It was not a dog at all, but rather, an alien.

He realized that this made a lot of sense in that it did not really need to make sense. It was an alien, so that was all he needed to know. The alien reached out, and both of them disappeared. The next morning, Emily decided to move back to New York City. She did not attempt to sell the house nor pack any of her things. She just got in her modest sedan and drove away, crying as the trees passed by. End, author's note, thank you so much for reading my newest story. I hope you enjoyed the tale of a troubled couple struggling with things the average family could relate to.

I know it was not very long, but it really did not need to be. True horror is not about fancy words or bizarre creatures, it, is about spinning a tale that is equal parts disturbing and familiar. I wanted to make a point loudly and concisely, and I believe I did just that. Have a good afternoon, and stay spooked. Number one, I'm a blind man living alone, but I'm sorry. starting to think that I'm not the only person in my house. I became blind when I was 11 years old. That was 30 years ago. I've grown up, adapted, and I've finally reached a point where I can be happy with my life. I finally feel like I'm in control again. Or at least I did, until this week. It all

started on Monday. I had a horrible day at work. I'm a teacher, and the kids were rude, my boss was rude, and the weather was awful. It was just one of those days. After getting home, I was ready to leave it all behind and go to sleep. I walked in, drank a glass of water, and curled up in bed. But something didn't feel right. Something was wrong. I lay there for a few minutes before I realized what it was, my bed was warm when I got in. But only on one side, as if someone had just gotten out of bed moments before I entered the room. My mouth went dry. I stayed silent for several minutes, listening. Eventually, I convinced myself that I was just imagining things, drank another glass of water, and went to sleep. The next day, after work, I got home and threw

myself on the couch to watch TV. Yes, we blind people do that. With modern accessibility features, the scenes are described for us. It's like having a robot read the script for you. Strange at first, but it beats sitting in silence. I wasn't paying much attention to the TV when I noticed something else, I was feeling warmth. Nothing too intense, just a steady warmth coming from my right side. It took me a minute to realize that it was coming from a lamp on the table beside me. I never turn on the lights in my house. Why would I? I have bulbs and lamps in their sockets, but I never use them. Friends might use them when they come over, but that's it. No one had been in my house for over a month, and I definitely would have noticed the warmth from that lamp before if it had

been on that long. I sit in that spot almost every day. I turned the lamp off and tried to put it behind me. I listened to another episode of NCIS, heated my dinner in the microwave, and decided to go to bed. As I left the kitchen, I took four steps down the hall as usual and turned to enter my bedroom. Bam! I nearly broke my nose on the bedroom door. That's when I got scared. I never closed my doors. I'm blind, and I live alone. I don't need the hassle of searching for doorknobs every time I enter or leave a room. Someone had been in my house. I hadn't been this scared since the day I woke up in the hospital 30 years ago, knowing that my entire life had just changed. I took my phone out of my pocket to call 911, but my hands were shaking

with adrenaline, and I dropped it. I heard the phone hit the carpet and bounce off the baseboard, so I fell to my knees and started searching for it. Five seconds later, and I still hadn't found it. Had it bounced farther than I thought. I swear I heard it hit the baseboard right by my feet. Slowly, I expanded my search, crawling along the hallway, arms stretched out in front of me, trying to scour as much of the carpet as I could. Nothing. Tears began to fill my eyes. I sat for a moment, calmed myself, took a deep breath, and restarted my search. I only had a few square feet of space to search, just the space in front of the laundry room door and the guest bedroom door. It wasn't a long hallway. I crawled, scraping my arms on the

carpet, when the tip of one of my fingers brushed against something solid in the middle of the floor. Finally, I crawled a few more inches and let my hand fall where I felt something solid. There was nothing there. Confused, I crawled a few more inches and tried again. Nothing. I crawled a few more inches and reached out once more. This time, my right hand fell on something too big to be a phone.

Gently, I rubbed my hand over the surface. It was cold and dry, almost fleshy. I realized what it was when it moved under my hand. I had grabbed someone's foot. To this day I'm still trying to find out if she was killed, died by sickness or truly taken as punishment for opening the wrong portal. The first time I went to my friend's house we were in second grade. He was small for his age and had an unflattering bowl-cut haircut,

I was a troublemaker, the loudest in our grade and he was a shy, quiet soft boy, an unlikely pair. Our connection was not grounded in similarities, except the one where our mothers knew each other since middle school and that made it easier for them to plan our play dates. His mother, Sophia was nice, she didn't seem like she belonged in this earth, like my mother she had an elegance and poised that made her stand out anywhere, I remember noticing people moving out of the way to let her and my mother go through, I used to think is was

due to their beauty, but no I think there's more. When my mom dropped me off that day I felt uneasy, the house made me uncomfortable, the people I saw there seemed off, including my soft-spoken classmate. Sophia welcomed me and showed me to the room where Charlie and I were to work on our school project. As we passed by the living room I noticed his little sister communicating in sing language with a young man with long hair, she looked somber which is unusual for a young child. Charlie told me she was three. I didn't know Charlie had a sister until then. The young man was Charlie's uncle, he was deaf mute, Charlie offered the information freely, maybe he could tell I was acting different from my usual loud self. Weeks had passed from that visit and I couldn't shake the weird feeling when been around Charlie at school, I felt as if something invisible yet dark had clung to my back and I was now dragging it around. Charlie reminded me that it was in his house I had felt that first. When the news of Sophia's death came, my mother was surprisingly angry, not sad as one may expect from a friend in mourning, my mother blamed Sophia's husband, and I heard my father tell her how impossible it was to blame him as Sophia had been taken by leukemia. Soon after I saw Sophia's husband, Charlie's father for the first time, but not at school.

nor her funeral, as I was not allowed to go, but on TV. He claimed passionately in front of the cameras that Sophia's life had been taken as punishment, due to been cursed while playing Ouija with friends, the day in question they were on the board asking questions when doors began to violently slammed. Wind blew across the room and hopelessness fell on all participants. He claimed there were two people present that day who had died in sudden circumstances, and that his young brother had become deaf mute after the event. He proudly announced his crusade as a spirit and ghost chaser and vowed to prove his

theory. It's been over 30 years since, he has written books, been on reality shows, and made a profitable career from the tragedy. My mother claimed he was a charlatan, that his brother had been born deaf-mute and Sophia died from AIDS as he failed to disclose his status to her. My mother died months later. I never knew with certainty if she was one of the friends on the Ouija board that day. Number three A group of children discover a dead body. As a journalist, I've covered many stories, but the one that still haunts me is the memory of that fateful day when a group of children discovered a dead body. It was a bright, sunny afternoon when I received a call from the local police department. They had received reports of some kids

who had made a gruesome discovery in the park. I grabbed my notebook and recorder and headed straight to the scene. When I arrived, I saw a group of children, no older than 10 or 11, huddled together near the edge of the park. They looked pale and shaken, and I could see the terror in their eyes. I approached them gently and asked if they were the ones who had found the body. They nodded weakly, and one little girl pointed towards the bushes. I made my way towards the bushes, and my heart sank as I saw the lifeless body of a man lying on the ground. His skin was pale, and his eyes were closed. It was clear that he had been there for a while. The police arrived soon after, and they began their investigation. The children were taken to

the hospital to be checked over, and they were all in shock. I couldn't shake the feeling of sadness and horror that had settled in my chest. The man was later identified as a local businessman who had been reported missing a few days earlier. The cause of death was determined to be a single gunshot wound. The memory of that day still haunts me. Those children will never forget the day they discovered a dead body, and I will never forget the look of terror in their eyes. It was a grim reminder of the darker side of life, even in a sunny park on a bright afternoon.

In the realm of horror, few figures are as terrifying as the Angel of Death. Legends and tales have woven a dark tapestry around this haunting entity, whose purpose is to guide souls from the mortal plane to the afterlife. Here, we delve into two bone-chilling stories that revolve around encounters with the Angel of Death. Story 1, The Silent Harbinger, in a desolate hospital ward, a young patient named Emily lay frail and weak. Pale and breathless, she sensed an ominous presence lurking in the shadows of her room.

Night after night, a figure draped in black robes and shrouded by a hooded cloak stood silently at the foot of her bed. Emily's heart raced every time she caught a glimpse of the figure. She knew it was the angel of death, drawn to claim her soul. Its ethereal form exuded a chilling coldness, and the air turned heavy with a sense of impending doom. Terrified, Emily confided in her nurse, who dismissed her fears as mere delusions. But as the days passed, Emily's health deteriorated rapidly, and the figure grew more persistent. She became convinced that her time was running out, and her every breath seemed like a countdown to her demise.

Then, one fateful night, as the angel of death drew nearer, Emily summoned all her courage. In a trembling voice, she pleaded, please, spare me a little longer. I am not ready to leave this world. The figure stood motionless for a moment, as if contemplating her words. And then, with a nod of its shadowy head, it receded into the darkness. her frail body was granted a reprieve, and she clung to life for a while longer. However, the memory of that chilling encounter haunted Emily until her last breath. She lived the remainder of her days in a constant state of fear, knowing that the angel of death could return

at any moment to claim what was rightfully its. Story 2, The Bargain. In a remote village nestled in the mountains, a desperate man named Thomas faced a dire predicament. His wife, Sarah, lay on her deathbed, succumbing to a terminal illness. Desperate for a miracle, Thomas sought the help of a mysterious stranger known for his arcane knowledge. The stranger appeared before Thomas, his piercing gaze holding an unsettling intensity. I can save your wife, he whispered, but there will be a price. Thomas, blinded by grief and hope, eagerly agreed to any terms. Unbeknownst to him, the stranger was none other than the angel of death,

disguised to lure unsuspecting souls into its grasp. Days turned into weeks, and Thomas watched in awe as his wife's health miraculously improved. But a dark cloud loomed over their newfound happiness. The stranger, now revealed in his true form, visited Thomas one final time. With a voice that sent shivers down Thomas's spine, the angel of death declared, The time has come for me to collect what is owed. I spared your wife's life, but now I claim another in her stead. Thomas pleaded and begged, but the angel of death remained resolute.

In despair, Thomas realized the terrible truth, he had unknowingly struck a deal with death itself. As the village mourned the loss of Thomas, a somber silence fell over the once bustling community. The chilling tale of his ill-fated bargain with the Angel of Death served as a haunting reminder that tempting fate and meddling with the supernatural can lead to unimaginable consequences. These stories serve as a chilling testament to the horror and inevitability of the angel of death. The entity, shrouded in mystery in darkness, reminds us that life is fragile and that even the bravest souls tremble in its presence. Historia de Terror Part 2, set in the sun-setting town Salem Alley, a curious toddler is hanging out with the friendly neighbors in the cozy, warmly lit kitchen. The aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the air, adding to the pleasant ambience.

However, something feels slightly off, creating a subtle unease that lingers in the background. Alexis Ally's mom, with her gentle smile, goes outside for a breath of fresh air and takes a leisurely stroll in the yard. As we all get distracted by the laughter and chatter, Alexis remains in the yard, and suddenly, an eerie feeling creeps over me, making me open a window and call her name. To my surprise, a distant, unfamiliar voice from the neighbor's house starts yelling Alexis's name, jolting us with its volume and urgency. It echoes through the tranquil evening, sending shivers down our spines. Alexis eventually returns inside, but her behavior becomes oddly robotic and distant,

almost as if she's in a trance. As darkness falls, the town's atmosphere becomes mysterious and intriguing. The warm hues of the setting sun give way to the cooler, darker tones of dusk. The air carries a gentle, cool breeze that rustles the leaves on the trees, creating a soothing melody. The distant sounds of crickets and frog serenade us, their rhythmic calls adding to the tranquility. I notice a faint, mysterious glow surrounding Alexis in the yard, casting an otherworldly aura around her small form. Her movements appear ethereal and disconnected from reality, further adding to the unsettling scene. The situation becomes more mysterious and alarming as the darkness envelopes the town.

Erie sounds echo in the distance, and multiple voices call out Alexis's name, making us all fear something supernatural might be at play. The calls are a strange mixture of echoes and reverberations, creating an almost haunting effect that lingers in the air. Despite our fear, we decide to stick together and confront the unknown. Inside the house, strange occurrences intensify, with flickering lights casting dancing shadows on the walls, adding to the unease. The mysteriously turned on TV displays distorted images and symbols, accompanied by an unsettling, static noise. We attempt a protective ritual to help Alexis, our voices rising and falling in a harmonic rhythm, but the tension in the house rises with every chant. The sound of our collective breaths become synchronized, matching the beating of our

hearts, both resolute and apprehensive. As the ritual reaches its peak, the room trembles, and the candle's gentle flickering intensifies, casting a mesmerizing glow that illuminates the room with a soft, warm light. The scent of the candles wax mingles with the lingering aroma of cookies, creating a unique and surreal olfactory experience. We face a palpable sense of danger, but as suddenly as it began, everything stops. The room falls into silence, broken only by our heavy breathing. The glow around Alexis disappears like a fading dream, leaving us in awe and wonder. With relief, we see her come back to her senses, unaware of what just transpired. Her eyes, previously distant and glazed, now sparkle with innocence and curiosity,

as if nothing unusual happened. From that unsettling night onwards, our bond as neighbors grow stronger, as we remain vigilant in protecting each other from the mysterious forces that may lurk in the shadows of Salem. The town's secrets continue to puzzle us, and and we now keep a watchful eye on the setting sun, knowing that darkness can awaken strange occurrences. Stories three very questionable limo ride. I'm a limo driver for wedding, they're usually good experiences,

occasionally throw up in the seats or something but never too bad. I wasn't going to go into too much detail for this story, but I had to experience it so you do too. So about three years ago a friend of mine needed to find someone from a limo service to do their older brother's wedding, I don't usually do services from friends due to the fact most of them live far away, but I accepted this because I wasn't going to have any plans for the weekend. So I guess I was technically invited to the wedding,

it took a couple hours for the wedding to finish up, but it was over all a beautiful place. After the wedding I had to drive the couple to some expensive hotel, keep in mind, I didn't really seem them because I was walking around during half of the reception, and turns out it was a gay couple. When they got in, I got a clear look at their faces, it was a tall, about six feet four inches, white guy in a white tux in a short black dread head, probably around five feet one inch.

They seemed super joyous since they were just married, and I didn't want to seem awkward so I just congratulated the two and began driving. The white guy seemed a little drunk and was rubbing against his new husband, but the other guy didn't seem to mind. I hadn't noticed what they were doing until I looked in my review mirror, just to see the two making out. I was slightly uncomfortable by the moaning and grunting coming from the two, especially because the short guy had a boner, and it was clear to see.

I just decided to stay quiet and keep driving, the worst part about it was the back window that is usually in limos, you know the one you roll up or down that leads to the back of the car where the people in it are supposed to sit, was broken. I tried to stay quiet, occasionally clearing my throat to see if they would realize I could hear them, but it just got worse. The tall guy was sitting on the other man's lap, grinding against him, moaning and laughing while the other guy kept encouraging him. I tried to not look back there, but it was kind of hard when all you can hear is some

random guy whispering and calling his new husband, Daddy, so I would occasionally look in my mirror, just to see them in some new position making out. At one point, I looked in the back, my jaw completely dropping as I saw the tall guy giving the other man a blow job. It was slightly disturbing because it was clear he was giving him sloppy-toppy, but I just kept my mouth shut instead of speaking out. It was uncomfortable listening to his husband's moans and demands as he sucked him off. I didn't want to look again, but the curiosity got the best of me ten minutes later, so I looked in my mirror again, and these bitch was riding the dread head, moaning and begging for more. At this point, I wanted to stop the car and walk into traffic, but my friend offered me a lot of

money to finish the job, so I couldn't bail now. The drive was about a hour and each time I looked back there, it was some new fucking position. Reverse cowgirl, 69 style, missionary, doggy style, all that shit. At one point, I turned around completely just to see the tall guy getting pounded into my seats, roughly. I made eye contact with the short guy, and he stared at me in shock, clearly not realizing that I had heard them the whole time. He didn't stop, though, he just blushed, covered his face and kept going, so I turned around and left them alone. After I finally got to the hotel, they both got out and the dreadhead walked up to me, apologizing and then paying me more money, he ticked me a hundred bucks and asked if I needed more

for the horrible ride, but I just said no. It wasn't that I cared they were going at it in my seats, it's that the seats would probably be stained or dirty. When I got back to my city and went to the back to clean the seats, they were clean, and a little note was taped to the seat. It was the funniest shit ever to read, so sum up what it said, it was basically, I'm sorry for you to witness me fucking my husband, we were both horny, I made sure to clean the back seats, to be honest, the note kind of made up my night. It's a story I still tell some of my friend, and I've even talked to the couple a couple

of times, but it was clear the tall one didn't know that I had noticed him getting obliterated in my back seats, but the short guy kept apologizing to me. Needless to say, probably one of the most traumatizing and funniest limo rides I ever did. Part one Holly goes to the mushroom kingdom. T. LDR, mushrooms have a lot of fiber in them. Who knew? Not me. And definitely not my husband. So for the last three months my husband has been taking cooking classes so he doesn't give himself food poisoning after he eats no less than like 14 raw honeycombs and five pounds of beeswax again. I thought maybe he'd come back with some common sense, but now he's just reckless and bought a bunch of pie crusts and made pies, with them that consisted of literally anything dumped into the pie shell and baked for about 30 minutes. He made about a dozen pies, and ate all of them because I told him he'd have to eat all of them.

So now he decides to do another one of his apocalyptic food orders from Foodland again. He bought 36 pounds of portobello mushrooms, 12 pounds of gourmet mushrooms, and 16 pounds of cabot creamery habanero jack. He tells me, I love mushrooms, I'm only going to eat mushrooms from now on. I figure this is probably fine because they're neutral and kind of bland and shouldn't mess with his IBS right? Right. Nope. So he starts making stuffed mushrooms using the big portobelloes for the base, dices up some of the gourmet mushrooms and adds in the habanera jack to make a stuffing. He makes four big stuffed mushrooms and eats those for every meal, breakfast and lunch and dinner for three days straight.

The mushrooms do look good and smell good, but I have a full full. of spicy foods from a previous incident that involved accidentally creating tear gas in my kitchen and then having to go to the hospital with everything you're not supposed to touch on fire. The big problem started at 3 a.m. today. So, apparently mushrooms have a surprising amount of fiber in them and a thing called chitin that isn't digestible. My husband has eaten about 1.5 pounds of mushrooms and habanero cheese for every meal, three meals a day, for the last three days.

The cheese is acting like a cork, but the cork is shoved into empty vesuvius. The pipes begin rattling and my husband has enough decency to leap out of bed, pulling all of the covers with him as he runs for the toilet. He wakes me up as I'm dragged out of bed along with all of my blankets and a few pillows. My husband barely manages to shut the bathroom door before he unleashes the vengeful Nazi ghost that occasionally haunts his rectum. I hear the toilet seat slam and a lot of fumbling before there's the sound of rushing water like someone busted open a fire heightened, followed by my husband exercising a demon as he

begin speaking in tongues and saying things like, Oh God. Oh Jesus, no. Oh, why? He finishes up and comes back to bed. He describes the event as feeling as if he were sitting on a red-hot rotating sword followed by a sea battle involving all the cannons loaded with Grapeshot. He frowns for a second and takes off for the toilet again. This time it's worse. The Poop-shoot has been loaded with Grapeshot and the dragon has found the poop chute. The dragon is breathing fire right now that comes in ways. because my husband cannot eat anything like a normal human being and has to eat one food in excess until he gets sick.

And now, because he ate three meals of nothing but mushrooms, mushrooms, and extra spicy cheese. He's basically eaten a bunch of corks that are holding back the entire capacity of the Hoover Dam. So it's fire. And then grape shot. Followed by even more fire. I'm not going back to sleep any time soon since my husband is wailing like a poltergeist in the bathroom and it's 4.15 a.m. right now. I guess I'm going to start my morning routine two hours early. Part 2A.I. written short story about a magical capabara.

In the lush, verdant rainforests of South America, a magical capabara roamed the earth. This capabera was not like any other, it was imbued with powerful magic that allowed it to change its shape and size at will. It was a creature of great curiosity in adventure, always exploring the depths of the forest and discovering new wonders. One day, the capabara came across a group of animals that were in great distress. The animals explained that their home, a nearby pond, was in danger of drying up due to a prolonged drought. They begged the capabara for help, and without hesitation, the capabara knew what it had to do. Using its magic, the capabara transformed into a magnificent dragon, soaring through the sky with great speed and power.

It flew to the top of the tallest mountain in the forest, where it found a crystal that was imbued with the power of rain. With a great burst of energy, the capabara dragon shattered the crystal, unleashing a torrential downpour that drenched the forest in water. The animals of the forest rejoiced as the rain replenished their homes and nourished their bodies. The Capabara, now in its original form, bashed in the gratitude of the animals it had helped. It felt a sense of immense pride and satisfaction knowing that it had made a difference in the lives of these creatures. But the Capabara's joy was short-lived, as it soon learned that a group of hunters had entered the forest, seeking to capture

the magical creature for their own gain. The Capabara knew that it had to flee, but it also knew that it could not abandon the animals of the forest. Using its magic, the capabara transformed once again, this time into a massive oak tree. The hunters, in their ignorance, saw only a tree and passed by it without a second glance. But the animals of the forest knew the truth, and they knew that their beloved capabara was still there, watching over them. For years, the capabara remained in its tree form, providing shelter and protection to the animals of the forest. And though it longed to roam and explore once again, it knew that the that its duty was to protect those who could not protect themselves. The Capabara had become a legend

in the forest, a symbol of courage and selflessness that would be passed down from generation to generation. And though it had sacrificed its own freedom for the safety of others, it knew that it had made the right choice, and that the love and gratitude of the animals it had helped was all the reward it needed. Part 3 SAL gave herself an enema with coffee, my SAL is. Not smart to put it kindly. She has done some very idiotic things during the course of my husband and my relationship, but this takes the freaking cake. S. I.L. is incredibly gullable and believes literally anything she reads on the internet. Well, she read that if you give yourself an enema with coffee, it can help cleanse toxins from your body, Q collective I roll. B.L comes home one day to a scary looking

mess in the bathroom, what appears to be blood-soaked pads, towels, etc. BAL freaks out and immediately begins asking S. I.L. what happened and if she's okay. S. I.L. gets very cagey and avoidant of his questions. B.L. continues panicking thinking something is incredibly wrong and S.A.L. needs to go to the ER. Finally, B.L. gets her to spill. After reading on the internet that it is healthy and beneficial to give yourself an enema with coffee she decided to try it. Only she missed one very important step in letting your coffee cool down first before you try to insert it into your asshole. So S.A.L. gave herself an unsuccessful. enema with hot coffee and literally burned her rectum. She refused to go to the doctor out of

embarrassment. This is my favorite story that I have ever had the pleasure of hearing in my life and now it gets to Grace Reddit as well. Edited to add BIL in this post is SIL's husband, sorry for the confusion I should have written that part better. SIL reluctantly relayed this story to my husband, her brother, at great urging from her husband. Edit, this happened months ago and as far as I know SIL has not suffered any side effects from this. We are no longer on speaking due to how she decided to treat my husband, my mother-in-law, her mother, and myself. It was not actually blood on the towels and pads but a coffee-slash-poo mixture. It was all so strange that even the FBI had to get involved, but even they found nothing.

Numerous people were interrogated, the route of the car was retraced again and again, and in 2001, the Tusing family, completely desperate, decided to contact the program. We begin. The first story is about Dana Lennel Stidham, who was born on March 8, 1971, in Gravet, Arkansas, as one of the two children of Georgia and Lawrence Stidham. To her loved ones, she was always a very intelligent, healthy, and responsible girl. In fact, during her teenage years, she worked as a babysitter for some neighbors, and around the age of 15, she began working at a store called Phillips Food Center in Bella Vista, Arkansas.

In 1989, she graduated with honors from Gravet High School and moved out on her own with her brother Larry. The two of them always got along well, were responsible and organized, so there were no better candidates to take this step. However, there was something that prevented them from fully becoming independent, her father, Lawrence Stidham, was chronically ill. I haven't found exactly what illness he had, but what I do know is that he had to take medication constantly and suffered from very severe pain that made it hard for him to move. So every Tuesday, his two children would go help him. Georgia Stidham had a full-time job and couldn't be with her husband all the time, so on Tuesdays, either Dana or Larry would go to see him. They would do laundry,

help around the house, and if necessary, go to the pharmacy for him. At 2.30 p.m. on Tuesday, July 25, 1989, Larry couldn't go to his parents' house, so Dana had to do it for both of them. She got in the car, drove ten minutes to her parents' house, and once there, she started working. At one point, she noticed that her father kept complaining, so she went to him and asked if he had enough medicine. The man said he didn't, and that she needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up more medication. So Dana offered to do it for him, put the laundry in the dryer, and then took the keys, the prescription, and her wallet. Around 3 p.m., she left the house to go to the closest pharmacy, which was just a couple of minutes away.

Mr. Stidham assumed that his daughter wouldn't be long, but time passed, and Dana didn't show any signs of coming back. Around 4 p.m., Georgia Stidham arrived home from work and noticed that there were clothes in the dryer. She asked her husband where Dana was, but he didn't know how to answer. At this point, we have a timeline of events based on witness testimonies. Dana had to go to the pharmacy near her parents' house, but instead of doing that, she got in the car, went to a gas station, and then headed to Phillips Food Center. Once there, around 3.17 p.m., she bought sugar, hand soap, and her father's medication.

After that, she said goodbye to everyone and disappeared. She supposedly returned to her parents' house, but in reality, she never made it. The Stidims thought that perhaps Dana got distracted, had a car problem, maybe ran out of gas, or got a flat tire. But around 9 o'clock or 9.15 p.m., Larry called to ask where Dana was, since the girl hadn't returned home, and there had been no calls, no messages, nothing at all. So the Stidams decided to call the police. From then on, a large search effort was launched. They called friends, acquaintances, and neighbors to look in every. every corner, but they found nothing until 6.30 a.m. the next day. A police officer was doing his

regular patrol when he suddenly found a car parked on the side of Highway 71, north of Bella Vista's center. It didn't seem to have been in any kind of accident, but still, everything seemed very strange. The car was intact, no scratches, no dents, no signs of violence. But when I tell you how everything was, you'll understand why I say it was all very strange. First of all, a rear tire was slightly deflated. Second, the driver's window was rolled down. And third, the keys were in the ignition. But despite that, neither inside nor near the vehicle was there anyone who appeared to be the owner. The whole area was desolate, there were no footprints, no marks, nothing. So the car looked abandoned, but it was too clean to have been there for a long time. The officer immediately called

the central office, gave the address and license plate number, and they immediately informed him that the car belonged to Dana Stidham. Several patrol cars arrived at the scene and proceeded to analyze it in depth. That's when they found the following points. First, in the trunk area was everything Dana had bought, the sugar, the medication, the soap, the purchase receipt. So the girl had intended to return home. Second, her wallet was inside the car, which meant it wasn't just a robbery. If it had been a robbery, her wallet wouldn't have been there. And third, and this is the most striking part, the driver's seat was moved. Dana was a very petite girl, so the driver's seat would have been very close to the front. However, in this case, it was pushed back. So the

person who left the car there couldn't have been her. Interrogations began immediately, and that That's when Dana's parents said they didn't understand why she didn't go to the pharmacy, why instead of going there, she drove to her workplace, why she would get in the car and drive around, it didn't make any sense. So the police took note of this for later. Time passed, and the police had nothing, no suspects, no evidence, no witnesses, absolutely nothing. So they asked the public to report anything they knew.

And that's when everyone started accusing the same person, Michael Earl McMillard. Michael had attended the same high school as Dana, and according to everyone, he was obsessed with her. The girl had rejected him countless times, but he didn't give up. The interesting part is that the pharmacy Dana didn't want to go to belong to Michael's parents. People said Michael was crazy about Dana, but Dana wanted nothing to do with him. And the police discovered that the girl avoided the pharmacy to not run into Michael. So the police went looking for the guy and asked him directly, what he was doing the night Dana disappeared.

He answered that he was with his girlfriend. The officers went to his girlfriend, but she said she knew nothing about it, that she hadn't seen Michael and hadn't spoken with him. So they went back to him and insisted. The guy then said that he had actually been with another girlfriend. They went to the other girlfriend, and once again, she said she knew nothing. It was a complete mess. He said he was with one, then said he was with the other. Finally, Michael ended up saying he spent the entire afternoon and night driving around in his father's truck.

He had no witnesses, no proof. But the police had an ace up their sleeve. So they asked to search the truck, but conveniently, the vehicle had been sold. They tracked down the license plate, found the buyer, and located the truck. They searched it and found two interesting things. First, they found strange stains that appeared to be blood. According to some sources, the stains matched Dana's blood, but other sources couldn't confirm it. Second, they found several long brown hairs that could belong to Dana Stidham, but unfortunately,

they had no follicles, so proving they were hers was almost impossible. These pieces of evidence in court didn't prove anything. They showed that Dana might have been in the truck, that they might have met or seen each other, but they didn't prove Michael killed her, and because of this, the guy wasn't arrested. Weeks passed, and no one knew anything about Dana Stidham. But then, her things started to appear in various areas. All these things were found near highways, as if someone was throwing them from a moving car. On August 5th of that same year, a dog returned home with Dana's purse in its mouth.

And on the 16th of the following month, a hunter from Benton County called the police to report that he had found a body in an advanced state of decomposition in the middle of the forest. The body was semi-buried next to a creek, and at the same time, it was very close to the border between Arkansas and Missouri. Several bones were missing, there were no signs of a struggle, no evidence nearby, but if there had been, they had disappeared over time. Everything was so decayed that the police couldn't determine how the girl died, whether from strangulation, suffocation, or blunt force. But they hinted that perhaps the girl died from gunshots, and another thing they suspected was. that the killer knew the area very well, he knew that burying Dana there would take months to find the body, and those months would probably turn into years. If it hadn't been for the hunter,

they might still know nothing about her. When someone loses a loved one, they put up a temporary gravestone, just a gravestone with a few details and nothing more, since the final one will have a photo, special text, and the birth and death dates. And that's exactly what happened with Dana Stidham. A funeral was held, a temporary gravestone was put up, and people placed flowers and left. Shortly after, someone from the family went back to the cemetery and realized the temporary gravestone had disappeared. So they immediately grabbed the phone and called the police. There were no fingerprints, no physical evidence, but still, everyone pointed to Michael

McMillian. So the police went to his house and knocked on his door. At first, the guy denied it. everything, said it didn't make sense to steal a gravestone or desecrate a cemetery, that it wasn't in his plans. But then he admitted it. It turns out that when Dana disappeared, the guy joined the Navy and was immediately sent to the other side of the country. Later, he returned to Bella Vista for questioning and after that, he went back to work. Time passed, and Dana's body was found. So the family decided to bury her, but Michael was so far away he couldn't attend.

the funeral. Weeks passed, months went by, and finally, Michael returned to Bella Vista. The first thing he did was go to the cemetery. He went to Dana's grave, brought flowers, cried, and when he saw that the gravestone was temporary, he decided to steal it and take it home as a souvenir. After admitting the crime, Michael was arrested and charged with theft. He was temporarily imprisoned, paid bail, got out, and went back to his old life. But the police didn't take their eyes off him, and they started investigating his entire past. They discovered that Michael had been constantly harassed by Navy recruiters for a long time, but he had always told them no.

For years, they had pursued him, but the guy always said no, that he didn't want to be a Marine, that they should leave him alone. But just when Dana disappears, he suddenly feels an interest in the army. Other very interesting points are that after the girl's death, Michael would come constantly go to the cemetery to mourn his loss and carry around a photo of Dana in his wallet. But the most shocking thing of all is that during one interrogation, Michael said the following, sometimes I think I killed Dana, but I know I didn't. To be continued.

The next case we will talk about is that of Amanda. Amanda Renette Toosing was born on December 6, 1979, as one of the three children of Susan and Edward Tusing. According to her family, she was a very soon. sweet and intelligent girl who loved animals and was always close to her loved ones, especially her twin sister, whom she adored above all else. At some point, she graduated with very good grades from Gauze High School and later became engaged to her lifelong partner, Matthew Irving.

This idea made her ecstatic, she wanted to get married as soon as possible, become independent, have children, and nothing in life made her happier. She had already looked at local cakes, wedding dresses, and constantly, constantly told everyone that her dream was about to come true. However, at one point in the story, something went wrong. On June 15, 2000, the weather was very bad, it was actually raining quite a bit, but Amanda had arranged to meet her fiancé, and nothing or no one would stop her from seeing him. So she got into her Pontiac Grand and drove to his house in Jonesboro, Arkansas. They were together, talked, had dinner, and the evening went quite well.

However, what seemed like a simple storm, a very strong one, turned into a nightmare, wind, lightning, thunder, flooded streets. So Matt asked Amanda to stay the night. The house of Matt was 50 minutes away from Amanda's parents' house, and to get there, she had to drive through many fields. There were no shelters, no emergency stops, it was practically all fields. But despite this, the girl was very stubborn, and at 11.30 p.m., she was, She kissed him and left. As she was leaving, Matt shouted to her to call him when she got home, to which Amanda replied that she would.

But sadly, that call never came. At 1.30 a.m., Matt called her in-laws, and they told him that she hadn't returned. Edward Tusing and Matthew Irving agreed over the phone to get in their cars and meet halfway. They would drive along the same road Amanda supposedly had passed. Edward from one side and Matthew from the other hoped they would meet her somewhere along the way. They thought maybe she had had an accident, a flat tire, or was taking shelter from the rain, and with these ideas in mind, they started their engines. At 2.30 a.m., Matt saw a Pontiac Grand parked on the side of Highway 18, same color, same license plate.

That was definitely Amanda's car, but she wasn't there. To begin with, there was no one inside or a car. outside the car. Secondly, the keys were still in the ignition. Thirdly, the windshield wipers were stopped halfway up the windshield, as if someone had stopped the car abruptly. Fourthly, the girl's phone was inside the car and had no battery. Edward Tusing and Matthew Irving checked every inch of the car but found nothing unusual. It had gas, the battery worked, and there were no flat tires. But there was no sign of Amanda Tussing. So they immediately called the police. When the police arrived at the scene, they noticed that inside the car was everything Amanda had bought, her phone, wedding magazines,

wedding dresses, and cakes. So it didn't seem like the girl was running away. Another very interesting thing was that there were strange hairs inside the vehicle, but they were so blurry that they couldn't be traced, didn't match any database, and didn't make sense in how they were positioned. Apart from this, there were no signs of a struggle, so they couldn't prove Amanda had been kidnapped. We could say that this scene was almost identical to Dana Stidams, but at that time, the police didn't connect the two. Three days after finding Amanda's car, a hunter called the police and said that he had found the lifeless body of a girl in the middle of the forest. The man was walking through a forest in Lake City when suddenly, in a flooded area, he saw something very strange floating. So he approached and realized that it was actually the body of a girl.

The body was found 12 kilometers from where Amanda's car had been located, so the police concluded that she couldn't have gotten there on her own in the middle of the storm, in complete darkness, without lights or guidance. It was impossible that someone could reach that spot alone and in those conditions. And it was impossible for her to drown there, out of nowhere. Maybe she was shot, maybe strangled, maybe beaten, maybe. someone did something to her, but then the autopsy revealed the following. To start with, the body had no marks, no strangulation marks, no bruises, no gunshot wounds. The body itself showed no

signs of injury. Secondly, the lungs had no water, so the girl didn't drown there. Maybe the killer suffocated her by covering her face with something, but there were no traces of that either. And the last point was that there was no DNA from any other person on the body, so the killer left no trace. They searched for suspects everywhere, but the main one was, of course, Matthew Irving, the last person to see her alive. He said goodbye to her at 11.30 p.m., found her car at 2.30 a.m., and called the police. Conveniently, Matthew was involved in all the most important points of this case, it all seemed too coincidental, but there was nothing against him. He wanted to marry her, he loved her very much, they never fought, so the guy seemed clean on that front.

It was all so strange that even the FBI had to get involved, but even they found nothing. Numerous people were interrogated, the route of the car was retraced again and again, and in 2001, the Tusing family, completely desperate, decided to contact the Unsolved Mysteries program. For those who don't know, the program makes documentaries about crimes, disappearances, and strange events, but on this occasion, they didn't want to know anything. Initially, they were going to film at the parents' house, retraced the route by car, discussed the hypotheses of the suspects, but at this point, everything failed. Matthew Irving didn't want to appear on camera. They insisted, and he refused. They kept insisting, and finally, he agreed to give an interview.

by phone, but it seemed that the program didn't like that at all. They wanted his face, they wanted Matthew Irving's face on TV, but he refused outright. So the documentary was cancelled. There is a third case that many people on the internet link to the cases of Dana and Amanda, and this is the case of Patricia Gordado. Patricia Gordado Garcia, better known as P.Y, was born on June 16, 1991, in Little Rock, Arkansas, as the oldest of five children of Leonor Garcia. According to her family, she was very affectionate, intelligent, and hardworking, dedicating all her time to her loved ones, studies, and the church. In 2011, she graduated from Joseph T. Robinson High School, and from there, she decided to study business. She got a job as a

cashier at the Metropolitan Bank branch in North Little Rock, and while working their part-time, she also studied at the University of Arkansas. At 8.30 a.m. on October 12, 2011, Patty took the car and went to class. She drove for a while, searched for parking, and finally found a spot behind a Burger King. This restaurant was very close to the classes, so she was very lucky. She stopped the engine, grabbed her things, locked the door, and continued on her way. After classes, Patty had to go to work, and she always called her mother before entering, but on that occasion, she didn't. So Leonor became worried because usually, Patty would always call, but that day, she didn't. It was around 7 p.m., and Leonor hadn't heard from her.

Hours passed, and Leonor still didn't know anything. At some point, she found out that Patty hadn't gone to class. She investigated further and discovered that she hadn't gone to work either. So at 7 p.m., the whole family went out to look for her. They found her car in the Burger King parking lot, but when they opened the car, nothing of hers was inside. It was as if the girl hadn't had any problem, as if she had parked and gone to class, but the problem here is that something must have happened on her way there. That's when her mother called the police. The officers quickly checked the local cameras, but none of them gave relevant information. So they decided to track her phone, but unfortunately, they couldn't locate it.

The Guardado family felt like the police wasn't doing much, that everything they were doing was useless. So they mobilized the entire world, handing out flyers, asking for help from the public, holding a vigil at the church, and apart from all that, they decided to contact the media. Sadly, on Sunday, October 16, a fisherman who was walking along the pond located on Highway 365 in Pulaski County, Arkansas, called the police to report that a girl's body was floating in the water. The information about the autopsy is currently under investigation, and there is no data anywhere. We only know that the police have provided a contact phone number in case anyone knows anything. Many blogs and podcasts link Patty's crime with that of Dana and Amanda, the well-parked car, nothing stolen, and the girl is found near water or in it, and the cause of death, at least for now,

remains hidden. At this point, something very interesting happened. In 2013, the Benton County Sheriff's Office attempted to reopen Dana Stidham's case, and the reason for this was that a very similar crime had occurred. Apparently, a 54-year-old woman named Annette Raple had started dating a 63-year-old man named Orville Mitchell Goodwin. The relationship was going quite well, they were dating, taking walks, having dinner together. But just when Annette received her first pension payment, things changed drastically. On May 10, 2013, Orville kidnapped her, took her to a remote area near a creek, and once there, he stole her money and shot her in the face. The man assumed Annette was dead, so he left her there

and disappeared. But the next day, a couple of riders found the woman and took her to the hospital. This is when something very interesting happens, Annette survives for several months, doesn't remember what happened, accuses one person, then another, says she remembers nothing, that she has memory lapses. But at one point, she recognizes Orville as her attacker, and immediately, the man is arrested. The trial for robbery and attempted murder started on October 30th, 2014, and the man was sentenced to 12 years in prison on November 15th of that same year. Many people believe that if Dana's case can be linked to Annette's, then the other cases, Amanda Tussings and Patricia Gordado's, can also be linked. But still, many others say it's not

possible, and that the four cases have nothing to do with each other. They are so different that it's possible they were committed by the same person. Of course, the police haven't made a statement about it, and Orville, at least officially, is not a suspect in Dana's case, nor in Amanda's, nor in Patricias. So now it's your turn, what do you think about these cases? Do you think they could actually be linked? The end. This story, I feel, deserves to be shared. It comes from a good friend of mine, someone who has a unique perspective on life due to his heritage. He's of Native American descent and belongs to a tribe that calls the Pacific Northwest Coast home. Trust me when I say he's quite a character.

Standing at an impressive six feet ten inches with the darkest eyes you could imagine, his mere presence can be intimidating. He often wears a frown, which adds to his tough exterior. But don't let that fool you, he's genuinely one of the kindest souls I know. Back in 1992, my friend was working at a gas station, pulling the graveyard shift from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. To say business was slow during those hours would be an understatement. Most nights, he'd find himself either glued to the TV or buried in magazines, just waiting for the occasional customer to wander in.

One night, as he was sitting there watching yet another mindless show, a customer came in. The guy paid for his gas, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and picked up a soda before heading back to his car. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But as my friend glanced out the window at the customer's vehicle, he noticed something strange lurking by the edge of the woods, a large dog-like figure. Now, the gas station had a distinctive layout. The window was on the side of the building, a good distance from the sliding door that led to the gas pumps. Overhead, strong halogen lights illuminated the area, casting eerie shadows and creating a somewhat unsettling atmosphere. As my friend squinted to get a better

look at the supposed dog, it vanished from view. He shrugged it off, thinking that even if it was a wolf, it wouldn't pose a threat, after all, wolves don't rob gas stations at night. It was a common sight in the area, but this one seemed unusually large. He tried to return his attention to the TV, but after a couple of hours, not a single customer had walked through the door. Just as he was about to restock the condiments, a loud thud erupted from the back of the gas station. It didn't sound like it came from inside, it was definitely from behind the building where the garbage was kept. While it was not uncommon for the station to be visited by scavenging homeless individuals, my friend didn't feel overly concerned. After all, it was just garbage. Let them take whatever

they wanted. But the thumping continued, growing louder. Finally, fed up, he grabbed a flashlight and a gun from the office, heading outside to confront whoever, or whatever, was making the racket. As he stepped through the sliding doors, he glanced out the window he'd been sitting by, then rounded the corner towards the dumpsters, flashlight in hand. The beam of light hit the dumpsters, and in an instant, he dropped the flashlight and gun in shock. What he saw was not a dog, it was the same creature he had spotted earlier. But it stood on its hind legs, towering at his own height. It wasn't a bear either, it was too gaunt, too unnatural.

Its eyes glowed in the flashlight beam, making the already terrifying sight even worse. In a panic, he dashed back into the gas station, locked to the gas station, locked the door, and didn't leave his post for the rest of the night. The next day, he quit his job. To this day, my friend is convinced that he encountered a skinwalker, a shape-shifting entity steeped in Native American lore. As for me, I've always been a bit of a skeptic. Scary stories never really frightened me, horror games didn't phase me, and any odd noise at night was easily dismissed as the usual sounds of the house settling or a wandering animal. But recently, something unsettling happened to me that shattered that skepticism.

For the first time in years, I felt genuine fear. I live in a forested area in the U.S. with my girlfriend. We have a large cabin that offers plenty of privacy, though the nearest neighbor is at least a kilometer away. We have two cats, one sleeps in our bedroom while the other is a night owl who roams outside. Now, I'm more of a night owl myself, while my girlfriend is an early bird. One night, around 1 a.m., I was mindlessly watching some terrible TV show in the living room.

My girlfriend was fast asleep in the bedroom. Suddenly, I heard a noise near our cat flap. Just for clarity, our cat flap uses a chip system so that only our cats can get in or out. I assumed it was just one of them, probably struggling to get back in, so I ignored it. But then I heard it again, a thudding sound against the cabin. It happened several times at random intervals, and my patience ran thin. I decided to go check on the cats. the little furball was having trouble. As I passed the bedroom, I glanced inside to see if my

girlfriend had heard the noises. She was still fast asleep, but our cat, the one that sleeps with us, was staring intently at the window, her eyes wide. I called her name, but she didn't even flinch. She just kept staring, fixated on something outside. I shrugged it off and continued to the kitchen, where the back door was located. Upon reaching the back door, I noticed a dark shape on the other side of the translucent door flap. I sighed, expecting it to be our cat, and opened the door. As soon as the door swung open, I froze in terror. It wasn't my cat. Whatever it was started moving before I could fully open the door, and I caught only a glimpse of it, a distorted figure that resembled a tailless dog, bolting away. Panic surged through me as I slammed the door

shut. What the hell was that? My mind raced, trying to rationalize what I'd just seen. Surely, it was just my imagination or the darkness playing tricks on me. Perhaps my other cat had startled it. Regardless, I felt a creeping unease settle in my stomach, so I decided to go to bed. As I slid under the covers, a horrifying realization dawned on me, the second cat was asleep on the rug. I struggled to drift off that night, feeling uneasy about the whole situation. A few hours later, I awoke to a feeling of dread creeping over me. Something felt off. My girlfriend was still asleep beside me, but then I heard a creaking sound near the bedroom door. It didn't sound like one of our cats, it sounded too heavy, too deliberate.

With my heart racing, I held my breath. I could hear something moving around, reaching toward my bedside table. In a panic, I flicked on the lamp, illuminating the room, and froze at what I saw. Standing just outside my open bedroom door was the same twisted figure I had glimpsed earlier. It wasn't very tall, maybe just over five feet, but its face was terrifying. It looked somewhat dog-like, but its face was elongated, and its eyes seemed almost human. It had that strange, twisted snarl that hounds make when they're agitated. I didn't even think, I just started shouting and scrambled backward.

The creature turned and sprinted down the hallway, and I heard it crash outside past the window behind the headboard. My girlfriend was jolted awake in a panic as we both caught a glimpse of whatever it was darting into the woods. In a frenzy, I grabbed my shotgun from under the bed, along with some rounds from the ammo box next to it. I bolted out of the room in nothing but my underwear and headed for the kitchen, where I realized I had left the back door open. That night marked a significant change for me. I hadn't seen that creature again since then, but I invested in sturdy locks for all the main doors and windows and started checking the exits every night before bed. I also adjusted my sleep

schedule to go to bed earlier, ensuring I was asleep when the freaks of the night began to wake up. While browsing online forums, I came across discussions about skinwalkers, and I couldn't shake the feeling that what I saw resembled one. Despite my usual skepticism, I found myself contemplating the stories surrounding such creatures. Okay, I've indulged in the occasional horoscope, and my boyfriend and I joke about spirits and poltergeists, but I've always maintained a skeptical view on the supernatural. My boyfriend, on the other hand, refuses to go anywhere near a Ouija board, convinced it invites evil spirits. I sometimes wonder if all those horror movies have him more paranoid than I realize. This particular story happened some time ago,

but I still can't shake off the feeling it left me with. It was terrifying, and every time I try to recount it, my nerves start acting up. Not long ago, my mom, my sister, and I decided to take a week-long vacation in Colorado. We plan to explore the state, visit parks, go horseback riding, and even try whitewater rafting. I was excited, I really needed a break from work. After a long 16-hour drive, we spent our first day rafting down the rivers, and it was exhilarating. The next day, we drove to a ranch for horseback riding. We arrived just as the sun was setting, so it was too dark for riding that evening.

We were thrilled, though, knowing we had a full day ahead of us to explore the trails and sights. The ranch itself was a bit shabby, with rundown scraps of steel scattered about. The cabins we stayed and desperately needed some renovations. They were basic, just a couple of beds, a stove, and a table. Still, we were fine with that. We just wanted to enjoy our time together. The first night there, we settled in, enjoyed some food, and settled into the rhythm of the ranch. My mom and I shared a room while my sister took the other cabin.

After some laughs and a couple of drinks, I went to bed. My mom fell asleep quickly, but I stayed up a little longer, scrolling through my phone and enjoying the quiet ambience of the ranch. The next morning, I woke up late and joined my mom and sister for breakfast. As we chatted and sipped coffee, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled in. I brushed it off as nothing, but the atmosphere around the ranch felt different. After breakfast, we headed out for a trail ride. The day was beautiful, the sun shining brightly, and the air fresh. But something lingered in the back of my mind, an unease I couldn't explain. During the ride, we traversed narrow paths through thick trees.

As we followed the trail, I noticed an area that seemed oddly quiet, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. It was strange, but I dismissed it. I figured it was just my imagination running wild. Later that day, we returned to the ranch, exhausted but exhilarated. After a quick dinner, we sat outside, enjoying the stars above. My mom decided to turn in early, leaving my sister and me outside to talk. As we sat there, the quiet of the night deepened, and my sister and I began to hear rustling

in the trees. Initially, I thought it was just the wind, but it grew louder. I caught a glimpse of something in the shadows, something moving, darting between the trees. I brushed it off, thinking it was probably just a deer or some other nocturnal animal. But as the rustling continued, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My sister noticed it too, she kept glancing towards the sound. Finally, she suggested we head inside. We retreated into our cabin, closing the door behind us.

I could still hear the rustling outside, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. That night, I had trouble sleeping. I tossed and turned, listening for any sounds outside. Around 2 a.m., I finally decided to get up and grab some water. As I stepped into the small kitchen, I heard a faint tapping at the window. My heart raced. I crept over to the window and peered outside, but it was too dark to see anything.

I hesitated, unsure whether to check again or just go back to bed. But the tapping persisted. I cautiously opened the window and looked out, but I didn't see anything unusual. Just darkness and trees. I convinced myself it was just my imagination again. The next day, we planned to hike in a nearby park. The sun was shining, and the air was warm. It felt like a perfect day.

But as we drove, I couldn't shake the sense of unease that lingered from the previous night. As we began our hike, everything seemed normal at first. We walked along the trail, laughing and taking pictures. But once again, we reached a quiet spot, and the atmosphere shifted. The air felt thick, and the sounds of nature seemed muted. Suddenly, we heard a loud rustling from the bushes nearby. My sister and I exchanged nervous glances. A moment later, a figure darted across the trail ahead.

of us, something small, dark, and quick. Did you see that? I whispered, my heart racing. My sister nodded, her eyes wide with fear. We cautiously continued on the trail, feeling an overwhelming sense of being watched. I tried to dismiss it as paranoia, but the feeling never left me. Later that evening, as we returned to the ranch, I couldn't shake the dread that followed us. We settled into our cabin for the night, but sleep eluded me once again. I lay there, listening to the silence, waiting for that eerie tapping sound to return. Just as I began to doze off, I was jolted awake by the unmistakable sound of scratching at the door. Panic gripped me as I held my breath, straining to listen. The scratching continued,

accompanied by soft, almost human-like whimpering. My sister stirred next to me, and I could feel her fear radiating. What is that? She whispered. I had no idea. I had never felt this terrified before, but something compelled me to get up and check. With shaking hands, I turned on the lamp and tiptoed toward the door. I carefully opened it, only to find nothing. The air was still, but the scratching had stopped. My heart raced as I quickly shut the door, locking it tight. The next morning, we packed our bags and decided to leave the ranch early. I couldn't shake the feeling that we needed to get out of there. As we drove away, I glanced back at the ranch, the place that had given me so much unease.

After returning home, I couldn't shake the sense of dread that had followed me. I began researching the area, hoping to find answers to what we had experienced. I came across stories about strange creatures lurking in the woods, skinwalkers, Wendigose, and other beings steeped in local folklore. It made sense, given my friend's story about his encounter. Something about our experience felt eerily similar. As I read more, I couldn't help but feel a connection to the those tales. I still can't explain what we encountered during that vacation, but I can't dismiss

it either. Whether it was just my imagination running wild or something more sinister, I know one thing for sure, the woods can hold secrets we can't comprehend. In the end, I learned to respect those tales and the power of nature. Some experiences are better left unexplained, and the darkness holds more than we can see. Have you ever felt that pull, that urge to just get in your car and hit the road at night? You know, the kind of vibe that turns a simple drive into a therapeutic journey? Well, I used to be all about those late-night cruises, especially when I had no destination in mind. It was a week or two before I graduated high school, and I decided to swing by a friend's graduation party. It was around 10 p.m. when I left,

and since I lived about 30 miles outside of town, I knew I had a bit of a trek ahead of me. Most of the drive consisted of dirt roads, and as I turned on to one of them, I rolled down the window, letting the cool night air in while soft music played on the radio. Everything felt perfect, you know. I was cruising at a chill 45 miles per hour, just enjoying the moment, when suddenly, something darted across the road in front of me. My instincts kicked in, and I swerved to avoid it. I was driving a 2002 Jeep Wrangler at my dad had given me as an early graduation gift.

We'd worked on it together to get it road ready, and it was a beast. Ranglers are already top-heavy, but with the four-inch lift kit we had added, mine felt even more unstable. So when I swerved, I overcorrected and flipped the Jeep into a ditch. I hit my forehead against the windshield and everything went black. When I finally came to, I was upside down, blood trickling from a gash in my forehead. Confusion washed over me, and it took a second to piece together what had happened. But then I heard it, something was lurking outside the jeep, sniffing around like a dog. A putrid, decaying smell invaded my senses, strong enough to make me gag. And then, it all flooded back, the image of that pale,

thin figure I had seen crossing the road. Those grotesquely long arms, that tall head, and the small, beady eyes that glowed in my headlights. It wasn't human. I always kept the K-bar knife in my Jeep for emergencies, and in the chaos, the contents of my center console had spilled out. I frantically searched for the knife, managing to find it on the roof of the overturned Jeep. I cut my seatbelt and fell onto the roof with a thud, pain shooting through my left arm as I landed. I could hear the shuffling outside, now frantic, as if whatever it was had sensed my movement. Then, I saw two feet outside the driver's side window, long, thin, and ending in four toes. Dry blood crusted on them. It scratched at the door, desperate to get in. Panic

surged through me. I reached out through the window and stabbed the creature in the foot. It let out a horrifying shriek and bolted into the darkness. I crawled out of the window but stood up too quickly and blacked out again. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed the following day. My dad had gotten worried when I didn't come home 20 minutes after I was supposed to, so he went out to look for me. He found me passed out beside my flipped Jeep, bloodied and unconscious. To avoid sounding crazy or being dismissed, I lied to everyone, telling them I had fallen asleep at the wheel, conveniently ignoring the bizarre scratches on my driver's side door, scratches that looked like they had been made by a man.

For the next few months, strange stories circulated around town. Ranchers reported dead cattle, their entrails scattered everywhere, and locals shared tales of seeing odd lights, hearing unsettling noises, and spotting strange eyes in the night. Over time, it seemed like everyone had seen the elusive thin man of Tatum, New Mexico. But after a few months, the talk died down, and the strange sighting ceased. Fast forward to last night, I was driving back home after visiting my parents, who live about four hours away.

It's a quiet drive through remote back roads, and I enjoy it. However, this time I left later than usual, so it was dark for most of the drive. A distant storm loomed, lightning flashing in the horizon, and about two hours into the drive, I noticed something in the distance. You see, I've always been terrified of hitting a deer or a moose on these remote roads, so I tend to slow down at the slightest sign of life. As I got closer, I realized it was a girl lying on the side of the road. Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately stopped my car, rushing out to see if she was okay.

When I got closer, I could see she looked to be in her twenties, with dark hair and torn clothes. Are you okay? I called out, but there was no response. I crouched down, checking for a pulse, but her skin felt icy cold, and I quickly realized it was too late. With dread sinking in, I gently turned her face towards me, and the moment our eyes made. I knew she was gone. Unblinking, lifeless eyes stared back at me. My mind raced. Should I still call 911 if she was already dead? Would I even get the right response? I hesitated but dialed anyway, my hands shaking. 911, what's your emergency? A calm voice answered. I stumbled over my words,

trying to explain the situation. There's a girl on the side of the road. I think she's dead. Cold skin, no pulse. I gave the operator my location, and they assured me help was on the way. They asked if there were any signs of injury, and I realized how bizarre it was for a girl to be dead out here without any apparent wounds. Anxiety washed over me, so I decided to wait in my car until the police arrived. They showed up quickly and asked me a few straightforward questions before letting me leave. I continued my drive, trying to shake off the unsettling experience. Arriving home, I felt an odd mix of embarrassment and unease, especially since my roommates

weren't around. The apartment felt eerily quiet, and I left the hallway light on, despite feeling silly about it. I fell asleep fast, but around 2.30 a.m., I woke up, sensing something was off. The hallway light I had left on was now off, and a chill crept through me. As I lay there, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I saw shapes slowly coming into focus. I tried to reassure myself, seeing my desk and dresser, but one shape in the middle of the room didn't belong. It was dark and contorted, taking up space on the floor. My heart raced as I racked

my brain, trying to recall what I could have left there. It wasn't until I spotted two glimmers that the truth hit me, it was exactly the shape of the girl I found, curled up in the same position as she had been on the road. I couldn't shake the horror from my mind. It felt surreal and terrifying, and I found myself trying to convince myself it was just a nightmare. But I couldn't escape that moment, that haunting memory. Then there's the story my friend shared about a girl named Jan who had a terrifying experience. Jan was driving to her mom's house, deep in the woods, far from any city lights. It was a quiet, dark road, and while driving, she spotted something by the roadside that caught

her eye, a small bundle that looked like a baby wrapped in a blanket. Jan slammed on her brakes and backed up to check it out, feeling a safe. sense of urgency. But just as she reached the bundle, she realized it was just a toy. A wave of relief washed over her, but as she turned around, headlights appeared behind her, and panic set in. The car behind her sped up, hunking aggressively, and Jan's heart raced. She jumped back into her car and took off, glancing nervously at her rearview mirror. Her mom lived deep in the woods, and Jan thought if the car followed her down the long driveway, she would call her mom and have her contact the police.

As she turned into the driveway, the car behind her turn two, still tailing her closely. The thought of the abandoned baby toy echoed in her mind, fueling her anxiety. Finally, she reached her mom's house and jumped out of her car, her mom waiting with a kitchen knife. But then the people from the pursuing car jumped out, shouting at January. They pointed at her car, screaming that someone was in the back seat. That's when Jan realized the horrifying truth, a man had jumped into the back of her car when she stopped to check the toy. They had been waiting for someone to stop, and she had almost fallen into their trap. That story stays with me. It's a reminder of how quickly things can turn terrifying when you let

your guard down. If you're ever on the road and you see something strange, remember to lock your doors when you get out of your car. As for me, I often struggle with sleep, especially at night. Some people suggest it's anxiety, while others think I just need to see a doctor. But I've never gone that route. Instead, I climb into my train. truck and take late-night drives to relax. Usually, it helps. I live in Lubbock, Texas, and if you know the area, you know it can get pretty desolate once you leave town. Driving on Highway 84, you hit Littlefield after quite a long stretch. It's a calm drive, often soothing enough to almost low me to sleep behind the wheel. One chilly night in late January, I was feeling particularly

stressed with classes starting back up at Texas Tech University. I decided a drive was exactly what I needed to unwind. I ended up on Highway 84, and as I cruised, I turned the radio down and rolled down the window to enjoy the crisp night air. About 20 miles outside Littlefield, I noticed a figure by the road, standing still. It looked like a person, but something about them felt off. I slowed down as I got closer, and that's when I realized it wasn't human at all, it was a grotesque-looking creature with sickly pale skin and bulging eyes. It stood there, frozen, as if waiting for me to drive by. My heart raised as I quickly turned my head,

trying to convince myself I hadn't seen anything. I didn't even look back, determined to get as far away from that thing as possible. I stepped on the gas and didn't stop until I reached Littlefield, where I found a 24-hour gas station and grabbed a coffee to calm my nerves. Now, whenever I'm driving at night, I keep my doors locked, my windows rolled up, and my eyes peeled. You never know what's out there in the darkness.

And to think, it all started with. with a simple late-night drive. We begin. Inside the Recolita Cemetery in Buenos Aires stands an imposing mausoleum with a vault and a beautiful sculpture by Arnaub, a work by the German sculptor Richard Egnor. There are numerous stories about who the beautiful woman clinging to the bars of the vault is, but unfortunately, and sadly, only the most disturbing one is true. Her name was Rafina Cambasir's, and she was born on May 31, 1881, into a wealthy family. In fact, she was the only daughter from the marriage between the Italian dancer Luisa Bacchini and the writer Eugenio Cambasir, who exposed, through his works, the hypocrisy of the upper class

at the end of the 1800s. Given her noble origins, one might think that this young woman had a perfect life, wrapped in comfort. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Her existence was always, marked by misfortune. First of all, her father in 1861 was elected deputy for the Buenos Aires legislature, and during his term, he presented a bill to separate church and state, which became a scandal in society at the time. Secondly, her mother had a profession that was very frowned upon in those times. As we mentioned earlier, Louisa Bacchini was a dancer, and back then any woman who was part of a dance company was considered less than a prostitute. So much so that the upper-class quickly nicknamed Louisa La Bakicha, mocking her Italian last name. It would hurt

anyone to always be in the eye of the storm, for those around us to believe they have the right to express their opinions on everything concerning our family. But we'll never know if that situation kept Rufina up at night, as she never publicly expressed her feelings. She was always an introverted and solitary girl, keeping all her concerns to herself, even when fate took the life of her father, Eugenio Camassir's, who was seriously ill with tuberculosis. After her father's death, Rufina and her mother were left completely alone in a mansion on Montez-de-O-C-A street. That loss shattered the young woman's heart to the point that silence and introversion took over her entirely. It took her several years to finally recover from that terrible loss.

However, it seems that for her mother, moving on was not so difficult. Just a couple of years later, secretly became the lover of Hippolito Uruguayan, who would become the first democratically elected Argentine president. When the affair began, Rufina was already 14 years old, and her beauty had made her a highly sought-after young woman. Dozens of young men surrounded the old mansion on Montes de OCA asking for her hand, but none of them succeeded. According to testimonies from the time, Rufina was platonically in love with someone, someone who, to her, was as unattainable as the sun itself. Still, she held out hope and dreamed every night that fate would bring them together by accident.

Who was this someone? No one, except Rufina's best friend, knew his name. And of course, the girl had sworn to guard the secret with her life. The years passed, and inevitably May 31st, 1902, arrived, the 19th birthday of the stunning Rufina Camasiers. Everyone expected that this day would end with her. the name, the name of the young woman's future husband. In those days, the fact that such a desirable young woman was still unmarried was considered truly alarming. Louisa Bacchini announced

to the guests that at dusk her daughter would decide which of her suitors she would marry. So, she organized an impressive celebration for her daughter, which would end with an evening at the Teatro Cologne enjoying an opera performance. The plans couldn't have been more perfect, a party until nightfall and then the announcement of the lucky man who had won Rufina Camassar's hand. However, cruel fate decided to twist the script in a completely different direction. According to accounts, before leaving for the theater, Rufina received terrible news. While grooming herself, brushing her long, thick hair in front of her bedroom mirror, she was given a revelation by her best friend that would trigger the following events.

The man she was secretly in love with had had a lover for years. But not just any lover, her own mother. Because yes, the name of the mysterious man who had stolen her heart was Hippolito Uruguayan. That's when utter chaos took over her mind. How was it possible that her mother had hidden something like that for so long? How had she not realized it before? How had her best friend, knowing this, kept quiet all this time? And the final blow was learning that everyone knew about the romance.

The shock of this revelation caused Rufina such immense pain that her heart broke into a thousand pieces. Before her friend could see her cry, she begged her to leave the room, she needed to be alone for a while. That was the last time anyone saw her alive. Minutes passed, and Rufina still hadn't come down to the salon where the guests were waiting to go to the theater. Louisa no longer knew how to entertain those members of high society, they had discussed every topic imaginable and had drunk even the water from the flower vases. So, she sent one of the maids to see what her daughter was doing and why on earth she hadn't come down yet. That's when the celebration was interrupted by the maid's blood-curdling scream. Rufino was lying on the floor,

her skin cold as ice. Louisa ran up the stairs and tried to feel her daughter's pulse, but it was impossible. Fortunately, or unfortunately, two well-known doctors were present at the party, and both confirmed the obvious, Rufina had died of a heart attack. The next morning, Luisa decided to give her daughter a Christian burial. The place was the family mausoleum located in Recolita Cemetery in Buenos Aires.

But of course, the story doesn't end there. A few days after the burial, a relative of the deceased wanted to bring Rufina a ring that he had forgotten to place on her finger during the mortuary preparation. The man opened the mausoleum and, after walking a few steps inside, noticed not only that the coffin had been slightly moved but that its lid was also broken. At that time, looting of noble tombs was common. Thinking Rufina's

body had been desecrated by vandals, he immediately alerted the authorities. However, to everyone's surprise, the young woman's body still had all her jewelry intact. What it no longer had was the pristine appearance it had when buried. The young woman was found in a completely different position than when she was buried, with a look of absolute terror on her face. Her cheeks were covered in scratches, and the inside of the coffin lid was damaged and scratched. The one who had caused the destruction was none other than Rufina herself, her fingernails were broken and covered in blood. Rufina had not died from a heart attack, but had suffered an attack of catalepsy. But what is catalepsy? Catalepsy is an illness that causes the body of the person who suffers from it

to appear truly dead. The body becomes rigid, unresponsive to stimuli, and both breathing and pulse become very weak. Almost imperceptible, and the skin turns pale and cold. Rufina's double death caused such pain to her mother that she ordered a sculpture of her image to be made standing at the door of the mausoleum, symbolizing that the young woman is about to open the gates of heaven, leaving behind the terrible and final moments of her life. This may perhaps be one of the most laminalable stories brought to the channel, and it is that of Angelo. Let us go back to the year 1937 in the town of St. Quintin de Chile in France. In a very humble home, Angelo was a 19-year-old young man who loved taking rides on his motorcycle.

He adored feeling the wind shake his hair while speeding down secondary roads. However, his mother did not agree with it. She could not bear the idea that her son liked to drive such an unstable vehicle as a motorcycle. But what she could tolerate even less was that he never used safety measures such as protective gear and a helmet. In those days, people were not really aware of the importance of protecting themselves at the wheel. So the boy cared little about his mother's advice, and her words were blown away by the wind. Perhaps if he had listened, the catastrophe could have been avoided. And just minutes after getting on his motorcycle, Angelo lost control of the vehicle and suffered a brutal crash against a brick wall.

The impact completely shattered his face and broke several bones. He was so destroyed that the doctors who examined his body were unable to find a pulse. He was officially declared dead and buried just three days later. Many may think this story could perfectly end here with a moral about the importance of wearing a helmet when riding a motorcycle. However, this experience goes much further. After the burial, the insurance company had some suspicions about the young Angelo's sudden death, especially because they discovered that just days before his death, his father had collected the life insurance,

and insurance valued at 200,000 francs of the time. So they immediately sent an inspector to investigate the case in depth. The investigation began with the exhumation of the body two days after the burial. After that, the body was taken to a funeral home and examined there by two different forensic doctors, who immediately noticed that the body was still warm, something truly shocking. The question was then the following, why was this body not evolving like the others? Quite simply, because Angelo was not dead, but rather in a coma due to the tremendous head injury.

As a result, his vital signs had been reduced to the point that his body no longer needed the same amount of oxygen as a normal person. Angelo had to endure multiple surgeries to regain normality, and his unexpected survival turned him into a celebrity. So many people traveled hundreds of kilometers to his. see him and talk to him. Inspired by the people who admired his feet, he created a safety coffin so that no one else would suffer the same fate. This coffin featured a food cabinet, an oxygen supply, a chemical toilet, a radio transmitter, alarm signals, and even a library.

At the end of May 2011, a 35-year-old man living in Blagoveskinsk in the far east of Russia was tired of his irrational fear of death. He had spent his whole life terrified of that moment and had even, on many occasions, been forced to take tranquilizers just to be able to sleep. So, quoting the famous phrase by Publilius Cyrus, no one reaches the top accompanied by fear, he decided it was time to face his greatest fear. Convinced that he had a great idea, he called a friend and asked him earnestly to come to his house immediately, for he had an important favor to ask, that he bury him underground for one night.

At first, his friend refused outright, it was pure madness. However, the man's argument seemed convincing enough, so he ended up agreeing. Together, they dug a pit in an empty lot and placed inside a coffin made by themselves out of PVC pipes so that no matter how deep it was buried, the person inside could have access to enough oxygen to stay alive. Then, the man who wished to overcome his fear climbed into the coffin with a survival kit for the whole night, a blanket, a bottle of water, and a mobile phone. that, his friend closed the lid and began to shovel dirt over the coffin until it was fully covered.

He then went home and received a call from the buried man, telling him he was okay. The plan, therefore, was going according to schedule. At 7 a.m. the next day, the man got out of bed, got dressed, drank a coffee, and then headed back to the empty lot with a large iron shovel. It was time to conclude the experiment. However, what he found under that 20 centimeters layer of damp earth would give him terrible nightmares for the rest of his life. His friend, during the previous night, had suffocated.

But that suffocation had not been caused by the weight of the earth collapsing the coffin lid and crushing the man inside. Rather, that night, a terrible storm had struck, and because of it, the ventilation ducts had become obstructed, causing asphyxiation to his friend, who didn't have time to call for help. This peculiar story took place in the Farat de Vosconcelo's Cemetery in Sao Paulo, Brazil. A grieving woman walked among the tombs with a bouquet of flowers in her hands, searching for the niche of a recently deceased relative. Her intention was like that of anyone who visits their deceased, to leave a tribute,

tidy up the tomb a little, and perhaps sit beside it to say a few affectionate words that the wind would carry away. However, what was meant to be a morning pilgrimage ended up becoming a nightmare the woman would never forget. yet. On the way to the tomb of that relative, she witnessed a hand emerge from the earth, accompanied by sinister groans. She immediately threw the bouquet into the air and fled the terrifying scene, screaming for help to everyone she passed. But no one seemed to take her word seriously. In fact, everyone considered her a crazy old woman, including the police. But the woman was so certain of what she had seen that she finally convinced them to accompany her to the scene. And indeed, it had not been a hallucination. There, inside that piece of disturbed

earth, was a man on the verge of death by asphyxiation. So many people rushed to help him out of that pit. After being hospitalized, the doctors realized the man had multiple bruises and injuries all over his body, including his face. So when he regained consciousness, he underwent a series of psychological tests. How had he gotten there? Why was he so badly injured? The answers to all those questions were in his memory. The man claimed that the last thing he remembered was being the victim of a brutal beating, carried out by two unknown individuals.

So the police quickly deduced that the attackers, after the beating, believed him dead and threw him into a cemetery pit to eliminate all trace of the crime. But now it's your turn, how would you react if one day you woke up inside a coffin? The end. Welcome to another video. full of fascinating mysteries. Today, we'll explore five cases that defy all logic and remain unsolved to this day. Get ready to delve into the unknown, because we begin with five completely unexplainable mysterious cases. Number one, the story of the green children of Woolpit.

Let's travel to the 11th century, to a small village called Woolpit in Suffolk, England. Its name comes from the Wolf Pits, holes used to trap wolves, but something far stranger happened in this place. According to chronicles of the time, one day two children, a brother and sister, appeared near one of these pits. What made them unique was their skin, which had a greenish tone, something that puzzled the villagers. They didn't speak English or any known language, and at first, they rejected all food, except raw beans, which they devoured eagerly. Over time, the children adapted to the local diet and their green skin began to fade. They learned a English, and that's when the sister was able to tell her incredible story. She said they came from

a place called the Land of St. Martin, an underground world where it was always twilight and everything had a greenish hue. Unfortunately, the brother died shortly after being found, but the sister survived, integrated into the community, and even got married. This case has inspired all kinds of interpretations, some believe it's just a simple folk tale, while others related to Flemish refugees fleeing persecution at the time. There are also those who suggest medical explanations, like chlorosis, a form of anemia that gives the skin a greenish tint. And of course, the extraterrestrial theories aren't far behind, could these children have come from another planet or dimension? What do you think,

medieval legend, or something much stranger? Let's move on to the next case, one that takes us to the heart of a historical event. Number two, the Babbalt. Bushka Lady, on November 22, 1963, in Dallas, Texas, one of the most shocking events of the 20th century took place, the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Amid the chaos of that day, one figure stands out in various photographs and videos. She is known as the Babushka Lady because of the Russian-style headscarf she wore. What makes her so intriguing is that she appears to be filming or taking photos with a camera, even after the shots were fired. While people ran for cover, she remained calm, seemingly motionless,

observing. Despite the authority's efforts to identify everyone present, it was never confirmed who this woman was or what happened to the footage she may have captured. In the 1970s, a woman named Beverly Oliver claimed to be the Babushka Lady, but her testimony was dismissed due to inconsistencies and lack of evidence. Theories about her identity range from the mundane to the conspiratorial, was she a simple tourist who didn't grasp the gravity of the moment? A spy involved in the assassination? Or perhaps someone who captured crucial evidence, footage that was later confiscated by the government. A case that undoubtedly leaves many questions.

Now let's travel to England for a mystery that challenges the logic of reincarnation. Number three, the Pollock twins. In 1957, Joanna and Jacqueline Pollock, aged 11 and 6, died in a tragic car accident in Hexham, England. Their parents, John and Florence Pollock, were devastated. However, John, a firm believer in reincarnation, claimed that their daughters would return to them. A year later, Florence gave birth to twin girls, Jennifer and Gillian. From a very young age, unsettling details began to emerge. Jennifer had birth marks identical to scars that Jacqueline had, including one on her forehead caused by a previous accident. But that wasn't all, the twins seemed to have memories of Joanna and Jacqueline's lives.

They recognized places and objects related to their deceased sisters and displayed behaviors that matched them. They even had an inexplicable fear of cars and spoke of the accident as if they had lived it. The case was documented by psychiatrist Ian Stevenson, known for studying reincarnation cases. However, skeptics argue that the parents may have unconsciously influenced the girls, evidence of suggestion or a trauma-induced illusion. Let's now move on to a remote place where the unexplainable took shape. Number four, the boat of Bouvay Island. Bouvay Island is one of the most remote and desolate places in the world, a Norwegian territory in the South Atlantic Ocean.

In 1964, a British expedition found an abandoned boat in a frozen lagoon. The boat was small, partially damaged, and had no motor or visible equipment. Nearby were a barrel and some wooden debris, but no trace of people or camps. Bouvet Island is surrounded by dangerous waters, and access to it is extremely difficult. So how did that boat get there? Theories range from a shipwreck, to secret military or scientific operations. Some have even suggested more fantastical explanations, like supernatural phenomena. What's most striking is that when a later expedition arrived at the site, the boat had disappeared.

Without a doubt, a mystery lost in the waters of time. But we still have one final case, one that occurred in a lonely and enigmatic place. Number five, the Flannan Isles Lighthouse. In 1900, in Scotland, three lighthouse keepers assigned to the remote Flannin Isles Lighthouse disappeared without a trace. When a supply ship arrived at the site, the lighthouse light was off, and no one was there to receive them. Inside, they found unsettling signs, the table was set for a meal that had never been eaten, and one raincoat was still hanging, indicating that one of the men had gone out unprotected against the cold.

The last entry in the logbook mentioned violent storms, but weather reports from that date indicated calm conditions. theories range from giant waves to fatal arguments between the men. There are also those who suggest supernatural explanations, such as ghosts or extraterrestrial intervention. Five cases. Five mysteries. Which one was your favorite? I can't stop thinking about the babushka lady and the enigma her camera might conceal.

The end. True story, I have suffered from IBS for most of my life, and have experienced more than my fair share of gastrointestinal nightmares in the worst possible times and places, so today I am going to tell you about just one of them. When I was in eighth grade, we only had two to three minute breaks in between classes. I was in choir for fifth period, and the choir room was all the way on the opposite side of the building from the rest of my classes. On this particular day, I had been suffering from some pretty nasty stomach cramps. It sucked, but it was nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Choir class came to an end and I had to haul ass across the building in two minutes to make it to my English class.

My English teacher was a total bitch and would often resort to ridicule and passive-aggressive humiliation when dealing with students she didn't favorite. I often made fun of her to my friends, insulting her for always wearing the same striped, cotton-turtled necks to hide her double chin. This might sound cruel on my part, but she was the type of teacher who favored of the popular, smart kids, and just had a shitty cynical attitude for any student who was less than perfect in her eyes. Anyway, in just two minutes I had to run across the school, go to my locker to switch my books, and make it to this bitch's dumb-ass class on time. Once I got to my locker it suddenly hit me that I had to pee really bad.

I knew I was really running low on time and did not want to divert to the nearby restroom, but the building pressure in my gut made me realize I had little choice. Once I got to the bathroom I knew I was probably going to be late already, so I knew I had to empty my bladder in record time. In a rush of pure adrenaline and anxiety I pushed my pee out as hard and as quickly as I could. Apparently I pushed just a little too hard and I soon felt what can only be described as some of my pee leaking out of my ass and running down my leg. I immediately felt mortified and realized I had just squirted liquid shit all the way down my pant leg.

It was the consistency of pure water and it smelled like propane, sulfur, and burnt tires. Nevertheless, I was so scared of my English teacher and missing slash being late to class, that I ended up just running T.O. class anyway. I arrived with seconds to spare, and promptly sat down in my own liquid shit, hoping no one around me could smell the demonic fumes emanating from my jeans. Our desks in this class were clustered together in pairs, just fucking perfect, right, and I happened to be seated next to this really cute girl who made me super nervous. I kept looking at her out of the corner of my eye to monitor her expression, hoping to God

she couldn't smell what I could smell. At this particular time in my English class, we were studying the history and culture of slavery in 1800s America, and Miss Fat Turtleneck bitch face made us sing, swing low, sweet chariot, as a class. I was absolutely petrified, and, not wanting to draw any attention to myself, could only mout the words under my breath as my vocal cords remained paralyzed in fear. My dumb bitch of an English teacher didn't care to realize I had just come from choir and would normally have no problem singing out loud. She always seemed to single me out because, to be fair, I frequently missed assignments and didn't pay attention in class. So, to my horror, she came over and got her face super close to mine and

made a sarcastic, angry smile, trying to force me to sing audibly. My anxiety just grew worse and I honestly could have passed out at this point from the pressure and potential humiliation. My forehead began producing beads of sweat, and I could feel myself blushing as I sat staring blankly ahead like a deer in the headlights. I stayed super still, trying avoid further agitating the pool of anal leakage in my pants and emitting even more toxic fumes into the space around me. The rest of the day went mostly okay, and I just kind of kept quiet and watched the clock in anticipation for when I could go home, change my pants, and relieve the mounting pressure in my bowels. Luckily, I only had to get through one more easy class period and a bus ride before I could find the solace of my own commode. When I got home, I finally let out the rest of my shit, come to find out it was white, I didn't tell anyone this at the time, but apparently that's a sign of liver failure or something, but it never happened to me again, so itk. Anyway, I know this is a funny story, but I just can't believe sitting in my own diarrhea for three hours seemed like a better option to me than going to the nurse's office and facing the awkwardness of what had happened to me.

I think it says a lot about how terrifying navigating the school system can be for kids who have anxiety and or gastrointestinal problems, many of whom, like me, would rather just suffer in silence. Anyone else relate? Hey, all, long story short, growing up I had a friend, let's call her Jewel. She was the closest friend I ever had, we were so close we were finishing each other's thoughts, countless times we were thinking the same thing. NGL I was deeply in love with her, never could tell her, though, due to some complicated childhood trauma reasons in the not getting into, stuff I only just realized for myself a few weeks ago.

She had some troubles at home and at the age of 15 she tried to kill herself, in a very hardcore way. TBH, that was a traumatic experience for me too, I remember thinking that if she had succeeded in killing herself ID have killed myself too. Her mother wound up blaming me. I had started smoking weed at age 12 and when I met her she was 13 and I became her hookup for weed, which she still enjoys till today. Her mom told me that if I had never given her.

her the weed she would have been able to handle her emotions better and wouldn't have tried to to kill herself. She told me the whole thing was my fault and that I should never give her daughter weed again. Honestly, some heavy shit to lay on a teenager and that was something I carried with me into adulthood. Kept blaming myself. Over the year's life has kicked me around a bit. I wound up dating a woman who reminded me of Jewel, they even had similar names, we'll call this one Pearl, and the same birthday, which was a weird coincidence I discovered about a month or two after we started dating. She also tried killing herself a few times and I was there to stop her every time. Looking back now I think a big part of me working so hard to keep Pearl alive was simply my

regret over not helping Jewel all those years ago. I spent over 10 years with Pearl before leaving the relationship. Was just too messy, too toxic, even led to me attempting to take my own life as well. Very dark times. Shortly after the suicide attempt her family moved to another country. It's been over 20 years and we've crossed paths maybe three times since then. Most recently she came down here early last month to reconnect with her roots a little. She didn't reach out to me, we had lost touch over the years and she didn't think ID be interested in seeing her, but a crazy series of events lead me to message her to see if she was okay, when she told me she was in town we made plans to catch up. We hung out three times and just caught up as old friends. She barely remembers

her childhood, barely remembers me, doesn't remember how close we were. All that kind of hurt, but she still listens to bands I introduced her too and she is famously known back home for a party trick that I taught her when we were kids, so I'm calling that a win, a part of my influence lives on Igu's. Other than that she has been doing fucking amazingly at life and I was really proud to hear of her accomplishments. After the third hangout she told me she was leaving soon, that she had to head home. I panicked a little, messaged her the next day and asked her if we could talk, told her I was still carrying some pain from her suicide attempt 20 years ago and that

ID liked to ask her a few questions. She agreed and said she hoped she could help. Well, we talked. It was incredible. Twenty years of pain, 20 years of guilt, 20 years of wishing I was dead. Gone in a three-hour fucking conversation. That was all it took. I spent the next two days crying things out, making a lot of connection.

as to how this affected other parts of my life, how things that happened to me before meeting her affected my relationship with her. How everything affected everything else. Honestly, 20 years of therapy never gave me the kind of clarity I had after just a few hours talking to Jule. It changed me in a way I never thought possible, for a long time I didn't think happiness was an emotion I could legitimately feel. I thought at most all I could feel was, okay, and honestly it took me a long time to work myself up to okay. Years of therapy, years of battling depression and suicidal thoughts, and I was good with OK, I was content.

Honestly until this conversation with Jewel, only two and a half weeks ago, I didn't even know what OK was. Now, it's been a little over two weeks. I've still got a lot to do, a lot of trauma to work through. But for the first time in a long time I feel like I can be happy. That happiness is actually achievable. This story starts with a girl named Emma Ragerbe. Bassie, who was only 14 years old. According to various sources, Emma was born on February 26, 2010, as the youngest of three children of Melissa Derby and Frank. Not much is known about her parents,

but we do know that Melissa is a special education teacher, and Frank works in the automotive industry, especially concerning bodywork for cars, trucks and boats, specializing in painting, correction, and cleaning. Physically, Frank seemed like a tough guy, tall, strong, with tattoos, but those who knew him said that appearance was just a facade, as he had a big heart. He was an attentive, affectionate man, dedicated to his children and his family, and he was very calm. According to them, he was a great father to Emma. In 2014, he and Melissa divorced, but they did so amicably, with joint custody. Everything was fine and their children were well taken care of.

Emma was described as a lovely, intelligent girl with a bright future. She stood out from a young age and enrolled at Samham Primary School, located in half Hollow Hills, earning an A grade in her first year of high school. She was also a great athlete, in fourth grade, she was recruited to play American football with the boys' team, which marked a turning point. Other girls followed her lead, and I must tell you, that she won many awards. She played guitar, loved animals, and was very caring, affectionate, and sociable. Unfortunately, something terrible happened in her life, and from that point,

Emma was never the same. The sources consulted don't mention exactly what happened, but whatever the event was, it left a permanent mark on her. She began hanging out with the wrong crowd, using drugs, and slowly fell into a spiral of chaos. She didn't know what, to do, how to recover, how to escape, how to flee from herself, from her mind, from her thoughts. Emma felt trapped and was so scared that she would occasionally run away from home. She never stayed away for more than two days, and at the slightest, she would call her father, apologize, ask for help, and he would rush to help her. Her parents did everything for her, and eventually, they sought professional help.

She was treated at a residential addiction treatment center called OUTD, located in Brenwood, and later transferred to the Sagamore Children's Psychiatric Center in Dick Hills. The process of healing was slow and painful, and along the way, Emma became a victim of people who wanted to manipulate her, people who said they were her friends, people who claimed to love her, and with lies, they convinced her to return to drugs. She was a good girl who wanted to get better, but at the same time, she also wanted to to be loved. So, she constantly let herself be dragged into a spiral of chaos and self-destruction, and in the middle of all this, something terrible happened. While at Dick Hills, everything seemed

to be going well, and it seemed like she would finally get better, but then they moved her to the Newport Academy Treatment Center, located in Duluth, Minnesota. The change didn't sit well with her, and two days later, she ran away. The case was reported, and the media broadcasted, and the police eventually found her, but this encounter didn't go as expected. She became violent, aggressive, uncontrollable, and attacked an officer, which led her to be sent to a youth care center in Minnesota. She stayed there until September 2024 and then returned to her father's house. By this point in her life, she couldn't take it anymore, and her family didn't want to keep going either, they wanted her to heal, to move on, to become a better person, to advance in life. So, they enrolled her in equine

therapy. She met the objectives, behaved well, and showed more focus and calm. Her parents could finally breathe easy, Emma was finally doing well. But on December 9th, 2024, her whole life took a complete turn, and from that moment on, the nightmare began. That day, the sky was overcast, it was very cold, windy, and there was intense rain. So, Emma didn't intend to leave the house. She was planning to stay with her stepmother, Allison, and in the evening, they would cook together and wait for her father, Frank, to come home. Their house was located on Terrell Street in Patchog, Long Island, and I must tell you that they had lived in the same place for years, a quiet neighborhood where everyone knew each other, a place of peace and tranquility, the ideal place

for them. So, there was no problem in that regard. The main issue was with Emma's past, but by this time, everything seemed fine. At 5 p.m., the girl told her stepmother she was going to the car for a moment to grab something. It was just for a moment, she said, and she wouldn't take long. When she opened the door, she wasn't even wearing a jacket, just house clothes, no coat, no shoes. She said it would just take a moment, no big deal. But as soon as she left, Allison didn't see her again. One minute, two, three, twenty, thirty. So, the woman, very worried, peered out the window. She didn't see Emma, so she immediately went outside and still couldn't see her. That was when all the alarms went off. When Frank came home from work, the couple reviewed the surveillance cameras. On the cameras,

On the cameras, they saw the following, Emma left the house, opened the car, grabbed something, closed the door, and when she was about to enter, a blue van stopped in front of the house. The driver of the vehicle said something to Emma, called her over, and the girl approached to speak. They didn't know if she knew the driver, if it was someone passing by, or if it was a stranger, they had no idea. But what was clear was that the door of that vehicle opened wide, and Emma seemed to get in. They didn't know if she did it willingly, if she was forced, or if she was kidnapped. That part of the story is unclear and doesn't make sense. After seeing this, the family called

the police, and that's when the 27 days of pure hell began. As soon as Frank came home and saw the footage, he knew his daughter had been kidnapped. His daughter left without a jacket, shoes, or a coat. It was clear that she was going to get in, whether she wanted to or not. She wasn't trying to run away. There was no sign of any kind of behavior. She didn't pack any bags, didn't leave any messages, didn't say goodbye. Her behavior was normal, calm, and that car was unfamiliar to her. So, he immediately took to social media to spread the word. He spoke with the police, asked for a missing person flyer, and added his own phone number. Not just the police phone number, but Frank Jarbossi's number. It made perfect sense to have two phone numbers because not everyone

trusts the police. Some people who have legal problems may not feel safe calling the police and providing information. So, by giving his personal number, he created a sense of trust. I must tell you that the strategy was a success. From the first moment, dozens of people sent him all kinds of messages. But we'll get back to this point later. The first post he made was on December 10th, 2024. From then on, every day, he posted something, shared the flyer, a phrase, a request, his phone numbers, he shared everything. This way, the whole world found out about his case. My nightmare is still real. I need to find my daughter, Emma Rager Bassy. Any information will be greatly appreciated. As the days passed and the clues piled up, people kept sending messages,

giving tips. Frank and his family went everywhere, walking down the street, posting flyers, knocking on doors, going into yards. They spent hours in the car, waiting outside a suspicious location. It was all so chaotic that the pressure kept building, reaching 15,000 shares. Frank called the police again and again, providing his tips and information. To be continued. Comment section was even worse. Apparently, several girls already knew this man, and according to them, they had problems with him. One person wrote, I went to high school with this disgusting guy.

I'm 36, and he must be around 40. This guy was a creep when he was a teenager. He always tried to message me and react to my posts. I blocked him right away. We worked together when I was a kiddard. was at Belport Home Depot between 2019 and 2020. He would repeatedly try to touch me inappropriately. He stalked me in the store, watched me on the cameras, and then messaged me saying I looked good, crossing the line from slightly consensual to very uncomfortable for me. Working there was hell with him.

I told your friend, who is investigating, that something doesn't feel right with this guy. He's a freak. I don't know him, but I blocked him years ago. He used to comment, ha ha, on all my posts. As you can see, the list of comments was very long, with many women saying they knew this man, calling him a stalker, a creep, saying he sent weird messages, and sharing many disturbing stories. But unfortunately, Frank made a grave mistake by exposing this man and accusing him of a very serious crime.

It's important to clarify this because Frank wasn't directly accusing him of the crime, but by showing his face and somehow implying that he might have been involved, Frank set off a chain of events. Due to the comments, the spreading of the information, and everything that happened, Carlos decided to take legal action. As the days went by, the police confirmed that this man had nothing to do with Emma's case, as at the time she was kidnapped, he was in Puerto Rico. They couldn't link him to the case in any way. Once this was confirmed, Carlos filed a lawsuit against Frank and another. person, accusing them of public humiliation, slander, and online defamation. With Carlos ruled out as a suspect, the police continued their investigation. They supposedly kept moving forward, collecting testimonies, evidence, and following all

possible leads, doing everything they could. Meanwhile, the Jarbasi family organized a search with volunteers all over the streets. The gathering was spread across social media, flyers were handed out, and the police were were called. Finally, on January 3rd, Frank went to social media once again, posting the following, I found Emma. Please give me a little time, and in a few minutes, I will address the public. Thank you. This post was made at 7.38 a.m., but as the hours passed, Frank stopped posting. People were nervous, commenting, and sharing the post. Nobody understood what was happening. At 11.15 a.m., Frank posted again, we are relieved to share that Emma is safe and currently

receiving care at a hospital. After enduring 27 days of trauma, I have been able to hug her, and we are so grateful to have her back with us. To clarify any misinformation, Emma was found in Islip by her father, thanks to a crucial tip. She didn't go there willingly, and she was very happy to see Frank when they reunited. This is an ongoing investigation. involving several people, and we cannot share more details at this moment about how she ended up there or who took her. We ask for understanding and patience while the police continue to work on this case. We deeply appreciate the support and efforts of everyone who helped find Emma. The love and kindness shown will mean a lot to her once she can process everything.

For those asking whether human trafficking is a concern in our area, and if kidnappings are happening, the answer is yes. This is a very real problem, and we must remain alert. Thank you for your continued support and attention. According to sources consulted, what happened next was as follows. Frank received a strange tip when a woman called him, saying she knew where his daughter was. She didn't say exactly what she knew or how she got the information, and she wasn't clear about it, but she was convinced that his daughter was being held on a boat at the Slep Canal. She told Frank that Emma was there, being watched, drugged.

and that a very dangerous group had her against her will. At first, Frank didn't believe her and thought it was another lie or rumor, but this woman seemed very certain of what she was saying. She didn't want to go inside herself, she was scared. So, without hesitation, Frank went to the location and boarded the boat. According to his testimony, he broke down a door, and on the other side, he found his daughter. He called emergency services, and Emma was immediately taken. into the nearest hospital. Within hours, she told the whole story. According to her version of

events, she had been chatting with an older man online. This man made her feel safe, made her believe that he loved her and was protecting her. She trusted him, and one day, without warning, he showed up at her door. That was when the nightmare began. During the first few days, She was with him and wanted to return home and ask for help, but he wouldn't let her. She tried to escape and contact her father, but before she could run, the man made a deal, and Emma was handed over to some very dangerous people, who exploited her over the following days. As the investigation progressed, the police began to arrest people. The first was a 65-year-old man whose name has not been published,

and the second was another man of the same age, named Francis Biot. We know that he is currently being processed on charges of kidnapping and official misconduct with a minor. We also know that he was denied bail and is in prison awaiting trial. But that's not all. Days later, a third arrest took place, 47-year-old Bunny Knight. Regarding Bunny, we have more information. Some sources say that this person was granted bail and that he had a criminal record. He had served five years in federal prison for drug trafficking. trafficking charges dating back to 2004. After this, there's no further information, though the

internet went wild when everything came to light. People had very different reactions. Some supported the family, understanding that they had been through a living hell, but there were others who said online that Emma brought this on herself, that she left on her own, that she had a history of drug problems, that everything that happened was because she wanted it, and that she wasn't really a victim. Others claimed the case was a setup, that they just wanted attention, and that the father and stepmother were just after money because they had an only fan's account. There are all sorts of stories online, but the police is sure that this is 100% real, and Emma has been a victim of some monsters. Probably from this point on, the entire case has been

handled behind closed doors, and they are asking for respect and discretion. But now, it's your turn. What do you think of the case? Do you think the reaction on social media makes sense? The end. What you are about to read is 100% true. Every word of what I wrote below is the exact account of everything that occurred. Okay, so this is an extremely long story, but I promise it's worth the read as I imagine it has to be one of the craziest door dashing stories ever told on Reddit period. To dashers everywhere, be extremely cautious of any organized trail ride groups, blocking off cars on roads on horseback.

Every bit of this is true. I know it will seem almost too crazy to comprehend, but this actually happened to me last night. So last night, I was running orders in Periland, Texas. I was running an order from Perland, to a customer in Rocheron, Texas around 7.30 p.m. when I got trapped on a country road for more than hour in a huge line of at least 50 cars that were backed up and moving a few miles an hour due to an organized trail ride going on. I later found out, the trail ride was being held by a group called the Stead D, Grind, N, riders. After nearly an hour I finally came within about a quarter mile of the exit to the road, but once again I got stuck behind some of the riders.

I then quickly figured out that these three particular riders, were responsible for the entire 50-plus car backup on this road that I was stuck on, Julef, Mambl Road. They were intentionally spreading their three horses out covering both lanes, and were messing with every car that attempted to go around them by maneuvering their horses in front of us and cracking up every time someone would attempt to get around them. After I watched the two trucks in front me finally get around the three guys, by going off road partially into the left side ditch for a few seconds, it was my turn. But I drive a tiny Hyundai Sonata, so I couldn't do what the trucks did without taking a serious risk. I repeatedly tried to get around them without going off the road

first. They continued to move in front of me on every attempt while laughing and having a great time. decided I would roll my window down and try asking if they could please move to one side of the road so I could pass and told them that it was an emergency and I needed to get home ASAP. One of them then told me to, shut my BCHA up. I immediately tried one more time, to get around them by going the most off road yet of my previous attempts, but the left rider quickly got in front of me again forcing me to slam on my brakes forcing a loud WTF out of my mouth which apparently set the rider off into a rage when he hurt me. So the guy immediately turns his horse sideways directly in front of my car and dismounted where he then pulled out a gun and literally said,

I ought to pop your ass right now. The other two riders maneuvered their horses right to my right blocking me and trapping my car in that spot. I freaked out and immediately finished rolling my window up and making sure my doors were locked first as he approached and before he came up to my window I flat out panicked and I decided to straight up floor it directly into the side ditched to my left and somehow miraculously got around him without getting stuck. Before I was able to get out of the ditch and start driving the hell away from them,

The gun fires off striking my car. No joke, after my car was hit and I got around them, this only got worse. Almost right away, not far down the road, I came up on one of the final stretches of cars before the exit, including the two trucks I had seen going around them before me. I immediately called 911 and started explaining to the operator what was happening. As I'm telling her everything and she's asking all her questions about the situation, I look behind me in the guy who shot my car, was hauling ass and attempting to catch up to my car. So I did the same maneuver into the left ditch another time as I'm screaming on the phone

for help telling the operator he's literally chasing me with a gun on horseback. I once again managed to not get stuck and maneuvered around more cars in the side ditch. I had to repeat this maneuver multiple more times while this guy kept chasing me with a freaking gun on his horse before finally being able to exit the road onto Highway 521. I safely got to a gas station a few miles down the small highway where I then waited for police to get to me. I spent the next hour doing a police report and giving the officers, Fort Bend Police, all of the details I could remember about the three guys.

I then come to find out as the police were talking to me one of the officers finds a massive bullet hole going right into my trunk. The bullet was traced into my car where the next hole was found with cotton sticking out of it as it literally pierced the driver's side backseat directly behind me. They found the bullet on the floor directly behind me and one of the officers goes on to tell me that I'm extremely lucky because the bullet somehow hit the top rim of a metal frying pan that was in my trunk severely denting the rim inward before it kept going and pierced through to my back seat behind me. I kid you not, I didn't even want the frying pan. My aunt randomly

forced a bunch of kitchen stuff on me when I last saw her practically forcing me to take the stuff she was unable to get rid of during a garage sale so I finally said okay and threw a bunch of it into my trunk and had long forgotten about it. That pan apparently killed a lot of the bullets momentum by stopping it from being able to pierce through my driver's seat that also fortunately had a hard plastic shield on the surface of the back side of the seat. So after calming down and finishing with the police, I naturally decide to call Door Dash about the order. I had already partially explained what was happening to the customer, by messaging her, well over an hour before this point in time when I first had gotten stuck behind the trail ride.

So after I explain everything to Door Dash, they tell me they were canceling the order for me now. What do I do next, I, and I'm not kidding here, tell them, no, and after all that had happened, I'm only about a mile away from the customer and I still had the Panera bread order and I was going to complete that freaking delivery. So I did exactly that. I made it to customer and handed the order to them directly while explaining the gist of what I had just gone through. The customer was nice and understanding about it all ensuring me it was totally fine about the time the delivery took and all that mattered was I wasn't hurt. So three more things happened after this.

One, the customer added a whopping $10 in tip to the order when I left, bringing my total earnings on the offer to $25. $5 for almost getting murdered. 2. The customer messages me a bit after I left and was heading home, that Panera bread messed up the order inside the bag, not on the receipt, giving them someone else's food. And lastly, three, when I got home. Despite telling everything to Door Dash already, and their ADT security department, and after opting to finish delivering that offer after nearly getting murdered even though Door Dash wanted to cancel it, I received a message from Door Dash saying I had a contract

violation on my account for the three-hour delivery time and that my account would be reviewed for deactivation. I'm not kidding here, LOL. I then had to file a dispute for the violation and spent about another hour on the phone with Door Dash yelling at them explaining that I did not have to complete that offer and that you guys even gave me the option to cancel it and I chose to finish it despite everything and now I'm sitting here having to write out a dispute for an account. Deactivation review while on the phone for another hour forcing me to explain everything all over again to them on how I was just nearly murdered by an insane likely gang member who chased me on horse back down a country road with a gun and shot the back of my car nearly hitting me.

To all the people whose comments are always about the cliche money issues, how's that for a door-dash terrible night? So just remember, whatever you're upset about, at least you weren't chased down a dark country road and almost murdered by a crazy man on a horse with a gun who shot at and almost killed you, right? Possibly the craziest part is I captured the three guys on video for a full minute, including the gunshot going off and hitting my car, which is when I dropped my phone in the frenzy and the video cut off. So this incident was nine years ago or so. I was about 20 and my wife was in her

sixth month of pregnancy. We decided that she'll be the stay-at-home mom and I'll need to find another job with a suitable pay check for my new family. I used to work as a stripper in a strip club with most of my friends, yes, I was a male stripper, and my friends knew that I had to be leaving so they hosted a little goodbye party for me. It was super sweet and stuff and I had a lot of fun. I had a few drinks, hung with my friends, and decided I should go home. Now, the way I usually went home was through a small alleyway behind the strip club and into another street where my house was pretty close. So I was walking at night through the alleyway to go home when I noticed someone was walking closely behind me. I didn't think much of it because I was only focused on

going home. I pulled out a small ultrasound photo of my daughter out of my wallet and stared at it with a huge grin. I couldn't wait to go home. I was too distracted to notice that the guy before was getting super close to me now, practically breathing on my neck. Before I could take a step back, the guy speeded in front of me and quickly pulled his knife out and jabbed me in the stomach and then ran off. I fell to the ground while trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened. I was breathing frantically while staring at my blood gushing out of me. There was so much. It hurt like a million thorns were puncturing my organs.

I was still holding the photo of the ultrasound tightly in the palm of my hand before it suddenly flew away out of my grip. I yelled out and tried to get it, before a lighting of pain struck me again. I ended up passing out in the alleyway from blood loss. I don't know how, or when, but I soon woke up in the hospital. There was only a nurse in the room with me. Apparently my friend found me before I was nearly dead and called the ambulance. He also called my wife because he had her phone number in case if an emergency.

I don't know why, but I felt ashamed that my wife had to see me like that. I was literally almost dead and I only cared about my wife seeing me in that state. The nurse didn't know about my wife and asked me if there was anyone I wanted to call to come and see me, but I was heavily drugged and didn't want anyone to see me. I just wanted to go home. I told the nurse there was no one to call and I stayed in hospital until I was all right enough to be discharged. I went to my wife's house after I got an Uber to see her.

She didn't know that I was still alive, and was probably trying to think of how to raise our daughter by herself. I knocked on the door and saw her almost have a heart attack when she saw me. She thought she was dreaming and kept pinching. herself. I told her it was really me and she ended up crying in my chest. I've never really seen her cry before, but I felt good that she cared that much for me. That incident was nearly a decade ago and I'm perfectly healed now with my daughter and my wife. The dude who stabbed me ended up going to jail for 15 years for murder and illegal drug use. Apparently the guy didn't even run that far away

after stabbing me so someone already found him and called the police. Yay, happy ending, I guess. It was a late shift, one of those quiet nights where the city seems to be holding its breath. The kind of night you almost welcome a call, just to break the monotony. Then the radio crackled. Unit, my unit, respond to a possible 10 to 16, domestic disturbance, at, vague rural route descriptor. Caller is a juvenile, 10 to 16.

domestic. My gut tightened. Domestics are always unpredictable, always a powder keg. Juvenile caller. Even worse. That usually means things are really bad if a kid's the one reaching out. I keyed the mic, dispatch, any further details on that 10 to 16. The dispatcher's voice came back, a little tinny. Negative, my unit. Call was very broken, heavy static. Sounded like a young male. Managed to get the address, but not much else. Sounded, distressed. Mentioned something about fighting, maybe a parent, 10 to 4, on route.

My partner, let's call him Jay, grunted from the passenger seat. Kid calling on a domestic. Never a good sign. Nope, I agreed. The address was way out on the edge of our jurisdiction, bordering on county. One of those places where houses are so. spread thin, swallowed by trees and long driveways. Takes a while to get out there, and backup takes even longer.

The drive itself felt, off. The further we got from the city lights, the darker the world became. Streetlights became a memory. The only illumination came from our headlights, cutting us sway through what felt like an endless tunnel of trees. The kind of dark that presses in on you. We finally found the turn off, a gravel rubeau. road that was more potholes than path. The house itself was set way back, almost invisible from

the road. A two-story, older build, but it looked lived in. Maybe a bit unkempt, toys scattered on the porch, that kind of thing. All the windows were dark. A single car, an older sedan, was parked in the driveway. An unsettling silence hum over the place. Quiet, Jay muttered, and I couldn't disagree. Too quiet. We parked a little ways back, cut the engine. The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the crunch of gravel under our boots as we approached. I did a quick visual sweep. No obvious signs of forced entry, no sounds from within. The house just looked, still. Expectant. Police. Anyone home? I called out, knocking firmly on the front door.

The wood felt solid. Nothing. Just that heavy silence. Jay tried the doorbell. A faint, standard chime echoed from somewhere deep inside, then died. Still no response. All right, I said, keeping my voice low. I'll check windows on this side. You take the back, see if you can spot anything, got it. Jay moved off around the side of the house. I went to from window to window on the front and one side. They were all dark, curtains drawn in most. I cupped my hands around my eyes, trying to peer in through a gap in one, but it was like looking into a void. My flashlight beam just got swallowed by the blackness. A prickle of unease started to crawl up my spine. This wasn't just a quiet house, it felt, wrong. Then it happened. A sudden, brilliant flash from an upstairs window, almost blinding. Followed instantaneously by the unmistakable, booming crack of a gunshot. Muffled, but definitely a gunshot from inside. My heart hammered.

Jay came running back around the corner, eyes wide. You hear that, gunshot, upstairs. I yelled, already moving towards the front door. Dispatch, shots fired at the the vague rural route descriptor location. We're making entry, no time for pleasantries now. I kicked the door hard, right near the lock. It shuddered, then gave way with a splintering crack, flying inwards and banging against an interior wall. Police. Show yourselves. I shouted into the darkness, my weapon drawn, flashlight beam cutting a nervous path ahead. Jay was right beside me, doing the same. The inside of the house was pitch black. Blacker than outside, if that was possible. A close, stuffy smell hit us, stale air, a hint of old food, and something else, something metallic,

almost like copper, faint but there. The air was heavy, cold. Colder than it should have been. Police. If you're in here, make yourself known. Jay's voice echoed unervingly. We moved slowly, methodically. Standard room clearing, what we're trained for. Flashlights darting into corners, weapons ready. The silence was back, thick and oppressive, broken only by our own breathing and the occasional scuff of our boots on the hardwood floor. Anyone who fired that shot, come out slowly with your hands in the air. I commanded, my voice tight.

Still nothing. It felt like we were shouting into a vacuum. We cleared the small entryway, moved into what looked like a living room. Furniture was ordinary, if a little cluttered. A TV, a sofa, kids' toys scattered on the floor. It looked like a family lived here. A family that had suddenly, stopped. Then, a flicker of movement in the periphery of my flashlight beam,

at the far end of a hallway leading deeper into the house. Freeze. Police, a small figure. A kid. Darding across the hallway. Looked like a boy, maybe ten or twelve. He was running, desperation in his movements, his small face a pale blur in the split second I saw him. Before I could even process it, before I could shout another command, another figure stepped out from a doorway just beyond where the kid had run.

Taller. Older. Holding something long. A shotgun. My blood. The blood ran cold. It all happened in a split second. The older boy, teenager, maybe, raised the shotgun.

Another blinding flash, another deafening roar that seemed to suck all the air from the hallway. The little kid crumpled. Just, dropped. Like a puppet with its strings cut. No. I screamed, raw, instinctive. Jay and I both opened fire. Her service weapons barked, muzzle flashes momentarily illuminating the horrifying scene.

We emptied half our magazines at the figure with the shotgun. Our bullets, they went through him. I saw them. Saw the rounds pass through his form as if he were made of smoke, impacting the wall behind him with dull thuds. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there, the shotgun still smoking. Then, he turned his head.

Slowly. And looked right at us. I couldn't see his face clearly in the shifting flashlight beams, but I felt his gaze. Cold. Empty. He raised the shotgun again, leveled it at us. Jay and I both braced, instinctively flinching, expecting the impact, the pain. He fired.

The flash, the roar. Nothing. We were still standing. Untouched. Adrenaline coursed through me, hot and sickening. My ears were ringing. And then, he was gone. The older boy, the shotgun, vanished.

Just, not there anymore. I swung my flashlight wildly. The hallway was empty. Jay was doing the same, his breath coming in ragged gasps. What the, what the hell was that? He stammered. My light found the spot where the younger boy had fallen. He was gone too.

No body. No blood. Nothing. Just the clean floorboards and the pockmarks on the wall where our rounds had hit. My mind was reeling. Hallucination. Mass hysteria. But we both saw it.

We both fired our weapons. The smell of gunpowder from our guns was thick in the air, mingling with that faint, phantom scent. Did, did we just imagine? I asked, my voice barely a whisper. No way, Jay said, his voice hoarse. No damn way. I saw it. I shot at him.

We stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing in again, now laced with an icy, unnameable dread. This wasn't a domestic. This wasn't anything we'd ever trained for. We need to clear the rest of the house, I said, trying to inject some normalcy, some procedure back into the situation. But my hands were shaking. Check upstairs.

That's where the first shot came from. Jay nodded, looking pale but resolute. Right, we moved towards the stairs, every creak of the old wood under our boots sounding like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. The stale air smell was stronger up here. Each step felt like we were descending further into a nightmare, not climbing. The upstairs landing was.

was small, leading to a few closed doors. We checked the first one. A child's bedroom, clothes strewn about, posters on the wall. Empty. The second, a bathroom, towels on the floor. Equally silent. The chill in the air seemed to deepen. The last door at the end of the hall. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open slowly with the barrel of my gun, J. covering me. A flashlight beam pierced the darkness. A bedroom. A large bed in the center, unmade. And on the bed, two shapes.

Vague outlines under a rumpled duvet. As my light hit them, the scene replayed. The older boy was there again. Standing beside the bed, shotgun in hand. He looked younger, somehow, his face contorted in something that wasn't quite rage, wasn't quite pain. More like a terrible, hollow resolve. He raised the shotgun. Aimed it at the figures in the bed.

Don't. I yelled, even though some part of me knew it was useless. He fired. Once. Twice. The flashes lit up the room, the roars deafening. The figures on the bed, they didn't move. Then he turned.

That same slow, deliberate turn. And he saw us standing in the doorway. There was no surprise on his face. Just that same chilling emptiness. He raised the shotgun towards us again. Fired. Again, the flash, the roar. Again, nothing hit us.

And then, just like before, he flickered and vanished. The figures on the bed, gone. The room was empty. No bodies. No blood. No spent shells. Just the lingering smell of phantom gunpowder and the suffocating weight of what we just witnessed. Twice. This was madness. Shear, unadulterated madness. Okay, Jay said, his voice strained, I'm officially losing my damn mind. Me too, I managed. Let's try dispatch again, I fumbled for my radio. dispatch, unit, my unit, can you copy, static? Thick, impenetrable static, like the call that had brought us here.

Jay tried his. Same result. Coms are out. Completely jammed, we were alone in this house. Utterly alone with, whatever this was. We searched this place top to bottom, I said, my voice harder than I felt. Every inch. There has to be an explanation. We did. We went through every room, every closet, the small

attic space, the unfinished basement. Nothing. No bodies, no fresh bloodstains, no weapons, no signs of a struggle beyond what we'd seen happen. The house was just, a house. A recently lived in house where something terrible had clearly occurred, but all physical evidence of the victims and perpetrator had vanished, leaving only these impossible echoes. It was like the house was a stage, and we'd stumbled into a performance of some horrific, never-ending play. Exhausted, frustrated, and deeply, deeply unnerved, we ended up back in that upstairs bedroom. Jay walked over to the window, the one where we'd seen the initial flash.

He stared out into the moonlit backyard. The moon was high now, casting long, eerie shadows. He was quiet for a long time. Then, hey, come look at this, I joined him. The backyard was mostly grass, a bit overgrown around the edges, a swing set standing forlornly to one side. But under the pale moonlight, you could see them. Patches rectangular patches in the earth, slightly sunken, where the grass was disturbed, darker.

They were faint, easily missed in daylight, or from ground level. But from up here, with the angle of the moonlight. What are those? Jay asked, but I think we both knew. My stomach churned. He'd been in the backyard earlier. He hadn't mentioned seeing anything like this then. The angle, the light, it all mattered.

Let's get outside, I said. Try calms again from there. We practically ran out of that house. The fresh night air, even though it was cold, felt like a blessing. after the stale, charged atmosphere inside. My radio crackled to life the moment we cleared the porch. My unit, dispatch, what's your status? We've been trying to reach you, relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. Dispatch, unit, my unit. We're, we're outside the residence. We need backup. And CSI. And, maybe a priest, I don't know, what's the situation?

my unit. I took a deep breath. Dispatch, we have what appear to be, graves. In the backyard. Multiple, the silence on the other end was telling. Then, 10 to 4, my unit. Backup and relevant units are on route. ETA 20 minutes. We waited, flashlights trained on those patches in the backyard, the house looming dark and silent behind us. It felt like it was watching us. When backup finally arrived, along with the detectives and the CSI van, it was like a dam bursting. The sheer normalcy of other officers, of procedure, was a lifeline. We gave our preliminary statements, trying to make sense of what we'd seen, leaving out the, the impossible parts for now. No one would believe us. Not yet. The CSI team got to work on the patches.

Shovels bit into the soft earth. It didn't take the long. They found them. Three bodies. Two adults, a male and a female, in one shallow grave. Consistent with what we'd seen in the upstairs bedroom. The decomposition suggested they'd been there for a few days at most. In a separate, even shallower grave, they found the younger boy. He too looked like he'd been there for only a couple of days. The bodies were bagged and transported to the morgue. The coroner wouldn't give any on-site preliminary beyond confirming they were deceased and a state of decomposition. We'd have to wait for the official autopsy for causes of death. The house was processed.

They found our spent casings, the bullet holes in the wall of the hallway. But nothing else. No other weapon, no other shells, no blood that wasn't ours, Jay had nicked his hand on the broken doorframe. and the older brother, the shooter, no trace of him. Not in the house, not in any of the graves. He was just, gone. As if he'd stepped out of the scene once his part in the replay was done. Days later, the full coroner's report came in.

The parents had died from shotgun wounds. Multiple. Executed. The boy, the boy was different. He had injuries, a shotgun shot in. injured him badly. But the official cause of death, asphyxiation due to suffocation. Dirt found deep in his lungs. He'd been buried alive, injured but still breathing. My blood turned to ice all over again, colder this time. The static-filled call. The distressed juvenile. He'd called from under

the ground. He'd been calling for help as he was dying, as the earth pressed in on him. And the house, had shown us. It had replayed the tragedy. His final moments, his family's murder. We never found the older brother. The case went cold, another unsolved family annihilation, with a supernatural twist that no official report would ever contain. Jay and I, we talked about it, just once, a few weeks later. We agreed we saw what we saw. We agreed never to talk about it to anyone else on the force. They'd think we were crazy. Maybe we were. But I know that house is still out there. And sometimes, late at night, when the radio's quiet, I can almost hear that static. And the little boy's voice, crying out from the dark. I don't sleep much anymore.

The end, Christian Devi, has survived two decades of sensational conflict between his parents. But the event that took its toll on Christian until his death. One night, Anna took an overdose of sleeping pills. Trying to commit suicide or she simply overestimated her tolerance. In any case, she collapsed on the floor in a heap. Christian picked up the phone and managed to tell the operator that his mommy was sick. Moments later, police and paramedics arrived at Anna's house on Tiger Tail Road in Brentwood. The cops called Marlon Brando, who rushed over and took Christian to his home on Mulholland Drive.

Marlon's recollection is recorded in a declaration filed the same day, at or about 2 a.m. of the morning of December 7th, I received an emergency phone call from the Los Angeles Police Department. They were calling from Miss Koshfi's home. I was told that my six-and-a-half-year-old boy was unable to arouse his mother, who has been unconscious. The boy called the operator who called the police. The police came to the house and found Miss Koshfi Komatos and Christian alone. with his mother. I then immediately went to Miss Koshviz's house and discovered that she had been taken to the emergency ward of the UCLA Medical Center suffering from an overdose of barbiturates. I was further advised at UCLA Medical Center at the medical findings showed that she had taken four MGS of a short-acting barbiturate, a very dangerous dosage. When I arrived at her house, there were empty bottles thrown on the floor, and my son had had nothing to eat all day.

He was frightened, hungry, and uncared for. I took the boy to my house. When I left for work that morning he was still highly upset, nervous, and agitated, and had been unable to sleep all night. My secretary, Alice Marchick, and my maid remained at home with Christian. At about 1 p.m. That date, and while I was at work Miss Koshfi insisted and obtained her release from the hospital, broke through the gate and fence around my house, broke into the house, assaulted and struck my secretary, threw a table through the plate glass window, and ran off with our son.

Christian was crying and screaming with fright. I have discovered that, Miss Koshfi, has kept a loaded revolver at her home and she carried it around and played with it while she was under the influence of barbiturates and intoxicants. My son's safety and welfare are in extreme and immediate danger. The child is in a terrible distraught state, Miss Koshvi, is incapable of taking care of his needs and welfare. Marlon filed a report at a North Hollywood police station accusing me of malicious mischief. Then, at the Santa Monica Courthouse, he submitted his declaration. Temporary custody of Devi was granted by Judge Edward Brand, thereby igniting yet more violent explosions that same day.

Armed with his court order, Marlon drove directly to my wife. home in Brentwood, accompanied by his lawyer and two private detectives. No one answered the doorbell Anna had taken Devi to a nearby hotel to thwart just such an attempted countercue. Anna was in the bedroom of the hotel suite, clothed in a nightgown in Paineau, preparing to retire. Devi was in the front room, despite the earlier confrontation at Marlon's house, he was now calm and had finished his supper. She heard scuffling noises as I left the bathroom and rushed through the doorway. Debbie was gone, the front door open.

She glimpsed Marlon and several police officers dragging Christian down the corridor. The headline in the Herald Examiner screamed, Nighty rampaged Jail's Brando's X. A two-colum article on the front page began, bruised, barefoot, and belligerent, actress Anna Kashvi, 30, bailed out of jail early today after allegedly slugging two police officers in a 24-hour bout of violence with her ex-husband, actor Marlon Brando, over custody of their six-year-old son. At the end of the required six-month stay, the boy returned to California, noticeably calmer and less disturbed, although he apparently made up a story of the Loving's burying an effigy of Koshfi while telling the boy, your mother is wicked. She has to be buried

deep down, an event that on the face of it seemed highly unlikely. Because of Anna's admitted alcohol and drug abuse, Marlon was awarded temporary custody of Christian in December 1964. When the papers were served, Khashfi went on a rampage, slapped three people, and was arrested for assault. She later admitted to having taken barbiturates in a suicide attempt, and it was ruled that she could see her son only in the presence of an attorney. Don Crutchfield was hired during the wild and acrimonious divorce of Marlon Brando and Anna Koshfi. Christian was six then. Crutchfield said it was his job to protect a boy from being grabbed by Kashvine taken out of the country. Christian Brando, he says. He was the first celebrity kid I handled.

He was my little boy for six months. I took his hand and was with him everywhere, though Marlon and Kashfi fought to gur him, each would leave Christian in the care of a succession of nannies. nurses, secretaries, and schools or on his own. Let me be more precise, the boy had a mother who was certifiable and a father who was almost always somewhere else whether physically or emotionally. I wasn't getting paid for parenting, but you just couldn't help feeling for this emotionally wounded kid. So there I was, living in Marlon Brando's house, with complete charge of his son which lasted for a few months, dot, I will always think of Christian as a little kid. There was a lot of love between us, Crutchfield says, going through old papers to find stories about himself. I helped him with his homework and taught him manners. It's heartbreaking to see what

happens to these kids, Crutchfield says. I can divorce myself from cases, but not from them. I'd have given my life for Christian. Now he's just walking dead. It happens, he says. The children of celebrities find themselves second to their parents. parents' careers. They craved the love that's never there. When he was a little kid, Christian always looked a little like a wounded deer, Crutchfield says. There was a lot of hurt in his eyes. I saw that same look when he was in court for murder. In February 1965, a judge in Santa Monica ordered that Christian be put in the care of Marlon's sister Francis for a six-month cooling-off, period. Fran, an elementary school teacher, and her then husband, artist Dick Loving,

brought Christian to the Brando family farm in Mundelline, Illinois, where they lived with their three young daughters. Christian was about seven years old and an absolutely wild child, Dick Loving remembered. Like Marlon, Fran and I thought of the farm as a sort of haven. We were low-key, living in a country, and into this structure comes this little bolt of dynamite, incredibly aggressive and a real manipulator. He would come into every situation and size up who had the power, like who he had to win over. He wasn't destructive of property, but he was very rebellious, and I think he got into some fights at school. We got a phone call one time telling us that Christian had spit in another student's face on the school bus. While Christian was at the farm,

Loving said, Marlon called frequently, although he could not recall that he visited. Much as I love Bud, Brando's nickname, in certain ways he was kind of an incompetent father. The nature of his position and his own personal stresses made it very, very difficult for him to be a father. The life he went through, the number of women, there was no constancy there. I think that kid was totally deprived of any stability. Koshfi, on parental probation for drug and alcohol use, did not visit either, but she spoke to Christian on the phone once a week. At the end of six months, when Christian went back to California, he was noticeably calmer, but the conflicts between his parents continued.

In October 1965, Anna was once again awarded custody. Presumably, the court had been impressed by her best behavior during her time on probation, in contrast to Marlins who still have mistress's wives, girlfriends, and more and more new children. Koshfi herself seemed to have stabilized, and in October 1965, At the couple's next hearing, she regained full custody of Christian. Anna Koshfee said in a magazine interview, when Judge Rittenband gave Devi to his father, Mr. Brand was unable to take care of him,

so he sent Devi to live with his aunt in the Middle West. Devi was so miserable he came back with a mental block so that he couldn't read or write. I had to work with him very hard to get him over this. Christian, then six, was again caught in the crossfire of his parents' war. At three he had been enrolled in a Montessori school, but in his second year he was pulled out. Shuttle back and forth between Mulholland and Anna's rented bungalow on the flats below, cared for by a succession of nannies, maids, and babysitters, he had been left disoriented and confused.

We all saw what a terrible situation it had become, said Marlon's elder sister Jocelyn. Anna was always flying into temper tantrums and firing the latest nanny. It had gotten to the point where Christian never looked at anybody's face, he just went to the person wearing a white dress if he needed something. After losing the custody Marlon Brando accused Judge Scott of courting publicity and pandering to the press, calling the decision, barbarous. Khashvi, he invade, was cruel and violent and dependent on drugs. To close friends and relatives like Fran, who had been at his side in court, his pain at losing Christian was palpable. Brando himself was now aware that his firstborn son was nervous, insecure, and scared. For my mom's whole life up to until she was 30 or so she lived with her parents who were controlling and manipulative.

When I turned 8 my mom finally found a relationship with somebody but her parents weren't having it and would harass us and file court proceedings claiming her husband was a predator, which he wasn't, and also while she was with him she became pregnant with my sister, but for some reason my mom decided to divorce him under my grandpa's suggestion and moved to Panama with them, in retrospect to isolate her and get control over her. For a while everything went well, I was in school, made a few friends and gaming became a hobby, but after six months when my sister was born, my grandma said something about my other dad that pissed my mom off so much she snapped and moved out within an hour and told me I'd never get to live grandparents again, being eight this was very traumatic. She quickly rented a house and invited here divorced husband to Panama and remarried him and life kind of returned to normal.

For about two weeks. My grandpa caught wind of it and was so enraged he tried attacking my mom by breaking in and I remember walking outside hugging my mom crying, her husband arrived a little while later. Afterwards my mom took a taxi to David, picked her partner up and tried returning to a normal life. A week goes by, the police show up and tell us to get in the car and drive us over to court for seemingly no reason. At this point everything is a blur, I was interviewed by a psychologist Lady Edkin she began to cry in me not knowing that my statements as an eight-year-old would determine what happens next I thought everything was okay and it should have been. The judge had been bribed. There was nothing on earth we could do. Men in black suits showed up ripped my three-month-old nursing sister from my mother.

arms, grabbed me by the arms and legs and physically ripped me away from my mother, threw me into a van and drove me to Casa Hoga or Triscar, an orphanage with kids just like me. This was longest I'd ever been away from my mother and was extremely traumatic. The first thing that happened was a lady screamed, take my clothes off and get in the shower which was freezing and then got me dressed and left me in a large room with around 200 other kids watching the movie, trolls, on repeat all day every day. I cried myself to sleep every night and prayed I would get out of there. Miraculously my mom got me out of there within a week but couldn't have custody of me so she left me with a nice woman named Patsy. Again my grandparents found out what happened and began stalking us and

the lady got scared and I think I somehow ended up at some resort place with my grandma since my mom had a protective order on my grandpa. I played Splane 10 every day and my mom had visitation rights, here comes the absolute bats hit crazy part of this story. One night my mom comes over and visits like usual, but unbeknownst to me and my grandma was that I kid you not a white van was sitting in the street. My mom grabs me by the arm in my pajamas into the pouring rain into a white van and drives off with her husband and a native guy to the San Blas Indian Reservation across the entire country on the border of Columbia.

We made it all the way across the country, but we were wanted and got caught at a checkpoint. I think that was most terrified I've ever been. We got shipped back across the country in yet another white van. The native guy who helped us was put in prison. My mom also scarily was almost put in prison for 10 years for kidnapping, her own children who were illegally taken from her. I then was returned to my grandmother and the protective order was lifted on my grandfather and I moved to a secluded mountain coffee plantation 2,500 feet above sea level.

In other words, I was back to where I lived originally when I moved to Panama. This is where everything became true suffering. I was put into a Spanish-speaking public school and drew for eight hours a day and learned absolutely nothing since the teaching must have thought I was lost cause and this lasted six months. On a positive note I met one of my two best friends Christopher but with any friendship at that age, you know things might get interesting. He introduced me to porn and I was a porn addicted, human trafficked neglected eight-year-old now. My grandma pulled me out of that school and put me into a different one called the Oxford

School which actually spoke English. I was bullied there by a South African girl who was also ripped from her mother. I was too traumatized to learn anything and also I think they gave up on me there too because they let me draw again for eight hours a day. There I finished second and third grade and my grandma randomly pulled me out again and put me into homeschool. She essentially did my school for me, four years. fifth and sixth grade, and still I learned absolutely nothing and would essentially gain

Roblox Phantom Forces FPS for seven to ten hours a week up until my mom finally rescued me and my sister. Also keep in mind my sister was also neglected and had stunted development and severe tantrums due to her not nursing during her infant years, never being disciplined ever and having very few friends. My mom fought desperately to regain custody but the court was biased and my grandparents had more money. Tragically one week my mom briefly left her husband to file legal paperwork and he was most likely murdered by a hitman that my grandpa hired. He said to my mom a while before, see this number, it only costs $500 to hire a hitman in Panama, sick. When my grandpa heard the news that this sexual predator had died of an apparent Suik asterishta he was overjoyed and told me to

me to be happy too, I was not happy, but I kept to myself. My mom, my mom, mom was at this point emotionally broken, she'd lost her two babies for two years, lost her husband, spent thousands of dollars on lawyers who were fucking useless to fight a biased court which took bribes from my rich grandparents. She moved to a neighboring mountain town called Volcan and met another victim of the Panamanian legal system, who also lost custody of her kids but was trapped in Panama and still is to this day. Under her advice my mom traveled to the U.S. just after the pandemic began to go to her last bastion of hope, the FBI. Even then it took years for her to finally get through to them, but in the meantime I still had two more years my grandma signed me

up for a carpentry class with a very odd 40-year-old man named Angelo Nelson who coincidentally was the ex-husband of my mom's friend. Kid after kid kept joining and one of the kids was a kid named Daniel who was older than me and his dad was some pastor. Believe me this kid was nasty. He bullied me worse than the girl before, beat me up, insinuated a diagnosed OCD complex about my intelligence or IQ by calling me all sorts of derogatory statements behind the teacher's back, for some reason I couldn't speak up for myself and endured this bullying for two years. At the same time my grandma, looping back to the beginning, being an extremist evangelical herself, began indoctrinating my little 10-11-year-old brain all sorts of weird religious beliefs and extremes like if. If I blasphemed the Holy Spirit, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was 10-11 years old, I would go to hell forever and I believed every word. Of it or another example, of the many, was when the only time I expressed my feelings to her

about being depressed, she said I was demonized and forced me to cough into a bucket to, cast out the devils. At this point I was completely numb emotionally and my physical condition had deteriorated due to the constant 24-7 gaming addiction. But out of nowhere my grandma gets a call from the FBI that went somewhere along the lines of, Give this bitch's kids back or were launching a full-scale investigation, and just like after four years of constant suffering through the best years of childhood, many experiences I haven't talked about, I was back with my mother and fled the country of Panama to the United States.

Summarized, when I got all the emotions built up for so long released themselves and I got severe religious and IQ based OCD which was left untreated for three months, I couldn't eat, sleep, shit or anything else because I'd contort myself and shriek in agony and stared blankly into nothing for hours because some voice in my was like, I if you touch that tile you'll go blaspheme the Holy Spirit and you'll never be forgiven, etc. My sister still has issues as well as my mom which I'm not trying to minimize. All this is, is my summarized experience and nothing more. Three days after Christmas, David stood in his shop, the rhythmic sound of his sanding block moving over a piece of oak filling the quiet space.

The warmth of the fire in the pot-bellied stove contrasted with the chill outside, snow still covering the town in a pristine blanket. On his workbench, amid his tools and sketches, sat the clock Nick had left weeks earlier. David paused, wiping sawdust from his hands as his gaze drifted to the clock. It stood silently now, its face gleaming softly in the firelight. He hadn't thought much about it in the days since Christmas, but now, it seemed to pull his attention. Something about it felt different, almost as if it were watching him. He smiled faintly, remembering the card they'd found on Christmas morning.

Walking to the mantle, he retrieved the envelope with the elegant N, and reread the note inside. Christmas isn't just about the kids. It's about you too. It's about second chances, about forgiveness, and sometimes, even forgiving ourselves. David set the car down, his thoughts turning to Nick. Who was he, really? And how had he known so much? David sighed, shaking his head.

How would I even get a hold of him? He muttered to himself. No phone number, no address. Just then, the familiar jingle of the shop doorbell rang out. David turned, his heart skipping a beat as Nick stepped inside, brushing snow off his coat. His signature red scarf was tied neatly around his neck, and his warm smile was as disarming as ever.

Evening, David, Nick said, his voice rich and warm. Thought I'd stop by one last time. David blinked, stunned. Nick? You. I was just thinking about you. He gestured to the clock on the workbench. And this, Nick chuckled, stepping closer to the clock.

Ah, yes. My old friend. She's been sitting here for a while now, hasn't she? David nodded, crossing his arm. I fixed it weeks ago, but honestly, I'm starting to think there wasn't anything wrong with it in the first place. Nick laughed softly, his eyes twinkling. You'd be right about that. There was never anything wrong with it. Sometimes, though, people need a little something to focus on, don't they? A small nudge to remind them of what's important. David leaned against the

workbench, studying him. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you? Nick smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying. I just gave you a reason to pause. The rest was all you, David. David shook his head, a mix of amusement and gratitude in his expression. Well, whatever it was, it worked. I don't know how, but it worked. Thank you for everything.

Nick tipped his head, his smile deepening. You don't need to thank me. I didn't fix your family, you did. All I did was remind you that sometimes, the best things in life are worth fighting for. David hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at him since their first meeting. Who are you, Nick? Really?

And where do you come from? Nick's grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eye. Oh, I'm just a traveler, David. Someone who enjoys stopping by places like Holleridge this time of year. It's hard to resist a town with so much Christmas spirit, David chuckled. That's not much of an answer. Nick shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. Maybe not.

But sometimes, answers aren't as important as what you do with what you've learned. David nodded slowly, his thoughts swirling. Well, I've got to admit, you've given me a lot to think about. But I still don't know what to do about this place. He gestured to the shop around him. Even if my marriage is on the end, my business is still struggling. I don't know how much longer I can keep this going. Nick's expression softened.

I can't help with that, David. But something tells me it won't be an issue for long. You've got a gift, and the world has a way of recognizing people like you. Just give it time. David frowned slightly, trying to read the meaning behind Nick's words, but before he could ask, Nick pulled on his gloves and adjusted his scarf. Time for me to be on my way, he said, his voice cheerful but firm. Remember, David, never lose the magic of Christmas.

It's not just for one day, you know, David followed him to the door, his gratitude mingling with a lingering sense of mystery. Thanks again, Nick. For everything, Nick gave him a final nod, then stepped out into the snow, his figure disappearing into the swirling flakes. Before David could return to his work, the doorbell jingled again. Two men in suits entered, shaking snow from their hats. One stepped forward, offering a business card. Mr. Miller, he asked.

David nodded. That's me, the man smiled. We represent a housing developer looking to expand into Holly Ridge. We've heard about your craftsmanship and were referred to your shop. We're in need of someone to handle specialty woodwork for our homes. Are you available to discuss? David blinked, stunned. A warm smile spread across his face as he realized what Nick had meant.

Absolutely, he said, shaking the man's hand. Let's talk. I no longer know where else to turn. I have reached my breaking point. My situation is desperate, and everything I am writing here is absolutely true. I am facing the possibility of spending 25 years of my life in prison, despite all evidence being in my favor. No one is reading my case. No one is interested. I have already been defrauded by seven lawyers. I speak from Sucre, Bolivia, South America. My name is Daniel. I am a 30-year-old physician,

though I look younger, and I once led a life dedicated to my profession and family. I worked at the children's hospital and also repaired cell phones after my medical shifts to help support my home. I have two daughters, one twelve and the other four years old. My partner is no longer with me. My family has been destroyed. My God, please help me. Though my life was stressful and full of responsibilities, I was happy. I have no addiction. no criminal record, and have always been seen as an example by my family. Now, my life is in ruins. It all began about a year and two months ago.

One day, while returning home, my partner told me that my 12-year-old daughter had been in contact with an older boy over her phone. She had entered into a relationship with a classmate and had even been chatting with two boys about having sexual relations. It was the second time her mother reported inappropriate phone use. to me. In my frustration, I told her to take away our daughter's phone. That should have solved the issue. Her mother made it seem like the decision came solely from me, casting me as the villain in my daughter's eyes. Already in the difficult stage of adolescence, my daughter decided to

retaliate. Two or three days later, she did not return from school. By 8 p.m., we were panicked, she usually returned by 6.20. Her mother was crum. crying, and it had begun to rain. We searched desperately for her. Eventually, we learned that someone had called the school principal, who simply said, the girl is safe. That was all the information we had. We reported the principal's actions to the child protection authorities.

That night was unbearable, we had no idea where our daughter was. I say, my daughter, though she is my stepdaughter. I raised her since she was a month old. Unbeknownst to us, our daughter had told her schoolmates that I had inappropriately touched her. She did not grasp the consequences of what she was saying. The next day, we were summoned to the Child Protection Office. They told us they had taken custody of the girl and requested we bring food, clothes, and blankets. I missed work at the hospital that day to go.

It was a trap. Upon arrival, we were initially treated. politely. But as the conversation progressed, they began accusing me of sexual misconduct. If I had truly been guilty, would I have walked willingly into such a place? In front of my partner of 13 years, I was accused of molesting my daughter. Here in Bolivia, the child protection system often isolates children and uses coercion to extract statements that secure a conviction. When my partner heard the accusations, she reacted emotionally and began hitting me. The officials allowed it to happen, it supported their narrative and pushed her to testify against me.

The police were called. I was handcuffed. I did not resist. I believed in due process, injustice. But once I was in custody, they tried to force me to sign a statement confessing to the charges, which had been influenced by the authorities manipulating my daughter. I refused. For that, they accused me of resisting arrest.

I have no legal background. They threatened my partner, telling her she would never see her daughter again and could be arrested as an accomplice if she didn't testify against me. From that moment, I was lost. I was detained for three days in a holding cell at the EPI Paticon facility, shoelaces removed, no access to a bathroom or way to clean myself. My family cried in desperation. I had never experienced anything like it.

I don't drink, smoke, or have any criminal history. I was the, strange, one who went jogging every night at 10 p.m. I slept on a piece of yellow foam that reeked of urine. That was my bed for three days of misery. Eventually, I was granted house arrest thanks to one lawyer. But the women at the Child Protection Office took my case personally and had the decision reviewed. I stayed at an aunt's house under constant fear of being sent to prison. I had no history of violence and no mental capacity for aggression.

I'm a doctor. I heal. At the new hearing, the court revoked my house arrest. My nightmare became real, I was sent to San Roque Prison in Sukray. The authorities don't read the case files. They only look at the type of crime listed. I was handcuffed and photographed publicly, in front of important family members. I was taken to San Roque Prison, and within moments, I was alone, with only a small bag my family

managed to give me. I was lucky to even have that. I sat for seven hours observing the movement inside the prison wing. I was shocked by how much freedom inmates had, but my size and appearance made others see me as a threat. That made me an immediate target. At night, Reality set in, I would be sleeping with 200 men side by side. regardless of the nature of their crimes.

No classifications. No protections. I had to share a foam mattress on the floor with a stranger. I have now been imprisoned for over a year and two months. I have continued to practice medicine inside, anonymously saving three lives, treating diabetics, hypertensives, the injured, and those suffering from depression or suicidal thoughts.

I smuggle in medications and give them away freely. I don't receive any benefits. Helping others is what soothes my soul. I forgot to mention that I am mildly autistic, which I hide. If anyone found out here, I would become the joke of the year. Over half the prison respects me for what I do. Yet the authorities continue to ignore the facts. No real investigation was ever conducted.

There will be no miracle. I am condemned. I am still awaiting him. trial, but I know I will lose. I've lived with that truth for more than a year. Within three months of arriving in prison, I had to defend myself in two fights, just to survive. Everyone assumed I had money and treated me like an enemy. Then one day, my partner visited me. She told me that, while watching TV together, our daughter confessed, everything she said had been a lie. She explained how the child protection officials had threatened her into making the accusations worse.

They told her she would never see her mother again and would be sent to a group home. They taught her how to cry in front of the camera, saying that if she didn't act, no one would believe her. That she had to repeat the exact same words they had written for her, or everyone would think she was lying. She apologized. She tried to kneel in front of me, sobbing. I wouldn't let her. In prison, you know, You must be made of iron. You cannot cry. You cannot show weakness.

Spies are everywhere. My daughter underwent psychological evaluations, twice. Both times, she firmly denied everything. Yet I remain here. No one reads. No one investigates. The prosecutors treat this like a game. Let's see if you can beat me.

There is no professional ethics. One even offered me a deal, 11 years if I confessed. I told him I was innocent. He smirked and walked into the courtroom. This is Bolivia. The laws are a copied and pasted system from somewhere else. No one reads. No one investigates.

Here, an accusation alone is enough to ruin your life. I was working at a children's hospital, there were never any complaints or red flags. That doesn't matter. Over 20,000 Boliviano have already been spent on seven lawyers who have done nothing. In Bolivia, there is no oversight of legal professionals. It's a mafia. The lawyers, judges, and prosecutors are all friends. They either drain you for money or let you fight until they crush you. I cry out for help for many reasons. When my partner discovered the horrifying truth of this misunderstanding, she didn't know what to do. My mental state. I live in fear, of being attacked, stabbed, framed.

They don't need a reason here. I am awaiting a sentence of 25 years. Maybe 15. Even though the truth has come out, I am still here, over a year later. I'm asking for help. I've reached my breaking point. I understand my reality. I need help.

My family can no longer support me. My partner has done all she could. I have nothing left. Please, help me. I am at risk of growing old in this place. Meanwhile, my daughters suffer in poverty. My partner struggles to support them alone. No matter what I do, no matter who I hire, I remain here.

Anything can happen, except something good. My name is Daniel. I am a doctor. I have two daughters who are. need me. A partner who still believes in me. A family who can no longer fight for me. No one has been able to help me. Being a man accused of a sexual crime is a curse. The more you try to defend yourself, the more the world despises you. I beg for help. I beg for someone to believe me. I don't need sympathy, just investigation. They fabricated every piece of evidence.

No one ever examined the truth. I beg you. The authorities laugh in my face when I try to defend myself. I beg you. My two lawyers have recently abandoned me. I beg you. I don't want to lose my life over an adolescent lie. I don't deserve this.

I have done good my entire life and helped everyone I could. It may sound unbelievable, but I am truly a good person. I was treating diabetes, I cured my father, and I helped a fellow inmate survive. It's not hard when you care. I am not a danger to society. I'm not asking to be believed, I'm asking for everything to be investigated. Meanwhile, I sit in prison while my family falls deeper into poverty. My partner is doing everything she can.

She can't even seek help from my family, this case has fractured everything. I beg for help. The prosecutors never lose in Bolivia. The end.