Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Corners: True Crime & Ghosts

Episode Date: January 13, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #truecrimehorror #ghoststories #darkcorners #realnightmares This collection blends chilling true crime cases with terrifying ghost encounters, revealing how violence, tragedy, and the paranormal intertwine. Each story pulls listeners into dark corners of reality, where unanswered questions linger and the dead may not be at rest. Perfect for fans of true crime, paranormal investigations, and deeply unsettling horror horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrimehorror, ghoststories, paranormalcrime, hauntedplaces, realhorrorstories, unsolvedmysteries, supernaturalterror, darkhistory, crimeandghosts, chillingstories, scarynarratives, urbanlegends, psychologicalhorror, realnightmaresThis episode includes AI-generated content.

Today, we're heading to Sunny California, USA, to dive into the story of a man who seemingly had it all. Imagine snapping your fingers and getting whatever you want, sounds like the dream, right? But according to those who knew him, there came a point where he felt utterly empty. When you have everything, what's left to chase? This is where today's story begins. His name was Forrest Timothy G., born on May 10, 1962, in Dearborn, Michigan. Forrest's life started out pretty ordinary, except for a couple of standout traits, his brilliant mind and magnetic personality.

These qualities propelled him into some pretty big leagues. Forrest wasn't just smart, he was next-level genius. By 2005, he was working for Apple, playing a crucial role in their innovations. Later, he joined Google's Secret of X Division, where he helped develop groundbreaking tech like self-driving cars, smart glasses, and high-tech watches. His co-workers couldn't stop singing his praises. They described him as driven, ambitious, and an outstanding leader. One colleague even said, the first time I met Forrest, I could tell he had this uniquely bright light inside him, a mix of seriousness and joy that made him someone you just wanted

to emulate. Another added, Forrest always had the simplest, most elegant solutions to problems, even though he could be impatient to fix things quickly. Professionally, Forrest was on top of the world. And personally, Things were just as picture-perfect, or so it seemed. In 1996, he married Denise Hayes, and together, they had five kids, Lauren, Daniel, Lily, Roscoe, and Zosha. The family lived in a $3 million mansion in one of California's most upscale neighborhoods.

Forrest was said to be a devoted dad, a loving husband, and a man who cherished family time. He adored throwing lavish parties and taking his family on adventurous trips, especially on his prize possession, a yacht he named the escape. The yacht was everything Forrest's life symbolized, extravagant, indulgent, and larger than life. But, as you'll soon see, it also played a crucial role in the unraveling of his seemingly perfect existence. Forrest's friends often described him as impulsive. During Christmas parties, he'd invent wild cocktail recipes, like the infamous Waro Special. On random weekends, he'd rev up his souped-up Porsche and race down highways just for the adrenaline

in rush. He was a man of whims, and one story sums this up perfectly. In 2011, Forrest arrived late to work and, instead of simply setting his alarm earlier, he went out and bought a Chevy hybrid just so he could use the carpool lane solo. Days later, after a friend bragged about buying a yacht, Forrest, out of sheer envy, purchased the escape. He didn't like the ocean, had no clue how to sail, and wasn't remotely interested in boats. He just had to have it. Forrest spent eight months customizing the yacht to perfection, hiring a captain, and turning it into his ultimate getaway spot. At first, the escape was a family affair, weekend trips, small cruises, and even holidays. But soon, it became Forrest's personal sanctuary. Whenever he felt overwhelmed

or stressed, he'd retreat to his yacht for some alone time. His wife Denise fully supported this ritual because every time he came back, he was re-energized, brimming with new ideas, and visibly happier. So, when Forrest asked him, for a solo weekend on the escape on Saturday, November 23rd, 2013, Denise didn't think twice. He'd done it plenty of times before, always keeping in touch, texting her updates, and sending pictures. But this time was different. That night, Forrest stopped responding. He went completely radio silent, which was unusual enough to make Denise panic. She tried calling him repeatedly, and, when she got no response, she contacted the yacht's captain. What the captain found would

send chills down anyone's spine. Forrest was slumped over on a couch, unresponsive. The captain tried waking him up but quickly realized something was very wrong. He called 911 immediately. By then, the escape was docked in Santa Cruz, so emergency responders arrived within minutes. They boarded the yacht, examined the scene, and made a grim discovery, Forrest wasn't unconscious. He was dead.

The scene itself was bizarre. forest lay on his back with a noticeable injection mark on his arm. On the table in front of him were two glasses of wine, one of which had lipstick stains. The curtains were drawn, casting an eerie shadow over the room. Despite the injection mark, there was no syringe anywhere to be found. The autopsy revealed Forrest had died of a drug overdose. But was it an accident or something more sinister? Investigators scoured the yacht for evidence and quickly noticed surveillance cameras.

When they asked the captain about them, he claimed they weren't operational. Suspicious, detectives confiscated Forrest's phone. At first glance, there was nothing alarming, just work apps, Facebook, Twitter, and a seemingly innocuous app called Seeking Arrangement. But Seeking Arrangement wasn't what it seemed. It was a platform where wealthy, older men could connect with younger, sugar babies, for discrete relationships. Forrest, the loyal husband in public, was secretly living at double life.

The app revealed he'd met dozens of women, many of whom he brought to the escape. These weren't innocent meetups, they were full-fledged affairs. The weekend before his death, Forrest had used the app to arrange a rendezvous with a woman. On November 23rd, he'd done the same, which explained the lipstick-stained wine glass. When questioned, the captain was tight-lipped, but further investigation revealed he'd lied about the cameras. They were, in fact, functional. Three months later, authorities obtained seven minutes of survey. footage that changed everything. The footage showed Forrest in a dark-haired woman laughing,

drinking wine, and having a great time. At one point, the woman pulled out a syringe and injected herself with drugs. Moments later, she injected Forrest. Within seconds, he collapsed. Instead of helping, the woman calmly stepped over his body, drank her wine, gathered the evidence, drew the curtains, and left. This woman was Alex Catherine Tealman, born on April 8, in Canada. Information about her biological parents is scarce, as Alex was adopted at a young age by Leslie and and Bart Tealman. She had one sister, Monica. The Tealmans were an affluent, well-respected family. Leslie and worked part-time at a boutique, while Bart was a high-ranking executive at a major company. Bart was also a poker prodigy, once winning $400,000 in a tournament.

Alex's early life seemed idyllic. She excelled in school, a especially in sports and literature, dreaming of becoming an award-winning author. But at 14, everything changed. A friend introduced her to marijuana, and from there, she spiraled. Parties, alcohol, and harder drugs like heroin soon followed. Her parents, desperate to save her, sent her to a prestigious rehabilitation boarding school in Maine. The school cost a fortune, with tuition fees upwards of $50,000 annually. Its mission was to rehabilitate troubled teens.

But Alex didn't exactly fit in. A former roommate described her as strange and unstable, even compiling a scrapbook labeling Alex as a psycho roommate, with arrows pointing to scars on her arms. Despite her parents' efforts, Alex's behavior worsened. She dropped out of high school in 2003 but eventually earned her diploma in 2005. She briefly pursued journalism in college but dropped out during her second semester. After dropping out of college, Alex's life became increasingly care. Without structure or purpose, she started drifting.

She bounced between low-paying jobs, unstable relationships, and an escalating dependency on drugs. Her once bright future had dimmed completely, and by her early twenties, Alex was a regular in the party scene, relying on charm and manipulation to sustain her lifestyle. Her parents, still holding out hope, tried to intervene. They funded rehab stints, offered her a place to stay, and even set up job opportunities, nothing stuck. Alex's sister Monica, on the other hand, was thriving, making her own way in life, which only added tension to an already strained family dynamic. Alex resented the comparisons

and grew distant from her adoptive family. By 2012, Alex had relocated to California, chasing the excitement and glamour of Los Angeles. But the city that promises fame and fortune was unkind to Alex. With no stable income or support network, she relied on dating wealthy men to survive. This led her to apps like seeking arrangement, where she quickly discovered a way to fund her lifestyle, becoming a sugar baby, the double life of Alex Tealman. On the surface, Alex played the role of the fun-loving, carefree companion. She dressed in designer clothes, gifted by her dates, dined at high-end restaurants, and mingled with the rich and powerful. Behind the scenes, however, her life was anything but glamorous. Alex's drug use had

worsened, and she often used her relationships with wealthy men to gain access to even harder substances. Through seeking arrangement, Alex connected with Forrest Timothy G. Their initial conversations were casual but quickly became flirtatious. Forrest, with his polished image and seemingly endless wealth, was exactly the type of man Alex sought. And for Forrest, Alex represented an escape from the pressures of his perfect life, a way to indulge in reckless behavior without fear of judgment. The pair met for the first time on the escape. Forrest was immediately taken by Alex's charisma and beauty, and their encounters became more frequent. Forrest told Denise he was taking solo trips to recharge, but in reality,

he was meeting Alex on his yacht. The captain, bound by a nondisclosure agreement, said nothing, though he was well aware of what was happening. The weekend that changed everything, on November 23rd, 2013, Forrest used the app to arrange another meeting with Alex. She arrived at the yacht, dressed to impress, carrying a small bag of belongings, though what was inside wasn't immediately clear. Surveillance footage later revealed that the bag contained drugs, syringes, and other paraphernalia. Forrest and Alex spent the evening drinking wine and laughing, as the security footage showed. At some point, Alex took out a syringe filled with a powerful opioid. She injected herself first, then turned to Forrest. While it's unclear if Forrest fully consented,

what is evident is that he trusted Alex. She injected him, and within seconds, his body went limp. Instead of panicking or seeking help, Alex's demeanor remained eerily calm. She drank her wine, tidied up the scene, and carefully removed any incriminating evidence, including the syringe and drugs. She drew the curtains, stepped over Forrest's lifeless body, and left the yacht as though nothing had happened. The investigation, when detectives identified Alex as the woman in the footage, they launched

a full-scale search. But Alex was no longer in California. After leaving the yacht, she had disappeared into the wind, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions. Forrest's death made headlines, not only because of his high-profile career but also due to the shocking circumstances. Public sympathy poured in for Denise and the children, who were blindsided by the revelation of Forrest's secret life. Investigators dug deeper into Alex's background, uncovering a pattern of deceit and manipulation in her relationships. Former sugar daddies described her as charming but calculating. One man claimed Alex had stolen money from him, while another alleged she had introduced him

to drugs. The chase, tracking Alex wasn't easy. She had a knack for disappearing, using fake identities, and exploiting the kindness of others to stay under the radar. But detectives were determined. They followed her trail across multiple states, piecing together sightings, phone records, and financial transactions. Finally, in early 2014, Alex was spotted in Las Vegas, living in a rundown motel. She had fallen even deeper into addiction and was barely recognizable from the glamorous woman Forrest had met. When law enforcement raided her motel room, they found drugs, stolen credit cards, and evidence linking her to Forrest's death, including text messages

and items from the yacht. The trial, Alex's trial, became a media sensation. Prosecutors painted her as a manipulative woman who prayed on wealthy men for financial gain, ultimately leading to Forrest's untimely death. They argued that her actions were not just reckless, but calculated, pointing to the fact that she had cleaned the scene before fleeing. The defense, however, portrayed Alex as a victim of her own circumstances, a troubled young woman who had fallen into addiction and bad decisions. They argued that Forrest was a willing participant in the drug use and that his death was a tragic accident, not a premeditated act. Testimonys from Forrest Forest's family were heart-wrenching.

Denise spoke of the pain of discovering her husband's double life, but she also emphasized the loss her children felt. Forrest's colleagues described him as a brilliant mind whose life had been cut short unnecessarily. Ultimately, the jury found Alex guilty of manslaughter and drug-related charges. She was sentenced to 20 years in prison, with the possibility of parole after 15. The aftermath, Forrest's death left a ripple effect. His family struggled to rebuild their lives, grappling with. with the betrayal and loss.

Denise eventually moved out of their California mansion, seeking a fresh start for herself and her children. As for Alex, prison provided a forced pause to her chaotic life. Reports suggest she has since participated in rehab programs and counseling, though it's unclear whether she has expressed genuine remorse. The story of Forrest Timothy G. serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of living a double life. On the surface, he had at all, a loving family, a stellar career, and immense wealth. But beneath the facade, his choices led to a devastating end, affecting everyone around him. And as for Alex, her story is a stark reminder of how addiction and poor decisions can spiral into tragedy,

leaving destruction in their wake. Alex had a dream of becoming a journalist, but her life took a different turn. She dropped out of college during her second semester, leaving behind the structure and purpose that education offered. This decision wasn't just impulsive, deeply connected to her struggles with addiction. For years, Alex battled her demons, cycling through periods of sobriety and relapse. Every time she found stability, it seemed like chaos was waiting just around the corner. In 2010, Alex moved to San Francisco, hoping for a fresh start. By 2011, she tried her hand at becoming a YouTuber. She created a channel called A.K. Kennedy, focusing on makeup tutorials. Her goal. To become famous.

Unfortunately, fame didn't come knocking, and after a short stint, she abandoned the idea. But Alex wasn't ready to give up on her dreams of being in the spotlight. Determined to make a name for herself, she pivoted to modeling. However, traditional modeling wasn't her calling. She realized that most models fit the same mold, tall, slim, conventionally beautiful. Alex knew she was attractive, but she wanted to stand out. So, she entered the world of fetish modeling, specifically BDSM. She posted provocative selfies, hired photographers, and soon started booking gigs.

In interviews, she leaned into her persona, even claiming she was submissive in relationships. She described walking down the street with her boyfriend, wearing a dog collar, as he led her on a leash. Whether these stories were entirely true as anyone's guess, but they added to her mystique. The boyfriend who changed everything, in 2011, Alex began dating Din and Allen, Din, Rio Pele. Born on March 18th, 1960, Dinn was 51 years old at the time, while Alex was just 24. Despite their 27-year age gap, the two were inseparable. They claimed their love transcended age, and for a while, it seemed like they were genuinely happy.

Din wasn't just anyone. He was a successful entrepreneur with a fascinating backstory. He had studied construction engineering at the University of Florida before moving to Atlanta in 1990. There, he opened several clubs, including the famous masquerade. He also had a passion for rock music, serving as the lead vocalist for a band called Impending Snakes, and he owned a sprawling property where he raised exotic animals. Din had been married, started a family, and eventually divorced.

During that chapter of his life, he met Alex. Their relationship was passionate, chaotic, and deeply tied to their shared love of music, animals, and an over-the-top lifestyle. By 2013, they were planning to marry and have children. Friends described their bond as intense and full of rock and roll flair. But their fairy tale ended tragically. On September 24, 2013, Dinn suffered a fatal heart attack. Alex's world crumbled.

She lost her partner, her dreams of a future together, and the comfortable life she had grown accustomed to. Without Dyn's financial support, she had to figure out how to survive. A new hustle, struggling to make ends meet as a model, Alex turned to an unconventional solution, selling her body. But she wasn't interested in traditional sex work. Instead, she turned to the internet, where she discovered seeking arrangement, a platform connecting sugar babies with wealthy benefactors. The premise was simple, rich men would pay her not only for companionship, but also

for luxury experiences. They showered her with gifts, whisked her away on extravagant trips, and bought her designer her clothes. It was a lifestyle she found alluring, and soon, Alex had a steady stream of clients. It didn't take long for her to cross paths with Forrest Timothy G., Forrest was an older, wealthy man who sought more than just company, he wanted drugs. Alex, seeing an opportunity to make between $2,000 and $3,000 per rendezvous, didn't hesitate. The arrangement was too lucrative to pass up. The two had already met twice when, on November 23rd, 2013, they arranged another meeting. Alex was tasked with bringing drugs, which she agreed to supply. That evening,

they met on Forrest's yacht. The atmosphere was relaxed, they played music, drank wine, and talked. At one point, Forrest confided in Alex about a recent scare, during a previous encounter with another woman, he had passed out after taking drugs. Despite this, he told Alex he wanted to keep using. The fatal night, Alex prepared the syringe. First, she injected herself, then Forrest. Almost immediately, he collapsed. Panicking, Alex froze. Unsure of what to do, she decided to clean up the scene, removing any evidence of the drugs, and fled the yacht. The police quickly identified Alex as the last person seen with Forrest. Surveillance footage captured her entering and leaving the yacht, and her fingerprints were found on wine glasses.

Investigators also uncovered incriminating messages between Alex and Forrest discussing their plans for the evening. As law enforcement worked to track her down, Alex's social media activity raised eyebrows. She posted cryptic and dark messages, writing things like, it feels like death is hiding under my bed, and, life is hard, and then you die. Her erratic behavior only fueled speculation about her involvement in Forrest's death. The sting operation, after months of searching, the police devised a plan. They created a fake profile on seeking arrangement and contacted Alex, posing as a potential client. Offering her $1,000 for a meeting, they set up a rendezvous in an exclusive location.

When Alex arrived, she was arrested on the spot. She was charged with second-degree murder, evidence tampering, and drug trafficking. With no option for bail due to her flight risk, Alex faced a tough legal battle. During her first court appearance, the charges against her multiplied, including involuntary manslaughter and multiple counts related to the possession and administration of heroin. The trial and public fascination, Alex's trial captivated the media. Prosecutors painted her as a manipulative femme fatale who exploited wealthy men, leading to Forrest's death.

The defense argued that she was a victim of circumstance, merely doing what Forrest had asked. Despite the gravity of the situation, Alex's composed demeanor caught the public's attention. She appeared in court impeccably dressed, earning her the nickname, The Unshakeable Beauty. Her photos went viral and a bizarre fan base emerged, with some people declaring her innocence purely based on her looks. On May 19, 2015, Alex struck a plea deal. She pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter and drug possession, receiving a six-year sentence with credit for time served.

She was released on May 29, 2017, and immediately deported to Canada. A new scandal emerges, while Alex's case seemed to be closed, a new revelation reignited interest in her past. In June 2018, journalist Amy Larson interviewed Alex by a Skype. In the interview, Alex insisted she had no intention of killing Forrest and claimed she didn't even know his real identity or that he was married. She accused the police of withholding evidence and suggested they had a vendetta against her. Three days later, another bombshell dropped, Dyn's death was being re-examined. Although Dyn's death had been ruled a heart attack, the circumstances raised questions. Friends and family revealed that Dinn had been vehemently anti-drug, making the idea of an overdose suspicious.

Investigators discovered that the drugs found in his system were the same as those that killed Forrest. Adding to the intrigue was an incident from September 6, 2013, just weeks before Dyn's death. Alex had called the police, accusing Dyn of domestic violence. However, when officers arrived, witnesses told a different story. Din alleged that Alex had been drunk, belligerent, and had even bitten him. The roles were reversed, and Alex was charged with filing a false report and assault. On September 17, 2013, Alex made another 911 call, reporting that Din was unconscious. She claimed they had been partying for days, drinking, and using drugs.

However, friends insisted that Din's disdain for drugs made this version of events implausible. While rumors swirled about Alex's potential involvement in Din's death, no formal charges were filed. Some speculated that Alex was still living freely in Canada, while others believed the case remained under investigation. What really happened? Alex's story remains shrouded in mystery. Was she a manipulative woman who brought chaos into the lives of those around her, or was

she a victim of circumstance and her own poor choices? And what really happened to Dinn? The truth may never fully come to light, but one thing is certain, Alex's life is a cautionary tale about the dangers of addiction, toxic relationships, and the pursuit of fame at any cost. This story contains mentions of domestic and child abuse. My biological father and the woman I called a stepmother, who will be referred to as Kathy, seemed like a happy couple on the surface. Kathy appeared to be really into my dad, and they shared similar views on most things.

I had cut contact with my father when I turned 18, with only the occasional, happy birthday message filling our chat box. I had considered reconnecting one day, but after therapy helped me fully grasp the pain he had put my mother and me through, it felt wrong to forgive him. To really understand my thoughts, I have to tell you about my father. My father wasn't a good man during my early childhood. He abused not just my mother and me, but also substances like alcohol and drugs. Most of my mental disorders stem from his heavy drug use while my mother was pregnant with me. My siblings suffer from similar issues, which shows just how long my father struggled with addiction. His refusal to seek help was his greatest mistake, one that ultimately

led to my mother filing for divorce when she was pregnant with my youngest sibling. After that, he only saw us sporadically. I don't blame my father entirely for how he turned out, his own upbringing was harsh. My grandparents were immigrants with a blurred line between discipline and abuse. My grandfather, while he treasured me, was a strict and authoritative man who ruled with a heavy hand, shaping my father into someone who thought physical punishment was the only way to maintain control. My father was the best he could be, given his circumstances growing up. He was taught that violence was discipline, and he repeated what he had learned. That doesn't erase the few good memories I have of him, but it doesn't make up for the times I cried myself to sleep

after hearing him hit my mom. Or the nights I'd lie awake, whispering to my mother, when will you leave that monster? He was rarely home because his job kept him hours away, and he stayed with my grandmother on weekdays. I have strong suspicions that multiple affairs took place during those nights away. When my mom finally left him, it was like a chain had been shattered. She was free. But my dad didn't take the divorce well. After the split, my My father cycled through women. Every time we saw him, he was dating someone new, until, one day, the same woman stuck around. That was Kathy.

At first, she was nice to me, but I chalked that up to the fact that I could take care of myself while my younger siblings still needed help with basic things like eating, bathing, and dressing. She had no daughters of her own, so she took it upon herself to teach me small things my overprotective mother hadn't, like how to shave and how to hold a gun. I believe my father went to rehab for Kathy, realizing that he didn't want to ruin another marriage. By the time I cut contact, he seemed to be doing better. I remember exactly how I got the news of his death. I was at the mall, catching up with a high school friend I hadn't seen in years. My phone buzzed, it was my mom,

telling me to come home immediately. Her tone was urgent. I said, a quick goodbye to my friend and rushed home. When I arrived, my mother was outside with my aunt and uncle, who, despite my father's addiction issues, had remained close to him. And that's when my mom told me, my dad was dead. Supposedly, it was due to a rare genetic disease. That's what Kathy told my grandmother, and from there, the news spread like wildfire. Now, I know what you're thinking. Why do you think Kathy killed your dad? Well, because the circumstances of his death were beyond suspicious. Just hours before he died, my dad had been posting on social media about politics and other

random things. And suddenly, he was gone, from a genetic disease that no one, not even his own children, knew he had. A disease that no one in our family had ever mentioned before. Even stranger, Kathy refused to get an autopsy. She had him cremated immediately, straight from the hospital, no questions asked. She didn't provide us with any details. No hospital name.

No doctor. No funeral. No viewing. Nothing. The relief I felt when he died still makes me feel guilty. My father had a long history of screwing over my family, so the fact that he could no longer hurt us brought me an unexpected sense of peace. I didn't care about any inheritance, I knew he had a habit of draining money from my savings

when he was desperate. I just felt relief. But a small part of me couldn't shake the thought, was this really a genetic disease? Or was it something else? I wouldn't be shocked if my father had relapsed and started draining accounts again, just like he did when he was with my mom. Maybe Kathy had fallen into the same trap my mother did. Maybe she had been pushed to her breaking point.

But I kept going back to the fact that my dad had genuinely seemed to be doing better. That's when a darker thought crossed my mind, what if Kathy had killed him for his life insurance payout? What if, after years of being the manipulator, my father had finally met someone who could outplay him? What if Kathy had been the abuser all along, and this was just karma coming to collect? What really cemented my suspicions was my older cousin. We are polar opposites in every way, different and interests, different personalities, different outlooks on life. But when we talked about my dad's

death, we both arrived at the same theory. That was enough to make me pause. If we both thought it, maybe we weren't crazy. Kathy eventually gave us a small box of my father's belongings, just the stuff she didn't want. Then she vanished. No explanations. No answers. Just gone. The sad side of the family never liked her much, so she didn't have any reason to stick around. If she was truly grieving, I suppose she needed space to process. But something about her disappearing act has always nagged at me. Sometimes, late at night, I get the compulsive urge to look her up, to try and find out where she is now.

Kathy was an unpredictable woman. And honestly, the mystery of my father's sudden illness and death still keeps me up at night. Back when I was working at a hospital in the Pacific Northwest, I was stationed in the medical procedures unit. Most of the time, our job was pretty routine, patients would come in, we'd prep them, sedate them, and assist the doctor while they underwent various endoscopic procedures. The days blurred together, full of beeping monitors, hospital gossip, and the usual groggy patient banter.

That is, until this one day. A day that's never really left me. So we had this elderly guy scheduled for a basic upper endoscopy, nothing wild. He was calm, friendly, a bit talkative. We were waiting around for the doctor, so we passed the time with some small talk. Just your typical pre-op chat, weather, family, a little about his health. He didn't bring anything strange up at all, just another sweet old man on the schedule. Then the doc came in, brisk as usual, flipping through the chart, and without me,

missing a beat, he looked up and asked, did the patient tell you about his background? I started listing off the guy's medical history, the reasons for the procedure, but the doc waved me off. No, he said, I mean his past work. He was an undercover FBI agent. He infiltrated the mob. Now, that stopped me in my tracks. I turned back to the patient, eyebrows raised. No way. That must have been insane. What was it like dealing with those mob guys? I asked, expecting a chuckle or maybe a vague story. But instead, he just looked at me with these dead serious eyes and said something I'll never forget.

Those guys weren't as bad as those motherfucking politicians. Now, I've heard some things in a hospital. People talk when they're nervous or drugged or just old and past the point of caring. But this hit different. He wasn't joking. His voice didn't waver. He wasn't dramatic. Just cold, quiet certainty. And then he started talking. He said that back in the 1980s, during one of his non-mob assignments, he was head of security for a congressional event. It wasn't clear if this was something like a fundraiser, gala, or

internal political retreat. Either way, it was big enough to need federal security. He told us that one of the other agents on the team handed him a phone and said, Congressman wants to speak with you, so he took the phone. Hello, he said. The voice on the other end replied, Will there be women there? Confused, the agent responded, uh, yes, sir. There are women here.

The congressman paused, then said, when I arrive, I want one sent to my room. No older than 13. Right as he said those words, no older than 13, the CRNA-8 pushed. the sedation meds. The old man's eyes rolled back, and he was out cold. Total silence. We all just stood there, like statues. Nobody said a word. It felt like the whole room froze over. I remember looking around, trying to figure out if I heard that right. Did he just say what I think he said? The room stayed dead quiet as the doctor went ahead with the procedure. Afterwards, we didn't really talk about it.

I mean, how do you even start a conversation like that? Hey, remember when the patient casually accused a congressman of being a pedophile? I tried brushing it off as maybe he was confused or hallucinating, but something about the way he said it, it felt real. Too real. Like it wasn't even meant to shock us. It was just a statement. A memory he'd carried for decades. Now, let me be clear, he wasn't claiming to be some mob informant who ratted people out.

He wasn't bragging about anything. He was a retired undercover FBI agent. His job, for a time, was to infiltrate criminal organizations, including the mob. Then, later, he had assignments involving political events. That's where the disturbing part came in. And just so it's all laid out, he never brought any of this up on his own. He didn't start rambling unprompted. The surgeon was the one who mentioned his FBI background. If the doc hadn't said anything, we never would have known. The old man didn't seem to have any agenda, no axe to grind.

He wasn't even trying to impress anyone. He was just, talking. A lot of people might think, couldn't he have made that up? Sure. It's possible. Old people sometimes embellished some people sometimes embellished. stories, or their memories get tangled up. But in this case, I don't think so. Not for a second. The guy wasn't dramatic. He wasn't even particularly emotional. And when he said those words about the congressman, it felt like the kind of thing that had been sitting inside him for years, maybe decades. It didn't even feel like a confession. It felt like resignation. After his procedure, he woke up like most patients do, groggy, a bit confused. He didn't bring it up again.

We didn't ask. It was like an unspoken agreement that we'd all heard something we weren't supposed to. Something that didn't belong in that room. Later that day, I found myself Googling everything I could about FBI assignments, congressional security details, elite pedophile rings, anything that might help me make sense of what I just heard. What I found didn't give me comfort. The truth is, there have been whispers about things like this for decades. Stories that sound too awful to be real, too big to be true.

Secret networks. Hidden abuses. Power protecting power. You hear this stuff and your gut reaction is denial. Nah, that can't be real. But what if it is? I don't have a political agenda. I'm not pushing some conspiracy.

I don't care who's in office or what side of the aisle anyone's on. I'm just a person who was in a room when an old man dropped a bomb, and I haven't been able to forget it since. I've shared this story a few times, mostly anonymously. Every time, there are people who jump on me, saying it's fake or its political propaganda. Others get hung up on whether I use the right terminology, he wasn't an informant, he was an undercover agent. Like that's the point.

I get it. People want to poke holes. It's safer that way. If they can convince themselves it's not real, they don't have to think about what it means if it is. But here's the thing, this happened. I was there. I heard the words. I saw the look in his eyes.

I felt that drop in the room when he passed out and we were left with the weight of what he said. It wasn't about the mob. It wasn't about organized crime. It was about the people who are supposed to run this country. The ones who shake hands on camera and give speeches about integrity and responsibility. You want to believe they're good. That they're different.

But maybe they're not. Maybe the worst monsters were the best suits. People say the FBI doesn't do that kind of security work. But unless you've been in the agency and worked those events, how can you be sure? There are levels of clearance, assignments you'll never read about online, people doing things they'll never admit to. The FBI police are deployed to high security national events all the time, Super Bowls, presidential inaugurations, world leader summits, and yeah, big political gatherings.

That's not a conspiracy. That's public record. So yeah, maybe this guy wasn't just some of it. crackpot spinning tails. Maybe he was someone who saw too much. Maybe he'd held on to that moment for 40 years, and in the quiet of a hospital pre-op room, surrounded by strangers, it finally slipped out. And we were the ones who caught it. After that day, I started looking at people differently. I started wondering what kinds of things go unsaid because they're too ugly, too dangerous, or too unbelievable. What stories never get told because the people

who could tell them are either too scared or too dead. And I keep thinking about that moment, his voice, low and calm, saying, no older than 13. What kind of person says that? What kind of world lets them get away with it? I'm not here to convince you. I don't need to. I'm just telling you what happened. Believe it. Don't believe it. That's up to you. But I know what I heard. and I'll never forget it. The end. I, David, 19 really need to vent this into the void. I am currently a student at Penn State University. I have always been interested in genetics, ever since I did my first punnet square in eighth grade. A few months ago, I finally splurged and got myself a 23 and me kit and an ancestry kit. When I got the results back, it gave me a match

of some dude named John who lives in New Jersey, our relationship match is that of father slash son. I looked him up, and best I can see is he tried to be an M.MA fighter for like 15 years, and has dark hair and blue eyes just like me and my siblings Matthew Jr. 29M, who I'll call MJ, Gen 27F, and Lisa 22. I know there's no way he is MJ's bio dad, this guy was like 13 when my older brother was conceived. For reference, my mom is blonde with blue eyes, and my dad has dark hair and brown eyes. At this point, I think I need to give some background, and explain why this is so shocking. My parents are the picture-perfect couple. My dad, Matt, 55M, and my mom, Courtney, 52F, have been married for 31 years, they met years ago one January, and got married in October of

same year, have been together ever since. Mom was a psalm, and did absolutely wonderful raising us. She made all our meals, kept the house top-notch. This woman never missed any of our extracurriculars unless they conflicted, and she made it a point to balance that out. I read a lot on here and I'm sure she has a favorite, but none of us has ever felt neglected or like someone else was the golden child like I see in a lot of posts. My dad is awesome. I wish I had more time with him growing up, but he definitely made the time he had memorable. He has worked so hard, he makes he makes hella money, puts in the hours to make sure we're taken care of. All four of us are high achievers, and got at least some scholarships,

and we didn't go to cheap places. My two oldest siblings graduated from Pitt, and Lisa is finishing up at Penn. But my dad has covered all of it, we're all walking, or walked, out debt-free. When home, our dad was always doing stuff with us and planning outings. He made as many of our event as he could. On top of all this, we also still have all four grandparents kicking, and they were a big part of growing up. I'm saying this because I want you all to know my parents always seemed super into each other. We would spend a weekend every month with a grandparent set so they could have time together, they'd go on two or three date nights a month. My dad always used his time spending it with us or my mom or helping around the house.

My parents are super affectionate with each other. My mom kisses my dad by every time he leaves the house, they hold hands in public, she makes his lunch and writes him notes. My dad has never been controlling. My mom has friends, she has done a movie night with them every Thursday for literally decades. Both my parents have stayed fit and healthy all these years. I just cannot wrap my head around it, there's no red flag I've ever noticed, or that my siblings have said to me, and Lisa and I are really close, she would notice and say something. How could my mom do this? How could she cheat and get pregnant with some young, macho, dude? I keep telling myself there has to be some sort of explanation.

Maybe fertility problems, maybe I'm a donor baby. Maybe we all are. I've been keeping this to myself for a couple weeks, but I need to bring my siblings in. I need to tell them first before I go to my parents, maybe they know something or maybe they are in the same situation. I'm going to set up a Zoom with them all this weekend and try to find out what is going on. I, David, 19 a.m. here with an update. It's not a good one. I did Zoom meet with all my siblings MJ 29M, Gen 27F, Lisa 22 and 22.

told them what I found out. At first none of them believed me, but I started sending them my DNA kit results, my receipts, I needed them to understand I was not pranking them, which I don't do pranks so it wasn't that hard to convince them. We got to talking a lot and Jen said that maybe Lisa and I were donor babies. She said she knows from talking to Mom Courtney, 52 that they wanted four or five kids and the plan was for them to be as close to two years apart as possible, but there's five years between Jen and Lisa. Could they have turned to donors? Lisa took some offense to this, and asked why she thought just us two were donor babies. It didn't get out of hand as MJ calmed everyone's nerves. We made the decision to go secretly

get DNA tests done. Once the results came back, turns out, we are all half-siblings to each other. The results imply none of us has the same father. So either Dad, Matt, 55M, fathered just one of us or none of us. Yet, we all have similar features. Which kind of implies sperm donors with similar traits. This is just a huge mind fuck for us all, though. Why hide this? I mean it really doesn't change anything, Dad is Dad. Jen then got this idea to find out. She has been married for two years now to Mitch. They are not trying to have kids currently. Her plan, though, was to go talk to Dad about her, problems, conceiving, and see if he dropped any info. She called him this past week and opened up. They ended up talking about usual things like IVF, and Jen asked if he knew anyone

who had to do anything like this. He just said no, all four of us were lucky enough to be conceived naturally, but that he was more than willing to look into and find the best doctors in the whole Northeast. She did her best to not tear up or break down while trying to naturally ease off the phone. We have all taken this pretty hard, we are all supposed to be home this Sunday for Father's Day, and while we know it's supposed to be about Dad, we're going to bring this up and confront our mother. I just can't believe it, how does someone compartmentalize to this degree? So many affairs, so many lies. If anything positive has come, it is us siblings have really bonded and are checking in on each other.

They're all checking on me extra since I'm back home from college and living with mom and dad. We all agree no matter what, he is our dad, and we are siblings. That won't change. Ugh, I am dreading Sunday so much. There is not enough therapy in the world for the trauma I just endured. My David 19M siblings MJ 29M, Gen 27F, Lisa 22 arrived at our house about midday. My parents both thought something was up because MJ didn't bring Maggie, his wife, and Jen didn't bring Mitch, her husband, with them. We had a plan though, we wanted to talk to Dad, Matt 55M,

first. When he went out to fire up the grill MJ and I went out to show him what we found. Jen and Lisa did their best to play nice with Mom Courtney 52F in the kitchen. We showed Dad the DNA results. At first he tried to play dumb, said this doesn't mean anything, could be a mistake. We both thought he was in denial, but we pressed, told him about Jen's faux fertility problems, and that we know it's not a donor thing. Mom cheated, maybe still is. He finally just nodded and said, let's go inside and talk to your mother.

I turned off the propane and we went back in. Mom seemed concerned, we all looked disturbed slash angry but Dad just said, they know. Mom looked a little confused, and Dad finished up with, about their paternity. The confusion spread to the four of us. Dad said, let's all meet in family room. We all went in and sat down, Mom and Dad sat together on the couch and held hands. When J. began, we know we have different fathers, we demand the truth, right now, I four. Maun cut him off, I want to say we are all adults here, and I agree, you're all old enough

to know the truth, so I promise we will not lie to you. But some of this may make you a bit uncomfortable, so please just listen and don't judge. If you have a question I will answer it. I'm going to start from the beginning. You all know your father and I met when I was twenty years old and a sophomore. at Pitt. He had graduated already and gotten a great entry spot at his company. We fell in love fast, and you know we got married ten months later, she then giggled, and you know we're still hearing about our tiny backyard wedding from your grandparents. Anyway, what you don't know is your

father and I had a lot intimacy issues when we first got married. I had only been with one other guy before and he had only had one onus before me. We had waited until we were married at his behest, And now that we were married he was having a lot of performance issues. At this point my siblings and I all had a collective feel of what the fuck have we just gotten ourselves into. Mom continued, well this was really hard on my self-esteem, I was crying often and your dad, hated seeing me so, so he finally opened up to me. Your dad is a proud cuckled. WTF, now, our number one vow to each other was to always be what the other needed. Dad then chimed in like this wasn't crazy and they were just giving proper advice,

your vows, take them seriously, and you'll have happy lives. Mom got going again, at first I felt really guilty about the idea of sleeping with other men, but I knew your father really wanted it and I'd do anything for my little cuckie bear. The horrors of that pet name will be imprinted in my head forever, so about three weeks after his confession. I decided to ask this hot Italian international student from class if I could come back, to his dorm with him. Dad then yells all excited, Cosimo. Mom, yep, Cosimo, anyway your father was worried because I was two hours late getting home, that man could fuck forever. M.J., mom, please, is this important? Mom snapped, do you want to know about your parentage or not?

Lisa started mumbling, I don't, I don't think, I, I, I don't want. Mom, you don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable sweetie. Yet, no one left and mom continued on. So anyway when I told him why I was late he was so excited, couldn't get enough, so I kept it going. One day your dad had the day off, by this point I had Cosimo and another guy from class I was seeing regularly, always after class. Well, I was always making them use condoms, but on this day because your dad was off, and I wanted us to have time together after my classes, I decided to go meet Cosimo before class. I went to his dorm hoping he was there, remember this pre-cell phone, and he was, but he didn't have any rubbers on him, but I just thought whatever and we went, raw, bearback,

whatever you kids call it. I was shuddering and hoping this story was almost over by this point. So I got dressed, but could still feel it in there, girls you know what I mean, I decided to skip class and go back to your dad, and he was just so excited and happy, he licked every drop of that come out of my pussy. Jen jumped in. M.O. M. Please, don't say come, don't say pussy. The details. We don't need all these details. We just want to know who our bio fathers are. This Cosimo, is that M.J's bio father. Oh no, I'm just letting you know how this all progressed to that. I mean over 30 years, it's just kept escalating. I mean at first your dad and I would be intimate, but he wanted more. So, geez, what has been 25 years since I'll let you have sex with me, 15 since I made you

come, oh sorry, ejaculate, dad, yeah, it's been a while, Mom, hell. At this point we are where I only let him get himself off twice a year. Jen, Mom. Stop, can we just get to our fathers? Okay, okay, so over the next year I met up with a lot of guys and some girls, but always in like a threesome slash group thing with guys involved, I'm not really into women solo. Jen, unnecessary details, Mom. Yeah, yeah, Dad, Dad. Dad, just let your mother tell the story. Mom, maybe you should tell this next part. Dad starts up, so about a year into marriage we decided to have kids, now I have what is a pretty intense breeding fetish.

I regretfully said out loud, breeding fetish. Dad, yeah, when you get satisfaction from other men impregnating your wife. M.J., okay, okay, so can we just skip this? Will you just tell us who our fathers are already? Mom, oh, we don't know, you were all conceived during gangbangs or by guys running a train on me. Jen, you have no fucking idea, didn't you at least get names? Mom, well no, you and your older brother, I mean, that was back in the 90s, the internet was barely a thing. I was young then, so both times, I just went to Frat House during a big weekend and made myself free use. If a white guy had dark hair and blue eyes, because, you know we didn't want everyone knowing about our lifestyle, ID insist they finished in me, they'd usually go for it, the tough part was other guys, I had to be firm that all finishing was in my mouth, which they never objected to.

I do remember that with each of you it was only three or four guys who met the breeding criteria, except you David. WTF. Now by time Lisa was conceived we had more of a network thanks to online. so we actually just set up a gangbang with three bulls. Dad, that was an intense night, one of my favorites. Mom, remember how they had me peg you while they finished in me from behind. Dad, I thought I'd never be able to sit again. MJ then snapped, for fuck's sake stop, we can't handle your trip down memory lane, please fucking stop with the details.

Dad, do not talk to your mother like that. Mom, it's okay, he's just a little like. upset. I then did something, I once again regret, what about me, I found this guy online. I handed her the kick results. Mom, oh yeah, I kind of remember him, he was young then, I definitely remember the night, my famous five-guy cream pie night. Again, another term, permanently branded into my mind to haunt me for all my days. This is when Lisa spoke, oh my God, is that why you both always do that inside joke when we drive by that stupid restaurant. You know, where Dad says, five guys, all weird and mom goes, I was so stuffed, and then you both

laugh. Dad, well, it's one of our favorite memories. Then N.J. said, so your whole marriage works because mom's a whore and dad's a cuck. W.T.F. Mom snapped a little here. Don't you dare slut shame me or belittle your father. We are adults, and so are you, don't act all high and mighty, you all have had sex, you all did when you were high school, so don't play innocent. For fuck's sake MJ you and Maggie's relationship started with a drunken O&S,

Jen you think I don't know that you had a wild side in college, David your girlfriend just spent a week with us not too long ago, staying in your room each night, I know you weren't down there painting each other's toe nails, and Lisa. You need to learn to be more tech-savvy, every time you come home you and Paul's sex tapes upload to the family I-cloud, so don't act like you're all innocent, also Lisa, you ain't gonna find another like his, if I were you I'd propose to him. Dad, really, that big? Mom, like Tom's, Dad, oh. Notting in a stunned yet a proving way, Lisa then, in a tone of pure defeat, please, stop talking about my boyfriend's dick. In fact, I can't handle this, I am going to go back to Philly.

Mom popped up, no, you're not, you guys come in here and spring this on us, demanding the truth, well now you have it, and so what if I've slept with 200 guys and a bunch of women, your father approves, and that's all that matters. Dad, at least, Mom, yeah, around that, anyway, today is about your father, we are going to celebrate. You all got what you asked for, do want you need to come to terms with it, but we will always be a loving family. Now, boys go with Dad and get the grill going, girls we got sides to make. The next three awkward hours were some of the longest of my life, we ate, it was just shock and silence except when Mom and Dad asked us about our recent happenings, then it was short answers. My siblings all said their goodbyes, Lisa was supposed to stay but instead went to a friend's apartment. I decided an impromptu road trip to Lancaster to see my girlfriend was in order.

The drive will do me good, and the hope that someone invents brain bleach, because no amount of therapy, meds, booze, or elective lobotomy is ever going to cure the trauma of this afternoon. Anyway, happy Father's Day everybody. Despite not being their biological father, he was there for everyone, raising all of us like we were his own. He was the kind of man who stepped up when life called for it. When my grandma got sick, things got complicated. Marie and my dad lived too far away to be involved in her day-to-day care, so the responsibility fell to Katie. We all thought she would step up and do what was right, but it turns out she neglected Grandma. When Grandma was on her deathbed, she muttered some chilling words, now Katie can get whatever she wants from Alan.

At the time, we didn't realize just how much weight those words would carry. Sure enough, after Grandma passed, Alan moved in with Katie. That's when things started getting even stranger. Katie took over everything, his house, his finances, and even his communication. She started screening his phone calls and telling the rest of the family that he wanted no contact. It didn't make any sense. This was a man who had always been there for everyone, yet suddenly, he was being completely

cut off. wasn't right. Then, Allen's health took a turn for the worse. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, as well as multiple forms of cancer, leukemia, lymphoma, bladder, and prostate cancer, all caused by exposure to contaminated water at Camp Lejeune during his service as a Marine. It was heartbreaking. And instead of being surrounded by the family who loved him, he was trapped in Katie's grasp. His own children weren't even allowed to see him. If they tried, Katie would make sure the visits were supervised, controlling every interaction like some kind of gatekeeper.

The situation hit rock bottom just last week. Alan was in hospice care, and Katie, in all her wisdom, decided to bring her grandkids over, while they had COVID-19. Let that sink in for a second. She knowingly exposed a dying, immune-compromised man to COVID. When confronted, she admitted it like it was a second. no big deal. And now, just days later, Alan is dying. But the worst part. Katie didn't even bother telling his children that he had been unconscious for two whole days. When his son called

to check on him, Katie brushed it off, saying he was just sleeping and doing fine. But here's the kicker, while Alan was sick, he somehow signed over all his assets to Katie. How does that even happen. A man battling Alzheimer's, cancer, and the effects of old age just conveniently signs away everything to the one person who has been controlling his entire life. It doesn't take a detective to see something fishy is going on. Let me be clear, I don't want anything for my grandparents. Neither do my parents, Aunt Marie, or any of my cousins. This isn't about money or inheritance. This is about justice. Katie spent almost six years isolating Alan, taking advantage of him, and now, possibly,

killing him by exposing him to a virus that she knew would be deadly for him. That's elderly abuse, financial manipulation, and outright neglect. How does someone get away with this? Can she even legally do this? And more importantly, isn't knowingly exposing an immune-compromised person to a deadly virus a form of murder? This isn't just a greedy relative taking advantage of an old man, this is something much darker. This is calculated. This is cruel.

And now, Alan is gone. He passed away two days ago. And the worst part. We never got to say goodbye. Katie won. She got what she wanted. She cut him off from his real family, took everything he had, and now she gets to move on like nothing happened. But should she?

Should she be allowed to get away with this? Because right now, it feels like she will, and that's a reality I don't think any of us can stomach. If there's anything we can do, anything at all, we need to know. Because this can't be how it ends. I found myself thinking about the time my wife and I experienced every parent's worst nightmare. I do realize that there are way too many parents that have experienced much worse in this crazy FD up world, but this was enough to scare the living crap out of my wife and I forever. It started when Aurora was seven and we were heading to this mall, hotel, casino place in our

capital city. We were going because I had board meetings with a national charity that I was vice president of at the time. We had our youngest, Ariel, with us and she was one. Yeah, we named our daughters after Disney princesses. Don't judge, please. My wife and I connected over our love of Disney movies. We both had all the movies in VHS,

then DVD, and now we have Disney Plus. It is what it is, but it drives me nuts how much money we've spent for the same FN content. FML. I do give myself a little laugh every once in a while, when I think of the time I tried to argue that we should name our first boy, Gaston. My wife is small and fiery, so I knew that would set her off. L.O.L. Sorry for the sidebar, I just needed to bring a little levity into a scary story. I'm sure that every family has their horror stories about traveling.

This day was one of hours. I had to be there for a board meeting at noon. The expected check-in time was 11 and we planned to be there by 10. It was a four hours, house to hotel, drive and the plan was to leave at 6. Yeah, nothing ever goes to plan. We ended up getting out of our driveway at 6.30, getting stopped for speeding at 8.30, of course I was trying to make up time, FML, then hitting ridiculous city traffic at 10.45. We got to the hotel 15 minutes.

before the board meeting and I needed to be there. My wife has always been calm and cool in these situations, when no one is provoking her. She took control of my stressed out ass and told me to grab my laptop and get to the meeting. She'd check us in, check out the mall, and get the kids fed. I ran off feeling thankful that the situation didn't turn into some sort of blame game about the stressful journey. I got to the conference room on the third floor of the hotel with five minutes to spare. A buffet lunch was on the side of the room and my fellow board members gave me time to grab some food and get settled before we started. We were about 15 minutes into the meeting when my phone started to vibrate on the table. It was my wife and I embarrassingly

sent it straight to voicemail. The text came immediately after with a simple statement, call me now. I excused myself from the meeting and apologized as I walked out of the room. What followed was the scariest time of my wife and I's lives. I called my wife, and she answered with a panicked, Aurora has disappeared. I said, what, while just feeling. stunned at the moment. My wife was clearly crying and shouted, she's gone, and I don't know where she is. All I could muster, in my confused state, was a week, I'll be right down, and I hung up. I stepped back into the meeting room and told them that Aurora disappeared downstairs and I'm heading to the lobby. Their reaction was nothing sort of incredible. Our executive director

took control of the situation. There were eight of us in the 30-floor hotel. They assigned three floors to each board member with my job being to get to the lobby and find out information from my wife. They set up a chat group and everyone left knowing that they would first search the hallways of their assigned floors but if nothing was discovered then each one would start going door to door. Privacy and hotel policy be damned, this was serious shit. I flew down the stairs to the lobby, I didn't have the time or the patience for elevator bullshit. When I got there, my wife was standing, Ariel on her hip and an iPad in her other hand, looking up at a gentleman in a red blazer. She looked at me as I arrived with her cheeks and eyes all red and puffy.

I could tell she was talking with the gentleman, so I just gave a side hug, grabbed Ariel, and listened. She was explaining what happened to the head of security. After I had left, the doorman put our luggage on a cart and the valet took our SUV away. My wife and kids went to the lobby where there was a lineup to check in. Aurora was restless and didn't want to wait in line with my wife so she asked if she could sit on a bench and play a game on her iPad. My wife found a place for her to sit and pulled the iPad out of her travel purse. Aurora sat straight, iPad on her lap, while my wife joined the check-in line. She said that she kept looking at her every minute or so and that she was alone on the bench just

looking at the iPad. It was the check-in procedure where she lost sight of her. She had to find her wallet and ID while holding Ariel and it just took a bit of time. It didn't help that she had a different credit card from what I had booked the room with, but they worked it out. When she was done, she turned to look at Aurora and she was gone. Just the iPad was left where she was. My wife panicked immediately in scanned the lobby,

she thought she saw our daughter enter an elevator, but she wasn't certain. She yelled, Aurora, immediately. That got reception staff and security staff's attention. They asked if she needed help, and she immediately told them that Aurora had disappeared. While they started talking to each other about procedure, she called and texted me. To the hotel's credit, they shut down the elevators immediately and informed door staff to be on the lookout for a small girl. My wife texted them a picture. I arrived just as the head of security started talking to her.

I'm sure that there are a lot of families that have gone through this panic. I actually expect to hear other stories about this sort of feeling every time I tell it. I have a friend whose 10-year-old son decided, mid-grocery shopping, to head home. He knew the route, he was bored, and he said to himself, fit, I'm going home. His parents spent an hour running around the supermarket, talking to staff, waiting for camera footage. All of it. They get home, and there's their son just sitting on the couch playing video games. I totally respect the fact that that kid is still a living, breathing, loved, part of their life. We weren't anywhere near home, though. We were in a big city, at a resort that certainly has unsavory people, and our, model-looking, kid just disappeared.

Security took my phone number and said they'd call once they got a hold of the video footage. My wife, Ariel, and I went to the second floor. That's where there was access to the pool slash spa, casino, and mall. I was starting to get texts about floors being clear for my board members. My wife chose to look in the pool slash spa side because Aurora loves swimming, and I, with Ariel, took them all mostly because I didn't think she, or any abductor. God forbid, would choose to go through the casino. There's no way the casino would allow a seven-year-old in anyways.

At this point it's been about 45 minutes since she's. disappeared. I looked down this three-quarters-mile tunnel of hell that was the mall and felt nothing but despair. So many people, so much FN space, where T.F was my girl. I was on the second floor with an open view down to the first floor through the middle of the massive tunnel. I could see all sorts of mini-puts, fair games, waterfalls, and whatever else thrills teeny-boppers in the middle lane below. I started with a brisk walk down the right side of the second floor straight through any crowd. I focused on any blonde hair that I saw. I shouted, Aurora, every once in a while. It's amazing how many people look away when you clearly show distress in public places.

I was halfway back on the other side when Hotel Security called to talk about their video stuff. I texted my wife to meet back at the elevator with the head of security. He said that the video showed Aurora standing at pretty much the same spot where I stopped to look down the mall tunnel. A man in a leather jacket approached her and, after a little discussion, they went down the escalator to the first floor of the mall. They'd already contacted mall security, and all exit doors were informed of the issue and they were given Aurora's photo, he apologized but of course we didn't give a shit about procedure at that moment. Mall video surveillance was checking their footage and because it was a separate business from the

hotel, it was going to take some more time. My wife, Ariel and I bolted to the escalator that went down to the first floor. My wife took Ariel with her and started down the left side of the tunnel. I took the right. We alternated yelling Aurora about every 15 seconds. Yeah, people were annoyed but eff them. At this point it was two hours since Aurora disappeared. I think that almost every parent has felt this fear, but fewer experienced the despair and hope. A little later the hope starts to wane and the truly unfortunate eventually see that fade to darkness. NGL I was close to the darkness when I saw the most magnificent sight in the world. My daughter walking towards me while holding an ice cream cone in her right hand and the hand of a person that I can only

describe as Santa Claus with her left hand. Warren was my fellow board member Beverly's husband. He happened to be in the mall bookstore when he noticed Aurora flipping through books in the animal section of the store. He knew that shit was going down and has seen our family pictures on the board's FB page. He sent a picture of Aurora to Bev confirming that she was who we were looking for. Bev had texted the group chat, but I was sick of seeing meaningless updates about this door and that door, so I was only looking at the group when I took breaks.

I hadn't had a break in 15 to 20, so I missed the message. Warren does look like Santa Claus. He's got a long grayish-slash-silver beard, long grayish-slaver hair, and blue, twinkling, eyes. He said that he asked if her name was Aurora, she said, yes. He asked if her mom and dad were here and she said, yes. He then asked where mom and dad were and she said, the hotel. He asked if Mom and Dad knew where she was and she said, They know I went for ice cream.

He then asked, where's your ice cream? And she said, I got distracted by the books. In what I view as a brilliant move, he then said, Want to go for an ice cream and then go back to your parents? She then said, yes. The ice cream shop was on the way back to the hotel and they had stopped to buy it just before I saw them. I'm pretty sure that many parents have gone through what I went through in that moment. The whole Homer Simpson strangling Bart feeling is,

totally real. It takes a really strong parent to stop themselves from the impulse, thank goodness I was up to the task. I held my feelings in, making sure that she didn't see anger or happiness. I simply asked, where did the man with the black leather jacket go? She said, he didn't want to go to see books. I followed with, did he leave you, and she said, no, I left him. Mall video showed them walking hand and hand past the ice cream shop. Aurora didn't notice it mostly because he positioned himself so that she wouldn't see it. She did notice the bookstore though. She stopped and he tried to keep pulling her along. She started screaming and he tried to pick her up, but she bit his arm and scratched at his face. He ended up walking quickly away.

She then went into the bookstore to continue her adventure, like nothing happened. We looked at the iPad once we got settled in the room and there it was. A note from Aurora on the Google search bar saying, I'm going to find the ice cream store and I'll see you and daddy after I've found it. We spent the weekend thanking God for our fortune. Aurora never understood, no matter how much we tried to explain our fear to her. We realize how lucky we are, and I never want to feel those emotions again. So, Reddit, I get it. I'm an overprotective dad that's overly worried about his daughter.

I just hope that you read my story, especially if you don't have kids yet or have young kids. You can take precautions, you can feel that your family is safe, and still end up in a shit show. My wife and I count ourselves as lucky. Hopefully you don't have to go through what we did. We've looked back at what happened and seen it both as a blessing and a curse. We're blessed because Aurora is able to live a relatively normal life. We're cursed because we truly recognize that luck was what saved our family and there are so many that didn't get the same chance. I'm in no mood to write more at the moment.

I'll think about writing before the date tomorrow. Thank you to the people that actually have a heart. Peace out. You know, I've had my fair share of weird and wild moments while traveling. I've flown all over, different countries, different airlines, different time zones, and let me tell you, when you spend that much time stuck in the air with strangers, you start collecting stories like souvenirs. I've sat next to snorers, talkers, nervous flyers, business folks glued to their

phones, people who spill drinks, kids with sticky hands, yeah, the whole package. But out of all those faces and places, one memory really sticks out. One flight, one seatmate, one tiny human who left a huge impression. It was sometime back in 2016, and I had a four-hour flight ahead of me. Nothing too dramatic. Just a standard domestic flight, nothing special. I boarded, sat down near the front, and got comfy. Headphones in my backpack, laptop charged, snacks in my jacket pocket,

I was ready to zone out and knock out some work. I remember not really paying attention to who sat next to me at first. You know how it is, you just kind of go into airplane zombie mode. But eventually, I realized a little girl

had taken the seat beside mine. She looked to be around nine, maybe ten. Petit, ponytail, those sparkly sneakers kids seemed to love. Her parents weren't with her, which felt a little odd at first, until I overheard something about a ticket mix-up. Apparently, her mom and dad were way back in the last few rows, and she ended up here on her own. She didn't seem too bothered by it, though. Anyway, once we were

in the air, I got to work. Opened up my laptop, started fiddling with slides for this big seminar I was preparing. I had charts, bullet points, some fancy transitions, nothing too riveting unless you're deep into corporate strategy, which, let's be honest, most nine-year-olds aren't. About 20 minutes in, I felt this gentle tap on my arm. I looked over, and there she was, bright-eyed and curious. Hello, she said. I smiled, kind of surprised. Hello, what are you doing? Her question caught me off guard, not in a bad way, just one of those moments where your brain goes, wait, what? I glanced at my screen and replied, just working on some stuff. She leaned a little closer, totally unbothered by the idea of personal space.

Yes, but what kind of stuff? I chuckled. Presentations. I'm getting ready for a seminar, she lit up. That's cool. Can I see, now, I don't normally let strangers poke around my work, but something about her made me go, sure, why not? I tilted the screen a bit so she could get a better look. What's that for, she asked, pointing at one of the graphs. What does that word mean, she asked a few seconds later. Why is that one red and the other one blue, and on it went? One question after another.

You'd think I might get annoyed, but honestly, I was having a blast. I love kids, always have. There's something so genuine about their curiosity, like the world is just this massive puzzle they're trying to figure out piece by piece. I welcomed the distraction. After about 15 minutes of this Q&A roller coaster, her mom showed up. She looked tired, frazzled, like she'd been fighting battles all morning.

The moment she saw us talking, she gave her daughter a sharp look and snap. I snapped, sweetie, don't bother the gentleman. That's not polite, and just like that, the girl's smile vanished. Boom, gone. It was like flipping a switch. She looked down, her shoulders hunched, and I swear the light in her eyes dimmed a bit. That hit me. I quickly turned to the mom and said, hey, it's totally fine.

Really? We were just chatting. It's been nice, actually, she gave. gave me this half-apologetic, half-sceptical look. Are you sure? If she's bothering you, I can take her back, I shook my head. No, really. She's been great. No bother at all, the mom nodded, hesitated a bit like she wasn't entirely convinced, then walked off back to her seat. But the damage was done. The girl kind of shrank into herself after that, like she didn't want to get in trouble again. She sat quietly, her fingers twitching a little in her lap. I could tell she wanted to

talk more but wasn't sure if she was allowed to. So, I did what any decent grown-up would do. I minimized the slides on my laptop, pulled up a game of Solitaire, and gave her a mischievous grin. You up for a challenge, her eyes lit up again. What kind of challenge, Solitaire? One-on-one. You versus me, she purses. She purses. worked up, and just like that, she was back. We took turns, strategizing, teasing each other when someone messed up. It turned into a full-on competition. I let her win a couple of rounds, okay, maybe she actually beat me fair and square most of the time. Final score. Four to one, her. She was way too proud of that. After our epic card showdown, we took a break and chatted some more.

This time, it was her turn to ask the big life questions. Where are you from? What do you do? Do you like cookies? Do you have a super fast car? That last one made me laugh out loud. I wish, I told her. My car is more like a sleepy turtle, then it was my turn to ask questions. Nothing too deep, just the basics. Where she lived, what she liked, that sort of thing. Do you live in London? I asked. She shook her head. We're from London, but we live in Stockholm now, going back to London for vacation. Nope. We're going to see a doctor. That made me pause. Oh, I said, you don't have doctors in Stockholm. Daddy says it's easier in London, huh? Easier for what? And then she looked up at me,

and her voice got a little softer. I have cancer, everything stopped. I didn't. I didn't know what to say. I literally didn't have words. You know those moments where time just sort of freezes, and you're sitting there with your mouth half open, trying to think of something, anything, that won't sound completely wrong. That was me. She must have noticed my expression, because she gave a tiny shrug, like it was no big deal. It's okay, she said. Mom and dad get really stressed about it. I ask them stuff, but they don't tell me much. So I looked it up on the computer. I don't really understand most of it.

But I know people die from cancer. Do you think I'm going to die? My heart. Oh man. I reached out and grabbed her hand without even thinking. No, I said firmly. You're not. I promise.

You're going to be okay. She gave me this sweet, soft smile and held my hand tighter. Then she said something that broke me a little inside. It's okay. You don't have to lie. I know I might die soon. I'm not scared. I just wish I had more time. Time for what? I asked. She didn't hesitate. To show Mommy and Daddy how much I love them, that was it for me. I pulled her into a hug, just wrapped my arms around her and held her close. She leaned into me like it was the most natural thing in the world, Like I've been her friend for years, not just some guy she met on a plane.

Her tiny head rested on my shoulder. I looked up, and guess who was standing there again? Her mom. She didn't say a word. She just stood there, watching us. I don't know what was going through her mind. Maybe she saw something in my face, or maybe she finally saw her daughter not looking so alone for a change. Whatever it was, she gave us this long look,

then turned and walked away. From that moment until the wheels touched down, I didn't let go. She stayed right there, curled up against me like I was her safe spot. And honestly, I didn't want the flight to end. When we finally landed and started to disembark, her parents came to collect her. Her dad thanked me, nothing dramatic, just a quiet thank you, that carried more weight than it should have. Her mom smiled at me, this kind of tired, grateful smile that didn't need words. And just like that, she was gone.

Off down the aisle, hand in hand with her parents. I never got her name. She never asked for mine. But that little girl. She taught me more in four hours than I've learned in years. She reminded me how precious time really is. How important it is to be present. to listen, to laugh, to connect, even if it's just for a little while, even if it's 30,000 feet in the air,

even if you're just strangers, that flight changed me. Me and Mr. Smith, a story I never thought I'd tell, you ever look back on something and think, how the hell did I end up here? Yeah, that's me. I'm Anna. 22 now, but back in 2022, I was 20, still in school, and caught up in a situation that spiraled so far out of control, I couldn't even see where the ground was anymore. So let's rewind a bit. Back then, I had this science class, nothing out of the ordinary, except the teacher, Mr. Smith. That man was, something else.

Early 40s, but seriously, he did not look it. If someone told me he was 32, I'd believe them. clean cut, kind of rugged, salt and pepper beard, deep voice. The kind of guy who makes you forget you're supposed to be learning about cell mitosis. My friends and I used to joke about it all the time. Mr. Smith is hot, we'd say between giggles in the hallway or while scrolling through TikTok during study hall. We never meant anything by it, it was just dumb fun.

I never in a million years thought he'd notice me. Like, really notice me. But he did. At first, it was just small stuff. Catching him looking my way during class a bit too often. Giving me extra attention when I asked questions, more than what was normal. My friends noticed too. He's totally into you, one of them said, laughing.

I brushed it off. Teachers weren't supposed to act like that. I figured I was imagining things. Turns out, I wasn't. About three months into the semester, I got sick, really sick, and missed a few important labs. So I had to come in after school to make them up. It was a gray, chilly afternoon when I walked into his classroom around 4 p.m. The place was quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting schools always have, and completely empty except for him.

I said, hey, sat down, and got to work. He was at his desk, typing on his laptop, looking all serious. I figured he'd leave me alone. But no. About 45 minutes in, he walked over, pulled up a chair right next to mine, and said something that sent a chill down my spine.

You know, he said slowly, I've been hearing some interesting rumors lately. I froze. Completely. My heart started hammering. Was he talking about me? About the jokes. I played dumb, of course.

What rumors? He smiled, this weird, crooked kind of smile, and stood up, walking back to his desk like he hadn't just dropped a grenade in the middle of the room. But I couldn't concentrate. My hands were shaking. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, wait, what rumors? He didn't even look at me as he said it. I'm talking about you and me, no hesitation. No embarrassment.

Just straight up, like it was the most. normal thing in the world. I was stunned. I looked back at my paper, pretending to write, but my mind was spinning. And then he came back. Sat beside me again and said, you can trust me. I won't tell anyone, he leaned in. I should have stopped him. I really should have. But I didn't. He kissed me. Softly at first, then deeper. I didn't move at first, but when I did. I didn't move at first, but when I did. I kissed him back. I don't even know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was because deep down, I wanted it. My whole body felt like it had gone numb. I told him I needed to finish my work. He nodded, smiled, went back to his desk. I tried to focus, honest, I did,

but it was impossible. Every time I looked up, I saw him looking at me. When I finally finished, I walked over to give him the paper, asked when I'd get my grade. He stood up and said, tonight, I'll grade it, then he grabbed me again. No warning. Pulled me close, lifted me onto the desk, and kissed me hard. I didn't resist. I couldn't.

My brain wasn't even functioning at that point. Things escalated. Fast. He put my hand on him, and I, went along with it. Took off his pants. He took off mine. The rest, well, you can fill in the blanks. Afterwards, I felt weird.

Not regret, exactly. Just, awkward. Like we'd crossed into a place we couldn't come back from. He got dressed, I got dressed, and I told him I was heading home. He winked at me and said, can't wait to see how you did on your test. I walked out of that classroom, heart pounding, and ran to my car. Diled my best friend but hung up before it rang. Can I even tell her this? Eventually, I did. She listened, silent at first, then said, girl, he's like, twice your age. And our teacher, I know, I said. But instead of judging me,

she told me she had my back. I won't tell a soul, she promised. That girl's a real one. Later that night, just when I was settling in to order takeout and watched the office, the doorbell rang. I checked my phone, Mr. Smith. He was standing there with a box of food. I almost didn't open it, but all the lights were on.

No hiding. I let him in. We ate, sat on the couch, watched a movie. It felt normal. Too normal. He even joked about how bad the movie was. And for a moment, I forgot this man was my teacher. He was just, a guy. A charming, attentive, ridiculously attractive guy. That night changed everything. From that point on, we started seeing each other. Secretly, of course. We'd meet off campus, go for long drives, check into little roadside motels.

One time, we drove three hours just to have dinner in a place where no one would recognize us. It was exciting. Dangerous. Romantic, even. We made a whole routine out of it. After school walks, private nights at my place, he even parked in my garage to keep his car out of sight. He'd leave early in the mornings before anyone could see. I'd show up to class like nothing had happened.

happened, pretending not to notice the man I'd slept with less than 12 hours earlier. For a while, it was perfect. Like a steamy little secret no one could ruin. Until everything blew up in my face. It started like a regular day. I showed up to school feeling good, almost giddy. But people were acting off, giving me weird looks, whispering behind my back. my close friend seemed distant. My best friend texted me saying, can we talk after lunch? I knew

something was wrong. She met me near the gym, sat me down, and set it straight, there are pictures going around. Of you and Mr. Smith, my stomach dropped. She pulled out her phone and showed me. Photos of us walking. Kissing. His car leaving my garage. I couldn't breathe. I started sobbing. I started sobbing. right there on the gym floor. I love him, I told her. We're not just messing around. She hugged me and whispered, You're going to be okay.

Then the announcement came over the loudspeaker. My name. The principal's office. That walk through the halls was the longest walk of my life. Every student stared at me like I was a criminal. When I got to the office, Mr. Smith was already there, sitting stiff as a statue. The head of the school was next to him, red-faced and furious.

They didn't waste time. The principal shoved the photos in front of me. Are these real? I looked at Mr. Smith. He didn't meet my gaze. Just lowered his head like a man defeated. I nodded. They're real. We're in love.

The principal didn't blink. Do you know this is illegal? I know, I said. But it's real. He picked up the phone. I heard him say, we need officers at the school. We have a student-teacher situation. Mr. Smith lost it.

Why would you call the cops? I'm following protocol, the principal snapped. I'm not standing behind either one of you. The next 30 minutes were a blur. I called my mom, told her something bad had happened and to bring a lawyer. She got there fast, demanding answers. When she heard what happened, she actually did. defended us. Screamed at the principle that we were adults, and it was our business. Didn't matter.

The police came, handcuffed Mr. Smith, and took him away. I had to give a full statement, then they let me go home. My mom was driving, talking a mile a minute, but I couldn't hear her. My ears were ringing. I got home, locked myself in the bathroom. That's when I noticed something strange, spotting. I called out to my mom, told her what I saw. She asked if we'd use protection. No, I said. I'm on the pill, she looked at me, dead serious. The pill's not foolproof, I freaked. Ran out the door, drove to Target, bought three pregnancy tests. Took them all. All three said the same thing. Pregnant. To be continued. I apologize. if this is extremely sporadic or all over the place.

This happened to me like an hour ago and I'm still pretty torn up about it. About a month and half ago I, male, told my best friend, female, that I liked her. She said that she also liked me but wanted to work on herself before getting into a relationship because she felt like I deserved better than how she was at that moment. I told her that I was fine with waiting and she could take as much time as she needed. For the next month every day I made she to tell her how much I liked her and how much I cared about her. Every day I would either tell her I liked her, send her some type of meme telling her I liked her, or post on my story telling her I liked her. Every time she would respond positively to it, tell me she liked me too, etc.

Whenever I date somebody I like to give 110%, but I also get worried that I'm not doing a good job or that I'm doing something wrong so every once in a while I'd ask her if she still liked me. Every single time she said yes. Today we were on the phone and she mentioned to me that two of her ex-boyfriends got into a fight and at first I didn't think much of it. For context, one of them she dated for two years which I had known about. Let's call him D. D didn't treat her well and constantly cheated on her, ignored her, or put zero effort into the relationship. They had broken up about a month or two before I told her that I liked her. The other guy who will call S, I hadn't known about. She mentioned that she and S dated for about a week and that they had broken up a day before the fight. That immediate set off alarms in my head.

I then asked when the fight was and she said it was last Saturday. I then asked her, so you guys were dating last week, and she said yes. At that point I was pretty much on the verge of a mental breakdown but managed to keep myself together for the duration of the call. I asked her why they broke up and she said she thought he was cheating on her, ironic, isn't it? And that she took a while to text him back and that she'd only be clingy and respond quickly if she knew they were serious about her and had zero suspicions of infidelity, it's tragically ironic in a way. After we got off the phone I called one of my friends and completely broke down and started bawling my eyes out. I'm in this weird mix between sadness, anger, and emptiness. She was one of the only people I trusted and the one I cared most about and then she betrayed me like this.

It hurts a lot. I suppose I was just writing this to vent, but I'm still reeling from the experience. I don't exactly expect this to reach anyone, but I figured writing out my feelings might help me process this a bit better. Update, I will say I did not expect this to get that much attention but thanks to everyone who decided to read my story and graced me with a reply. Whether you were giving support, criticism, or roasting me I'd like to thank you. It did help cheer me up. But on to the update.

I texted her and asked her if she still liked me to which she said yes. Then I asked why she dated somebody else even though she liked me and she said that she didn't really care about him and that she didn't think it was that big of a deal. She then said that she told me that she told me she was dating slash talking to other people. I'm not going to put every single message we've had here for the past month, so you're just going to have to take my word for it when I say that she didn't even hint at the fact that she'd be interested in other people. Then when I said that she left me on read. For a week. She then told me she had a lot of stuff going on and she was kind of avoiding it, but she would answer my questions.

I then asked her why she thought it was okay to date someone else when she hadn't said anything about it before. She then said that she thought I knew and that she had told me that I could if I wanted to. Once again I'd like to mention she didn't say anything remotely close to that. Then I asked why she would date someone else while she liked me and then she left me on Reed for another two weeks. She then said that she had to take some time to think about why she did what she did. She said there was no good excuse no matter what she thought or the circumstances. She then said that she was a shitty person and that shitty people deserve other shitty people and she did it because she thought she didn't deserve me.

She felt like she didn't deserve the love I was giving her and that she'd never deserve me and she said that she turned out to be right. Frankly, this response made me more upset than if she had just said I was too ugly or dumb for her. Assuming she was telling the truth if she was really feeling this way, why didn't she say anything? I've always been able to talk to her about anything and she's always been able to talk to me about anything so why couldn't she just communicate with me? I just can't help but be annoyed at the idea. I haven't replied yet and I'm just taking some time to think of a response that isn't just me responding with anger.

Forgiving her is off the table but I want to say something just for closure. When I was just a little kid, my dad was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and things went downhill fast. It wasn't just mild, he spiraled into some seriously dark paranoia. He became convinced the FBI was tracking him, watching him, and coming for him. It got so intense he started abusing nine months. 1-1 calls, like full-on panicking and ringing them up for imaginary threats. According to what my mom told me, his grip on reality kept slipping further away, and he started hanging out with some really questionable people, folks dealing with their

own mental health issues, heavy drinkers, drug addicts, even prostitutes and people without homes. It was a chaotic crowd. One day, he didn't come home from work. This was back before everyone had a smartphone glued to their hip. My mom freaked out and started calling around. She phoned his job first, they said he left work on time, everything seemed normal. Then she tried our relatives, his old friends from before the illness took hold, nothing.

Nobody had seen him, nobody had heard from him. When he still hadn't shown up by bedtime, she called the police. She explained the situation, he was gone, had taken nothing but his wallet and car, and just vanished. The cops didn't jump on it right away, but after a bit of convincing, they finally agreed to file a missing person's report. Two weeks passed. That's when they found his car, abandoned outside a random shopping center in New Jersey, 200 miles from our home in Maryland. After that? Nothing. No activity on his credit cards, no calls, no letters, no word from him to any family or friends. The detective on the case even suspected foul play, but there wasn't much to go on. Years passed.

Fifteen of them, to be exact. I was in college by then, about six hours from home, sharing a rental off-campus with a few buddies. One regular day, while I was in class, two random middle-aged guys knocked on our front door. My roommate answered. They looked rough, like they hadn't slept in a while, and in this weirdly polite person, tone, they asked for me by my full name. Said they were friends of my dads and needed to talk to me. At first, my roommate thought they were just some eccentric old friends. He asked normal stuff, who they were, if they wanted to leave a message, how I could contact them. But their

answers were cagey, dodgy even. Like they were trying hard not to say too much. Instead, they kept asking questions about me, where I was at that moment, could they get my phone number? was the car in the driveway with Marilyn Plates mine. That's when the alarm bell started going off for my roommate. He told them he was calling the police and slammed the door in their faces. The two men bolted. We got in touch with the detective still managing my dad's case, and a sketch artist tried to draw up a likeness of the two guys based on my roommate's description.

No one knew who they were. They vanished just as quickly as they showed up. That was eight years ago. It's now been 23 years since my dad disappeared. No answers. Just endless questions. But that wasn't the only strange story tied to my dad's mysterious vanishing act. There's more, a second story that starts in East Texas around 32 years ago.

Back then, my parents had split when I was 16. My brothers and I stayed with mom, and dad came around only now and then. He was a gambler, one of the first. many reasons they divorced. He usually disappeared when he was broke but would show up out of the blue after a lucky win. He'd buy us gifts, take us out, then vanish again. He told us he worked as a shuttle driver for a local hotel, but there was always more to his stories. He said it was just a front and that he actually worked for organized crime. According to him, the hotel was mob-owned and his real job was to pick up fugitives, people on the run, and bring them back to hide

out. My dad was full of wild stories. He loved exaggerating, sometimes just straight up lying. So we didn't take any of it seriously. Until he vanished. It was 1988. I was 22 and still living at home while finishing college. I worked as a nighttime disc jockey at a local radio station, 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. My middle brother, who was 19, had his own apartment with a friend and worked at Dairy Queen. Our youngest brother was only nine and lived with mom. One day, the 19-year-old called in a panic. He'd been at work when two guys came in and started asking him if he'd seen our dad recently. He told them the truth, nope, hadn't heard from him in months.

Totally normal. But he said the men didn't give their names or say who they were. They just left once they got his answer. Then they came back. This time with badges. Said they were FBI agents and started grilling him hard. They demanded to know where our dad was. My brother kept telling them the same thing, he had no clue.

Said last he heard, our dad was working at that hotel. Understandably shaken, my brother called my mom and me again. My mom freaked out, called the hotel. The guy she talked to said our dad had disappeared weeks earlier and no one knew where he'd gone. Things got even weirder. My brother's roommate came home and found their apartment ransacked, sliding door wide open, stuff moved around, but weirdly nothing obvious missing. Except when my brother checked his room, he found a few things gone,

a baby photo of his son, a teddy bear he'd bought the kid, and a dress book. They weren't robbing the place. They were sending a message. Now we were all spiraling, paranoid, scared, furious. We drove to the FBI office and demanded answers. My brother swore up and down he didn't know where our dad was. But the FBI denied everything. They said they weren't investigating him, no one had contacted my brother, and they had no agents involved.

When mom brought up dad's supposed ties to organized crime, they gave the class line, they could neither confirm nor deny. She called the hotel again, told the manager about the harassment, and asked directly if our dad had been working with any criminal group. The guy just laughed and said, there's no such thing as the mafia. While we were all trying to figure out what the hell was happening, I remembered something creepy that happened to me about two or three weeks before. Since I worked overnights, I stayed up late even on my nights off. One night I went to hang out with my buddy at the cable TV company where he worked as a systems guy. Just chilling and talking, around 3.30 a.m. I left and got in my car. As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot,

a car jumped behind me, fast, tailgating me hard with its high beams on. It freaked me out. I couldn't see inside, couldn't tell who was driving, how many people were in there, nothing. I changed lanes. They followed. They followed. I changed again. Still behind me. I made a left turn, and they turned two. The light turned green, and I took off, trying to shake them. They stuck to me like glue. I dipped into a nearby neighborhood, weaving through streets, hoping to lose them. Still behind me. Finally, I managed to cross a big intersection and pulled into a 7-Eleven, jumped out of the car, and ran inside yelling at the clerk that I was was being followed. I could see the other car drive passed through the lot, tan four-door

sedan, two guys inside. They didn't stop. Just drove off. The clerk barely reacted. Thought I was overreacting, probably just local teens messing around. But I knew what I felt, real fear. I didn't go home that night. I didn't want them knowing where I lived. I drove straight to work, knowing my friend Paula would be on air and I could feel safe there. This whole thing, all these years later, still messes with my head. My dad might have been a liar, or maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he got in over his head. Maybe he disappeared on purpose. Or maybe he didn't have a choice. All I know is, people came looking for him, and when they couldn't find him, they came looking for us.

And whatever it was they wanted, it wasn't just answers. To be continued. I was too shaken up to go back to my apartment, so instead, I drove over to my workplace. I knew my friend Paula was the DJ on air that night, and I figured dropping by might help distract me. Maybe we'd even make a little fun segment out of the whole creepy ordeal. I told her everything, start to finish,

and hung out with her in the booth for about two hours. She listened, tried to calm me down, and said it was probably just some prank. Nothing serious. Her calm helped settle my nerves a bit. After two hours had passed, I decided it was time to head home. The first incident seemed like a distant weird moment by then. But as I was pulling onto my street, heading toward my apartment building, my heart stopped. That same damn car, the one from earlier, was just now pulling out of my part.

parking lot. As they passed me, they flashed their high beams. It had to be them. Who else would do that? Panic washed over me. I bolted into my apartment and called Paula right away to tell her what just happened. She freaked out too. They were waiting for you. At your place. You need to call the cops, now, she said. And she was right. What the hell? Why would they wait? Why would they wait? You waited my apartment for two whole hours. How did they even know where I lived? And then to just flash their lights and leave. None of it made any damn sense.

Looking back now, remembering that night and thinking about the FBI visit to my brother, and the break-in at his apartment, it all seemed like pieces of a bigger picture. I hadn't put it together before, but now things started to click. The car I was driving that night had actually belonged to my dad. He'd given it to me about two months earlier when he bought himself a new one. So maybe, just maybe, these people had been looking for him, not me. And when they saw me, realized I wasn't him, they left. But if that's true, then who the hell were they?

And why were they messing with us? And more importantly, where the hell was my dad? My mom, my brother, and I decided to go to the police and file a missing person's report. We ended up talking to a detective, really nice guy, who seemed genuinely interested in helping. About five days later, he gave us a call. According to the detective, my dad was alive. Apparently, he had disappeared because he owed more than $50,000 in gambling debts. The detective told us that my dad had been involved with some sketchy people, unsavory characters, he called them.

Not exactly the mob, but still the kind of the kind of the guy. of people you don't want to mess with. As far as the detective knew, my dad wasn't smuggling fugitives or anything that extreme, but he was definitely hiding out. The detective said he was likely somewhere in Nevada and that he had even spoken with him on the phone. My dad was okay, but he wasn't coming home anytime soon. We asked the detective about the men who had been bothering my brother and me. Who were they? Why pretend to be FBI agents? The detective said that kind of stuff isn't unheard of, debt collectors or bounty hunters sometimes impersonate law enforcement to scare people or get information. My brother asked how they managed to get into his apartment.

The detective shrugged and said a sliding glass door isn't hard to open if you know what you're doing. Apparently, they had taken my brother's address book, hoping to find some link to my dad. They also took a teddy bear and some photos to mess with him emotionally, which clearly worked. I asked why my brother was targeted, but not my mom or me. That's when the detective explained something that stunned us. When my dad had applied for a job at a hotel recently, he had listed my brother as a reference. He even put down my brother's address and phone number as his own. So, when these fake agents were trying to track him down, they probably thought my brother was super close to him, maybe even in contact.

Eventually, my dad did show up again. Just waltzed back into town and acted like nothing had happened. We never talked about it. He never offered an explanation, and we never pushed. I assume he paid off his debt somehow. Maybe borrowed money. Maybe made a deal. Who knows?

That's just how it ended. That's my story. Now, jump forward to the summer of 2006. This is a whole different mystery, but one that hits. a lot closer to home in a different way. Two groups of tourists decided to take the now-closed hiking trail at Mount Robson in British Columbia. What happened next became one of the weirdest, most baffling missing persons cases in Canadian history. My mom was one of the hikers. Naturally, I've spent years trying to figure out exactly what happened. The official investigation

ended ages ago, but I kept digging. I pieced together accounts from eyewitnesses, police reports, and weather data. Here's what I found out. That day started off cooler than normal, but not dangerously so. The tour guides split everyone into two groups, group A was for faster hikers, and group B was the slower-paced group. My mom was in group A, she loved hiking and was in great shape. There was even this running joke among the guides, whoever reached the summit last had to wear these hideous neon green socks on the next hike. But that person also got to lead group a next time, so there was some incentive to take the loss with pride. Group A was expected to reach the summit by 11 a.m., and Group B by noon.

Each group had walkie-talkies for safety. The trail itself was supposed to be relatively safe, with scenic deters designed to avoid risky spots. There was only one way up and one way down. Group A took off quickly, leaving Group B in their dust. About two-thirds of the way up, my mom slipped on a mossy rock and twisted her ankle. Nothing broken, but it was bad enough that she couldn't keep hiking with the fast group. One of the guides used a walkie-talkie to contact Group B, who were carrying the first aid kit. Group B was about 30 minutes behind at that point.

Group A, not wanting to lose their fastest group status, decided to keep going without her. They left my mom and one guide behind with a group. spare Wauke-Tocky. By then, the temperature had warmed up nicely, so my mom and the guy just waited calmly for Group B to catch up. For the next half hour, everyone stayed in touch via Wauke-Tockey. No issues. Group B eventually reached them, patched up my mom, and kept going. They called ahead to Group A to check on their progress. Group A said they were almost at the summit. My mom could have turned back, but she didn't. She decided to go the rest of the way with the slower group.

She wanted to see the summit. That choice changed everything. At around 10.55 a.m., something weird happened. Based on meteorological records, there was a sudden, massive spike in temperature and atmospheric pressure. A 15 degrees Celsius jump, lasting between 3 to 5 minutes. Environment Canada later called it a glitch, but dozens of people in the surrounding area reported feeling a weird wave of heat at that exact time. Then came the rumble. A deep, low-frequency sound, like thunder, but steadier. No clouds. No airplanes. No storms. Group B pushed forward with my mom.

When they reached the summit, they were alone. Group A's footprints went all the way up, but that was it. No prints going back down. No bodies. No signs of anyone going over the edge. Just, nothing. Their walkie-talkie must have died, and the spare was with my mom's guide, so there was no way to check in. Investigators assumed they never made it to the summit, and that the tracks found were just from Group B. But I don't buy that. Fifteen people vanished that day.

Fifteen. Without a trace. I've asked my mom countless times to tell me her side. anything she remembers. Any little detail. But she won't. She either changes the subject or just stares off into space until I stop asking. That's not like her at all. There's only one other time I've seen her react that way, when the feet started washing up. In 2007, human feet, mostly left ones, started showing up on beaches in British Columbia. Nobody knows where they came from. Still happening, even today.

You can Google it. When my mom first heard about it, she went totally silent. Dead quiet. Like a switch flipped. You'd never think those severed feet would be connected to Mount Robson. It's way inland, right near Alberta. Nowhere near the coast. But there's one thing that always stuck with me.

A lot of those feet were found wearing high-end hiking boots. Some of them had neon green socks. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end, I'm going to be opening up about a very troubling situation that happened to me in 2023-2024. I listed this post as triggering content, because I will be talking about how this situation has affected me in a multitude of ways, positively and negatively. I don't want to be a stinky internet troll fishing for support, I just need someone to hear this,

because scenarios such as these aren't unordinary, and I want to be the voice to guide others. to speak out on events such as the one I'm about to vent about. Anyway, with all of that out of the way, let's begin. It was September 2023. I had just started my junior year of high school, 11th grade. My sophomore year, 10th grade, I had been hospitalized twice for self-harm, SI, and major depression, MDD, once in March for about nine days and again two months later in May for about 1.5 to two weeks.

I was incredibly excited, as this was the year where I began to pursue my dreams of acting. I'm a major theater kid slash singer slash screenwriter slash other things in said area. I had participated in both of my annual school musicals previously. Freshman year, ninth grade, was the Wizard of Oz, where I played the coroner of Munchkinland and sophomore year was Curtains, where I played Aaron Fox. So, expectedly, I was very much excited for the next musical and what it could be. However, things didn't pan out quite well. There was this one girl, who was a senior, 12th grade, incredibly talented.

smart, popular, and one of the most recognizable faces in the music-slash-drama department. We'll call her zero. Being a senior, however, got in her head a bit much. Naturally, with the weight of applying to colleges, iseptually specific programs, was already a stress-bearing task, but with the expectations she had of herself and the expectations she assumed everyone else had of her, she became very snappy and irritable. I, wanting to be the hero, and just not have her be a problem to everyone, wanting to diffuse the situation, so I pander to her by giving her hugs, making sure she was okay as much as I could.

Now, to the bread and butter. October 6, 2023. I get called down to one of the AP's, assistant principals, office. He says to me, do you know why you're down here? Clearly I don't, but I go ahead and tell him, no, he follows up by saying the most outlandish shit you could ever hear. We got a report from Zero that you've been engaging in inappropriate actions with her, making her uncomfortable, Raina Bell.

I was dumbfounded and confused out of my mind. I essentially told him I had given her hugs, but nothing of explicit nature. He clarifies to me that this needed to be further investigated, and that I would be suspended until further investigation was done. Little did I know, until later, that the school did absolutely no investigation whatsoever. He then proceeds to bring me to the detention slash ISS, in-school suspension, room, where I waited until my father picked me up. The way my school works is that you can be suspended up to five days by the school itself, but the superintendent, the head of the school

district, can appoint a higher punishment, if deemed fit, in a practice called a superintendent's hearing. So I was suspended for five days, and in that span, we searched for a lawyer, despite my father being an amazing one, personal bias wouldn't allow him to be my representative. The suspension lasted two weeks until we were able to pinpoint a date for the hearing, which we scheduled for October 20th, 2023. We carefully bided our time until then. Once it came time, we went to the district office, and while stuff was happening, I idly sat in a chair watching everyone talk and walk about. Many people showed up, the superintendent, of course, the high school principal, the AP who initially suspended me, the high school choir teacher slash musical assistant

director who previously taught at the middle school before moving up to the high school my sophomore year, who plays a critical role in this tall tale, the high school musical director, as well as guidance counselors and other support staff. This was a big deal, as a lot of this dependent upon decisions from not just the school and superintendent, but from everyone else who was there. Finally, a consensus was reached. Me and my parents were approached by some shit lawyer for the school who looks like DJ calls for some reason, and gave us the news.

I would be suspended for an additional two weeks and removed from all music and drama activities that involved zero in any capacity. Now, this was a consent to discipline, which essentially meant that we had to consent to this punishment or move to further trial. Our lawyer, who was God awful, didn't know what to do, so my parents accepted the punishment. I had basically no say in the decision at all. Now, there was a shred of hope for me, as I could still potentially participate in the annual musical. So I kept my bearings and held strong as I waited for a consensus on that. The consensus was a no. Funny enough, everyone had said yes, except for the one person who I trusted the most to say yes,

lo and behold, the cowardice of the choir teacher. His almost exact words were, I'm the assistant director of the mushal and choral director, not a babysitter. I'm not going to babysit him. For what reason he had to make such a claim? None. The decision needed to be unanimous, but as you just read, it wasn't, and I lost the one thing that could have held me together.

I did still have an acting class. My school offers a drama one class titled Music, Acting, and Stage Presence, Two Drama Two Class, simply just Drama 2 and Drama Production and the Drama 3 class, Drama 3. I wasn't permitted to take Drama 1, as I already took it and honestly I also saw no purpose in taking it. I couldn't do Drama 3, because Zero was in it, and I was forcibly transferred to the second Drama 2 class. Everything else, choir, the a cappella group I was involved with as well, the musical, competition trips, basically anything to do with zero I couldn't do. This absolutely broke me.

I found out my junior year musical was Greece, a musical I adore to the core, well, not anymore, but you get the idea, from my friends on a Discord call. I was really happy for them, hearing how excited they were to get into it full swing. Then comes the night of October 22nd, 2023, it was like 3 a.m. So really it was October 23rd, 23, but really early in the AM land. My friends also hosted Discord server, meant for everyone currently involved with this friend group and alumni who were involved. There was a specific channel that was titled Emotional Support Dash Loudly Crying Face, dig where the emoji was, but it was in the title, LOL, where I vented this whole situation to the friend group.

To sum it up roughly, I basically said that I'm in distraught from this, I wanted to commit suicide, I wanted to hurt people, I never specified anyone outside of Zero and my choir teacher, and I was furious with the school system and the justice they dealt me, and I said that I wanted to riot, to burn the school to ashes. Note, I am 16 years old at this time and have no access or ability to do these things at all, besides from attempting. In the morning, I'm woken up around 9 a.m. frantically by my mother, who's supposed to be at work, so I was freaking out before she said anything.

She said the other AP and the police are outside. I stepped outside to speak with them, alongside my panicked mother. They spewed straight shit for a few minutes, and my mom recorded the entire confrontation. The AP said that I would need to be readmitted to the hospital slash psych ward for another evaluation and detention. The police, who weren't really police, but school officers, SROs, tried consoling me and asking if I was okay. Thank God my mom told me not to say anything or I would have cursed the living fuck out of all of them. They ended up leaving, and I went back inside. My poor mother had broken down, bawling, saying, why would you put this in writing?

You should have just talked to someone, anyone. She was entirely right, but I was in a state of depression and grievance from my substantial loss. I'm going to speed the rest of this along, as it doesn't pertain to zero as much anymore. Once out of the hospital, I was still under suspension until this discord message was dealt with accordingly. I received heavy backlash for my wrongdoing, and was called a freak, creep, and pedophile by not just randoms, but the same friends who I vented to for support. In fact, the Discord server was private, so one of them showed a teacher this message to spark

the whole thing, I still don't know who did it to this day. Eventually, I was set up with another superintendent's hearing to overturn the decision. After completely smothering the school's opposition, the hearing officer decided to just side with and just went with what the superintendent was pushing for, a suspension for the rest of the school year. At this point, I was already suspended and not in school since the beginning of October, so I would be out of school for the majority of the year as a whole. We pursued further action by trying to appeal the decision in federal court, but they denied the TRO, temporary restraining order, which would have allowed me back in school until the court ruled a more

constructive decision on the matter. However, the judges know, and the lack of reason to continue to pursue legal action lead to the decision between my dad and our new lawyer, who we hired for the second hearing, that we would discontinue the case. So, to sum up, I was under a basically full year suspension during one of the most critical years of my life. The aftermath of all of this. I lost all of my friends. I returned to school for my senior year just to be harassed continuously for this. Not even just by students, but by teachers as well. More subtly, but still a parent. I struggled with trust issues and social anxiety in the past, mainly due to COVID and isolation during my middle school years, where I was just starting to bloom into a socially strong person.

Now both of those were accruing negatively. I turned back to smoking weed again, a big problem I had since May 22, getting immensely high every single day. If I wasn't high, I was either asleep or unable to consume weed in the moment. I fell back on old habits and behaviors that disgusted me, such as infrequently showering, usually showering only once or twice a week, barely leaving my room or even getting out of bed, and my eating was horribly dysregulated to the point where I'd either eat so much I threw up where I didn't even eat a speck of food the entire day. I was sour, rotten, and depressed,

both in my personality and my habits. I was on two different kinds of medication, one for mood regulation and one for impulsivity control. The combination of these pills made me so cold and threw off my body temperature many times. I basically became immobile from time to time. I was a shell of who I was. This was, to me, hell come true. But, I don't want to end this abruptly or just complained that I suffered. I'm here to tell you that I'm currently doing much better for myself. I'm finally out of that school and will be starting in the district there my mom works and has a lot of pull. It'll be for one semester to finish off my high school education. I just met most of my teachers, and they're phenomenal. I'm detoxing from weed, two days

clean as of now, I know it's not a lot, but I'll get there, trust loudly crying face. I was enrolled at the local theater company where my sister dances. She is very well respected and very well trained by the amazing staff that worked to put on the most amazing shows. I couldn't be happier in the position I'm in right now. So, the moral of the story is this, shit gets bad, and some people are just degenerate low lives who do nothing but bring people down. Don't let anyone bring you down, and especially don't be the one to bring others down. You have so much value, and it's only shown even more by your resilience through a hair. a narrowing journey like this.

I want to offer everyone who sees this my solace and respect, because there's no one stronger than someone who's suffered and rebounded. I have so many people to thank and hate, for the events that have transpired over the past 1.5 years. To the people who know who I am behind the Internet façade, recognizing this scenario, I have but a few words. If you guided me, may you be blessed eternally and have endless prosperity and serenity. If you antagonized me, fuck you.

And finally, to everyone out of my own life. to everyone out there who may see this and relate, to those who've suffered the same way I've suffered, you aren't alone. If you're in the cusp of it, make sure that you don't lose who you are in the process. If you would like to have at least one person to talk to about a case similar to this, add me on Discord, Chaos Rifter, and I'll offer you as much solace, comfort and support as I possibly can. I'll be more active there, but if you don't have Discord, just shoot me a message on Reddit. You aren't alone, and I sure as hell won't let you go unnoticed. God bless you. You all, I need sleep. It's almost 6 a.m. and I've been writing this for the past hour or so

recounting everything, who is at the door? Clausa's voice came at the worst time, Norman, who is in there with you? She can never let things go. I was holding my pregnant sister back. I was keeping her outside in the hall. There was only a wall between my pregnant sister and a man with multiple personalities who talks to people that aren't there. Should I take her coat? My ears shook as the wind carried these raspy words to them. It was another sleepless night. Another day woken up by the dog next door, the sun coming through the blinds, and my internal clock telling me it's time.

Like always I had nothing to look forward to besides a room full of uneager kids ready to fall asleep to another one of my lectures. But there was something. Tomorrow my sister will be coming to stay. Maybe seeing her would brighten my spirits. My gray hair fell forward into the sink as I spit. I watched the blood that came with it washed down the drain. I was 20 minutes out.

The hall was as dim as ever. I stopped taking the stairs. The elevator was quicker. Everything was fuzzy but started to come and clear as the coffee took over. The light started to flicker as the elevator passed each floor. Today had a strange vibe to it. Normal, just strange. I drove as fast as I could to work.

I made sure to dodge the looks of my co-workers who were always early. I set my things down at my desk and down my coffee as a knock hit my door. I pulled off my coat as I made my way to the door. Oh, Mr. Octave, you are here, I just had some questions about yesterday's lecture. It was only Stafin. Always eager she was. Can't this wait for Q&A? She could hear the tiredness in my voice. Okay, I'll have lots of questions today, she said walking off. I went back to my desk putting my feet up on it. I could have been a surgeon, but instead I answer questions from med students. I opened a drawer showing an almost empty bottle of whiskey before closing it shut.

It's not all bad. I have tenure. I pulled some paperwork onto my desk only for a knock to hit the door again. I coughed into my hand as I pulled myself up. As I reached for the door I stopped and grabbed the knob with my other hand. To my surprise no one was there. The hall seemed empty and yet somewhat eerie. I left the door open and just sat back down.

It didn't take long for the room to fill up. Most were sitting but some were standing in the back. I pulled my hair back behind my ears as I addressed the important topics of the day. I sunk into the flow of a normal day as always. The lights were as bright as normal, but today they seemed brighter. I could feel eyes on me even though they always were. This felt different. I felt uneasy.

I couldn't help but avoid I contact with students for the fear that one might look at me with a menacing glare. It felt like a murder was watching me. It's not easy to explain. I felt like I was going crazy. I just shook it off and looked every student in the eyes as I spoke. Except one of them wasn't a student. In the back behind everyone against the wall wasn't a student. How do I know?

He was big muscular even dressed in a slightly tattered suit and to top it off I knew him. He didn't move the whole class, he just stood there and when it was over I packed up my things and exited the class only for him to follow. You really know your stuff, he said, catching my pace. I gritted my teeth at his words. What do you want, money? He laughed. A sound I have not heard in a long time. So you do remember me? He was as cheerful as ever. How long has it been Jack? I asked as we walked outside. Well, high school was a long time ago. He held me out a cigarette as he lit himself one. I eyed it closely. I quit that shit a long time ago, I said, pushing it away. Before he could speak again, I cut him off. So what do you want?

To catch up. He stopped by a big tree in the courtyard making me stop. I wish it were that simple. His voice dropped into a somber tone, and he looked at me with cold dead eyes. You know you look good Norman. I sighed at his words. You look old Jack. What is this all about? He did look old. He seemed to be in better shape than me but he just aged poorly. His hair looked like it was falling out too. I'm in a bit of a bind here, Norman. It has nothing to do with money. Do you remember where I went after high school?

The air went dead. Military right. I asked, scratching my head. I couldn't think of anyone else but you to help me with this. I have a friend that could use your help. Jack had this defeated look on his face. Do you have a second to meet someone? I guess it wouldn't hurt.

I'm not a psychologist, I said, throwing my hair back. Just talk to him and you'll see what I mean. I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he definitely piqued my interest. He led me out to the parking lot before handing me a folded-up paper. We will be in town at this hotel. He seemed to be in a hurry. He was driving what looked to be a rental car. I was hungry and decided to head home, but the conversation I just had stuck with me.

I had one hand on a fast food burger while my other was on the wheel. I didn't understand what help I could give. Jack brought up his past, but I couldn't figure out why that was important. I threw my keys onto the table as I sat down with a beer. I thought of what Jack was saying. I know it's been years, but I definitely remember Jack being a cheerful free spirit. I didn't even finish my beer. I pulled my coat back on and took off.

I had to know the full story. I tried to access what memory. I had as I drove to the hotel. There wasn't much there. I remembered Jack just not any specific times. Come to think of it, high school doesn't hold much fond memories. I'm pretty sure he said it was a hotel, but when I pulled up it was a run-down motel.

Jack was on the second floor smoking on the rail. I dragged myself up the stairs. He didn't even look at me. He just kept his eyes on the ground below. I didn't think you would come, Jack said, blowing out smoke. and yet you came to me. I hum over the rail with him. I'm sorry to interrupt your life with this mess.

He took another drag of his cigarette. I know I'm asking a lot, what exactly are you asking? Jack put out his smoke and dropped it. I watched it fall as he turned to the room. He's in here. The room smelled as it looked. Like a cheap motel room. There was a man sitting on the bed.

Facing the window with closed curtains he seemed to be muttering to himself. With his back turned I couldn't get a good look at him in the darkness. He suffers from multiple personality disorder, and that's not all the tests show more brain activity when he is himself. Jack's voice became hushed as he spoke. What tests? I whispered getting close to Jack. Ben, I would like you to meet a friend, Jack said, walking forward.

I could feel the room become darker as I followed. I told you my name is Claus. His voice was of German descent and came in very clear. of his altars, the one you'll talk to most, Jack said, turning back to me. I could feel the tension grow as we circled around the bed. What tests? Where did you find this guy? I pulled Jack to face me.

Jack seemed hesitant to say more. I felt stupid following him here. You must be Norman. This voice was different from Clauses. I turned to face him. He seemed to be a mild-mannered man. His flannel was buttoned neatly and his hair was messy but real short just to unkempt. I didn't find it odd to be called by name. What was odd was Jack's face? He was pale white.

Ben, who told you that name? Jack's question gave me goosebumps. I barely had time to process what was going on. Shopkeeper. This name rang in my head as Jack pushed me outside. Get off of me, I said, pushing him off me as we came outside. Jack closed the door quickly. What are you doing? You're going to tell me one of his personalities knows who I am without you telling him anything, I pushed him a bit. I was furious with him grabbing me. I felt like I was on a prank show. I wasn't going to be the butt of this sick joke. No, he spoke quickly and calmly. No. I couldn't understand what he was saying. No, it's not a personality that knows you, it's something else. He sounded quite mad. Okay, why did you push us outside? I seemed quite furious. Because I'm afraid there's something else.

else already knows you are involved." He started pacing back and forth. What are you talking about? Jack collected himself and grabbed the door. He tilted his head asking me to follow him. Ben seemed to be in the same spot. Jack led me into the bathroom and shut the door. Jack turned on the fan and lit up a smoke.

What I am talking about is crazy stuff, and I'm not expecting you to believe any of it, Jack said, scratching his neck. I hadn't noticed it before, but his neck was all red. Who is the shopkeeper? I was already in this far. I had to know more. Shopkeeper, it's just shopkeeper. We were not really sure at the time, but I think there from another dimension or something like that, Jack said pacing as he smoked.

We? There. What are you talking about? Jack took a long drag and slid down the wall to the floor. We were a top secret underground unit running experiments for the Russian government. Long story short, the whole bloody thing fell apart and you're looking at the last of the program. He was right. And what if I don't believe it?

He kept his head down, not looking at me. I'm sorry I shouldn't have brought you here because it doesn't matter now they know you by name. The lights began to flicker. The fan slowed to a stop as Jack put out his cigarette. I'm still not understanding why you brought me here. I opened the door every so slightly. Ben was in the same spot talking to himself. The room seemed to have all the lights sucked out of it.

I was hoping you could study Ben and figure out more about these creatures. I don't feel safe around him and I need some time away. He got up pushing the door shut. Are you seeing these creatures too? It was an honest question. I had noticed he wouldn't look towards Ben's direction. You see what I see. He was breathing heavily.

No, you seem crazy. I pushed him away from me. Even if this was crazy I was intrigued. Why don't I take this guy off your hands so you can get some sleep? It couldn't hurt to at least talk to the guy. You're serious. Jack seemed to be coming down from a high. That's the only way I could explain his expression.

Look this is pretty hard to wrap my head around, but I wouldn't mind getting a look into his mind. Just bring him by my place in an hour, I said, opening the bathroom door. Jack didn't say anything. He just pulled out his phone to get my number. And that was it. I got in my car and left. I tried not to think about it. I was just giving an old friend some peace of mind.

There was nothing to it. I would just give a quick evaluation to some psycho. I mean the guys got multiple personalities and Jack doesn't see how easy they can evolve. I'm going to ignore all Russian nonsense, whether I believe it or not. The sun couldn't help but hide itself as the time rang five. I didn't know what I was going to have for dinner when I got home, but I knew I was think of something. I was at the last light before my complex. I was staring at the time like I was waiting for something to happen and then it did. The lights of the streets flicked on. It was time so

this was normal, but what wasn't normal was that every light I passed flicked off and only back on when I was one or two lights away from them. It wasn't the strangest thing I've seen, so no point in worrying about it. I knew it when I walked in the door. Mac and cheese was perfect for dinner. I had a little bit of Mexican blend left to add to the box. mix. It wasn't long before I had mac and cheese on the table with a crime documentary on the TV. There's nothing like a who done it like a real crime. I barely got through half my bowl when the door was knocked upon. This might sound strange to say, but it was no ordinary knock. This one had three little knocks that followed two loud ones, almost like a cartoon jingle.

I found it strange because I heard it before. I just couldn't place it. And as the knock hit again, I almost heard a voice. It's the man. I couldn't place the voice. Who's there? I asked, getting up as goosebumps came over me. It's me Jack and I'm with Ben. This voice was different than the last, but similar.

That phrase, it's the man rang in my head. Who is the man? I asked opening the door. Jack looked at me confused. What man? Jack had Ben by the arm. Ben seemed lost in thought. You didn't say it's the man.

I hung back in the door frame. It's the man. He asked himself as if he was trying to remember something. No, I didn't. I shook my head and led them in. Mac and cheese, do you want some? I asked, flicking off the TV. No, thank you, Ben.

Jack turned to Ben, who was admiring the place. Ben, do you want some mac and cheese? I said, showing him the pot. Ah, yes, thank you, Norman. I'd love some, by the way, it's Claus as of the moment and I've been informed of the situation and am greatly appreciative of you letting us stay here for a short time. His voice was radiant an eager. I watched as he walked to the window and gazed out it. Is there anything I should know before I'm stuck with him? I asked as I set aside a bowl for claws. I guess the only thing is just don't ask them questions, Jack said

sitting down at my small kitchen table. Kind of hard if I can't ask his altars questions. He seemed tired. Oh no, not them, the other beings don't ask them questions. He looked at me with worry in his eyes. Right, I said, slurping up some tea. Clause T. Yes, please thank you, Claus said, pulling away from the window and sitting at the table. Where will you go during all this? I asked, pouring another cup of tea. My father should still be kicking. I'd like to go see him, Jack said with a sigh. You going to tell him anything? I sicked my tea waiting for his answer that came slowly. I'll probably come up with some lie to make him feel better about where I've been and what I've been up to. Jack pulled himself up and grabbed the door.

He paused. It's the man. He said it with a slight chuckle. I couldn't help but look confused. I remember now. It's what we used to call you because you had more courage than the rest of us combined. Just then I saw a flash of Jack at age 18 surrounded by others of similar age chanting that phrase. That's a deep-rooted memory, I said, rubbing my head. You'd ask any girl out, Jack chuckled a bit before walking out. He didn't even say goodbye. Somehow that felt like him. What I could remember anyway. I locked the door and just turned my head to catch what Clause was doing. He was eating and drinking quietly. So tell me about yourself, I said sitting down as I sipped my tea. He perked up right quick. Well, not much to tell really, I'm from Berlin, believe it or

Miss my home I do very much so. I guess I go where Ben goes. The last of his words had a somber tone. So you spent some time in Germany? He spoke in a quiet tone. A bit, yes, Ben is a free spirit so he travels a lot. Clause seemed to be fully aware of his situation. Are there more that follow around Ben?

He paused. He sat still not looking up from the table. No, just me, I believe. He became even more silent. more silent. I just observed him, waiting for him to speak. You think Ben is crazy too. I had to answer very carefully. I don't know what to believe. Do you think he is crazy? He chugged down his drink. Certainly not, he said, crossing his arms. Well, do you see what he sees? This question seemed to bother him. I could feel his hesitation to answer, and before he did the lights in the apartment started to

flicker. I thought nothing of it and pulled myself to the light switch. I flicked it off and on, but it had no effect on the lights. No I don't, I only get secondhand dreams. I looked back at him and in the time it took me to get up and check the lights he was back at the window. You dream of them? I turned all my focus on him. I've seen this street in a dream. I followed him to the window. He was looking down at a one-way behind the complex. There was a single street light that stood lit. The same dreams that include these things. He didn't say anything, he just looked out the window. Before I could ask again my ears caught something. The sound rustling above. I walked backwards looking up. It was as if footsteps were dragging above. Now that wouldn't

be strange except for the fact that the apartment above me was vacant. They don't like being talked about, his voice came out raspy and cold. Ben isn't it? I crept back to him. I'm sorry man, but I can't talk about them. He was almost winning in his voice. How many are there? I tried to get his attention by tapping his shoulder. He just started quietly chanting. I can't. His words slowly grew louder and louder. Ben, they can't hurt you, I said trying to comfort him. I can't. His voice burst out of him as he turned to face me. His eyes were almost popping out of his head. That's when the lights all dropped. I reached out for him but nothing was there. And as the lights flicked back on and back off I saw his feet behind the curtains.

Ben, don't be afraid, I said, reaching for the curtains. I could feel my hands sweat as I reached. I slowly pulled back the curtain only for fear to take over and in a rush I just pulled it hard. My heart jumped as nothing, not a single thing was there. Not only that but the lights and other apartments in the complex were all on. There was only one light off. It was the streetlight near the one way.

It was dark but it was as if something was standing there. Maybe pacing back and forth. Norman, are you all right? I turned as Clause was sitting at the table. The lights flicked back on. I turned back to the window to see the streetlight on with no one there. And just as I dropped the curtain the sound of footsteps above came again. Fine and you?

I asked as I backed up looking at the ceiling again. Well, peckish maybe but really just a bit tired, Clause said, pouring himself another glass of tea. I kept my eyes on him trying to relax my mind. Well, I've got an extra spread for you. Is the couch okay? I circled him as he walked to the couch. That would be lovely, thank you. His expression seemed a bit much. His smile was very bright. He sat quietly resting his hands in his lap. I tried to just get my mind out of this apartment. I pulled a blanket and pillows from the closet. He was so still on the couch. I couldn't read him. He had such unpredictability about him.

Didn't help that he was living with more than just himself. I've never dealt with a condition like this. I might be in over my head. Claus kicked his feet up and made himself warm. I wasn't sure what to do next. I guess a night's rest would be good for both of us. I locked my bedroom door. I had to be cautious with a stranger in my home.

Like clockwork I laid on my side and closed my eyes. I couldn't sleep. The footsteps above rattled my brain. I wasn't sure if they were real or if it was just my mind playing tricks. And I couldn't get my mind off the man in the next room. My eyes started to stay awake. I couldn't close them because I was afraid of what might be there when I opened them. And when I did close them I felt like I could almost see something.

My mind couldn't comprehend what I might be seeing. It was like seeing a face in nothing. The sunlight let me know the night was gone, but it was the smell of food that got me out of bed. I peaked out of my room. One of them was making breakfast. Helping yourself. I asked creeping out. My eyes shifted to the open window where the curtains were waving back and forth.

Ah, Norman, good morning. Well, I just wanted to thank you for the hospitality. So eggs it is, Clause said, showing me what he was cooking. I let out a slight exhale. Thank you, I appreciate it. I walked over to the window, closing it. My eyes dropped on the street below. It seemed as normal as ever.

How did you sleep? My eyes left the window. Just fine than you? He seemed just as chipper as yesterday. Marvelous, really. I found it odd that he slept so well. What about Ben? How did he sleep?

I dragged myself to the table and sat. He became very quiet. Not good, I'm afraid, Clause said in a quiet tone. I'm sorry to hear that, I said. while pouring myself some coffee. I tried to think of simple conversation to keep the mood light. I almost began to nod off. I took a big sip of my coffee to wake me up.

So Jack told me you're a neurologist. Clause handed me a plate as he continued the conversation. Well that is what I went to school for, but now I just lecture the youth. I mixed up my eggs and added a dash of ketchup. Clause joined me at the table. A teacher is still an important job, he said with a radiant smile. So what jobs have you had? I brightened up thanks to his attitude.

Not many really. A cook and a janitor I think just any small job I could get for money. There was a looming question, but I didn't see a right time for it. And so you met Ben in Berlin? His eyes darted to the window and back. I tilted my head to look but nothing was there. Yes, that seems right. Those days are a bit of a blur now.

It was sunny outside. I turned back and Clause had his eyes. in his food. I almost entirely forgot what my next question was. So you live here all by yourself? I didn't exactly know how to answer. Flat's cheap, I suppose, I said, scooping up some eggs. He paused and glanced at me. Been anywhere else besides here. He gave me a cheeky smile. You caught me, I did study abroad for a bit, I said, showing a bit of a smile. The conversation became light and fluffy like the eggs we were having. We started joking and the laughing a bit until he asked something unexpected. So let me ask you, I'm not here just for

the company, am I? His eyes became sharp. I didn't even notice he finished all his food when I had barely touched mine. No, you're not, although I do not mind having you here. Jack seems to believe you see things and I, being the curious party, want to know more. He became more stiff. I think Jack just wants to get away from us, I don't think he can't handle the truth, he said, gripping his drink. What truth? His hands became flat on the table as he lowered his head. The truth that he is either crazy or Ben is right. I could feel anxious even though nothing was happening.

Right about what? I could feel my chair wobble and shake underneath me. That there is no escape. Ben's voice shouted as I felt my chair fall back. I tried to grab the table but the room seemed to shift. I was off balance and before I knew it on the floor resting on my back. Just then a knock hit the door. I scrambled to my feet and looked back as Claus was sipping his drink.

I glanced through the people to find a face pressed up against it. Her voice called out in hellos. It was my sister Amber. I had forgotten she was coming to stay. I opened the door slightly keeping my foot in the way. What's with the hesitation to let me in? Amber said, trying to pry open the door. My sister was always the more abrasive one.

She had her foot between the door and the frame. Who is at the door? Claus's voice came at the worst time, Norman, who is in there with you? She can never let things go. I was holding my pregnant sister back. I was keeping her outside in the hall. There was only a wall between my pregnant sister and a man with multiple personalities who talks to people that aren't there.

Should I take her coat? My ears shook as the wind carried these raspy words to them. I'm sorry if this is too long, I just didn't want to skip any details. This is the craziest thing that's ever happened to me. I was never a very happy child. Was never consistently a happy teenager or young adult. Experimenting with drugs, and later, abusing drugs probably contributed to my lack of happy. Self-harm was inevitable and came up very heavy.

Several attempts on my life, a few of them even serious l-ol. I was fucked man, psychotic. After one overdose and threat on my life, I ended up punching a cop in an ambulance. Boom, I am now a felon. Only spend a month in jail before bail and end on 10 years probation. That just makes it worse, man, I don't do anything. Stay in bed and eat benzos all day and tell people I am a kill myself. I was just in a cloud of sad, it was so miserable.

I kept fucking up until they sent me away. I went to SAFP which is prison in my state but it's a nine-month program that you can get kicked out, so it wasn't as hostile as actual prison. Most people are just trying to get home and not looking to fuck it up. I did 15 months before I came home. I was sober for that 15 months. About six months and I started noticing. Like clarity, I guess. Came home and ended up leaving my four-year-old toxic AF relationship.

Relapsed twice, was failing tests for smoking. Still just generally depressed. Only a few minor cutting episodes, but I was just not happy and didn't know how to be. Got sent away to a place called SATF, which is also a nine-month program. That's where I really started changing. As absolute ass as that place and their rules were, they were smart and, I think, happy people. They taught good things. Mr. Davis showed U.S. Allen Watts, Mr. Cross was a young and open-minded man.

Some staff were just plain cunts, but it'd be like that. Some other residents in there motivated me to work out. I went on a diet and lost about 40 pounds and toned up in there. I read a few good books. Mostly fiction, of course, but some poetry and self-help books. Just started looking at things in a different perspective. The other residents there were actually amazing. now that I'm thinking back. I had some loving people that really put up with my attitude

when they absolutely didn't have to. But something bad happened there too. I wasn't incredibly attached to this girl, but the one I was dating when I went away had spontaneously broke up with me and blocked me. And that was just it for me, man, I wasn't fucking happy and I was locked up and I didn't know what to fucking do and that self-arm came back. Little trigger warning I may get semi-descriptive here. It got so bad, my roommates pulled me aside because they noticed some toilet paper in the trash or my boxers covered in blood while I'm taking a shower. Six of us shared one bathroom.

The funny thing is, is I was so very careful to not get caught with any of that. I started leaving that shit around on purpose. I'm not sure why, but I definitely wanted them to notice. Idk, man, I was just manic a. F. I suppose. Well at that facility, after six months, you get to go to work. You still fucking live there and have to come back every night but if you're scheduled, you get to leave. So I went back to Chili's where I was working previously, and talked my GM into scheduling me

every day, so I was there all the fucking time. When I came back to work, there was this girl working there I hadn't met before. Her name was Saluna. We got insanely close. She's a hippie as well. fuck. I didn't necessarily believe all her crazy stuff, but she told me about reincarnation, about how we're all pieces of God's soul, she taught me to be grateful for small things, and to pay attention to the little bits of magic in the world. She taught me there is

absolutely no such thing as coincidences. Magic things just happen in the world, you can blow it off or you can notice the magic. And once you start noticing the magic, you'll realize every day is magical. So I'm like, wow, good thing this girl is gorgeous because she's fucking nutty. I was still, locked up at SATF and had to go back there every night. But I was scheduled to be at Chili's from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. most of the time just so that I didn't have to stay at the facility so me and Luna spent a ridiculous amount of time together. Her little hippie shit slowly started impressing on me. I would wake up and do yoga. When I ate I would thank the food for its nutrition.

Say hello to the sun, little weird things that just bring a bit of joy into the day. I was being more present in day-to-day life. Things happened, and I did not complete the SATF program. I just ran. I didn't have anywhere to go. Saluna let me stay with her, but things were different. I knew I was going to prison, it was just a matter of time now. I was sad, of course.

My cup was not full. And Saluna kept pouring into mine and it wasn't fair for her. My consistent bad mood was too conflicting for her bubbly self. We were getting upset with each other and she no longer wanted me to stay with her. I moved into another friend's apartment. Maybe a week or so later was when I had the worst night I've had in a very long time. Super, super upset. I'm disappointed in myself for letting things get negative with this.

girl I've been building a great relationship with. I'm heavily drunk. And I'm upset I'm going to prison, upset I'm sleeping in this place I'm not comfortable at. Things got really bad, my mom actually responded to my text and came over to get me at like 8 a.m. and bandaged me up while sobbing and that was the last time I ever cut myself. This was probably early October of 22. Skip forward maybe like a week. I have been drinking at the bar pretty heavy and come home. Liquid courage allowed to eat some mushrooms I've been sitting on. Probably about a gram I ate, then went to sleep. Didn't even trip. About the same thing the next night, just tiny colors behind my eyelids as I'm falling asleep. I don't want to give mushrooms all of the credit,

I've been working on my head in tiny ways. I was just stuck in my old sad boy, nothing's ever right in my life, mentality. Something changed so drastic. those few days. I was just happier, and it continued to grow. I was just having great, fantastic days regardless of what was happening. I was waking up super early in going skating, going to work right from the skate park, end up closing down the bar with friends and repeat most night. But something was happening, my energy was changing, the things I talked about were different. My friends were really getting fucking annoyed with my sudden toxic positivity, L.O.L. Well, I was going really fast.

I was so awfully tired this Tuesday morning. It was November 15th. The weather outside was a little cruddy and chilly, I think it had rained the night before a little. I really was looking forward to sitting down and playing some Rocket League for the first time in forever. Got a little stoned, booted up my PlayStation, and hopped on the game. I don't really get irritated like this, but my teammates were just fucking up awful and I was getting super frustrated. I shut my game off, I've been super happy and I didn't like how that was making me feel.

Strapped up my vans, loaded up my bag, and hopped on my skateboard. It wasn't too nippy, once I got a sweat going. I roll into the skate park, and to my surprise there's actually somebody there. Sick, somebody to skate with. But as I get closer it's this beautiful roller skating baby. So naturally, I pull out out. all of my impressive tricks immediately. When I sit down to catch my breath,

this absolute angelic woman approaches me. Do you come up here often? Her name is Kathleen. She doesn't live here. Her sister is in Colorado for a hunting trip with her husband. Kat is watching her dogs while she's out of state. Kat is from a neighboring state, over 12 hours away. She is only in town until Sunday, this is on Tuesday.

We really clicked right off the bat, like yearly, I remember explaining to my friend. I invited her for a drink sometime this week if she had the time. She said, I don't drink or smoke anything, but I do like to eat mushrooms. This is a very sheltered looking good girl, I explained how I probably wouldn't be comfortable tripping with a stranger, but we can figure something out. We exchanged numbers and she left. I immediately text like three of my best friends that the craziest thing just happened. Even then I felt like a meant to be kind of thing.

Like she already felt like a gift from the world to me. But I had no idea. So, we make some loose-ass plans for Thursday morning. We discuss what things we like to do, she loves to rock, climb and hike and do active nature stuff. Well, little baby has some disc golf discs in her car, so we meet at 9 a.m. on Thursday the 17th at Cobb Park. We get the game going immediately, but more than that, we're like, close immediately. I'm not one to mention weird thoughts like that, I don't fall for girls super easily, but there is something happening to me here, and I don't

want to scare this one away. But after probably 30 minutes, we're wrestling each other on this jiggly platform in the playground just laughing our asses off and pushing each other off this thing. We sit down for a breather, and she says it as I'm thinking it. She literally says, why am I so comfortable with you? I don't trust anybody. I mentioned that I literally had the same thought in my head. Then I tell her about how I didn't even want to go to the skate park that day, how it seems like fate. This girl gets so excited, bro, I didn't want to come either.

She was wanting to come the day before, but it had been rainy and shitty, so she decided to wait until Tuesday, and even then, almost didn't get out. The entire day was just magic after that. I don't even know if we finished our game or kept up with score. We were just entranced by each other. Just sharing our entire lives. She was definitely more closed off and anxious to share her traumas at first. Within the first hour she knew I was going to prison, and just trying to have the most meaningful time I can right now. We left her car at the park, and walked downtown to the front porch where we had coffee and chatted. Took some pictures with each other. We walked to vagabond and shared a dessert, walked back to her car. Came back to front porch and played phase 10 and Uno for hours

just laughing and enjoying each other. There is this place in my hometown, called the Storybook Park. Artists make sculptures based on children's books and place them there with quotes, and there is a lot of big stones with quotes etched into them. We were literally walking around discussing how we're thankful for the trauma and troubles we've been through, because we both love ourselves tremendously and wouldn't be these people that we love if we hadn't had gone through those things. We run into this quote from the ugly duckling. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him. Hans Christian Anderson, we both about cried. The magic in the air, the amount of love just between us was immaculate and we were both just so emotional all day. We left the park holding hands.

Everything felt manipulated for us. Like as if the world was made and everything in everybody's lives happened for us to live. live this day with each other. This was our world, and we were embodying love. We were living a movie. We were living art. Her sister lives 30 minutes or so out of town, so I hung out with my buddy while she fed the doggies, she didn't want to break her sister's trust by bringing a stranger to her nice little house on her land. My buddy was getting kind of sick of me ranting about this girl. I am on a crazy love high, my heart is just magic and happiness, and this was our first. fucking day. Me and Kat decided we were going to skate for a little while when she was finished,

but I had my friend sit up there with me for a second so he could see this girl to tell me that she actually exist. I legitimately felt like I could be imagining this day and women it was so magical. He confirmed her existence, and we skated. She's many things this baby, including a photographer. So, all the skate park buddies were stoked and were getting super gnarly pictures. We skate away from the park and goof around on this plaza and take super cute pictures and videos of the both of us. It's starting to get dark, so we start looking for other things to do. She's never been to primetime and never played VR. So, we head to primetime to shoot some zombies.

I have this video of her standing there waiting with her hands locked together and her green sweater that's just a little too big for her. She's looking away, but she turns her head and looks at the camera and smiles that sweet, sweet smile that holds just a subtle hint of pain. I'm not sure if I can explain that properly, but it shows her beauty in a way you wouldn't be able to pull from a normal person. We have a blast, and we play laser tag next. She's competitive as hell, so we're both running around drenched in sweat in that hot ass warehouse. After I kick her ass, we have to step outside for some air, we're both panting and drenched. We're kind of just standing outside chatting and she says she wants to go for a walk. Hand in hand we're just strutting around the building.

We get around to the back, when she stops walking but holds onto my hand to stop me also. I turn and look at her, and her lips just attack mine. I am a handsome man, I've had a good run with many attractive women. But this was the most amazing, soul-gripping, time-stopping kiss I've ever experienced in my life. She immediately jumped into me and wrapped her legs around my waist as my fingers run through her hair. Not even just writing dramatically, it was magic bro. It was like years of suppressed emotions for each other spawned over the course of the last eight or so hours. I was absolutely in love with this girl.

Thinking that, I couldn't help but laugh when we broke a little. away from each other and the first thing she said was, I love you so much. This girl has been on my mind for 48 hours, and we've been in each other's presence for half of a fucking day. And it wasn't a question. We were mad for each other. This was meant to happen, we were meant to feel this overwhelming adoration. We were meant to meet that day, we were given this day with each other and we fucking ran with it. We just dove in carelessly. Leaving prime time, we have a conversation about how much we love this butterfly, new relationship feel, and this is just tenfold of that. But also, how time deteriorates that feeling. We were both in horrible relationships

for years. And both of those relationships started off wonderful and exciting. But people get comfortable with each other and start to find things they dislike in each other, and I feel like love ends up more absent and absent, and people stay in these failing relationships out of comfort or responsibility and commitment to each other more than love. And that leads to people not being happy, and ultimately just disliking each other. We've both experienced this and agreed we wouldn't let that happen to this wonderful love. She's here for this weekend, I'm going to have to do some time soon. This is the time that was given to us. And this is time that we have. We wouldn't be selfish or take advantage.

This is our time. And when our time was over, we wouldn't talk anymore. In her words, you are the most amazing man I've ever met in my life. We can't be together, we have our separate lives to live. But I need to keep you on this pedestal to remind me what I deserve. I need to keep you as the best man I will ever know so that I know love is here. As I was writing that paragraph above, one of our songs came on. I didn't know, skin shape, I didn't know, that you would leave so soon.

One day I'll come to find you, wherever you may be. If only time was kinder, you would still be here. How fucking wild! The universe be talking, if you're listening. It was getting late, but we didn't want to be apart, knowing this is our only time together. I know this is the second time I mention mushrooms over the span of just a few weeks, but I don't just eat a fuck ton of shrooms, L-O-L. These times mentioned in this story are the only time last year I ate shroomies at all.

Always really ate them with some buddies just to have a goofy time, never looked into the spiritual and mental healing aspect of psilocybin. But the night before I met up with cat, the most potent slash beautiful mushrooms I've ever seen kind of just fell in my lap. magically, so, we get some Froyo while we're discussing what to do. And poor little baby is on the verge of a panic attack. When we ended up in the car discussing what to do, she kicked me out of the car LMAO. She had to call her friend for advice on what to do.

She wanted to have the night with me but didn't want to break her sister's trust. Pretty sure her friend told her to go have some fun for once and to quit being a pussy, because she said, get the hell in. Do you need anything from your house? She's yelling she's so nervous, ha. Poor, sweet thing. Hand in hand, souls dancing together, happier than ever, we head out to her sister's house. She's calmed down by the time we get out there.

Her sister has three big-ass dogs, and she has two corgis herself. Beautiful puppers, cats' dogs are Okra, and Chalai. Like Charlie, but pronounced like, Chalai bit my finger. We agree that we need a shower before we eat these mushrooms. One, little baby wears kind of baggy stuff so I did not realize how bad she was. Real knuckle biter. Two, I think she has some sexual trauma with her ex-husband. Or she just hasn't had a lot of experience.

I could feel how nervous she was at first, probably thinking I expected to have sex, expecting that pressure. Well, we're in the shower just loving on each other and cleaning up, when she sees my hickies. I slept with a girl the night before I met her, just a casual friend of mine. She tells me, Draven, I want to have sex with you so bad. But I don't think I can. She was telling me it just makes her anxious, me having just slept with somebody in her not sure whether I could be carrying anything or not, and me not having a condom.

I tell her no biggie. I mean, I love sex, but that wasn't my intention for the night whatsoever. She made me promise LOL. She said, when we're tripping, even if I ask you to fuck me. Promise me you want. So I promised, of course. We got out of the shower, got dressed up and picked out some mushrooms. When I trip, I like to know dosage, how heavy to expect the trip to be.

I've never seen such amazingly blue mushrooms in my life. They were obviously potent, and we had no scale. So, I picked us out some tiny little doses. I really wasn't trying to meet my maker that night. That didn't quite go as planned. We toast, to magic, and start the rest of the night. She made us some tea, and we sat and loved on each other and enjoyed each other waiting for the come-up. Everything got intense after a while.

On the come-up we were getting extremely passionate. After a little I could feel her anxiety. It didn't take me long to notice her anxious tick. You can see it in her face when she gets inside of her head, but she rubs her thumb on her leg, her sleeve, my hand, or my body wherever her hand is. I feel her start to rub on me, so we just kick back and relax. And then these mushrooms start to kick up. caracesses. I've had mushrooms that were more visuals than anything, some more of a feeling.

I'm not sure if it was this strain of mushrooms, or just the context of the day and the magic in the air around us. But this was the most spiritual experience I've ever had with mushrooms. Probably an hour and a half or so after we drop, we're fucking tripping. We find ourselves standing in her sister's living room, just admiring the lights and the colors. I think it was a Roku standby screen on the TV or something similar, but there was quiet ambient music that was playing, and the scene was just fucking breathtaking. As if we were standing under a live aquarium, the green and blue lights dancing across her flawless face. I'm not sure how long I was staring at her until I realized that she was crying, also staring at me. It wasn't a

bad cry, though, the opposite really. Cat grabs my face, looks into my soul with her dripping eyes and wide goofy grin. She says to me, I knew I recognized you. You don't remember, Draven. We've known each other before. Time about stopped here for me. I knew that what she said, as soon as she said it, without any possible doubt, was absolutely true. My soul knew it. I swear I felt every possible emotion I've ever experienced in that moment. Like a release almost, but I was taking in. I was bawling. I couldn't stop. It was the best cry I've ever had in my life.

Holding on to this person that I have this indescribable, unnaturally radiant love for. And knowing she's feeling the same thing, crying her fucking eyes out, gripping at my clothes so hard. I felt this force, and I know I'm going to sound a little crazy here, but everything was radiating this force. It didn't take me long to know it was love. but it was the world also, the universe.

And those weren't slash aren't separate things I believe. It was one force, and it was God, the universe, love, and happiness. But it was also sorrow and pain and longing. It was life, but it was all love. And everything was sending it. Me, cat, the dogs, the carpet, the TV. But, the strongest flow was the window. And I looked towards the window, because I just felt it.

I saw the stars outside and I just felt everything. And knew everything. Life is love. At that moment, I felt protected. No matter what happened. I could have died in that moment, and I could die right now. And I just know that things are fine. That massive pore of universal love settles down enough where can at least catch our breaths and share some, wows,

and some holy shits. We decide we need some fresh air and some nature and step outside. We end up on the trampoline, holding each other and looking at the stars. I remember her saying through tears, I'm finally not hurting. My legs, my back, my muscles. She never elaborated, and I didn't press. But it was important to her, I think she had something wrong with her that she never shared, or was afraid to, or maybe just didn't want to. We spent the rest of the night loving on each other and sharing traumas. I've experienced love. I've shared intimate moments with people that can never be duplicated.

But I don't think I will ever experience again in my life the natural, sole comforting love that was experienced with this girl that night. I cried to her, not knowing how long I would be gone. Everything I've been through I cried to her about, and how that feeling of hopelessness and darkness has so suddenly been replaced by love and light and hope and comfort over the course of a few insane weeks. She wasn't crying to me, she was crying to herself. Almost talking to herself in a venting way. It took me a moment to piece together what had happened from what she was saying. Not sure what her position would be on me sharing her trauma, so I don't think I will.

But we all go through hard things to make us who we are, I believe. And this girl is an amazing person. We were coming down now, still very emotional and in awe over whatever the fuck happened to us today. So over the course of the trip, there was several times where we got super intimate, we were just rolling around a bed naked talking slash bullshitting for a large portion of the trip. There was once where she was actually, just fuck me draven. Yeah, maybe a little mad at it. myself, l-ol, I did not. When we were talking after the trip, I had mentioned how it would

have been nice if I had brought a condom, that was kind of her barrier between us sleeping together. And she started crying, and said, no, Draven. As nice as sex with you would have been, I'm so thankful you didn't bring a condom. I don't trust men, I just absolutely don't. But I felt so very safe with you from the beginning. You promising me that you wouldn't sleep with me, and still keeping your promise after I had asked you too, that was the best gift anybody could have ever given me. Maybe I could trust again because of you. I think we just held each other and cried until we fell asleep.

The morning was bliss. Hot tea, puppy cuddles. Wondering what we did to deserve such a tailor-made, magical experience. This wasn't about meeting somebody. This wasn't about a soul mate. It could be about love, ultimately. But we fucking needed that night. For our personal shit.

The way things happened, from her needing that trust. I never let girls put hickies on me, just didn't care that night. I normally have a condom in my bag, I did not. Neither one of us really wanted to go to the skate park that day. I wasn't even really supposed to be home throughout this time frame. Everything was the perfect condition, for this perfect night. For me, I've always struggled with religion. I grew up surrounded by a heavily Christian-influenced family-slash-town, but grew up in a pagan-slash-wickan household.

When everything I hear is bullshit to this person and everything else is bullshit to everybody else, well, all of this is bullshit. My own assessment was there is nothing when you die. And that was awful to believe for so long. What is the point? How can I be happy knowing it just ends? in nothing. That must have been a struggle for me since 10 years old if not earlier. My friend died, I just thought he was nothing now. Just didn't exist anymore. Just in our memories.

And that was awful to dwell on and to believe. But now, this experience with Kat, my soul knows we've shared love and life before. Whether we were lovers, friends, family. It's just true. And that conflicts with everything I have ever thought. If I was here before, I'll be here again. And that's given me comfort beyond imagination. Not only for my sake, and my worries, but my friends that have passed. They may not be here, but they're here and their souls have to go through, well, what's going to make them who they are?

It makes death easier for me. Doesn't matter who's right. None of us probably are, really. But I know I'm protected. Whether that's God, the universe, or my mania. That night with Kathleen gave me comfort in death and spiritual clarity and I wouldn't trade that for the world. When we left in the morning, and she got in the car from closing the gate, she gave me a flower.

And we both just looked at it and cried together. We cried a lot, LOL, it was all very emotional. Just riding down the road, I'm looking at this flower thinking, I'm absolutely getting the flower tattooed on me. When she says, would it be stupid if I wanted to tattoo the flower on me? This was Friday the 18th now. We parted ways, with plans to rollerblade on Saturday, and find a book to press that flower in. I'm on the moon Friday. Gave away my shift, I can't focus on work today. I could barely even focus enough to tell my mom and best friends WTF I just went through. This is also the night where me and Saluna start to mend our relationship, after I tell her all the magic I just experienced.

Saturday morning, she picks me up. We're just lovy-dovey and kissy-kissy, we missed the absolute fuck out of each other that one day. We go rollerblade, I still have the scar from the boot rubbing on my ankle. We head to some local pawn shop, where we find this pretty little book of illustrations from an artist named DeGas. We also buy picture frames because I surprised her by having some of our pictures printed at Walgreens. We get it all back to my apartment, she draws the prettiest little picture of herself in my book, then write something before putting the flower in and setting a cast iron on top of it. You can't open that for three days.

She takes me to work, we had previously discussed that she would stop by my work Sunday and let me buy her some food before leaving town. Well, when we're saying goodbye, she informs me that it would make her drive an extra couple hours if she were to see me before leaving, and she doesn't think she's going to be able to. So outside of Chili's, five minutes before my shift. I say goodbye to the most amazing, life-changing person I've ever been blessed to meet on this silly magic rock. We cry and cry and cry and hold each other and kiss. And for the last time, we kiss each other and let go. I believe that will be the last time I ever see her.

It hearts my heart. Shatters it. And typing this up right now is just as intense and heartbreaking and hard as letting her go and watching her drive away for forever was. She calls me after my shift. We talk about how the fuck we're going to stop talking to each other but stays adamant that that's the best thing for us altogether, to preserve the magic of it all. This continues over Sunday, and over Monday. Monday night, after us just calling and texting. I told her, fuck that.

We don't have to seek a relationship with each other, we don't have to talk all the time. If we ever get stagnant, we can end it there. But as long as we have adventures together every time we link up, how can this magic die? I actually had her convinced, I think we were going to go snowboarding in February. Just meet up in New Mexico and bullshit for a week together. I'm not sure if that would have happened, or how things would have ended up with us. But the world speaks man, and that wasn't in the cards. I woke up Tuesday morning, November 22nd.

One week after I met Kathleen. The first thing I did was take out her flower, bastard sage, and put it inside of our framed picture. I opened the book and admired her drawing again. Then turned the page and broke my fucking heart again. It reads, We were art for a day. I will always carry these memories in my heart. You have been sunshine and love. I hope life takes you wherever you need to go.

Enjoy the journey, embrace every moment. My perfect lover for infinity. I love you. Kathleen. Probably after a few hours of crying, I put the book in my bag and head off to work. I think I was actually on my phone. phone texting Kathleen that night at work, when the cops snuck up on me. I was taken to jail that night for my warrant. I could be gone for five years if I got unlucky. Didn't know what

to expect, just expect it to do some time. I call Kathleen in there a few times, this was the stress that would ruin what we had, she said. I knew it too. If we were to be in contact now, it would be stagnant. It would be stress. It would take away from that magic and that love. I wasn't happy about it, but it was necessary to stop contact. I had a message sent to her on Christmas, and she never got back to me. The world is taking care of me, and certain important people were aware of the changes I made and the person I'm becoming.

I signed for three years, and since I had so much time already accounted for, I was released from prison after a month on parole. I wouldn't have been done with probation until 2029 had I stayed with the program. I will now be off parole and completely done with everything in August of 24. The world gave me love and happiness, and five years of my life back. When I was released from prison, I was in a halfway house nine hours away from home. I had been here for almost three weeks, and I was laying on my bunk, waiting on a phone call from my parole officer telling me my bus ride home was ready.

I heard a call coming from my headphones, so I jumped up excited, knowing I'll be headed home in a few days. But when I pulled out my phone, the caller ID said Kathleen. I had sent her a message when I got to the halfway house, saying how everything worked out in my favor and I'll be headed home soon. So, she called me, she told me how amazing it was that everything played out how it did. She was busy at the moment, she had joined two roller derby teams in her home station. and was on her way to one practice at the time. She told me that while I was gone, she got her

tattoo done and sent me the picture. She said she would like to call me later, because she had something that she would like to talk to me about. I was so very excited. She never called, sent me a text a few hours later. This is our last conversation. Kat, there's so much I want to say but I don't have the words to say it. I'm really so very happy for you. you and I hope your life continues to blossom. Your time meant a lot to me and I will always have the lessons I learned from you. But due to various circumstances I can't stay in contact with you. I'll always remember our time and that glimpse of past lives, but now I'm working on my future. Our lives are not moving on the same plane and it's not fair to either of us to hold on to

something that won't happen. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I hope one day you can understand. Magic doesn't die, I'm a better person for it. Thank you. I hope you still get the tattoo, and you take whatever comes to you in life and love. Me, no, I understand. But I don't want anything from you. I just don't want you to be unreachable for forever. Like, if I can share my tattoo with you when I get it, or next time something amazing happens in my life I'd like to share it with you. intermittent friends if that makes sense. Or even just to know you're alive every now and then. I don't want to pursue a relationship or try and meet up or anything.

But if your circumstances won't allow that, that's okay with me and I'll respect that. You hold a special place in my heart, and I'll be here if you ever decide you'd like to contact me again. Take care of yourself, Cat. You deserve all the love and happiness. Cat, as to you, let's go find our best lives and continually make them better. Hope leads to disappointment, I would rather us not hold on to it. It's an ending of a chapter. Go write another amazing one.

Goodbye, Draven. I respect the decision, whether I understand it or not. I don't know what she's going through in her life. I would kill to have an hour with this girl, but she's different, and smarter than I am. So this probably is better for both of us. Regardless, this was the most beautiful thing to ever happen to me, and I will cherish those days for forever. I hope the world finds us together again later in life. If not, I'll see you the next go-around, when we need each other.

Things had fit right in for us to make better lives out of our individual lives. We weren't meant to be together. We knew we couldn't be. But that wasn't going to stop us from loving. each other as intensely as we were capable of. And because we ran with it like we did, I now know magic is real. I look for it and find it, every day. Kathleen, thank you so much for the time we had. I will never be the same. My perfect lover for infinity. I love you. Draven, my parents have been married for 35 years. At the beginning, during the first two years, my dad didn't mind my mom

working because, honestly, he was benefiting from it. Every paycheck she brought home helped him, and he had no problem with that. But everything changed when he got a job of his own. Suddenly, the dynamic shifted. The man who once accepted my mom's contributions with open arms now saw her independence as a threat. And then, when he married his second wife, it was like flipping a switch, he became someone completely different. He started treating my mom. He started treating my mom, with pure disrespect. He became rude, insulting her constantly, belittling her in front of people like she was nothing. He never gave her money, never bought her clothes, never did anything for her besides giving her just enough for food. And yet, for his second wife, he was the most generous

man alive. He spoiled her, took care of her, and made sure she had everything she needed. The favoritism wasn't even subtle, it was loud, clear, and painful to her. He spoiled, and painful to witness. My dad has never traveled anywhere with my mom, and he always swore he never would, except for that one time they went for Umra. But even that wasn't really a trip for her, it was more like an obligation. He wanted the world to see him as a religious man, but behind closed doors, his treatment of my mom was anything but Islamic. He embarrassed her in public, humiliated her in front of guests, and when she finally gathered the courage to ask, if I stop working, Will you support me financially?

He responded coldly, over my dead body. It was clear to her what he wanted. He wanted her to quit her job, sit at home, and be miserable. He wanted her to watch him spend all his money on his second wife while she had nothing. He wanted her to depend on him completely so he could have full control over her life. And despite all of this, my mom still spent most of her hard-earned money helping my dad financially. She thought that maybe, just maybe, if she kept proving herself, he would finally see her as valuable. Maybe he would finally appreciate her.

But he never did. She did everything he asked, everything except quitting her job. And honestly, can you blame her? Why should she throw away the one thing giving her independence for a man who had already sworn, even on his mother's grave, that he would never do anything for her? So instead, she helped herself. It wasn't until last year that my mom finally reached her breaking point. After decades of trying, she finally realized that enough was enough.

She stopped doing anything for my dad. She stopped giving him money, stopped trying to win his approval, stopped letting him control her in any way. And for the first time in her life, she chose herself. But here's the thing that bothers me the most, I grew up. up hearing that a woman will go to hell if she doesn't listen to her husband. But does that still apply when the husband is cruel? When the husband is wicked? My mom tolerated so much because of us, her kids. She endured the insults, the emotional neglect, and the blatant favoritism because she didn't

want us to suffer. But just like my mom, we were also treated as less than. Our step-siblings were always put on a pedestal while we were pushed aside. Our dad would insult us and our mom in front of visitors and relatives, but with his second wife and kids, he was kind. He treated them with warmth, with love, everything he denied us, he gave to them. It was almost like he wanted the world to hate us while loving them. So, my question is this, should my mom have quit her job and allowed my dad to make her life even more miserable? Should she have given him the satisfaction of completely breaking her spirit? Or was she right to keep working, to maintain at least some level of independence? Even now, his goal remains the same, to see my mom suffer.

The only difference is that he doesn't realize he already succeeded. He made her miserable for decades, but because she didn't crumble in the way he wanted, he can't see it. The control he craved, the submission he desired, he never fully got it, and that eats him up inside. I worry for my mom, though. I worry because she has suffered so much, and I can't bear the thought of her enduring all of this only to still face punishment in the afterlife. My dad turned everyone against her. He encouraged others to mistreat her. He manipulated the narrative so that she was always the villain in their eyes. Growing up, I never saw my mom truly. happy. Not once. There were moments of happiness, sure. But that's all they were, moments.

Fleeting. Temporary. She was always worried, always carrying some invisible burden on her shoulders. Even when she smiled, there was sadness in her eyes. Even when she laughed, there was exhaustion in her voice. And despite everything, my mom has never been cruel to anyone. Not. even to those who were cruel to her. She has always been kind, always prayerful. She gives Sadaka religiously, every single day, without fail. It's something I grew up watching her do, something I noticed that no one else around me did. She holds on to her faith like a lifeline, even when the world keeps trying to break her.

And that's why I'm scared. I fear that all of her hard work, all of her patience, all of her suffering will count for nothing. That despite everything, she'll still be punished just because she refused to let my dad destroy her the way he wanted. One more thing I forgot to mention, my mom has always been the breadwinner of her own family. She took care of them, provided for them, did everything in her power to support them. And if my dad had ever agreed to help her family, maybe she would have considered quitting her job. Maybe she would have felt like she could. But of course, he refused. He refused to do anything for her family, yet he bent over backward for his second wife's family.

So, if my mom still deserves to go to hell after all of this, then what does that mean for my dad? Does he deserve Jana for the way he treated her? Does he get to be rewarded while she gets punished? It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. And I know, I know, I probably shouldn't be thinking about things like this. But I can't help it. I just want my mom to find peace.

If not in this life, then in the next. Because she deserves that much. She deserves that much and more. I remember this so vividly, it was so scary. I was a nanny a few years ago for three little girls, one, four, and six years old. After school, we went to the playground up the hill. There were a few parents and little children there. I kept an eye on the elder girls as I was with the baby on the baby swing.

Parents and their kids left until a boy around three was left playing with the girls under my care. I noticed his dad sitting on the picnic chair on his phone, I was a bit peed that I seemed to now be watching over four kids, not three. The boy then slowly came over to me and kind of clung himself to me. I thought he was coming for a cuddle, so I said ah and put an arm around him asking if he was all right. He looked a bit sad. He then said, he's not my dad. I skeptically looked at the man then asked, who is he? Uncle.

Stepdad, and the boy looked me dead in the eyes and said, I don't know. My heart dropped. I went into protective mode and my instincts made me put the boy behind me. I looked back at the man who was now approaching us. My heart was beating so hard. I told the girls we were leaving right now and grabbed the baby. The girls complained but headed for their bikes behind the man. I looked around, but no one else was there.

I only saw some people walking along the street at the bottom of the hill, so I could shout to them if needed. I warned him to stay back and held on to the boy. He asked what I was doing, looking at my grip on the boy. I was panicking and backing away. He told me to let go of him. I told him what the boy said and that if he touches him or I, I will scream, looking toward the people so that he knew we weren't technically alone.

He kind of laughed nervously and addressed the boy who didn't even look at him or move. I told him to leave us alone. He just stared at me in shock with his hands up, like I was the dangerous one. I said I'm calling the police, letting go of the boy, and got my phone out, the baby still in my arms. He panicked and said that he was his stepdad, or soon to be stepdad. I said, yeah right. He explained that he was dating his mother, and she was still at work, so he got him from school and brought him here until she gets home.

I didn't believe him, so I started dialing, better to have them deal with this, and be safe not sorry. As I spoke, shaking like crazy, I beckoned the boy to stay by me and away from the man. The boy was silently crying, poor little guy was terrified. The man was exasperated and bright red which made me more nervous cause what if he hurts me or the kids? My girls were watching on their bikes and asking me what's going on. The worst part was waiting for the police. He was between me and the girls, and I was between him and a fence.

The police came pretty quickly though, and I explained everything, and the man tried to explain himself. The police were also skeptical of him, thank God I wasn't just overreacting. I told the boy how good he was coming to me for help and the policewoman took the boy. The man called his girlfriend, the boy's mother, to get her to come. I didn't want to just leave, I felt responsible since the boy came to me for help and comfort. So, I let the girls continue playing on the playground while we waited for the mother who came straight away. When she arrived, the boy ran straight to her crying. The police explained, I explained, and the mother was so embarrassed.

I pretty much told her off, and the man, of course, for scaring me, my girls and the boy. The boy hardly knows the man, hardly recognizes who he is and doesn't understand what he is to him, and was clearly not comfortable with him. He is too young to get the concept of, Mom's boyfriend, not dad, and when you're that young, remembering people whom you have only met a few times is hard. She was so sorry. I'm glad he wasn't that trusting because a lot of kids get caught out trusting strangers or acquaintances.

Also hard to navigate their parents dating. I finally left with the girls, I had a diaper to change. Felt bad for the man eventually as he was just trying to help his girlfriend out and bond with the kid. And the mom probably thought it would be a good way for him to get to know her son, one-on-one. But they didn't think about the boy's feelings and how outsiders would perceive. I am scarred from it, though. Thought he was a pedo-aducting him and that he was going to hurt me and or the children.

When I bought the cabin, everyone in town told me I was crazy. It was old, sure, and a little isolated, but that's what I wanted. A place to escape, to write, to think. I ignored their warnings about the woods. People don't go up there anymore, they said. Not since the stories started, I didn't believe in stories. The first week was peaceful. I spent my mornings hiking the trails and my nights by the fireplace,

trying to finish a novel that had been half written for years. The quiet was exactly what I needed. Then, one night, I heard it. A whistle. At first, I thought it was the wind slipping through the trees. It was faint, almost melodic, carrying just enough rhythm to make me stop and listen. I stepped outside onto the porch, letting the cool night air wrap around me. The forest was dark, the moon barely strong enough to outline the tops of the trees.

The whistle came again. It was closer now, a slow and deliberate tune. sounded like someone was trying to get my attention. Hello. I called out, but my voice felt small against the vastness of the woods. The whistling stopped. I stood there for a while, waiting for something, an answer, a movement, anything, but the forest remained still.

Eventually, I convinced myself it was nothing and went back inside. The next morning, I found footprints in the dirt just below the porch. They weren't boot prints. They were bare feet, long and narrow, like whoever had been standing. there had no business walking barefoot in the cold. I told myself it was just some drifter passing through, but I couldn't shake the feeling that those footprints were waiting for me to notice them. That night, the whistling returned.

It started earlier, just after sunset, and it was louder. I could hear it clearly now, the notes rising and falling like a song. I tried to ignore it, but as the hours passed, it crept closer, until it seemed to be just outside the window. I didn't go to the door this time. Instead, I stayed by the fireplace, clutching the iron poker. The whistle stopped again. I stayed awake all night, staring at the windows and doors, convinced that at any moment, someone,

or something, would come through. But nothing happened. The next morning, the footprints were there again, this time circling the cabin. They weren't alone. A second set, smaller, had joined them. I packed my things. Whatever was out there, I didn't want to find out. As I loaded the car, I felt the air shift.

The forest seemed heavier, the light dimmer, as though the trees themselves were watching me. Then, I heard it closer than ever. The whistle. It wasn't coming from the woods anymore. It was behind me. I turned slowly, heart pounding in my chest. The cabin door stood wide open, swinging gently in the breeze. The whistle came again, low and deliberate, from inside the house.

I quickly ran out as fast as I could, tears rolling down my chest. eyes. I soon made it into my car and quickly rode off into the musky morning. Even weeks later I still can't forget what happened. I don't think I ever will. When I was younger, I didn't have a home. I had been emancipated from my family, and I carried a lot of trauma with me. At 15, I had gone through things no one should ever experience. Being raped, enduring other forms of abuse throughout my childhood, and feeling like I had nowhere to turn left me broken. I turned to drugs, not because I wanted to, but because I was searching for something, anything, to numb the pain. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the answer.

So, I made a decision, I would hitchhike around the state, always on a move, so I wouldn't be able to form connections that could leave me back to that dark place. I was young. I was naive. I was scared. I was alone. And one of the first things you learn when you don't have a dark place. home is that people no longer see you as a person. You become something else to them, something less. At 18, I got my first criminal charge. What was my crime? Sleeping in a public park.

I remember it vividly. I was asleep, exhausted, and suddenly, I was being shaken awake by a cop. You can't sleep here. Move along. But where was I supposed to go? That was the whole problem. That was the whole I had nowhere. It didn't matter. I was still charged. When you walk down the street homeless, people look away. They pretend they don't see you. You could be starving, freezing, crying, it doesn't matter. People avert their eyes. And the worst part? It starts to get to you. You start believing that you really are less than human. That you don't deserve kindness or respect, or even basic decency. You learn quickly that public restrooms aren't for you. You can be standing outside, absolutely desperate, but they'll turn you away because you, look homeless. If someone else,

someone dressed nicer, walked in right before you, they'd get in without a second glance. You, though, you're different. You're not welcome. People yell at you. They insult you. They treat you like a disease. It breaks you. One day, I was sitting on the sidewalk. I had a sign that just said, hungry. That was it. Nothing dramatic. Just the truth. I didn't have any real skills, I couldn't hold a job because I was constantly moving, and honestly, I was terrified of having too much money at one time. My sobriety was still fresh, and I knew myself well enough to know that temptation could creep up on me at any moment. Looking back, I understand the issues with begging, and it's not something I'd do again. But at that moment, I was just trying to survive. Then she came.

A woman walked by me, holding the hands of two young daughters. She glanced down at my sign. And then, instead of walking past me like everyone else, instead of pretending I wasn't there, she stopped. She looked me right in the eyes and said, you're hungry. Well, why don't you come eat with us? I was stunned. You have to understand, people usually shielded their kids from me. I was something taboo, something parents didn't want their children to acknowledge. I'd hear kids ask their parents why I was sitting there, why I looked the way I did, and the parents would hush them and hurry them along, as if even speaking about me was dangerous. I had gotten used to it. But here she was, inviting me to eat with her and her children. I hesitated. It felt

unreal. But she was serious. She led me into the restaurant, sat me down at the table with her daughters, and asked me about my life, about why I was on the streets, about me as a person. And she actually listened. She wasn't afraid of me. She wasn't looking at me like I was some broken thing beyond repair. She was treating me like a human being. Like I mattered. That was something I hadn't felt in a long time. She bought me breakfast. And then, as if that wasn't enough, she got me dessert, too. I tried to refuse. I didn't feel like I deserved that kindness. But she insisted. Before I left, she handed me some money and a small piece of paper with her phone number on it. Call me if you ever need anything, she said. Her name was Dawn. I will never forget her.

Dawn, if somehow you're reading this, you reminded me that day that I was still human. That I wasn't some monster, some lost cause. You gave me something more important than food, you gave me hope. I don't know if you ever knew just how much that meant to me. But I need you to know, I never forgot. I wish I still had her number. I would call her in a heartbeat. But I lost it when my backpack was stolen a few months later. In case anyone cares, my life is different now. I have been sober for six years.

I have a place to live. I have a job. I'm almost done with my associate's degree. And for those wondering how I got housed, it wasn't luck. It wasn't some magical, overnight transformation. It was social programs. Programs funded by federal, state, and local governments. That's the reality. I got into a rehab program paid for by Medicaid. Then I entered a transitional housing program funded by my county and the federal housing authority. And right now, I'm still using my Section 8

housing voucher to afford a place to live. But things are looking up. I work in IT now, and my goal is to become fully self-sufficient soon. So if there's one thing I can say with absolute certainty, it's this, fund social programs. They work. And to anyone out there struggling, feeling like no one sees you, like you're invisible, you are not. You are still human. You still matter. And even if it takes time, even if the road is long, things can get better. I promise. In August, everything in my world changed. My then 14-month-old son was sitting with his big brother when I glanced over at him and felt my stomach drop. He looked, off.

Lethargic, almost like he wasn't really there. My mind started racing, and then it hit me. I couldn't remember the last time he had a wet diaper. I checked, and sure enough, nothing since the previous night. A horrible sense of dread washed over me. Was something wrong with his kidneys? I didn't hesitate. I called my husband, my voice shaking as I told him to come home from work immediately.

Then, I rushed my baby to the emergency department, my heart pounding with every mile. When we arrived, the doctors ran tests and soon discovered that his blood was dangerously acidic. Before I could even process that information, they made the decision to life-flight him to the nearest children's hospital. I watched helplessly as my baby was loaded onto a helicopter, the blades chopping through the air, carrying him away from me. That image will forever be burned into my mind. At the children's hospital, the doctors were able to stabilize his acid levels, which was a relief, until the real nightmare began. We spent two grueling weeks there. Test after test. Question after question. And then came the answer I had feared but never imagined, my son had a mitochondrial disorder.

A condition so rare that the doctors had never seen his specific type before. His cells weren't producing enough energy, only about 5% of what they should. Every single part of his little body was struggling, and no one could tell us what that meant for his future. We brought him home, trying to adjust to a new reality. He was on a feeding tube. Our days revolved around his care, and though it was exhausting, I clung to hope. We had him home for five weeks.

Five short, precious weeks. Then, one October morning at 6 a.m., my husband's voice cut through the fog of sleep like a knife. The baby is blue. I need you to wake up, he needs to go to the hospital. Everything after that was a blur. I threw on clothes, scooped my son into his car seat. and drove like my life depended on it. In a way, it did, because his did.

We live in a rural area, and waiting for an ambulance would have taken too long. My home oxygen monitor showed his levels weren't climbing past 75%. Terror gripped me as I pushed the gas pedal harder. When we arrived, the hospital staff quickly assessed him. It was happening all over again. He needed to be flown back to the children's hospital. I stood there, helpless, as another helicopter carried him away from me. It was just like before, but worse, because now, I knew how bad it could get.

The second day at the hospital, everything fell apart. He went into respiratory failure. I can still hear the alarms blaring, the frantic voices of doctors and nurses, the words I never wanted to hear, we need to intubate him. They placed him on a ventilator. Two months passed in that hospital room. Two months of fear. Two months of watching machines keep my baby alive.

Two months of hoping and praying that he'd get better. Every time they tried to take him off the ventilator, it got harder and harder for his tiny body to breathe on its own. But I still clung to hope. I told myself he just needed more time. That he'd fight through it. That we'd bring him home and have years, decades, with him. But the universe had other plans. Five rounds of pneumonia, all contracted in the

hospital. Each one worse than the last. Each one stealing more of his strength. I refused to believe it was the end. I couldn't. I convinced myself that they were just setbacks. That we'd get past them. Then came the MRI. The news shattered me. His brain stem, The part of his brain responsible for keeping him alive, was irreparably damaged. It was over. The doctor sat us down and explained, in the most clinical way possible, that our son would never recover. That his brain had lost the ability to keep him breathing. That there was nothing more they could do except make him comfortable.

Hospice My 18-month-old baby was going on hospice care. December 7, an ambulance brought us home. I held his tiny hand the whole ride, knowing this was it. They had told us we might have a few weeks. Maybe even a month. Time. They said we'd have time.

But they were wrong. As soon as they carried him into our house, they removed the breathing tube. I sat on the couch, my arms open, finally allowed to hold my son again. The moment they took the tube out, I knew. His body struggled for air. A horrible, raspy breath. His lips tinged blue. The nurse's voice was gentle but firm, he's going.

I cradled him, pressing my lips to his forehead, whispering the words I had told him every single day in that I see you. You are my sun, and my moon, and my starlit sky. Without you, I dwell in darkness. His final breaths were ragged and painful. The sound still haunts me. They gave him oxygen, but it was useless. We all knew it.

I watched the light leave his eyes. One moment, he was here. The next, he was just, gone. I don't remember much after that. Grief swallowed me whole. It's been 28 days. 28 mornings of waking up and remembering all over again. Of reaching for a baby that isn't there.

of realizing that there's no bottle to make, no giggles to hear, no tiny arms reaching for me. 28 nights of lying awake, haunted by the sound of his last breath. The world moves on. People go about their lives. But I am stuck in this nightmare, screaming inside, my child died. Doesn't anyone care? It still doesn't feel real. I don't know if it ever will.

Mone had always been drawn to the cemetery. Not in a morbid, gothic way, as many of her classmates teased. No, for her, the cemetery was a place of mystery, a sanctuary of sorts, where the voices of the past spoke to her in ways that no one else could understand. As a child, she would sit quietly among the graves, her small fingers tracing the cold stone markers as if they held the secrets of the world. She had no particular reason to be fascinated by gravestones. There was no family tradition of visiting the dead, no cryptic legend passed down through generations. It was simply the way the cemetery made her feel, alive in a way that no other place could. When Moni was young, she had always felt an odd connection to the dead.

Not that she could see them, at least not in the way you would imagine. But she could feel them. It was as though their stories lingered in the dead. the earth, carried in the wind, whispered by the very stones themselves. It was her grandfather's grave that started it all. The memory of that day was forever etched into her mind, as clear and vivid as the sun that had burned her pale skin when she first stepped onto the hallowed ground. She was seven years old, small for her age, with dark brown eyes and an unruly mass of curls that seemed determined to escape her scalp at all times. She had been playing in the field near her home, chasing

butterflies and pretending to be a knight-saving a kingdom, when she found herself drawn to the old cemetery at the edge of the hill. The gates had always been ajar, and on this day, Money felt an overwhelming urge to enter. She had no real reason to, no explanation for the magnetic pull she felt toward the place. But something inside her told her that it was where she needed to be. As she crossed the threshold, the air grew still. The birds, once chirping merrily, seemed to hold their breath, and the trees swayed with a gentle hum that she would later come to recognize as the dead whispering. Her bare feet kissed the cool grass, and her small hands instinctively reached out to the first

gravestone they came across. It was her grandfather's grave. He had died when Moni was barely old enough to remember him, but her mother spoke of him often, with a wistful tone in her voice. She had always described him as a strong man, a gentle soul who had once been the backbone of their family. His gravestone was simple, nothing too ornate, nothing too grand. Just his name etched into the stone, with the dates of his birth and death. Money knelt in front of it, her fingers trembling as they touched the cold stone surface. The moment her skin made contact, a sudden

sensation surged through her. It wasn't a physical pain, but something far more profound. It was as though a wave of memories had washed over her, flooding her mind with images and emotions that were not her own. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she pulled her hand back, her eyes wide with shock. She looked around, as if expecting someone to be watching her. But the cemetery was empty, save for the rows of gravestone standing like sentinels in the quiet afternoon light. Moni's gaze returned to the stone before her, and without thinking, she placed her hand back against it. This time, there was no hesitation. No fear. Instead, a flood of images crashed into her consciousness, overwhelming her. She was no longer in the cemetery. She was in a small,

dimly lit room, the walls adorned with faded wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture. An elderly man sat in a chair, his hands clasped in front of him, his face lined with age and wisdom. He looked sad, lost in thought. Moni recognized him immediately. It was her grandfather. She could hear his voice, though it wasn't spoken aloud. It was more of a feeling, an imprint of his words, his emotions. I always thought I'd be around to see you grow up, Moni, he seemed to say.

But life has a way of slipping through your fingers. The room began to shift, the walls melting away, replaced by images of a younger version of her grandfather. He was standing in a field, his back straight, his face full of determination as he worked the land. The image blurred, and Moni found herself on a busy street, watching her grandfather walk through the crowd. The world around him seemed so loud, so vibrant, but he moved with such quiet grace, as if untouched by the noise of the world. Moni could feel his exhaustion, his burdens, his quiet struggle. She could sense his longing for a family, for peace, and for a life beyond the work that consumed him. As quickly as the visions had come, they disappeared, leaving Moni breathless, her heart pounding

in her chest. She staggered backward, falling to the ground, her hands gripping the grass for support. The world around her seemed different now, darker, heavier. The whispers of the dead were no longer just distant echoes. They were here, all around her, waiting to be heard. The air seemed to shift as if the very atmosphere had changed. The wind picked up, stirring the branches of the trees, and Moni felt a strange pull toward the other graves. She stood shakily, wiping the dirt from her hands, and slowly made her way through the rows of stones. Each one seemed to call to her, each one hiding a secret, a life, a story waiting to be uncovered. Moni didn't know what had just happened to her.

She didn't understand what the vision meant, or why it had happened at that moment. But one thing was clear, she was no longer the same girl who had walked into the cemetery just moments before. The world of the dead had opened up to her, and there was no going back. The sun was setting by the time Mony made her way back home, the weight of what she had experienced pressing on her small shoulders. She didn't speak a word of it to her mother, who had been busy in the kitchen preparing dinner. But Mony knew that her life had just changed in ways she couldn't yet comprehend. In the days that followed, Mone's curiosity grew. She found herself drawn to the cemetery more often, returning to her grandfather's grave,

and then exploring the other graves around her. She would touch the stones, and each time, a new vision would flood her mind. Sometimes it was a memory of a person who had lived long ago, sometimes it was an event, a story that had never been told. It didn't take long before Moni realized that she could not stop the visions. She could not close herself off from the dead. They had found her, and she had found them. And so, she began her quiet journey, wandering from one grave to the next, collecting the

fragments of lives that had been forgotten. It wasn't until much later that Moni would understand the full weight of what had been awakened in her that day. For now, she was just a child, still trying to make sense of the world around her. her, and still coming to terms with the strange power she held in her hands. It wasn't just memory or imagination. It was something buried deep in the earth, the voices of the dead would always be with her, whispering from beneath the tomb.

To be contiute. The cemetery behind St. Clarice Church had a peculiar way of absorbing sound, as though the dead had struck some quiet pact with the earth to hold everything still. Morning mist clung to the grass in silvery threads, wrapping tombstones in ghostly veils, while the trees stood solemn like witnesses long past morning. Moni moved slowly along the gravel path, her boots muffled by moss and softened earth, her breath visible in the chill that lingered just before dawn. She wasn't there for anyone in particular. No anniversaries. No flowers.

Just a growing instinct, something almost ritualistic now, pulling her to the cemetery like a tide that never stopped returning. Since discovering her strange gift, if it could be called that, Mone had begun to walk through graveyards not as a visitor, but as something between a thief and a confessor. She didn't always know what she was looking for until it reached out to her. She passed graves with names that meant nothing to her, their stories already faint and water-worn,

until something shifted in the air, an invisible gravity that turned her head without thinking. It wasn't a voice, not quite, but a hush beneath the wind, a pause in the rhythm of the morning that made her stop. The stone was tucked beneath the tangled arms of a yew tree, nearly swallowed by ivy and time. It leaned ever so slightly to the right, as though the earth beneath it had exhaled too deeply and let it sink. Most of the name had been scraped away by wind and weather, but the remaining letters,

A&A, were enough. Mony didn't need more to know this was the one. She approached slowly, as if afraid the stone might recoil. Her fingers hovered above its surface before pressing lightly against it. The chill of the stone soaked into her skin, and she closed her eyes, not in fear, but in readiness. She braced herself for the current. And then, the world tilted. The scent of tea leaves and old lemon peel filled the air.

The hum of a refrigerator buzzed faintly in the background, mingling with the distant ticking of a wall clock. Anastasia Calderon stood in the center of a small kitchen, her bare feet rooted to the cold tile, the porcelain shards of a broken teacup scattered at her feet like bone. Her hands trembled, one still loosely holding the handle that had survived the fall. Across from her, framed in the soft rectangle of a hallway's dim light, stood her son, his arms limp at his sides, his sleeves darkened by something wet and red, though it was unclear whether it was paint, blood, or some combination of the two. Neither of them spoke. There was a silence between them that had weight, a kind of invisible pressure that made breathing

difficult. It wasn't the silence of misunderstanding, but of resignation. This was not the beginning of a tragedy, Moni realized, it was its slow, inevitable conclusion. The boy turned suddenly and disappeared into the dark, his footsteps light and fast, like someone escaping the scene. He was a of a crime he had no words for. The vision cracked and surged. Moni was pulled through Anastasia's memories like a ghost slipping between rooms. She saw Anastasia at her writing desk, fingers hovering above keys she could no longer bring herself to press.

She saw her folding laundry with robotic precision, her eyes glazed over, her mouth stitched shut by the weight of things unspoken. She read letters never sent, heard lullabies sung to empty rooms. The woman's life was a quiet, echoing ache that moved from day to day without ever quite surfacing. People spoke about Anastasia when they thought she couldn't hear. She's not right in the head, one neighbor whispered. Poor thing never recovered after her husband left. Another added, that boy's always been off.

It's in the blood, maybe, Anastasia didn't defend herself. She simply carried on, walking her son to school, picking up groceries. folding the same sheets she once made love between. The bruises that dotted her life were not always visible, but they were there, in the stillness of her voice, in the absence of photographs on the wall. Moni watched as Anastasia tried, again and again, to hold herself together for a boy who had already begun to come apart.

She saw a birthday cake left uneaten, a drawer filled with apology notes never read, and a police report that was never filed. Then came the stairs. Anastasia stood at the top, bathed in the weak light of a hallway bulb, her hands clutching a porcelain doll, its face cracked, one I'm missing. It had been her son's gift to her once, now broken in anger. She didn't look angry, though.

She didn't even look sad. She looked emptied out, like a room that had been cleared of furniture but still smelled faintly of its former occupant. Voices rose from below. Their sons first, pleading and sharp. Then a man's, low, booming, violent. Mone couldn't see his face, but his presence filled the stairwell like smoke. There was shouting, then a sudden, unnatural silence.

And then something fell. The doll hit first, clattering down the wooden steps, piece by piece, until it landed in a pile of limbs and porcelain dust. A second sound followed, duller, heavier. Anastasia was gone. Moni gasped as she came back to herself, hand still resting against the gravestone. Her chest heaved once, then again, as though the vision had sucked the air from her lungs. She staggered backward, sitting on the cold grass, blinking against the weight of what she had just seen.

What had happened on those stairs? Had Anastasia fallen, or been pushed? Had she jumped? Had the man, the voice in the dark, been real? or a memory warped by fear. The answers were not clean. The past rarely was. But the ache in Moni's ribs told her something was unresolved, something left behind, not by mistake,

but because no one cared enough to carry it forward. She began writing that night. It wasn't immediate, not in the sense of fingers flying across a keyboard in cinematic urgency. Instead, she began by sitting in silence for hours, the image of Aniston. Anastasia burned behind her eyes. Then she opened her journal and began to sketch the outline of a life, not precisely Anastasia's, but close enough to feel true. The woman became Isadora in Moni's story.

The boy, Mateo. She changed names in cities and decades, but the emotion remained untouched, the grief, the fracture, the echoing sorrow of a woman falling into silence while the world looked away. The book, The Silent Staircase, took nearly a year to finish. When it was published, it rippled quietly at first, reviewers called it eerie, beautifully written, psychologically harrowing. Then the letters came. From mothers. From mothers.

From women who said they had never felt seen until now. Moni read them all, one by one, her hand sometimes trembling as she turned each envelope. of the readers asked the same question, how did you know? She never answered. Before winter's frost set in, she returned to Anastasia's grave one last time. The yew tree had lost most of its leaves, and the stone looked smaller somehow, diminished not just by time, but by the quiet burden of being remembered. She knelt again, pressing her fingers gently to the cool surface. I told them, she whispered. And the wind, as it passed through the cemetery gates, seemed to sigh in response. To be continued. The mornings began to stretch longer, the daylight

creeping through her curtains in thin, eager beams. Mony was sixteen when she first recognized the weight of her gift, though at the time she hadn't called it that. She simply knew it to be something strange, something that made her both special and, in some ways, profoundly broken. She had known for years that touching a gravestone could draw out memories of the deceased, but it wasn't until she grew older, more curious, more reckless, that she realized how far she could push it. Some nights, as her fingers brushed against the cool stone of a forgotten tomb, the world around her would shudder and vanish entirely, leaving her to step into the shoes of another life, another soul. It started with harmless visits into the local cemetery, a place she knew well.

The gravestones were like old friends, familiar, worn smooth by time and history. Each one had a story to tell, and in the quiet of the cemetery, Moni learned to listen. She would kneel by the stone of someone long dead, press her palm against it, and let her mind fall into the echo of their life. The first was a war hero named Thomas Caldwell. His life was one of sacrifice, honor, and loss. Mone felt the weight of it all, the long marches, the battles fought far from home, the quiet longing for a woman he had loved.

In those fleeting moments, she was Thomas. She tasted the salt of his sweat, the burn in his muscles, the cold fear that nodded him during the war's bloodiest hours. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Her hand would leave the stone, and she would be back in the world she knew, a little shaken, a little changed, but eager to chase the next story. The thrill of discovery, of stepping into the shoes of strangers, began to consume her. Moni started visiting cemeteries in different towns, each time drawn by a name, a story,

an echo she could not resist. She became something of a wanderer, following the call of the dead wherever it led. The more she touched, the more she learned, and the more she craved. By the time she was 18, Moni had been. begun to write. Her first book, an attempt at capturing the stories she'd uncovered, was nothing but fragmented memories and half-formed thoughts. The words poured from her like water from a broken dam, and when it was finished, it felt like nothing more than an exercise in indulgence. But something in it had sparked a fire, and when it was sent out into the world,

the world responded. The silent staircase was published on a whim. The story, loosely based on the life of a woman named Anastasia Vaughn, who had died under mysterious circumstances in the 1800s, was raw, visceral, and haunting. The critics were divided, some calling it genius, others dismissing it as melodrama. But the book caught fire. Readers fell in love with the way it made them feel as if they were walking through a graveyard themselves, hearing the whispers of the dead. Money hadn't expected this. She had written it as a tribute, a way to give voice to a woman who had been forgotten by time. But now, as she looked at the success of her book, a gnawing feeling began to take root. She had taken Anastasia's death and turned it into art.

She channeled her sorrow and fear into words, transforming it into something others could consume. People were reading her book, unaware that every word had been drawn from the real, living memories of the dead. It was her gift. Her curse. Soon, the offers came. Publishers wanted more of her stories, stories from the graveyard she frequented, stories of lives long gone, deaths misunderstood, or forgotten. It was as if her gift had turned into a business, a commodity. The lines blurred, and she struggled to find her footing in this new world of fame and expectation. She wrote more books, each one more successful than the last. But with each success, the questions became harder to ignore.

How many of the people she wrote about had truly wanted their lives told. How many had simply been lost souls, forgotten by history, left to haunt their graves in peace. There were nights when Moni would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the faces of the people whose lives she had bled onto the page. She could still hear them sometimes, the echo of their voices, the tremor in their words. Did they know she was using their memories? Did they understand that she was taking their pain and making it something for others to consume? Her second book, Shattered Memories, was a hit, just as expected. But this time, the story came with a price.

The life she had relived was that of a young man named Jack Thorne, a boy who had died in a grip of madness, his body found in an abandoned house miles from civilization. His family had never found out the truth, and Jack's death remained a mystery. When Mony first touched Jack's gravestone, she felt his grief like a weight pressing on her chest. The anguish, the fear, the sense of betrayal, it flooded her mind. She saw him in the days before his death, his growing paranoia, his isolation. She felt the cold, stifling air of the house where he had taken his final breath. She felt the sharp ache of his mother's unspoken questions, the love that had failed to save him.

And she wrote it all down, word for word. But with that book came something Mone hadn't expected, Jack's memory became a haunting presence. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, twisted in confusion, his eyes filled with pleading. She began to question herself more, question her motives, her ethics. Was it worth it? Was it right to take someone's death, someone's pain,

and turn it into a story for the world to consume? The line between what was real and what was fiction became increasingly difficult to see. The people she had written about, were they alive in her memory, or had she simply appropriated their lives for her own gain? There was no turning back now. Moni had found something in the graveyards, something beyond the dead. It was the way their stories made her feel alive, the way they gave her purpose. But that purpose was becoming something darker, something she didn't know how to control. The questions never stopped.

Was it a gift? Or was it a curse? She would spend weeks or months trying to answer that question, but each time she thought she had found clarity, the answer would slip through her fingers. And so, she kept writing, her books becoming more successful, her fame growing, but the weight of her gift, the responsibility of it, felt heavier each day. She had become a thief of souls, taking their most intimate moments and turning them to something others would devour. The fame she had once craved felt hollow now. The stories no

longer brought her peace, instead, they weighed on her, suffocating her with guilt. She wondered if the dead even wanted to be remembered this way, if they sought this kind of immortality. With each new book, the darkness grew, and Moni wondered if she'd ever escape it. She would spend her life chasing answers that would never come, trapped in a cycle of her own making, listening to the dead, but never truly at peace. To be continued. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fading sunlight as Mony wandered deeper into the cemetery. The rose of gravestone seemed endless, their stone faces weathered by time and neglect. It was a place she had come to know well over the years, a sanctuary for her restless soul. Yet, today, there was something

different in the air, a subtle shift, a whisper at the edge of her consciousness. And then she saw it. Lucian Vespera's grave was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the cemetery, nearly hidden by overgrown ivy and wild grass. The stone was dark, almost as if it absorbed the light around it rather than reflecting it. Its surface was cracked and worn, the inscription faint, but the name, Lucian Vespera, still legible. Money felt an odd pull as she approached, her fingers itching to touch the cold stone, though something within her whispered to turn away. She hesitated for a moment, but curiosity overpowered caution. She placed her hand on the gravestone.

Instantly, the world around her blurred. The sky darkened, and the wind began to howl, as if the earth itself was trying to push her away. She was falling into something deep, something that had no light. The ground beneath her feet seemed to vanish, and she was no longer in the cemetery. She was standing in the midst of a dense, shadowed forest, the trees, twisted and unnaturally gnarled, their branches stretching like long, bony fingers. A figure appeared before her, a boy, no older than ten, dressed in tattered clothes, his face pale with fear. His dark eyes flickered nervously over his shoulder, and his breath came in shallow gasps,

as though he were running from something. He looked desperate, lost, and the woods around him seemed alive with a sense of malice. Moni's heart raised as she stepped closer to him. She could hear his footsteps pounding the earth, his breath quickening with panic. There was something chasing him. Something he couldn't outrun. The sound of boots crunching through dead leaves. The boy's gaze flickered back once more, his face a mask of pure terror. And then, she saw it, a dark figure emerging from the shadows, a tall man wearing a checkered coat,

his eyes gleaming with malice. The man's hands were bloodstained, and the boy's eyes widened. as he tried to run faster. But it was too late. The boy's body hit the ground with a sickening thud. Moni could feel the boy's pain, a searing heat that tore through his chest as he fell to the earth. The figure loomed over him, a sinister smile curling on his lips.

The boy cried out, but the man silenced him with a swift, brutal motion. The forest grew darker, and the world shifted again. The boy was now older, his face gaunt and hollowed. His once bright eyes clouded with despair. He stood in the center of a dimly lit courtroom, surrounded by the accusing eyes of the townspeople. His hands were bound with thick ropes, and his posture was defeated, as though the weight of the world had already crushed him. The whispers filled the air.

Guilty, murderer, cursed, the boy, no, the man, stood there, his face pale, his spirit crumbling under the crushing weight of their judgment. There were no words of defense, no one to speak in his favor. He had been condemned long before he had ever been given a chance. And yet, as the verdict was passed, as the final word echoed in the room, he could feel a flicker of something deep inside him, a small spark of defiance, of rage. He had been wronged. Moni's chest tightened as the images shifted once more.

She could see Lucian Vespera, now an adult, alone in a darken cell. His eyes were empty, hollowed out by years of isolation, the walls around him closing in. No one had ever cared to know the truth of what had happened to him. No one had ever bothered to ask. His fate had already been sealed long before the court had pronounced him guilty. The images swirled violently, a blur of faces and places, but Mone was no longer able to grasp them. The fragments of Lucian's memories were too chaotic, too broken to piece together.

It was as though his soul had been shattered, his past torn apart by unseen hands, his truth buried beneath layers of lies and whispers. Moni pulled her hand away from the gravestone, gasping for air. The world around her snapped back into focus, the quiet of the cemetery replacing the storm in her mind. She stumbled back, her legs weak beneath her, as the weight of the memories pressed down on her chest. She could still feel it, the boys' fear, his confusion, his pain. But there was something else, something that lingered like a shadow. Something wrong. Lushan's soul was broken,

torn into pieces by forces beyond his control. The memory she had just witnessed, those chaotic, fragmented glimpses, were a reflection of something deeper, something more insidious. His past was a tangled web of violence, betrayal, and manipulation. His death was not the end, but rather the beginning of a much darker story, one that Mone was only beginning to unravel. The wind shifted again, and Mone shivered. She could still feel the weight of Lucian's gaze on her, the haunting echo of his presence lingering in the air. He was still there, trapped in the broken fragments of his past, waiting for someone to understand. Waiting for someone to give his story the voice it had long been

denied. Monee knew then that she couldn't walk away, not yet. She had to know more. She had to find out what had happened to Lucian, what had led to the brokenness of his soul. She had to uncover the truth, no matter how dark it might be. With a steadying breath, Mone turned away from the grave, her heart heavy with the burden of the memories she had just witnessed. She didn't know how far this journey would take her, or how much of Lucian's story she could bear to uncover, but she one thing for certain. Lucian Vesporus story was far from over. To be continued, Moni found herself returning to the graveyard again and again. Each time, she sought a different grave, a different soul, but none had left such an imprint on her mind as Lucian Vesporus.

She could still feel the remnants of his memories lingering around her, clinging to her skin like dust from a forgotten world. The fragments she had seen had left her shaken, uncertain of what she had truly witnessed. But it was his youth, the innocence she glimpsed before the pain, that troubled her the most. It had been hours since her last visit to Lucian's grave, but the sense of loss, of a shattered soul, stayed with her. As soon as she entered her apartment that evening, the air seemed thick, almost suffocating, as though the walls themselves knew the weight of what she had learned. Mone didn't know why she felt compelled to go back to the cemetery again so soon. There were other graves to explore, other souls to meet, but Lucian's, his memory haunted her.

There was something unfinished, something more she needed to understand. The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, she found herself standing at the gate of the old cemetery once again. She had resolved to uncover more of Lucian's past, to find out what had led him down the dark path that had left him alone and broken. As she approached his grave, she found herself remembering the figure of her. she had seen, the boy whose eyes had been filled with such deep fear. This time, when she touched the cold stone of Lucian's grave, she was ready. The storm of his memories hit her again, but she fought against it, trying to hold on to whatever thread she could find in the chaos. The landscape around her changed once more, but this time, it was not the dark forest she

had seen before. This time, Mone was somewhere else. Somewhere warmer, brighter, yet still marked by a deep, unspoken sadness. Lucian was there, young again, no older than 15. He stood in the dimly lit hallway of a house Money didn't recognize. The room was sparse, the furniture simple and worn, with thick dust covering every surface as if it had been left untouched for years. Lucian's posture was rigid, his face pale and drawn. He was holding something tightly in his hands, his fingers trembling with a nervous energy.

It was a bundle of letters. The letters were carefully folded, each one tied with a simple string. They were yellowed with age, their edges frayed from being handled too many times. Lucian held them as though they were precious, something to be kept safe from the world. Yet there was no warmth in his eyes, no comfort in his expression. He was standing alone in the hallway, and his loneliness was palpable, sinking into the air like the dust around him. Mone watched him silently, unable to move. She was a spectator in his life, watching through a veil that separated them, both of them

trapped in time, unable to reach one another. Lucian's eyes flickered to the door at the far end of the hallway. A sense of dread filled the air, and Mone could feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest. His gaze lingered on the door, as if he was waiting for something, or someone, to come through. The longer he stood there, the more Mony felt the tension building. The letters in his hands seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment, his fingers tightening around them. A sound broke the silence.

Footsteps. The door creaked open, revealing a figure standing in the threshold. Moni couldn't see the face clearly, but she could feel the tension between them, the unsaid words hanging in the air like an invisible fog. Lushan's eyes flickered with both hope and fear, as though he had been expecting something, someone, but wasn't entirely ready for it. The person stepped inside. It was a man, older than Lucian, with sharp features and a stern expression. His clothes were simple, yet there was an authority to his posture, a quiet power that seemed to demand respect. His gaze fell upon Lucian, and Moni felt the sudden shift in the room, an oppressive silence, as if the very air had been sucked out. The man said nothing. He said nothing,

for a long while, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Lucian, who was still clutching the bundle of letters to his chest. The weight of the moment pressed down on both of them, and Moni could feel the sharp sting of a thousand unsaid words, each one like a dagger in the heart. Finally, the man spoke, his voice low and cold. You still think these will change anything. Lucian's face flushed with a mixture of shame and anger, but he didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the letters in his hands, as though they held the key to something that had been taken from him long ago. His fingers trembled, and Moni could see the desperation in his eyes as he clutched them tighter.

I wrote them, every night, Lucian said quietly, almost to himself. I never gave them to him, but I wrote them. I thought if I could just, if I could just get him to understand. To see what I've become. I thought maybe, maybe he would come for me. Maybe he would, enough, the man interrupted, stepping closer to him. You're wasting your time. Lucian's head snapped up, and for the first time, Moni saw the raw pain in his eyes.

I'm not wasting my time. You don't understand. You never understood, you think he cares. The man's voice grew colder, cutting through the air like a blade. Do you honestly think he would? would ever care for someone like you. You're nothing. A shadow. A ghost, Lucian recoiled, his face pale as he took a step back, as if struck by the words. The letters in his hands slipped, one by one, to the floor, scattered like fragile leaves in the wind. Mone's heart

clenched as she saw the boy, no longer able to hold on to his fragile hope, his dreams slipping away in the cold air between them. The man stood silent for a long moment, watching as Lucian stood frozen, his entire body trembling. Finally, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Lucian standing alone in the hallway. Moni could feel the weight of the silence now hanging in the air, suffocating her. She wanted to reach out, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't alone. But she was just an observer, trapped in a vision that she couldn't change. The image before her began to fade, the house disappearing into a blur of shadows,

And Mone was once again standing at the edge of Lucian's grave, her hand still resting on the cold stone. She blinked, dazed, trying to catch her breath. The world around her slowly came into focus. She was back, standing in the quiet cemetery, but the memory of Lucian's young face, the raw pain of his unspoken words, still lingered in the air, thick and heavy. It was as if a part of him had been torn away, stripped of his hope and innocence, leaving only the remnants of a boy who had been denied everything he had ever needed. Moni stood there, her chest tight with the weight of what she had just witnessed.

She had seen a glimpse of the boy Lucian had been, broken, abandoned, and desperate for the love he had never received. The letters, left unsent, were the last thread of hope he had clung to, and in the end, they had been cast aside like everything else in his life. She felt an overwhelming need to uncover more. There were pieces to this story, pieces of his soul, that she hadn't yet seen. But even as she stepped away from his grave, she knew that the more she uncovered, the deeper she would sink into the darkness that surrounded him.

Moni was just beginning to understand the depth of the tragedy that had been written into his life. It had been some time since Moni had last visited Lucian's grave, but his presence was still haunting her thoughts. She could feel him, his fragmented memories, like echoes of a life that had been erased by time, as if the man he had once been had never truly existed at all. Each visit had unraveled another piece of him, but she still hadn't found the core of his pain, the reason his name had been whispered with such venom and fear. She could feel the weight of it now, the pull drawing her back to him, to his past, to the night that had broken him, because there was a knight, Moni knew, that had broken him. A night filled with blood, iron, and betrayal. It wasn't an

easy thing to confront what Lucian had been through. She had seen his youth, his letters, his unspoken hopes, and yet, the vision of that moment had evaded her. The night of violence, of a brutal loss that would shape him forever, was a story still locked away. But that night had to be here, somewhere in the maze of his memories. She could feel it in the air, heavy as a storm waiting to break. And so, she returned to the cemetery once more. The great The graveyard was quiet, an uneasy calm settling over the gravestones as Moni stepped carefully over the ground. The cool night air wrapped around her like a shroud, but the urgency in her heart propelled

her forward, urging her to reach Lucian's resting place, to feel his memories again. She knelt by the stone, her fingers trembling slightly as she laid them against its cold surface. The moment her skin touched the engraved letters of his name, the world blurred, and she was pulled under, as if being swept into a top of cried a forgotten time. She fell into the depths of Lucian's memories once more. The first thing she noticed was the heat. The night air had a thick, suffocating quality to it, and it smelled of sweat and blood. The ground beneath her feet was dirt-streaked and uneven, and above her, the sky was dark, moonless. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of horses, their hooves pounding against the earth, their rider's voices shouting in harsh, guttural tones.

The sound of metal, of swords clashing, carried on the wind, ringing sharp and cruel. Moni's breath caught in her throat as she turned her head. Lucian was standing in the middle of the chaos, not yet a man, but not quite a boy either. His face was pale, streaked with dirt, his eyes wide, flickering with panic as he looked around, helpless, a ragged breath escaping his lips. He was alone. The world around him was a blur of flashing steel and fire. It was a battle, no, a slaughter.

He was in the midst of a war that was never meant to be his. Lucian's gaze darted from one figure to another, trying to find something to hold on to, but it was all just confusion, a mess of faces and shadows, of lives and deaths tangled together in a way that made no sense. And then, through the haze of battle, Moni saw him, the figure who towered over everything, even the chaos. Lucian's father, Diego, stood at the center, holding a sword in his hand. His movements were deliberate, his expression grim as he fought against the advancing men.

But Mony could see the desperation in his eyes, the way his grip on the sword seemed to falter, as if the weight of the world had become too much for him to bear. Lucian's heart raced, and Mone could feel it, the frantic pulse of a boy who didn't understand what was happening, who didn't know why the men around him were fighting, why his father was fighting. The moment stretched, the world slowing as if time itself had stopped. And then, the blow. A sharp, sickening crack. Lucian's father, Diego, fell to his knees, the sword slipping from his grasp as blood began to pour from the gash on his side. The sounds of battle blurred into an ominous silence as Moni watched, helpless, her own heart-breaking in time with the boys.

Lucian screamed, a sound torn from the deepest parts of him. His father's name echoed in the night, a desperate cry that held no hope. But it was too late. Diego collapsed, the world continuing to spin around him as the life drained from his body. Moni could feel the weight of the moment, the crushing reality of it. Lucian dropped to his knees beside his father, his hands trembling as he reached for Diego's lifeless body, his fingers brushing against the blood-soaked ground. His voice was a whisper, barely audible against the distant.

clamor. No. No, this can't be real. Moni could feel the rawness of the moment, the anguish that gripped Lucian's soul as he cried out to the man who had been his protector, his father. But there was no answer. The world continued its march forward, oblivious to the devastation it had caused, leaving Lucian alone in the wake of the slaughter. And then, as if drawn by the tragic gravity of the moment, another figure appeared in the shadows. A man, one Mone had not seen before. His face was obscured by the dark hood of his cloak, but his presence was undeniable,

like a spectre woven into the very fabric of the night. He moved silently, watching the scene unfold with a cold detachment, as if Lucian's pain was of no consequence. Moni's breath caught as she tried to understand. The figure's hand rested upon the hilt of a blade at his side, his fingers grazing the metal as he watched Lucian, as if you were deciding something, calculating a move in a game of chess. Lucian, still kneeling beside his father, was unaware of the danger that loomed. His world had shattered in an instant, and he couldn't see the man who stood watching him from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The man in the cloak took a step forward, his voice low and cold as he spoke to Lucian, who was too lost in his grief to respond. Your father was a fool, the man said, the words cutting through the silence like a blade. He owed more than he could repay. Lucian's head snapped up, his eyes wild with confusion. He stared at the man, as if trying to make sense of the words, but all he saw was the coldness in the man's eyes, eyes that spoke of nothing but contempt. Your father was no hero, the man continued, his voice carrying a finality that made Lucian's chest tighten.

He died because he was weak. You, boy, you are no different. Moni felt the sting of the man's words like a blow to her own chest. She watched Lucian, a boy who had already lost everything, now being further torn apart by the cruel, careless words of a stranger. She wanted to reach out, to stop the man, to somehow shield Lucian from this last moment of betrayal. But she was powerless, just a witness to a fate that had already been sealed.

Lucian stood, his legs shaking beneath him as he gazed at his father's body, his face pale with disbelief. The man in the cloak stood silently, as if waiting for Lucian to make a decision, to say something, anything. But Lucian didn't speak. Instead, he turned and walked away from the scene, his body is stiff, his mind already spiraling into the darkness that had come with the loss of his father. The last of his innocence had been stolen, leaving nothing but a shell of the boy who had won. once held hope in his hands. Moni's breath caught as the memory began to fade, the image of Lucian walking away from the wreckage of his life, leaving everything behind in search of something he couldn't yet understand.

When Moni opened her eyes, she was back in the cemetery, her fingers still resting on the stone of Lucian's grave. She felt a cold shiver run down her spine, as if the shadows of the past still clung to her skin. The pain, the betrayal, the finality of that night, Lucian's name. She felt a cold shiver run down her spine, night, had become a part of her now. She had witnessed the death of a boy's world, a boy who had been forced to grow up too soon, whose soul had been scarred by violence and loss, to be contiued. The wind picked up as Moni made her way back to the graveyard, her mind still haunted by the echoes of Lucian's memories. The harshness of his father's death, the brutal, heart-shattering image of him lying there in the dirt, was something Moni couldn't shake.

But she instinctively knew the story didn't end there. There were more pieces, more fragments of his life that still needed to be uncovered, like a puzzle whose final picture remained just out of reach. Lucian's pain hadn't been confined to that one night of bloodshed. No, it had lingered, had grown darker, as he was passed from one hand to another, like an unwanted object, discarded and forgotten. Moni felt it in the air, the oppressive weight of what came next. Lucian had been a boy, fragile in ways that no one seemed to understand.

He had been handed over to distant relatives, people who saw him not as family, but as a burden. A thing to be managed, to be controlled, kept out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't just his life that had been shattered. His very existence had been erased from the story of the town. The town that had once whispered his name with suspicion and now spoke of him only in the faintest of shadows, a ghost without a face, a boy who had no place. Moni had been searching for the house of shadows for days, following the threat of Lucian's memories through his tumultuous youth, but nothing could prepare her for what she would find.

It was an old house, hidden at the edge of the village, tucked away behind a wall of brambles and twisted trees. The air around it seemed heavy, as though the very ground beneath its foundation had absorbed decades of sorrow. The windows were dark, the wood of the building long since faded and decayed, its once pristine white paint now chipped and peeling, revealing the raw bones of the house beneath. Moni hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. There was something about the house that felt off, something about the way it seemed to resist her presence, as if it were alive, as if it had witnessed too much to ever let anyone in without demanding a price.

stepping inside, she was immediately struck by the oppressive silence. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of mildew, and the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, protesting against the intrusion. It was strange, this feeling, the sense that everything within these walls had been suspended in time. The house had been abandoned, but it hadn't been forgotten. It had simply been left to wither, as if the people who once lived here had no use for it anymore. Mone's heart quickened. She could feel Lucian's presence here, in the very air around her.

His memories were slipping through the walls like ghostly whispers, seeping into her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the flood of images overwhelm her. She saw Lucian as a child, no older than ten, his face thin and drawn, his eyes wide with an innocence that had already been tainted by too many horrors. He stood at the foot of the stairs in the hallway, his small frame almost swallowed by the shadows of the house. He was waiting for someone, someone who never came. He had been abandoned here, left alone with relatives who had no love for him,

only a bitter obligation to care for him. They kept their distance, rarely speaking to him, and when they did, it was in cold, dismissive tones. They had no time for a boy who had already seen too much, whose name was already cursed in the town's history. They saw him as nothing. more than a reminder of the tragedy that had struck their family, a stain on their reputation. Lucian had learned to keep to himself, to disappear into the shadows. His existence here was as

invisible as the walls that surrounded him. The relatives would go about their lives, ignoring him as if he were an afterthought. No one asked about his day. No one cared to listen to the silence that filled his room at night. He was a ghost, a lingering shadow that they could forget as easily as they could forget a name. Moni felt the weight of that abandonment pressing down on her chest, as if she too were being suffocated by the very walls of the house. She could feel the coldness of the space, the oppressive loneliness that had followed Lucian like a shroud.

She saw him, curled up in the corner of the attic, his small body trembling with the cold, his eyes staring into the darkness, waiting for something, anything, to change. But nothing ever did. The house offered no warmth, no refuge. It was a place that had no heart, a place where time itself seemed to stand still, trapped in the ghosts of all the lives that had passed through it. And as much as Lucian had tried to escape, he couldn't. The weight of his history, his pain, was too heavy to outrun.

It clung to him, wrapped itself around him like the very walls of this house, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake it. Mony opened her eyes and found herself standing in the attic now, in the same place where Lucian had once hidden himself. The room was smaller than she had imagined, the low ceiling barely offering enough space to stand fully upright. The walls were lined with old furniture, covered in dust sheets that had long since turned yellow with age. The air was still, thick with the smell of mothballs and decay. There was a small window at the far end of the room, and Mone could see the faint glow of the set of sun through the grind-covered glass. She could almost hear Lucian's footsteps, the faintest sound of a

boy trying to make himself invisible, trying to disappear. The memories here were more vivid than ever before. She could almost see him in the corner, his shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the sleeves of his shirt as if the fabric was the only thing holding him together. And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, a new memory began to unfurl before her, like an ancient scroll being unrolled in the quiet of the attic. Mone saw the figure of a woman, Lucian's aunt, standing in the doorway, her face hard and unforgiving. Lucian stood before her, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his expression one of resignation.

The woman's voice was sharp, like the crack of a whip. You think you're better than this family, she spat. Look at you. You're nothing. You'll never be anything. Lucian's eyes dropped to the floor, and Moni could see the pain in his posture, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders like a boulder. The woman's scorn was a constant in his life, an endless barrage of insults and dismissals, each one chipping away at his fragile sense of self. But the worst part wasn't her words.

It was the silence that followed. The silence that filled the house after she left. Lucian was left alone, once more, with nothing but the shadows to keep it. in company. Moni's chest tightened. She could feel the cold in her bones, the suffocating silence that had strangled Lucian's spirit. This house, this place, had become a tomb for his soul, a place where he had been forgotten, left to wither in the dark. It had taken everything from him, leaving him with nothing but the echoes of words he couldn't escape in a future that seemed as dark as the shadows that had chased him. She reached out to touch the walls, to somehow connect with

the sorrow that lingered in the air. She could feel it then, the weight of it all, the crushing, unrelenting sorrow that had shaped Lucian into the man he would become. This house had been his prison. His burden. And it would haunt him forever. Money withdrew her hand, the weight of his memories pressing on her like a stone in her chest. She stepped back from the attic, her heart heavy with the burden of what she had learned. Lushan's life had been more than just a series of tragic events. It had been a slow, painful unraveling, a journey from innocence to bitterness, from hope to despair. But the story wasn't finished. Not yet. She could feel it, just beyond the shadows. The truth was waiting, and Mone would find it. She would unravel the rest of the story,

piece by piece, until Lucian's soul was finally free. But for now, all she could do was walk away from the house of forgotten shadows, knowing that Lucian's pain would never be left behind, never fully escaped. It would live on in the walls, in the silence, in the haunting memories that refused to fade, to be continued. Moni walked slowly, her footsteps soft against the ground as if trying not to disturb the silence that had settled over the graveyard. She had come here in search of answers, the weight of Lucian's fragmented memories pressing against her like a heavy cloak. The vision from the previous night had left her unsettled, the details of the death of Lucian's father still sharp in her mind. But there was more to this story, she knew it.

The well, the one that had haunted Lucian's memories like a silent sentinel, was calling to her. As she reached the edge of the cemetery, where the stones gave way to thick, untamed vegetation, she found herself staring at the well. It was a relic, aged by time and forgotten by the living, standing in stark conventing. contrast to the neatly tended grave she had come to know. The stones that surrounded it were uneven, half buried in earth, their surface worn smooth by years of neglect. Vines had crept up the sides, and moss had overtaken the rim, but the well still stood, proud and resolute in its solitude. Moni felt an inexplicable pull toward it, an invisible thread connecting

her to the past. The place felt heavy, as if it had been waiting for her to arrive, to finally understand the secret it held. She hesitated, her fingers tracing the contours of the stones, feeling the pulse of something ancient beneath her touch. The wind howled through the trees again, a mournful cry that seemed to echo the grief trapped in the earth beneath her feet. Her breath caught as the first of Lucian's memories began to flood her senses. She saw him, a young boy, no older than twelve, standing at the edge of the well. His face was a mask of fear, his eyes wide and filled with terror as he stared into the dark abyss below. Moni could feel the cold grip of fear wrap around her own chest as the memory came alive,

filling her with an overwhelming sense of dread. Lucian had been so small then, so fragile. He had been standing there alone, watching as his uncle, the last remaining family member who had shown him any affection, leaned over the edge, searching for something in the depths. The well was silent, the air thick with tension. as Lucian's uncle muttered softly to himself. There was no sound except the faint rustle of the leaves, but something was wrong. Mone could feel it, the wrongness of it, the sense that something terrible was about to happen.

The uncle had been so careful, his movements deliberate, but Lucian's small hands trembled as he reached out to touch him, to warn him, but he was too late. The memory played out in slow motion, the world moving as though underwater. Mone saw it clearly, the uncle had lost his balance, his body pitching forward into the dark well, his screama garbled, strangled sound that echoed through the night. The splash that followed was too loud, too violent. Lucian had watched in horror, unable to move, unable to help. And then, the silence.

Moni could feel Lucian's terror, his helplessness. His uncle had fallen, but the world hadn't stopped. It hadn't paused for him to process the death that had just unfolded before his eyes. No one had come to help, no one had cared. Lucian had been left there, alone, with nothing but the memory of his uncle's death and the whispers that followed him for years after. Moni closed her eyes, fighting to shake the memory from her own mind. But it was too late.

The vision was already planted, a seed that had taken root in her consciousness. She was no longer standing at the well. She was Lucian, trapped in that moment of helplessness, feeling the weight of his loss and confusion settle into her chest. The well, the source of so much of Lucian's pain, was now a symbol of all that had been wrong in his life. It was a silent witness to the poison that had seeped into his family, to the darkness that had spread through his past like a disease.

As the vision began to fade, Moni opened her eyes to find herself still standing at the moment. the well. Her fingers were clenched tightly around the stone, her nails digging into the rough surface. She felt dizzy, disoriented, as if the ground beneath her were shifting. But it wasn't the earth that was changing, it was her perception, her connection to Lucian's past, growing stronger with each touch of the stone. The wind shifted, and she turned toward the sound, her heart hammering in her chest. There, in the shadows, was a figure. For a moment, Mone thought it was her imagination, that the memory had somehow twisted her perception.

But as the figure stepped closer, her breath caught. It was the man in the checkered coat. His eyes locked onto hers, and she froze, unable to move. There was something unsettling about his gaze, something predatory. He was a ghost from Lucian's memories, but now, he was here, standing before her as though he had been waiting for this moment, for her to come. His smile was faint, barely perceptible, but it was enough to send a chilled down Mone's spine. For a long, tense moment, neither of them spoke.

The air seemed to thicken, as if the very atmosphere were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Moni's pulse raced, her thoughts scattered as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. Was he a manifestation of Lucian's grief? A figure tied to the memories of his past. Or was he something more? The man in the checkered coat took a step forward, his presence overwhelming. The ground beneath Moni's feet felt unstable, like she was about to be swallowed by the earth itself. The well behind her seemed to pulse with life, as if the memory of Lucian's uncle still echoed

within its depths. Moni opened her mouth to speak, to ask him who he was, but the words caught in her throat. She couldn't find the courage to speak, couldn't make sense of the strange. oppressive feeling that surrounded them both. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the man turned and began to walk away, disappearing into the shadows of the trees. Moni stood there for a moment, frozen, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The air was still again, the only sound the rustle of the leaves as the wind passed through

the branches. The man was gone, but the weight of his presence lingered, pressing on her chest like a vice. Her mind raced, questioned spinning through her thoughts. Who was he? Why had he appeared now? Had he been the one who poisoned Lucian's uncle? Was he connected to the town's dark secrets? But for all the questions that swirled in her mind, one thing was certain, Lucian's story was far from over.

The well had not given up its secrets. The shadows that clung to his memories were not finished, and neither was Mony's journey. There was more to uncover, more to understand, and the truth was just out of reach, like a whisper on the wind. As Moni turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see the man in the checkered coat again, watching her from the edge of the clearing. But there was nothing. Only the quiet of the graveyard, the distant hum of the wind, and the lingering weight of the

past. The truth was close now, she could feel it. And whatever it was, it was waiting for her to find it, to be continued. The next day was no less dreary, the sky a blanket of gray, and Moni found herself drawn back to the cemetery, her feet moving with purpose. The night's unsettling vision still lingered in her mind, the image of the man in the checkered coat seared into her thoughts like a brand. She hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he was more than just a figure from Lucian's memories. There was something, wrong about him. Something that felt all too real.

She walked with a sense of determination now, as if the fog had lifted in her mind and a clearer path was emerging before her, though the path was unclear. The whispers from the tombs grew more louder, and her connection to Lucian's world became stronger. She knew she couldn't rest until she understood who this man was, this ghostly figure who seemed to straddle the border between life and death. Moni made her way to the farthest corner of the cemetery, where the graves grew sparse and the trees towered like sentinels in the mist.

It was here that Lucian's memories had first become most vivid, where she had stood at the edge of the well, the place where everything had begun to unravel. She felt a strange pull toward the very spot where the man had appeared, as though something about it was meant to be discovered. Her steps slowed as she neared the clearing. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees and causing the tombstones to cast long, crooked shadows. The quiet was almost unbearable, oppressive. It was as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Moni stood at the edge of the clearing, scanning the area for any sign of movement. She couldn't explain it, but she felt him. The man in the checkered coat was close.

He was nearby, watching, waiting for her. There was a soft crunch of leaves underfoot. She turned, her heart leaping in her chest, but it was only the wind. Or was it? The sensation that someone was watching her grew stronger, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Slowly, she turned around again, and this time, she saw him. He was standing at the far end of the clearing, leaning casually against an old oak tree, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

The checkered coat he wore. was dark, a deep, almost bruised shade of green and brown, the pattern sharp and disorienting, as if it were both too familiar and utterly foreign at once. His face was partially obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, but Mone could make out his piercing eyes, the coldness in them, the way they fixed on her as though they could see right through her. Moni's breath caught in her throat. The figure was no longer a ghost from Lucian's memories. He was real.

flesh and bone, standing before her, as solid as the earth beneath her feet. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The tension hung heavy in the air, like a storm about to break. Moni's mind raced, her pulse quickening, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to speak, to demand answers, but her voice was stuck, frozen in her throat. The man in the checkered coat took a step forward, his movement slow and deliberate. He seemed to glide across the earth, his presence so commanding that it made the very atmosphere around her shift.

As he approached, the shadows seemed to deepen, swirling around his form like a cloak. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a tone that carried the weight of centuries. You've come looking for answers, he said, his words more like an observation than a question. But be careful, Moni. Some things are better left undiscovered. Moni's throat went dry at the sound of her name. She had never told him who she was. She hadn't even spoken aloud to herself about why she was here. How did he know? Who are you? Her voice was barely a whisper, carried away by the wind. But it was enough.

The man smiled, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips, as though he were amused by her uncertainty. I'm someone who's seen the consequences of digging too deep, he replied, taking another step closer. Lucian's story is one of many, Moni. It's tangled in the lies of the living. If you want to unravel it, you'll find that the truth isn't as simple as you think. Moni felt a chill sweep through her, his word settling into her chest like cold stones. Something in his eyes, something in the way he said it, made her uneasy.

She had known all along that Lucian's story wasn't simple. The truth she had been chasing felt slippery, just beyond her reach, but now, now, it seemed like there was a warning here. A threat. I don't understand, she said, her voice stronger now, though doubt still lingered at the edges of her words. What are you trying to tell me? He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. What happened to Lucian was never just about a simple death. Mony. It's about power, about manipulation. There's always someone behind the veil,

pulling the strings. And if you dig deep enough, you might just find yourself tangled in those very strings. Moni's breath caught in her throat as he spoke, her mind reeling with the implications of his words. She had always known that Lucian's story was more than just a tragedy. There were too many unanswered questions, too many dark corners that still needed exploring. But this, this felt different. There was a deeper, more insidious layer to the mystery, one that went beyond simple murder or wrongful accusations. The man in the checkered coat took another step forward, his presence overwhelming.

He was too close now, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. You think you're doing this for him, he said softly, but the truth is, Moni, you're digging your own grave. The past doesn't let go of its victim so easily. Mone's chest tightened, and for a moment, she wondered if he was right. Was she simply walking deeper into a trap, one that had been set long before her arrival? The thought filled her with doubt, but the pull of Lucian's story was too strong. She couldn't stop now.

She had to finish it, no matter the cost. You don't scare me, she said, her voice firm, despite the nod in her stomach. I will find the truth. I'll uncover what happened to Lucian. The man's smile deepened, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. Perhaps you will, he said, his voice almost too smooth. But remember this, Moni, Truth is a double-edged sword. It cuts both ways.

And when you find it, you might not like what you uncover. With that, the man in a checkered coat turned away, his form melting into the shadows, fading from view as though he had never been there at all. The wind picked up again, rustling the leaves, but Moni stood frozen, her mind racing, her heart still pounding in her chest. She was alone again, but the weight of his words lingered. She had come for answers, but what had she really uncovered? The man in the checkered coat had offered her a warning, but the warning didn't feel like a deterrent, it felt like a challenge. Moni's resolve solidified. She wasn't afraid. The truth had to come.

out, no matter how dangerous it was. And with every step she took toward uncovering it, she would be one step closer to unraveling the mystery of Lucian's life, and finally, the death that had haunted him for so long. But as she turned to leave the clearing, the air felt heavier than before, the shadows longer. The man's presence still hung in the air, like a whisper from the past, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. The story was not over yet.

It had only just begun, to be continued. The days bled together in a blur of shadow and silence. Moni's thoughts were consumed by the figure in the checkered coat, by the warnings and the cryptic words that still echoed in her mind. She had returned to the cemetery, to the place where Lucian's memories had first come into her own. But now, the weight of the man's words hung over her like a shroud, and with every passing moment, the need to uncover the truth grew more pressing.

It was as if the very earth itself whispered secrets to her, secrets that refused to stay buried. Moni had been going through Lucian's memories for days now, following the trail of destruction left in his wake, piecing together the shattered fragments of his life. But still, something nodded her. The pieces didn't fit. There were too many gaps, too many inconsistencies. The town's narrative of Lucian as a cursed soul, a murderer, didn't align with the person she saw in the fragments of his life.

It didn't make sense. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story, a deeper layer, something that had been deliberately hidden. The truth she sought was out of reach, veiled by lies, swept under the rug by the very people who had shaped Lucian's fate. It was time to dig deeper. Moni returned to her apartment that evening, a sense of determination coursing through her veins. She knew it was time to search for the pieces she had overlaught.

looked, the ones buried beneath the surface, the ones that the town had hidden away. It wasn't enough to simply relive Lucian's memories, she needed to uncover the truth that lay beyond them. Her fingers hovered over the desk, over the files and letters scattered across it, her mind sifting through the tangle of facts and myths. The news clippings, the faded police reports, the journals of the townspeople, it was all there, waiting to be unraveled. She needed to approach it differently now. She couldn't rely solely on Lucian's memories. There had to be something more.

She began with the old clippings. The newspaper headlines were old, yellowing with age, the ink smudged by time. The articles about the mysterious deaths, the accusations against Lucian, they all had one thing in common, they were incomplete. They didn't tell the full story. The headlines screamed of tragedy. of murder, but the details were always vague, shrouded in suspicion, leaving more questions than answers. Mone leaned closer, her eyes scanning the text, searching for the hidden meaning in the

lines between the words. There, tucked in the corner of one article, was a name that stood out, Benedict Deluna. She'd heard the name before. It had come up in Lucian's memories, whispered in the background like a shadow, but no one had ever truly spoken it aloud. Mone could feel the pieces falling into place, the weight of the puzzle pressing against her chest. She couldn't stop now. She needed to find more. More answers, more connections, more truths hidden in plain sight. She grabbed the police report next, the one from the night of Lucian's father's death.

The paper crackled as she opened it, the creases in the paper groaning with age. The report was terse, clinical, almost dismissive. It detailed the events of Diego Vespra's murder, but it was so sparse, so lacking in detail, that it left more questions than it answered. It didn't explain the motive, didn't give any indication of who was really behind it. But then, something caught her eye. A small note, written in the margin, barely legible, almost like an afterthought. It was just a few words, witness testimony retracted. See lawyer's notes, Moni's heart skipped a beat.

Witness testimony What had been retracted? What had the witness seen? She grabbed the next folder in the stack, her hands shaking as she rifled through the papers. It wasn't long before she found what she was looking for, a legal brief, hastily written, almost as though it had been shoved together at the last minute. The brief detailed a meeting between the town's officials and a lawyer representing the Vespera family. It was dated just days before Lucian's father had been murdered.

The document was dense, filled with legal jargon, but the key point was clear, there had been an agreement. A silent pact between the officials and the Vespera family. And at the center of it all was Benedict Deluna. Moni felt her blood run cold as she read the final line of the document, Lusian Vespera will take the fall. His silence is guaranteed, it was a conspiracy. The whole town, its leaders, had been complicit in the destruction of Lucian's life. They had known he was innocent, but they had allowed him to be blamed for everything, had allowed him to carry the burden of a crime he didn't commit, all for the sake of protecting

Benedict Deluna. The truth was more grotesque than she had imagined. It wasn't just murder. It was betrayal. It was manipulation at the highest level. The town had not just allowed an innocent man to suffer, they had orchestrated it. They had silenced everyone, even the witness. to protect a murderer. Mone sat back, her hands trembling as she stared at the papers in front of her. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She had found it. She had found the truth.

But it was worse than she could have ever imagined. She needed to confront this, to make it known, but the weight of it all felt crushing. What had she really uncovered? More than just the murder. More than just the tragedy of Lucian's life. She had uncovered the corruption at the heart of the town itself. The lies that had protected Benedict Deluna all these years. The power he had held over everyone, even the law.

Her mind swirled, but one thing was clear, she couldn't turn back now. The truth had to come out. The people who had buried it, who had buried Lucian along with it, needed to face the consequences. Benedict Deluna had to be exposed. The truth was a heavy way to be. that pressed against Moni's chest. Every breath felt as though it was drawn through a veil, each inhale filled with the choking realization of what she had uncovered.

The documents, the memories, the shattered remnants of Lucian's life, they had all led her here, to this final reckoning. But still, there was one last piece missing, one last voice to hear, to be continued. Moni had spent days searching through the town's archives, through the fragments of Lucian's past, piecing together the puzzle. But the final piece remained elusive. She could feel it in the air, the lingering presence of something left unsaid, a secret that had not yet been revealed. There was one more

person who held the key to unlocking it all, the last witness to the crimes that had been buried, hidden, erased. She had heard rumors about him, heard whispers in the corners of the town. An old man, a relic of the past, living on the outskirts of the village. He was a man who had seen too much, who had lived through the terrible days when Lucian's fate was sealed. The people of the town had long since cast him aside, treating him as little more than a memory. But Mony knew better. He was the last one who knew the truth, the only one who had lived to tell the tale. It was time to find him. Mone set out early in the morning, the mist still clinging to the ground, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. She had a sense of urgency, the kind of

urgency that only came when you were close to something you couldn't yet fully grasp. The journey to the old man's house was long, winding through the hills and valleys that surrounded the village. The farther she went, the more isolated everything seemed. It was as if the world was shrinking, narrowing in on this one final encounter. The house came into view at the top of a hill, a crumbling structure that looked as though it had been abandoned for years. The shutters hung crooked, and the roof was sagging in places. The air around it seemed still, untouched by the world outside. Moni hesitated for a moment before walking up the path,

her feet crunching the dry leaves beneath them. Her heart pounded in her chest, each step a reminder of what was at stake. When she reached the door, she knocked twice. The sound echoed in the stillness, a hollow, distant sound. For a long moment, there was no answer. She wondered if he was even still alive, if the man she saw it had long since passed into the oblivion of memory. But just as she was about to turn away, the door creaked open.

The man who stood before her was old, his face lined with the ravages of time, his eyes cloudy with age. His clothes were worn and faded, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something that spoke of a life lived in the shadows of truth. He studied Moni for a moment before speaking. You've come for him, haven't you? He said as if he had been waiting for her. Moni nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

I need to know the truth. The whole truth. About Lucian. The old man stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. Come in then, child. It's time the truth came out. The interior of the house was dimly lit, the walls covered in old photographs and faded newspaper clippings.

Mone could see the remnants of a life long lived, a life marked by loss, by secrets kept. The man motioned for her to sit at the table, where he had already prepared a pot of tea. Truth is a strange thing, he said, pouring the tea into two cracked cups. It can twist and turn, hide in corners, slip through your fingers like water. But it always finds its way to the surface in the end. And when it does, it leaves a mark. Mone took the cup, her fingers trembling slightly as she held it. What happened to Lucian's father, she asked, the question that had haunted her since the very

beginning. The old man's eyes darkened, and he exhaled a long, shaky breath. Diego Vesper wasn't just killed. He was sacrificed. Not by his own hand, but by the hands of the men who were supposed to protect him. They saw him as a threat, his power, his influence. And they needed him gone. But they couldn't do it themselves.

No, they needed someone to take the fall. Lucian, Moni whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Yes. They knew Lucian was innocent, knew he had nothing to do with his father's death. But it didn't matter. They needed a scapegoat, someone to blame. And so they turned the town against him, painted him as a killer, a madman. They made sure he would never speak the truth, not to anyone, not even to himself.

Mone sat back in her chair, her mind spinning. But why? Why him? The old man's gaze grew distant, and for a moment, Mone wondered if he was reliving the past in his mind. Lucian was a threat to their power. His father, Diego, was the one man who could have stopped Benedict Deluna. He knew too much, saw too much. And when Diego was killed, they knew Lucian would follow in his footsteps.

So they destroyed him, destroyed his name, destroyed his soul. The weight of his word settled over Mony like a shroud. And Benedict de Luna, she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The old man's eyes darkened further, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. Benedict Deluna was the one who made sure Lucian would never escape his fate. He had his hands in everything, the murders, the lies, the cover-ups. He knew that Lucian was the only one who could expose him for what he was. So he made sure Lucian was erased from the world's memory, turned into a monster, a thing

to be feared. And for years, he lived freely, watching as Lucian's life crumbled under the weight of false accusations. Moni's heart ached. She could feel the echoes of Lucian's pain reverberating in her chest, a hollow echo that seemed to speak directly to her soul. How do you know all this? she asked, her voice trembling. The old man smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it.

I was there. I saw it all. I watched as they twisted the truth, as they buried the evidence, as they made sure Lucian never had a chance. I couldn't stop it. But I'm telling you now, because you're the one who needs to finish it. You're the one who can bring his story. to the world. Moni's breath caught in her throat. But what about you? What about the other witnesses?

The old man's eyes flickered, a brief moment of hesitation. There were others, yes. But they're gone now. I'm the last one left. The town, they made sure of it. Moni sat in stunned silence. The pieces were falling into place, the final chapter of Lucian's life unfolding before her. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to know the truth. She needed to make sure the world knew it, that Lucian's name was cleared, that Benedict De Luna's hold on the town was finally broken. She stood, determination rising within her.

Thank you, she said, her voice steady now. I will make sure the truth is heard. The old man nodded, his eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. Do it for Lucian. and do it for all those who were silenced. The truth is a powerful thing, but it can also be a dangerous one, Moni. Though she was stunned by how the old man knew her, Moni asked no further questions. With a quiet sense of closure settling over her, she stepped out of the house.

The truth was no longer something hidden, buried in the past. It was something alive, something she would carry with her, and she would make sure that everyone knew what had happened, what had been done to Lucian Vespra. With a deep breath, Moni grabbed the final piece of the puzzle, the notebook she had found in the graveyard. Lucian's personal journal. It had been the key to everything so far, the key to his pain and his suffering. And now, it would be the key to his justice. Moni set the notebook down in front of her, opened to the first page, and began to write. The truth would finally be told. To be continued. The truth, after all, was now out in the open, unmistakable and raw.

Moni had become its reluctant vessel. She had heard the whispers of the dead, uncovered their lives, but now she faced the weight of carrying their truths. It wasn't just about writing anymore. It wasn't just about gathering stories for books. It was about revealing them, about giving voice to the lives that had been buried beneath lies. But could the world Barrett. As she stood in the dimming light of early evening, Moni felt the weight of that question settled on her shoulders. The village, a place she had once called home, had harbored secrets for so long. Lucian's truth had been erased by time, twisted by fear, buried beneath a tapestry of falsehoods and silence. Could they hear it now? Could they look past the veil they had

drawn over their lives and acknowledged the reality of what had been hidden for so long? Her fingers brushed the worn stone of Lucian's grave. There was no name here, no dates to mark his passage through life. Only that simple, cold etching, Lucian Vespra. His life, erased. His story, buried. In the eyes of the town, he had never existed. He had been a shadow in their midst, a whispered rumor, a scapegoat for a crime he never committed. But Money knew better now. She had seen the pain in his soul, the broken fragments of his life, scattered like shards of a shattered mirror. And now, she knew the truth, the whole, unflinching truth. With a quiet breath, she closed her eyes, letting the connection flood over her. The grave beneath her fingertips

became a bridge to the past, a door to memories that had long been hidden. She could feel Lucian again, his spirit rising to meet her in the silence. His memories swirled around her, familiar and yet distant, chaotic and fragmented. The story was never complete, never whole. But the final piece was there, just out of reach, waiting to be discovered. The village was quiet when Lucian finally returned. The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken words and the secrets that had been buried for so long. He moved through the streets with the grace of someone who had lived a lifetime in the shadows, always watching, never seen. His face was a mask. of calm, but his eyes. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had lived with the weight of countless

wrongs on his shoulders. He had come back to confront the man who had torn his life apart, the man who had caused his father's death and twisted the very fabric of his existence. Benedict de Luna Lucian stood in the shadows, his breath shallow as he watched the man in the village square. Benedict was unaware of his presence, his back turned, his posture arrogant, as if nothing could touch him. He had built his empire on lies, on the fear of the people, on the silence they had all agreed to uphold. But Lucian could feel the truth in his bones. It was time for the lies to end. With a steadying breath, Lucian stepped from the shadows, his boots crunching on the

gravel beneath his feet. He moved forward, each step a deliberate echo of the years he had spent running, hiding, fighting for a chance to be seen, to be heard. Benedict turned a, at the sound of his footsteps, his eyes narrowing as they met Lucian's. There was no recognition in Benedict's gaze, no understanding of the man who stood before him. Lucian could see it, the arrogance, the disdain, the belief that he was untouchable. But Lucian knew better. He had come too far to turn back now. You thought you could erase me, Lucian said, his voice a low growl, tinged with years of bitterness and betrayal. You thought you could bury the truth, make me into the monster you wanted me to be.

But I'm still here, Benedict's lips curled into a smug, almost mocking smile. But it didn't reach his eyes. You should have stayed away, boy. You should have stayed in the dark where you belong. Lucian's fists clenched, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and sorrow. How could Benedict speak of darkness when he was the one who had cast the shadow? How could he stand there, unrepentant, when he had taken everything from Lucian, the truth, his existence, his family, his future. I'm not here to beg for your forgiveness,

Lucian continued, his voice steady, though the weight of his words threatened to break him. I'm here for justice. For my father. For everything you've taken from me, for a moment, there was silence. The air felt thick with tension, as if the world itself had paused to witness this moment. And then Benedict's expression shifted. The car, Taki smirk faded, replaced by something darker. Fear. Perhaps. It was brief, a fleeting flicker in his eyes, but it was enough.

Lucian took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Benedict's. You'll pay for what you did. Not just to me, but to everyone you've destroyed. Your lies won't hold up forever. Benedict took a step back, his eyes darting to the edge of the square, where his enforcers, his hired hands, had gathered, waiting, watching. Lucian could hear their footsteps, the shuffling of boots on gravel. They were closing in.

But Lucian didn't flinch. He had come here to face the truth, no matter what it cost him. His entire life had been a series of lies, and now, finally, he was standing in front of the man who had woven them all. Benedict had ruined so many lives, including his own, and Lucian had vowed, he would make it right. As Benedict's men began to circle, Lucian's eyes never left him. You don't get to hide anymore. You don't get to be the shadow that controls this town. It's over, but as the words left his mouth, the first of Benedict's

men lunged forward, a hulking figure with a cruel grin on his face. It was too late to stop him. Lucian moved instinctively, sidestepping the attack, his body reacting faster than his mind could process. The confrontation had begun. Moni's vision shattered like glass, the fragments falling away from her as the world returned to her senses. She gasped, her heart racing in her chest, as the weight of Lucian's confrontation hung in the air. The scene had been unfinished, unresolved, just like Lucian's life. She could feel the emotions swirling around her, the mixture of rage, sorrow, and frustration. Lucian had come so close, so very close, but he had never had the chance to see the resolution he deserved.

The vision faded, but Moni couldn't shake the feeling that the story wasn't over. In the distance, she could still hear the echoes of footsteps, the distant thrum of a battle not yet fought. The story, the truth, it still needed to be told. Moni stood, her knees weak beneath her. She could feel the weight of Lucian's ghost pressing against her chest. The justice he had sought, true justice, was still out of reach. And yet, somehow, she knew that she was the one who could finally give it to him. She turned away from the grave, her resolve solidifying. She would continue writing the book. Whispers from the tomb. She would make the world hear Lucian's story, the truth that had been buried for so long.

And maybe, just maybe, the fractured pieces of his justice could finally be put together. But for now, she walked away from the graveyard, her steps steady and sure. She would carry Lucian's story. She would make sure that his truth could never be silenced again, to be continued. The storm had passed, but its breath still lingered in the trees. Rainwater glistened on Moni's coat as she stood once more in front of Lucien Vespers' grave. The stone bore no epitaph, only his name, chiseled roughly, almost carelessly. Moss clung to the edges like bruises that time had forgotten to heal. She stood in silence, the world holding its breath with her, as though nature itself recognized

the closing of a long-buried wound. Her fingers hovered over the stone. For weeks now, she hadn't returned to a cemetery. She had avoided them like forbidden altars, afraid of what they might show her. She was her soul into pieces, each fragment still sharp, still aching. She had walked away from his grave with the blood of a life not her own staining her hands. And though it wasn't real in the physical sense, her soul bore the weight as if it had lived every second, bled every wound.

Yet something unfinished had brought her back. Lucian's story had not ended in peace. His confrontation with Benedict de Luna had been volcanic, a searing eruption of pain, truth, and retribution. But there was no justice in it. No closure. No grave that could make it right. And even after everything,

Moni felt something tethered. Like a breath never exhaled. Like a story not quite finished. She knelt. Her hand touched the cold, damp stone. This time, there were no images. No screaming visions. No memories that clawed at her life.

like barbed wire. Just a deep, echoing stillness. A silence that was not empty, but waiting. Tell them what you saw. The voice echoed in her mind, not Lucian's, but her own. The version of her that had stood, trembling and broken, inside his final memory. The girl who had felt the barrel of rage in Lucian's heart and the cavernous ache of his life. She had seen everything. She had lived it. And now, there was only one thing left to do. In the weeks that followed, Moni sealed herself inside her apartment like a penitent.

The windows stayed shut. Curtains drawn. No music, no phone calls, no distraction. Only her, her notebook, and the slow, methodical ritual of memory. She wrote in longhand. Not because it was romantic, but because it forced her to sloth. down, to feel each word as it bled from her fingers. Every morning, she lit a single candle, brewed a bitter tea that reminded her of wet earth, and sat in her worn armchair with her knees

folded beneath her. She began with the first image, a boy sitting alone in a shed, writing letters no one would read. And then the images unfurled like old film reels, the sound of a body falling, the taste of rust in the air, the ache of silence after a scream. She wrote it all, The letters, the deaths, the checkered coat. She wrote of the hallucinations, the graveyard whispers, the way Lucian's pain had seeped into her dreams until she could no longer tell where his life ended and hers began. This was not just a story. It was testimony.

She didn't polish his trauma into metaphors. She didn't trim the jagged edges. Instead, she let the ugliness live on the page. Let it scab and bruise and bruise and, Howl. Because that's what truth did, it didn't comfort, it demanded. And Lucian, in death, had demanded to be known. The title came to her without struggle, whispers from the tomb. She didn't romanticize. She included the hallucinations. The silent meals with his ghost. The fear in her own chest when she wondered if she had inherited more than memories. She let herself bleed into the pages

too, because Lucian's story could not be told without her dissent alongside him. And when she wrote the final sentence, tell them what you saw, she wept. Not the delicate tears of catharsis, but the deep, guttural sobs that came from a place too ancient for language. The kind that cleansed nothing. The kind that left a hollow echo in its wake. She sent the manuscript without ceremony. No emails.

No agent calls. Just a battered envelope, sealed with trembling hands and mailed under a slate gray sky. Then, she disappeared. The book arrived in stores under a shroud of mystery. Unlike her previous works, there was no launch party, no press tour. Only a single note handwritten by Moni and included in the first edition copies, this is not fiction. Believe what you will, whispers from the tomb was published quietly, without Moni's name on the cover.

Just her initials. The dedication read, to the ones we buried before we understood them. And the world devoured it. Critics called it her masterpiece. A brutal, lyrical descent into inherited trauma, injustice, and the blurred lines between memory and madness. Scholars argued over the symbolism, was Lucian real? Was Moni mentally ill? Was the checkered code a metaphor for generational sin?

Mone didn't answer. In time, her name became legend. Her earlier books were reprinted with somber new introductions. She watched from a distance as whispers from the tomb rose to the top of bestseller lists and was adapted into stage plays, then film, then taught in universities as a study in trauma literature. People made pilgrimages to the graveyard she had described, though she never said where it was. They left stones. Candles. notes. Some claim to hear whispers of their own. She left behind her city apartment, the clatter of passing trains, the buzz of street lamps.

Packed only what mattered, a few clothes, a box of unsent letters, her notebooks. She burned the rest. Her other books, old drafts, rejection slips, fan mail, all ashes in the sink of her old kitchen. In the hills above a coastal town no one cared to name, Mone found peace. An old stone cottage, long abandoned, watched the sea from a cliffside. It had a crooked chimney, a warped floor, an ivy that crept in through the windows like it had something to say. The only nearby grave belonged to a dog named Stella, who had died peacefully beneath an apple tree. Mone tended that grave each morning. She spent her days tending to a garden

that refused to grow. She walked without shoes. cooked without recipes. Slept often. Sometimes, she dreamed of Lucian. But the dreams were different now. No longer jagged shards of memory or ghost visions that pulled her back into the past. These dreams were quiet. Lucian sitting by a river.

A younger moni watching from a distance. Neither speaking. Just existing, finally, outside of tragedy. She never was. returned to the cemeteries. Her last book had said everything. It won awards Mone would never accept. And yet, sometimes, she would receive letters, slipped under her cottage door by unseen hands. Always from strangers. Always about the dead. Some wanted their loved ones remembered. Others feared the stories their family graves might hold. A few simply said, I believe you,

Mone never replied. But she kept every letter. On the morning of her 35th birthday, she found herself walking through the fog into town. Her bones ached in a familiar way, not pain, but memory. In the distance, the sea murmured against the cliffs like a story retold for centuries. She stopped in front of the village bookstore. A dusty window display showed a faded copy of whispers from the tomb, now labeled as literary nonfiction. Inside, a girl sat cross-legged near the poetry shelf, her eyes wide, fingers curled around the book's spine like it might vanish if she blinked. Moni watched her for a moment. Watched the stillness, the wonder. Then she turned away. She didn't need to be known. She didn't need to correct them. She had told them what she saw. And now,

the world would decide what to do with the truth. The end. I never thought I would be the one to discover a real-life murder, but there I was, standing in the middle of a movie-set crime scene. I had been hired as a consultant for the film's special effects, and I couldn't believe what had just happened. The star of the movie, a famous actor named Jack, was found dead in his trailer, and the prime suspect, a cast member named Sarah, had gone missing. The police were swarming the set, and the mood was tense and somber. As I watched the chaos unfold, I couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity. The blood, the screams, the flashing lights, it was just like a movie scene.

But this time, it wasn't special effects or makeup. It was real. I had worked with Jack and Sarah for weeks, and I couldn't believe that one of them was capable of such a heinous act. Yet, as I looked around at the clues, I realized that things were not as they seemed. The murder weapon was missing, and Sarah's alibi checked out. Meanwhile, Jack had a history of volatile behavior and a secret gambling addiction. The evidence was starting to point in a different direction.

As the investigation continued, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I had seen and experienced so much over the years, and my instincts were telling me that the truth was still hidden. In the end, it was a small detail that cracked the case. A hidden camera, placed in Jack's trailer for security purposes, revealed the real murderer in a shocking twist. It was the last person anyone had suspected, the movie's director. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. I had known the director for years, and I had never suspected him of being capable of such a thing. The world of moviemaking was full of secrets and lies, and I had just

witnessed the darkest side of it. In the end, justice was served, and the guilty party was brought to light. But the experience had left me scarred, and I knew that I would never view the world of Hollywood the same way again. Sometimes, reality is stranger, and more tragic, than fiction. Are you Chris? Amanda said, yes. I said. Amanda and I started to talk about our problems and why we re-hear she told about how she lost custody of her kids to Kim, then I told her about my experience with Kim and his cronies. We both had shared cabins and started our friendship from there. The next day Leo's wife Anna serve me and Amanda with a nice delicious breakfast, I opened up Leo and Anna about my issues with Amanda's ex-husband. I told them what that pig did to me and how he ruined my life.

Luckily, I recorded every phone call and threatening messages. Leo then spoke, you know I have dealt corruption before, I might help you out. It'll take time, take as much time as you need, I said. Anna then spoke and said, you poor man, why would anyone do that? and what about your wife Zoe? I then say, I don't know, she made it clear that wants nothing to do with me. Well, think your luck because I think there's someone here that will be a good match for you, Anna said glancing at Amanda. She the blushes, as weeks go by Amanda and I were getting closer and closer,

I don't know if I'm falling in love, but Amanda was showing signs of her feeling the same, but she's been my comfort buddy. As we were laying in bed in our cabin, I couldn't sleep thinking of my kids and destroyed marriage and life I began to cry. Amanda noticed, Chris, are you okay? Amanda said, I spilled everything she already knew while breaking down, but Amanda comforted me. It's okay, Chris, I know it hurts, but you'll be okay, you'll get through this I'm here for you, Amanda said. Suddenly we started kissing Amanda then spoke, oh, M.G, Chris, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, I. I then kiss her back, it's okay, I replied.

we then made love. The next morning we both wake up, while Amanda does her morning routine I thawed of we, she said I should take control. While we eat breakfast, Leo introduced me to his lawyer who help out with his divorce from his ex-wife and others that helped him and Anna out. One of the lawyers spoke,

Hello, my is Frank. Nice to meet you, I said, I hear we have a case of a corrupt cop, correct? Frank said, yes. I replied. And it's a good. to Officer Kim, correct? Frank said, yes, I replied. Well, Officer Kim has a pattern of corruption, he has the chief of the LAPD in his pocket. Frank proceeds. He's blackmailing the chief of police

with some unspeakable things. Frank then shows me what Kim is blackmailing that the chief with brought by his PI. Jesus, I said he then moves on to Anunda, she laid everything out and showed Frank Long saved evidence that was dismissed by a judge that was on Kim's payroll. God, this officer Kim needs to be stopped with everything shown we all came up with a plan. I call my parents back in Aspen, Colorado and told them about where I am and to come visit the phone call was untraceable so Kim doesn't track me. They're then welcomed by Leo. I did say they lost their jobs and internal affairs well not execkly, it was to get Kim away

from my parents. They still in internal affairs and have saved evidence that will work they were just laying low. Frank has a good judge that is not in Kim's pocket. We discuss our plans to get justice for me and for Amanda. Me and Amanda were already a couple while we were making love I say, listen Amanda, Kim will probably arrest when we arrive in L.A. But we'll both get justice for us. Baby, I'm scared what he'll do, I don't want to lose you, Amanda says. Don't worry, gorgeous, everything is going to be all right, I then kiss her for head assuring her till she falls asleep. This pig ruined my marriage, my life, took away my children and threatened the life of my parents. No mare this pig will pay. Now let's see Amanda's perspective. Three weeks later me, Chris and his parents depart from

the lodge saying goodbye to Anna and Leo. Chris's plan had me worried with him wearing that orange jumpsuit, but he assures me that it's going to be all right, it's all part of the plan. It turns out Kim has my baby's Jake and Bridget hostage to hurt me and with what he did to Chris, I swear, Kim is such a-a-hole he ruined so many lives, but all that will be settled in court. As we land, Kim looks at us with that stupid smug-smirk as if he's not punchable enough. Chris is then loaded into Kim's cruiser taken to the station. We're also taken to the station. That's when everything goes to plan. Officer Kim.

A server says, yes. He says, You've been served, Kim then flips and his cronies are also served. Kim then says, you all think you can do this to me, you can't destroy me, I'm the LAPD, I'm this department, I am the law, God litsen to him, he's such an arrogant prick. We then sit in the courtroom. Kim's lawyer spins the story saying the charges on Chris are justifiable and that Chris is a menace to society and that Kim was protecting Zoe. Then Zoe spills her BS story of him being abusive.

But the evidence was damning all the manipulation, threats, wrongful arrests and the shooting of Chris's parents' house. I then testify against Kim. I explain that he also kept me away from my children and that he threatened to have arrested or killed. Chris's parents now back in internal affairs uncover years of Kim's abuse of power and authority, rackering, extortion, drug trafficking, attempted murder and wrongful arrest more witnesses come up with more stories of their ordeal with Kim. Chris's ex-wife admits in court that she was force into this, but Chris doesn't believe a word of it. She also claimed that Kim made her set up the restraining order threatening to leave if she doesn't

accept. The judge throws the book at Kim, Officer Kim, your actions against the plaintiff is unacceptable for the police department you have shown this that you're nothing but an abusive deplorable police officer and that you don't deserve that badge as if right now I strip you from your badge and sentence you to life in prison in without the possibility of parole and that goes to the rest of your two men. And as for you, Miss Zoe Jensen, I sentence you to 30 years in the state prison for your involvement in this crime against the pontiff. This court is a adjourned. The judge says as he slams the gavel hard and it was all over. Kim tries to beg us for mercy, but it was just pathetic. Chris then changed his identity for a

clean record because society is such B asterisk asterisk C.H when it comes to having a rest record, God I hate society sometimes. He also gets his custody of his KDS back with the restraining order lifted and I also got my babies back. His kids get along so well with mine and all became best friends. After all of that Chris and I start our lives over in Aspen. Chris and I were working on our horses in his farm when he gets down on one knee and says, Amanda from the moment I met I never thought we'd have a common enemy and how both of us were hurt by an abusive authoritative figure that ruined our lives. You are my rock that kept balanced give me a reason to keep pushing when things get, you comfort me when I need you the most, and you're the most beautiful women I've

ever met. So Amanda James Parker, will you be wife? With tears in my eyes I screech saying, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, I tackle to the ground, kissing him all over. Chris and I get married with a small intimate wedding with just his parents and his ex-wife's parents since my dad passed away when I was 15 and my mom that caused his death is God knows where she is which a story for another time. They up to Chris for forgiveness with what happened with daughter and what she did, Chris didn't at first, but he came around.

We then say our vows and I start to speak. Chris James Parker, I just want to say you're the best thing that's ever happened to me I've been through so much in my life, but you were there to give me comfort and you make me feel so loved and desired and you also give me the most wonderful gift in the world. You're the man for me. I love you, Chris. And so we live our together. Years later I hear a knock at the door. Randy now 14 is shocked to see his mom. Mom, Randy says, Hey sweaty, how are you? Zoe says I welcome her in and offer her tea or coffee.

Coffee will be nice, thank you, she replies just then Chris walks in and says to Zoe. Zoe, what are you doing here? I've done so many bad things to you so I need closure. I then bring her coffee and we started speaking, what happened to you, Zoe, all I ever did love you, and you go along with THR destruction of my life. He said, Zoe over the phone said, he made me do it, I just really needed it, I couldn't help myself. No, you made your choice, you could have come up to me and told me what was going on, but you divorce me and kept me away from Randy and Annie, Chris said. I'm sorry, Chris, I just I don't why I did what I did, but, but she stuttered.

Gosh, Zoe, I really loved you, now I might never understand why you did what you did. I'm not going to keep you away from Randy, but I'll never forgive you, Chris said. I know and I'm sorry, Zoe said. A few minutes later Zoe makes an exit. Just know I never meant for any of this to happen and I'm sorry Chris. Goodbye Randy, be good for Dad now I love you and you to Chris, she said. Chris and Randy both start to cry, but I comfort them both. Randy Sweety your mother will always love even though she is not here, but I'll be here for you and always refer to as my son, I said to Randy. Thanks, Mom, I kiss his forehead, then I go to Chris.

Honey, I'll never ever going leave, I'll always be here not going nowhere handsome I love you. I then hug them both then his sister and my kids Jake and Bridget follow suit and we live happy for the rest of the years come. The end. All right, I need serious advice because I don't know what to do, and my mind is all over the place. I never thought I'd end up in a situation like this, but here we are. So, let me break it down from the beginning because I need to figure out my next move. So, my girlfriend, Sarah, and I are really into urban exploration. We love checking out abandoned places, taking eerie photos, and feeling that rush of adrenaline

when we step into somewhere we technically shouldn't be. It's been our thing for years, and we've been to dozens of abandoned factories, houses, and even underground tunnels. But this time, this time was different. This time, I might have crossed a line I can't come back from. A few nights ago, we heard about this old, abandoned hospital on the outskirts of town. Perfect, right? Hospitals are already creepy, but an abandoned one. That's next-level horror movie stuff.

We were hyped. We packed our usual gear, flashlights, cameras, snacks, and our sense of adventure, and headed out just after sunset. The hospital was exactly what we expected, decayed, lifeless, and oozing with history. Broken windows, graffiti covering the walls, the lingering smell of mold and something I don't even want to think about. It was a dream come true for explorers like us. We had just stepped into what looked like an old operating room on the second floor when we heard it.

Footsteps At first, I thought maybe it was another group of explorers. That happened sometimes, and usually, it's either awkward or fun, depending on the people. But when we turned to look, it wasn't another explorer. It was a man. A homeless man, judging by the state of him. His clothes were ripped and dirty, his beard overgrown, and his eyes, his eyes were wild, like he had seen things no one should ever see.

He just stood there, staring at us. The silence stretched so long it made. my skin crawl. I took a step forward, trying to keep my voice calm. Hey, man, we're just exploring. We're not here to mess with anything, he didn't respond right away. He just kept staring, his expression unreadable. Then, out of nowhere, he started yelling. Not just yelling, screaming. He was furious, saying we were trespassing on his territory, that we had no right to be there. I raised my hands, trying to de-escalate. We didn't know, man. We'll leave. It's cool, but it wasn't cool. He wasn't cooling down. If anything, he was getting more agitated.

And then, before I could react, he lunged at Sarah. Everything happened so fast. One second, we were trying to leave, and the next, she was pinned against the wall, his grimy hands, gripping. her arm. She screamed, and my brain just, snapped. I didn't think, I just moved. I tackled him, trying to rip him away from Sarah. He was stronger than he looked, wiery but tough, and he fought back with everything he had. We crashed to the floor, rolling in a mess of flailing limbs and gritted teeth. Then I saw it. The glint of metal. A knife. He pulled a knife from somewhere, his pocket, his sleeve, I don't know. All I knew was that it was sharp, and it was way too close to me. In the heat of the moment, my hand found something solid on the floor, a broken piece of wood,

jagged and splintered. I grabbed it and swung. I didn't think about it. I didn't plan it. I just reacted. The wood connected with his head, and he went down. Hard. At first, I thought I had just knocked him out. But then I saw the blood. Too much of it. Sarah was sobbing, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide in horror. I dropped the wood and scrambled to check his pulse, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely think straight. Nothing. The world tilted. My ears were ringing. My heart was in my throat. I had killed him. Panic took over. My body made. moved on autopilot. I grabbed Sarah's hand, and we ran. We ran faster than we ever had in our lives, leaving everything behind, our cameras, our flashlights, everything. We sprinted back to

the car, slammed the doors shut and sat there, gasping for air like we had just surfaced from drowning. Sarah was shaking so hard she could barely speak. I was gripping the steering will so tight my knuckles were white. We drove home in silence. Neither of us spoke about it. We just, sat in that thick, suffocating quiet, like if we didn't say the words, maybe it wouldn't be real. But it is real. And now I don't know what to do. I keep playing it over and over in my head. I didn't mean to kill him. I was just trying to protect Sarah. It was self-defense. But will the police see it that way? Or will they just see a guy trespassing in an abandoned hospital, who killed a homeless man and then ran? I know I should turn myself in.

I know running isn't the answer. But I'm scared. I've never been in trouble with the law before. What if they don't believe me? What if they think I attacked him first? What if Sarah gets dragged into this too? She's already traumatized enough. She barely speaks now.

She just sits, staring at nothing, lost in her own thoughts. I hate seeing her like this. I hate knowing that I put her through this. I don't know what to do. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Lying there.

Not moving. The blood pooling around his head. God, what do I do? Do I go to the police and risk everything? Or do I pretend this never happened and live with the guilt for the rest of my life? I need help. I need advice. I need someone to tell me what the hell to do.

Because right now, I'm completely lost. The parking lot was like a ghost town, not a single car in sight. And hers? Gone. Just gone. Not even a broken taillight left behind. She knew it. He had taken it.

Him or one of those dirt bags he called friends. Her stomach turned. Alisa's feet moved on their own, leading her to the apartment she used to call home. The door stood open like a gaping mouth, and that was already a bad sign. A really bad sign. Inside, the silence screamed. No phone. No keys. No purse.

Bedroom? Worse. closet nearly empty, clothes vanished. A note was stuck on the mirror, scrawled in thick black marker, You're not going anywhere you're mine. The grammar pissed her off almost as much as the threat. Almost. Panic kicked in.

She hit the floor and reached under the bed like her life depended on it, and maybe it did. Her fingers brushed metal. Her laptop. Still there. Praise the universe. That laptop held everything. Her lyrics, her poems, her whole soul. She snatched it and ran.

Out in the open air, the night slapped her with cold. She got to the parking lot just as a pair of lights crept around the corner. Her breath caught. Him. It had to be him. Her pulse pounded like a trapped bird. But then, no. Not two lights.

One. A motorcycle. And the rider wasn't him. Brown jacket, jeans, green helmet. The bike matched. Guy parked close and killed the engine. She didn't think. Her feet ran.

Her voice cracked. Excuse me. Please. Help me. Please. Tears blurred everything as she blurted her story in hiccups and gasps. The guy had glasses. a kind face, and the patience of a monk.

He listened. Really listened. Do you have someplace to go? He asked. My mom. I can go to my mom. Where is she? She gave the address automatically.

He nodded, eyes scanning the empty street like a soldier checking for enemy movement. Please, she begged. Please, I have to leave. Before he comes back, those calm blue eyes locked on her. What's your name? Alisa. Alisa Oshy, Brian Rinsho, he said. You ever been on a motorcycle, Elisa, she shook her head. Didn't matter. He handed her the helmet.

Put this on, while she fumbled with the strap, he climbed on. Step here, swing over, peg on the other side for your foot. Hold my belt. Look over my inside shoulder on turns, and they were off. As the streets fell away behind them, so did some of the terror. Her shoulders unawed, but her mind raced. She didn't know this guy. What if he was a different kind of danger?

Her doubts doubled when he pulled off the main road. She tensed. He slowed to a stop at a gas station, all bright lights and fake safety. Why are we stopping? she asked. Try to call your mom, he said, gently unfastening her helmet strap. No phone, she said, swallowing panic. He hesitated, then pulled his phone out. Unlocked it.

Handed it to her. I'll be right back. He jogged into the store. She called. No answer. Left a breathless message. Then shared her location indefinitely. Just in case.

He came back with a bottle of water. She drank like she'd crossed a desert. Your mom expecting you, yeah, he nodded, and then took her hand. She flinched, but he was steady, calm. Grounding. You want anything else from your place? I can go check, grab what I can, she shook her head. That part of her life was over.

That door slammed shut. Why are you helping me? He shrugged. Everyone needs help sometimes, they wrote again. Quiet this time. Her thoughts were loud enough. When they reached her mother's place, the lights were off. Of course.

She knocked. Nothing. Tears welled again. No one home, she tried calling again. Voice mail. Texted, I'm here. He took everything. Please come home.

She handed him the phone. He waved it off. Keep it. He might call, don't you need to go, he smiled, soft and small. I'll wait till you're okay, she looked at him. Really looked. He was older, a bit gray, lines around his eyes. But he looked like safety.

Without thinking, she leaned in, pressed her face to his chest and cried. He didn't move, didn't speak for a while. Just held her. It's going to be okay, he finally said. I know that sounds like bullshit. But it's not. Your mom's gonna be here soon. And this?

This is your reset button. The phone rang. Her mom. She snatched it up. By the time the car pulled into the driveway, she was still on the call. Her mom jumped out and ran to her like a freight train of concern. Big arms, big tears. Who the hell are you?

Mom asked him, eyes narrow. Just gave her a ride, he said. On that thing, it's what I had. Watch your tone with me, she barked. Mom, he helped me, Elisa said. He's nice, inside, baby. Mom, please, now, Elisa turned to him. Her eyes said more than her lips ever could. Thank you, she said. He nodded.

Pay it forward, she gave back the phone and helmet. it. Then disappeared into the house. Her mom stared him down. Just a savior, huh. White night on a green horse, he shrugged. Right place, right time. Was checking on my brother's cat. Vegas trip. She ran out crying. I know how that looks. I helped, out of the goodness of your heart, he looked up at the stars, like maybe they had answers. Cat needs feet. Have a good night. Wait, he paused. Thank you. She and I, we've both had our share of bad men. This isn't the first time she. Just, thank you, you're welcome, he said. Cat, he added, nodding to his bike. You know where we live, you have my number. That's all it takes these days, helmet back on.

Motorcycle started. And he was gone. Eighteen months later, life had chewed him up and spit him out. He stood in line outside the unemployment office, stale coffee in his gut, half drunk from the night before. His thumb scrolled without thought. Until he saw her. Alisa. In a video. She was famous now.

Sorta. Interview on some music blog. Singer-songwriter, breakout voice of the year. He blinked. Then found her album on Spotify. Her voice. Magic. Real talent.

He clicked back, but the video vanished. So he went to YouTube. The interview started. She looked radiant. Joyful. Strong. Black tank top, denim, short hair, glowing skin. She laughed.

She was everything he remembered and more. Is there some? someone special, the interviewer asked. She smiled, a different kind of smile. No. Not right now. Just me and my music. Ever been in love? She paused. Something behind her eyes shifted. No, the interviewer didn't let it go. Someone who meant something. There was someone, she said softly. He helped me. Just, helped. No agenda. No straight. rings. He showed me kindness when I needed it most. Showed me that good men exist. What would you say if he saw this? She looked at the camera. Looked away. Looked back. I hope he's proud of me,

she said. I really hope he is. The end. All right, here goes. This is not the kind of story I ever imagined I'd be telling, but I guess sometimes life throws you into the deep end without warning. So, here's what happened, in full detail, every little bit that I can remember, because I need to get it off my chest, and I need help figuring out what to do next. It all started with something Sarah and I love doing together, urban exploration. You know, sneaking into old buildings, taking pictures, feeling that mix of fear and thrill as you walk into the unknown. It sounds dumb to some people, but it's been our thing for a while. It's like our shared escape from reality. Sarah, she's 25, and I, I'm 26, have explored all sorts of places, abandoned schools,

crumbling churches, half-destroyed homes taken back by nature. There's something hauntingly beautiful about places left behind by time. This time, though, this time went horribly wrong. We'd heard whispers about an old hospital on the outskirts of town. A relic from decades ago, long shut down and left to rot. Supposedly haunted, though we never buy into that stuff. We're more interested in the architecture, the stories hidden in the peeling wallpaper and rusted four poles. So last night, we packed our flashlights, a decent camera, some snacks, and drove out to the

spot. We parked about half a mile away, not wanting to draw attention. The place was just as eerie as we hoped, shout out. shattered windows, graffiti on every surface, the kind of silence that hums in your ears. As we stepped through the broken doors, I felt that familiar rush. That hit of adrenaline you get from doing something a little risky, a little illegal. We wandered around for a while, just soaking in the place. The air smelled of mildew and dust, and our footsteps echoed down the long, empty halls.

We explored old patient rooms, a decrepit cafeteria, and finally made our way. way up to the second floor, which was even more intact than the first. That's where things went sideways. We were in what looked like an old operating room. The overhead lights were busted, but the metal table in the center was still there, rusting and eerie as hell. Sarah was taking a picture of some graffiti that read, they watched from below, when we heard the noise, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and way too close. My first thought was that it was another explorer. That happened sometimes. I was about to call out when a man stepped into the room.

He looked bad. Like, not just dirty, but wrong. His hair was a mess, wild and matted. His clothes were stained and torn in places, and he had this twitchy, unpredictable energy to him. His eyes locked on to us, and he didn't say a word. Just stood there, breathing heavily, like he was trying to decide something. I tried to keep calm. I told him we were just taking pictures, that we didn't mean any harm, and we'd be on our way.

But his face twisted into something angry, something feral. He started yelling that we were trespassing on his territory, that we had no right to be there. I could see his fists clenching. I told Sarah to stay behind me. Then he lunged. He moved fast, grabbing Sarah by the arm and slamming her back against the wall. She screamed, and my heart exploded in my chest. I don't even remember thinking.

I just reacted. I grabbed him, tried to pull him off her, and he fought back hard. For a guy who looked like he hadn't eaten in days, he was strong, fueled by rage, maybe something worse. We grappled, tripping over debris, slamming into walls. At some point he pulled a knife. I saw the blade flash in the light of our flash. That's when I panicked.

I didn't want to die. I didn't want Sarah to get hurt. I looked down and saw this piece of wood, a broken leg from a chair, maybe, or part of a cabinet. I didn't think. I just grabbed it and swung. It hit him in the side of the head. A sickening thud. He dropped like a rock.

At first I thought he was just unconscious. But then I saw the blood. A lot of it. And he wasn't moving. Not even a twitch. I rushed over and checked for a pulse. Nothing. I've never felt fear like that in my entire life.

Sarah was crying, shaking uncontrollably. Her arm was bruised and scraped, but she was alive. I pulled her up and we bolted. We didn't stop running until we were back at the car. We drove home in silence, my hands trembling the whole time. I couldn't stop replaying what had happened. The look in his eyes. The feel of the wood connecting with his skull.

The way he just crumpled. The way he stopped breathing. We left everything behind. Our camera, snacks, even one of Sarah's shoes. I didn't want anything tying us to that place. Now I'm sitting here, writing this, and I don't know what to do. My stomach's been in knots all day.

I keep thinking I should go to the police, tell them what happened. It was self-defense, right? I mean, he had a knife. He attacked us. I was protecting Sarah. But what if they don't believe me? What if they think I went there looking for trouble? What if they charge me with manslaughter or something worse?

And what about Sarah? I don't want her dragged into this. She's already traumatized enough. I can barely look at her without seeing that moment again, the fear in her eyes, the blood on the floor. What if they interrogate her? What if she breaks down? What if they twist our story? I haven't slept.

I've barely eaten. Every noise outside makes me jump. I keep thinking someone's going to show up at our door. The cops. The guy's friends. I don't even know if he had anyone. What if someone finds the body before I come forward? Will that make it look worse?

Will they think I ran because I was guilty? I keep thinking about his face. The way it went slack. I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to stop him from hurting us. He had a knife. What was I supposed to do? Let him stab me.

Let him hurt Sarah. But then this other voice creeps in. The one that says I crossed the line. That maybe there was another way. That maybe I went too far. I don't know. I really don't. I tried calling a friend, but I hung up before he answered.

I'm too scared to say the words out loud. It makes it real. Too real. So I'm here, spilling it all to Reddit, hoping that someone, anyone. can tell me what to do. Should I go to the police? Should I get a lawyer first? Should I just wait and see if anyone finds the body? I feel like I'm losing my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see him lying there. And Sarah, she won't even talk about it. She just keeps saying she wants to forget it ever happened. But how can I? How can either of us? I didn't want this. I never. I never. I never. I

wanted this. All we wanted was a night of spooky fun. A harmless little adventure. And now someone is dead. Because of me. I don't know if anyone will believe it was self-defense. I don't even know if I believe it anymore. So, what should I do? Do I turn myself in? Do I risk everything? Or do I bury this and try to move on? I don't know. But I'm scared. I'm so damn scared. And I just needed to tell someone. The end. This was the nightmare that took place years ago when I was a park ranger.

I still remember standing there, feeling dissociated and strange as I looked down on the eerie scene below us. Oh God in heaven, Ace whispered in the purple light of the cave. Before us, the bright red hand shot forward and grabbed the body of the headless man. It lifted the corpse up with ease. I watched the beast open its jaw wide enough to throw the corpse in without difficulty. Snapping its mouth shut, it sprayed more blood down its face and across the eroded stone floor in front of it. Dark red stains emanated out across the floor for 20 feet in front of the creature, looking like clotted Rorschach inkblots in the fetid cave. We need to go deeper in, Jansen said, looking for me to Ace with a serious frown on her face.

What are you, insane? A said, Do you want to die? There could be thousands of those things down there. But the decision was quickly taken out of our hands as we heard screaming, young, high-pitched voice. We all looked down at once and saw the white humanoid mutants dragging out a young boy, one that I recognized from pictures on the trailer park crime scene wall. He had cuts and scrapes all over him and was shivering,

either from hypothermia or fear or both, but he was alive. His eyes were huge as he was dragged forward by his small hands towards the great red insectal beast in the corner. God damn it, I whispered, looking at Ace and Janssen. Okay, Jansen and I will take point positions. Ace, you guard the rear. We will form a triangle and start shooting. When one reloads, the other two cover. Ace, you'll need to swing back and periodically check our backs to make sure there's no ambush.

Now let's go, they didn't question my command. Neither of them had time to. To save the boy, we needed to move immediately. We started down the smooth stone floors, only a couple hundred feet away from unknown numbers of enemies. I fired first, aiming my shotgun at the group of mutants nearest to me as quickly as I could pull the trigger. The first shot blew the chest of one open, kept going,

hit another in the leg, and ended up blowing chips of stone from the wall behind them. I saw it all in slow motion, my adrenaline pumping and the heightened awareness of battle taking hold. The second shot hit the nearest one in the head. It exploded like a shattering vase, bits of blood and bone flying out in all directions. I saw the one holding the boy drop as Jansen hit it with a shot from the Ruger. It was an amazing shot, missing the boy entirely and taking off the head of the creature. It looked fairly risky, especially with a pistol, but I could tell she had experience and marksmanship. And yet, personally, I would never have tried from that distance with a hostage in tow with anything less than a rifle.

The chance of blowing the hostages head off seemed far too great. It made me wonder about her impulse control and risk-taking mindset. Who was this woman, after all? The white mutant continued holding the boy's hands for a second, standing on its own. feet as its mutilated, half-destroyed head kept pumping sprays of blood in the air. Then it fell, crumpling slowly to the floor. The black beast in the corner appeared enraged by this point. It gave off a banshee whale that sent out powerful blasts of sound, rising and falling in distinct waves. It sounded like a choked, much deeper version of a steam whistle. Instinctually I wanted to drop my gun

and cover my ears to stop the painful shrieking. It seemed even, Even louder than the gunshots, something I would have said was impossible before hearing it. And, worse than all that, the beast was rising to its feet. While it looked fat and slow, and while I knew it to be full of eggs since we had seen it lay some, it turned out to be much faster than all that would have suggested. It had a huge, blood-red belly, but it moved with the grace and speed of a cat. It rose on its six legs, its upper body sticking up from the lower insectal carapace like some sort of demented centaur. Its branched legs skittered forward in a centipede-like motion that

gave me an instinctive revulsion. But it wasn't running towards us. It was moving away from the gunfire towards a huge entrance. As it went, it grabbed the boy with its inhumanly long, thin arms. I feared it would open its giant maw and pop him inside, and that would be the last we would ever see of him, but it didn't. It disappeared, making that shrieking, steam was whistle cry as it went. My ears were ringing so badly from all the gunshots, the echoes of the gunshots and the cries of the beasts that I was afraid I had gone deaf for a moment. A. stood in front of me, moving his lips, but I couldn't tell what the hell he was saying. What? I screamed. My hearing slowly returned. We have to follow the boy, he said.

We can't lose his trail. I knew he was right. The existence of a live hostage had totally changed the situation. We had no backup coming and no way to call for help. We would have to take him ourselves. It seemed an insane proposition, and the creatures here vastly outnumbered us, but letting a hostage die was not an option. Yeah, no shit, I said glumly. I sighed deeply.

We had more ammo in the snowmobiles. I had filled my pockets with extra slugs, but I hadn't expected this. Ace was likely in a similar situation. We faced the choice of either going back and trying to grab as much ammo as we could, and possibly losing the hostage, or going forward and running the risk of using up all our ammo.

Which was, after all, a risk either way, since we had no idea how many of those things lived in the tunnels. I saw the same thoughts running through Ace's mind as he looked back towards the snowmobiles, then forward to the tunnels. Let's go, I said, motioning for us to go forwards. We can't risk losing the trail. We'll put breadcrumbs down as we go, metaphorically.

Slice off tiny pieces of a jacket or something so we can find our way back. Based on how many of those goddamn things I saw, he responded, I think we'll be able to just follow the empty shell casings alone. Jansen had already started running forwards by this point, and we had to sprint to keep up. We ran past the eggs, some empty and others throbbing with inner life. I saw the one nearest to me pulsating with blood-red veins, a thin, luminous skin revealing the silhouette of a monstrous insectoid creature inside. It writhed and squirmed, twisting its six legs and pushing against the membrane that kept it entombed within the egg from time to time. Soon, I knew it would push through.

How many others had already hatched? How long had this been going on? I had a feeling that we would soon find out. We sprinted into the tunnel, turning on our LED headlamps as we went. Jansen was in the lead, then Ace, then me at the rear. Periodically I checked our backs, but nothing seemed to be following us, not yet, anyways. All the commotion was in front of us. That creature was still shrieking, though the sound was much more muffled and distant now.

To my horror, I heard dozens of responses. from all around, deeper in various tunnels that branched off from the main chamber or from this one. Some sounded very far away and barely audible, but others seemed much, much closer. I also heard the cries for help from the young boy, though these, too, grew fainter. We tried running faster, but what could a human's two legs do against that skittering monstrosity's six legs? Not much, I thought to myself. The tunnel looked empty. That strange, Mold grew everywhere here as well. We barely even needed the LEDs to see, though it had so many curves and branches that it was difficult to see far anyways. Every hundred feet or so,

another wall appeared, always curving to the left or the right. As we ran, I saw glimmers of what looked like red eyes from some of the smaller side tunnels, but whenever I turned to look, they were gone. It was the same with those who might have followed us. I thought I saw glimpses of a long white hand or a lipless face for a moment, but when I pointed the gun, the thing had slunk back into the shadows or deeper into one of the endless branching tunnels that disappeared around corners in an instant. The shrieking of the beasts had faded into the distance, and an eerie silence descended like a fog. We had all stopped by this point at an intersection of the cave system. One tunnel went off to the left at a right angle, the other to the right

at a right angle, and then we had the larger main tunnel we were following that extended in front of and behind us. Luckily, we hadn't yet deviated from the main tunnel, so finding our way back should be relatively easy. It felt substantially hotter down here as well. We had descended deeper into the chain of mountains that ran northwards, parallel to the Arctic Ocean. I had opened all of my jackets and taken off my hat, but I still felt boiling hot. I could tell the other two did as well. Trickles of sweat beated their faces, and they were ripping off layers of clothing. They threw a couple jackets on the ground, not wanting to carry them for God knows how long. If we made it out of here, I thought they might regret it, but after miles of walking, I too

threw a couple jackets on the ground and left them. After all, when we came back this way to return to the snowmobile, we could just grab them again. Except, of course, we never did come back that way. God damn, A said. Well, we've lost the kid. Let's go back and report. We should be able to find a signal with the sat phone somewhere in the area. I wish we had, but at that moment, circumstances beyond our control sealed our fate. It started with a small tremble, almost imperceptible.

I looked around at the glowing purplish walls and the strange mossy molds that covered everything. Some of them lost connection with the walls as the shaking grew strong. As soon as their root system stopped touching the stone and earth, the round cluster of detached mold would instantly go dark, their black light illuminations shut off like a switch when it stopped being anchored to the stone tunnel. Earthquake. I shouted, but Jansen and Ace clearly already knew. We looked around for someplace safe. We ducked into a side tunnel where the ground was more stable.

Behind us, rocks smashed into the ground, knocked out of place after who knows who knows, how many years. It became a continuous cacophony. We ran faster, and finally, something behind us seemed to let go. The entire main tunnel sounded like it was collapsing. Some small pebbles and rocks dislodged and hit me in the face and chest as I ran, but it became increasingly clear that whatever fault line had slipped had been further back, running underneath the main northwards tunnel. It sounded like tons of dirt and stone had collapsed. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. A few small aftershocks shook the area slightly, but as a whole, it seemed like we were safe. We all had our LED headlamps on as we made our way back to the

main tunnel, hoping there was a way out. We had to get to the snowmobiles, and more importantly, we needed help. There might be more people imprisoned or taken hostage down here for all I knew. Is everyone okay? I said. Fine, Janssen said. said, wiping dirt off her face. A small trickle of blood ran down her forehead. Jesus, the main tunnel. A. said, walking slowly out of the small tunnel we had sought refuge in. Look at it. I came up behind him, unsurprised to see tons of rock spilling out towards us, with smaller boulders and pebbles nearest and huge pieces as tall as a man appearing further in. We're going to need to find another way back, I said. We can't go back.

Jansen said, There's a hostage in here, and how do you expect us to find him? Ace asked. These tunnels could go for a hundred miles in every direction for all we know. I felt another tremble below our feet as a small aftershock passed through the area, sending a few smaller stones rolling and tumbling around us. But we had come this far, after all. We're going to get that kid back, I said.

We've already come this far, and the world. way back is blocked anyways. We're going to need to find another way out. There has to be other entrances to this cave system, but what I really thought about was the horror stories I had heard about the Paris catacombs, how occasionally someone would find themselves lost in them. Countless random twists and turns through the darkness below the city combined with many miles of tunnels meant that very few who found themselves alone and lost down their made it back. They often starved or died from dehydration, their bones inevitably mixing with the hundreds of thousands of others resting eternally under the bustling cityscape above. After resting, we started moving forwards together.

Morale felt low, and even Ace looked sullen and thoughtful. We continued on in the main tunnel, hoping that the boys still lived somewhere in these endless tunnels. But we hadn't heard a single sound from the creatures in so long that I began to give up hope. The tunnel ahead of us started to open up, and massive growths of illuminant molds began infesting the floor and walls, growing in shapes like ant mounds that reached nearly up to my neck. A soft sound began to echo back. It sounded like the babbling of a subterranean brook. Running forward, I shone the light into the stream and felt relieved to see it was full of pure,

clean water. I began to greedily shove handfuls of water in my mouth. I saw Ace and Jansen follow my mouth. lead. After all the running and fighting, I felt hungry, thirsty, and tired. Looking up, I saw there was a primitive bridge against the stream made of a slab of granite. And beyond, I saw something that took my breath away. There was a cathedral down here, or at least something close to it. Hundreds of eggs stretched across the right and left sides of the chamber, like pews in a church. They were organized in lines with a 10-foot-wide empty path leading further in.

Hundreds of feet above us, sharp stalactites hung from the ceiling, glowing in the purplish light of the mold who climbed the walls in thin streamers. At the end of the open chamber, a few hundred feet away, I saw a carving that stretched to the ceiling. Hewn from pure stone, it showed one of those insectal, egg-laying monsters. It showed it standing up straight, with its thin, branching arms stretched out to the ceiling above it, its oval eyes wide and its huge mouth stretched open wide to show its countless predator's teeth. Below it, I saw one of the white, humanoid creatures.

This one wore a coarse, brown robe, the first one of its kind I had ever seen clothed. It was so still, I thought it was part of the carving at first, that they had created a religious icon showing these creatures serving their great and horrible masters. But then, it turned towards us. We all raised our guns at once. Freeze. Jansen cried. I saw her finger tighten around the trigger. Don't. I said, it's unarmed. Wait. I felt eyes on me from all around me, but when I turned to check our backs, I saw nothing. We started walking forwards towards the robed mutant. As we got closer to the front, I saw more and more of the eggs appeared empty. The ones in the back all had life inside, life that pushed against the thin membranes and whose legs skittered eerily in the

amniotic fluid they breathed. Why should we let it live? Jansen objected angrily under her breath as we moved forward in unison. These bastards killed that family, and who knows how many others. When I think back to all the unsolved missing persons cases in this county, I knew what she meant. The same thought had occurred to me. How many people had these creatures killed? The mutant in the brown robe stood there, his lipless mouth forming a cold sneer as he looked me up and down. Its strange eyes seemed to bulge from its emaciated face.

When I got close enough, I realized they had an almost albino look to them, with blood-red irises that faded towards pink as they neared the center. The pupils seemed to glow, reflecting the eerie light of the mold. I didn't know what to do next. The creature in front of me spoke first, however. They are, our gods, he croaked. From the depth of his voice and the cast of his body, I had figured out that this was probably a male among his species.

The way he spoke reminded me of how deaf people sometimes sounded when they spoke. The word sounded strange, with random pauses and changes in cadence making it hard to understand at times. it was definitely English. Who are you? I asked. What is this place? He shook his head, pointing to the huge carving behind him. God's, he said. We feed, and they protect. They haven't done a very good job so far, Ace whispered in my ear. Those huge bugs just ran screaming when we started shooting.

I ignored this. What are you? I asked, hoping for an actual response. This time, I got one. We are, the keepers, he said slowly, thoughtfully, looking up at the huge carving. And these, are necrovores. He shook his head again, an expression crossing his face that looked very human. Was it, regret? Fear. And they're hungry.

So hungry. As if on cue, I heard the skittering of many legs behind me. Spinning around quickly, I saw that while we had been distracted, some of what he called the Necrovores had surrounded us in a semicircle, cutting off any retreat. These looked much smaller than the original one we had seen, and I assumed they were likely juveniles. Behind you! I screamed to my team, but they already heard what I had.

I raised my shotgun, firing a slug into the nearest one's curved red face. It went between its eyes, and for a moment I could see a clear hole all the way through behind it to the stone walls surrounding us. Then it crumpled, its leg shaking spasmodically in its death throws, its arms moving back and forth in small arcs quickly as if it had a seizure in its last dying moments. Dozens of them appeared, and the speed at which they ran at us looked eerie. All I would see was a red blur and the flash of many branching legs, and an instant later, I would see one of those abominations flying through the air with jaws opened and claws raised forwards.

The guns fired quickly, dropping a dozen in the space of a few seconds and slowing the ones behind enough for us to have a chance. But they skittered so fast, like huge spiders. Their many legs shuffled and cracked against the stone floors, and they leapt at us. I dodged one, sidestepping it and shooting it in the head with a shotgun blast. Its dark red eyes looked at me from its angular face as a giant exit wound. exploded from the back of its mouth. Shrieking, it fell. Ace wasn't so lucky. One jumped at him, slashing with its sharp claws and unhinging its jaw. In a blur, I saw it grab his left arm,

slicing through the cloth and skin easily. A spray of blood shot into the air. Ace. No. I screamed, chambering another round and firing. I hit the beast in the center of its body. It gurgled and spid as blood poured out of its body. It tried to get up and keep fighting, but its legs gave out underneath it, and I watched it for a moment as it lay on the floor, kicking and dying. Ace had reloaded and turned, taking down another one with a direct shot. Jansen dropped the last two, and then suddenly, everything was quiet again. Only the ringing in my ears from all the gunfire broke it.

We quickly applied pressure and a tourniquet, and after many minutes, of resting and attending to his wound, the bleeding slowed. We sat among all the dead necrophores. The strange priest had disappeared in the fighting, slinking away in one of the tunnels behind the carving. We need to find food and water, I said. There may be more underground streams, if we're lucky, but food? What are we going to do, cook a necrovor? I looked at the corpse of the nearest one disdainfully as I spoke.

If we have to, Jansen said. I'm not dying down here. Not unless I have to. That's funny, A said, looking at his injured arm, because you were the one who acted all gung-ho to come down here in the first place. Even before we saw the boy. Who, by the way, we have seen no sign of. This has all been a wild goose chase. An insane, wild goose chase to God knows where.

Probably death, or the seventh circle of hell, maybe, I said joking. but no one smiled. We continued walking. Eventually, we heard a soft babbling, and found a small stream running through a side tunnel. We cleaned Aces wound as best as we could, drinking as much of the clean, clear water as possible. But Humber began affecting me. I wondered if we really would have to try eating those strange red beasts if it came down to it. Maybe they'd taste like lobster, I thought to myself with a wry smile. But our point Problems only got worse from there. Ace's wound looked terrible.

Red, inflamed patches of skin rose all around the slice, and the veins seemed to be discolored as they led away from it. Nothing to worry about, Ace said, smiling. It's only a flesh wound. But in fact, I did worry. And it got worse as we went on. After a couple more hours of walking, it started to really smell, and I saw pus and black spots beginning to spread on his arm. I had never seen an infection set in so rapidly and spread so quickly

before. I wondered what kind of exotic alien bacteria might be on those creatures, and shuddered. We rested, finding an empty side tunnel and laying down. Ace and I were far away from Jansen, who had wandered away down the tunnel a few hundred feet, maybe to use the bathroom in private. I don't trust her, Ace whispered. Neither do I, I, I said. I think she knows more than she lets on. The whole thing seems weird, Ace said, looking down at his arm for the hundredth time, frowning and wincing. But I think you might find you need her. I'm certainly not in much of a condition to help you.

After resting for a while, we got back up and started on down the tunnel again, the endless growths of mold still giving us enough illumination to see ahead without our LED headlamps. I tried to conserve the battery as much as possible. Ace quickly grew so sick that he staggered, bending over and retching occasionally. Sweat poured down his forehead, and he swayed on his feet whenever he stood up straight. I looked at his wound and gasped. I thought about the medical terms I had heard. Supuration, the wound discharging pus, draining the fluids of dying tissue and leaking it all over his skin. Necrosis, the living flesh being eaten as the man watches.

None of these words covered the true horror of what we saw. Ace walked for as long as he could, but as we went on, I could smell the wound more and more. Soon, it became all I could smell. It was nauseating, like raw meat rotting on a wet summer day combined with a strange, fetid bacterial odor. It drove me crazy, made me want to vomit. I couldn't imagine what Ace felt in those last dark hours. I had once seen a movie called Requiem for a dream, where the heroin addict's arm had gotten infected. Streaks of black and purple spread across his skin, leading back to his heart, the central

point of the infection rotting and spreading throughout his body as he watched it eat him alive. I had never seen anything like it, at least until this moment. Looking at the wound on his arm, the red, inflamed veins bulging out, the black rotting skin in the center, the flesh separating and falling off, it tore at the limits of my sanity. I had to look away, but when I closed my eyes, I still saw it. And I always smelled it. I'm dying, he said. We'll get you help, I said, not believing it.

He shook his head. I can't do this anymore. I can't take that smell, the smell of my body decaying. I can feel my skin separating, I can feel the pus running out. I can feel my body rotting from the inside. inside. I can see it, he began to cry. Just go. Leave me with the shotgun and one slug. I'm not going on. I can't take it anymore. No, no, I started to say, but Jansen interrupted. He's right, she said. He is dying. Even if we had medical attention, at this point,

I don't know if they could save him. The sepsis has spread and the limb needs to be amputated. But we have no antibiotics, not even a single capsule of penicillin. He needs immediate intravenous antibiotics to have any chance. Leave me the gun, he said. I did. I dropped the shotgun next to him, putting a lead slug carefully on the ground next to it. He laid down, his face pale and sweaty, his eyes wide and terrified. Now go.

You shouldn't have to see this. You don't have to do this, I said, making one last few. attempt to change his mind. He shook his head. I'm not afraid of dying, old friend. I'm not afraid of suicide. I know some of those Jesus freaks say it ruins your eternal soul or whatever, but I think we both know an infinite God, if he exists, probably doesn't give a damn. Every man owes a death, after all, and we'll all get there somehow. But at least I took down a lot of those damn necrophores in the end. Maybe that will be enough to get a man. get me entrance into Valhalla.

Do you think? I felt a tear creeping down my cheek. Blinking quickly, I brushed the tears away. I think you'll have a front row seat in Volhalla, Ace. Save me a seat. Take care, I said, knowing he could do nothing of the sort. Turning sadly, we walked away. And as Jansen and I went down the tunnel, I heard a single shot of a shotgun blast echoing

from behind us. He's gone, I said slowly and sadly, the sound of the gunshot ringing through my head. Jansen shook her head, as if clearing it. We need to get out of here, she said, or will be joining him. We have no food, no guaranteed access to water, no medical treatment, will probably starve, but if anything happens, we might die much faster. I sighed. My stomach churned and felt tight.

I was so hungry that it hurt. A dull pain arose in my midsection, a constant reminder that I hadn't eaten a meal in far too long. Starvation, I knew, could take at least a few weeks, especially if the person had some body fat and muscle before they began. And yet, with us walking dozens of miles beneath the earth in these caves, that optimistic projection of a few weeks until dying from starvation narrow to significantly less. Just as bad, and perhaps worse, I had run low on ammo. I felt in my pocket for more shotgun slugs. I counted 17 left. I would keep one for myself, in case I were facing some horrible, slow death and needed a way out.

This meant that, when we were inevitably attacked, I had only 16 shots I could fire. These problems circled around my head over and over as we walked. Janssen spoke little. Her breathing sounded heavy, and her posture looked much more slump than the gung-ho, straight-backed woman I had first met. It looked to me like she was giving up hope. I tried to cheer her up. There must be dozens of exits in this place, I said.

Think about it. Those white mutant humanoid things, the keepers, they're feeding those huge red beasts which they call the necrovores, right? At least, they're feeding them sometimes. I have a feeling that the necrophores could easily hunt for themselves. They're a clear apex predator. Perhaps the keepers just want to keep them secret, though. Get to the point, Jansen said.

What about the exits? We have seen exactly one exit and entrance to this goddamn place. Okay, I said, the keepers have to be bringing in meat from multiple openings. It wouldn't make sense for them to just have one opening, the one we came in, and then walk hundreds of miles under the ground. They presumably try to feed the necroweuvre. in this stretch of tunnel as well. So they must be going up and out,

hunting or stealing food or whatever, bringing it back. So, you're saying that if we can find one and follow it, then maybe, Jansen began, but her words cut off quickly as a shriek came from behind us. I spun, raising my already loaded gun and snapping the safety off. The sleek, black Benelli shotgun

felt like an extension of my body by this point. Until I ran out of bullets, that was, and it became just an expensive metal club. Jansen reacted as fast as myself, snapping on an LED light to give us more illumination. The white light shot out, blinding me for a moment. In comparison to the dull, purplish light of the fungus that grew on the sides and walls of the tunnels,

it looked like the sun itself. A massive red blur disappeared down the hall from behind us, its eerie cry reminiscent of a steam whistle receding with it. I looked around for more signs that we were being followed and stalked, but it looked empty behind us. We kept moving forwards, and the main tunnel ended, splitting into left and right corridors, both the same size and without any indication of which one to take. By this point, I had given up any hope of seeing the kidnapped boy again. I wasn't even sure I would survive.

We went left, and further up, the tunnel split again. We went left again, and eventually, I smelled something new, roasting meat. My stomach immediately began to flip and ache as the scent wafted through the tunnel. I smell food. I said quietly, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Food. Meat. Oh, thank God.

We walked forward side by side, going faster by this point. Even Janssen's eyes gleaned. I am so hungry, I could eat one of those necrovores, she said. I bet they taste like chicken, they look more like lobsters, I said. Nice and red, with a thick shell. I bet if you boiled them alive, and got a little melted butter, suddenly, I found a tunnel blocked by a necrovor. I instinctively jumped and raised my gun, almost firing straight into it. Then I saw that it had a bullet through the center of its chest.

It looked dead, laying on its back with its dark red eyes staring up at the ceiling, its branching, insectal legs curled up in a pathetic way like a desiccated house spider. What the fuck? Jansen asked, her expression twisting into confusion. Who shot this one? You. I shrugged. It had to be one of us, I said. Perhaps the last time they attacked us, one of us hit one in the stomach and it ran off, then once it comes.

got here. It finished dying from blood loss or organ failure or whatever took it out in the end. That would be my guess. Jansen had knelt beside the corpse of the necrovor, moving one of its stiff legs aside to get closer to its open mouth full of hundreds of sharp teeth. I saw her feeling around for something in her pocket. I have to use the bathroom, I lied, now genuinely curious as to what kind of scheme Jansen was up to. I had had a feeling, ever since I first met her, that there was something more to her being here than just a state cop wanting to tag along with Rangers. I walked down the tunnel, and when it began to curve, I pretended to move against the wall and start urinating. But I was watching Jansen. She reached into her inner coat pocket

and took out a clear glass vial with a black top. Kneeling down in front of the necrow, I saw her dip the vial in its mouth, presumably to collect some of its bloody saliva, then screw on the top. I started walking back, and she quickly tucked the vial back into her inner coat pocket. Jansen quickly backed up a couple steps from the necrovor, changing her facial expression into the pale, indifference she had worn for what felt like days now. But the real Jansen was under there. I had seen it. And she was up to something. I debated bringing up what I had seen, confronting her directly, but I decided against it. I would confront her when the time was right, but for now, survival seemed more important. We left the necrovor behind and began

to go down the tunnel, towards the delicious smells of roasting meat that had grown much stronger now. Up ahead, I saw a ray of light shining into the cave. My heart soared. It was real sunlight. And that meant only one thing, an exit. I was going to run up ahead when I heard Jansen clicked the safety of her gun off, cocked the hammer and tell me two words, don't move. She was only a few feet behind me. I still had my shotgun strapped around my shoulder, and I was looking forwards, away from her. She had all the advantages. I knew that, most likely, I was doomed, and would die right here, on the floor of a cave, without my family ever knowing what happened. Take your shotgun and drop it on the floor, slowly, Jansen said.

If you turn, I will shoot you. I did as she asked. asked. Keep looking away from me. Now, I saw your expression when you first saw the necrovers at the entrance of the cave, and you didn't even look the slightest bit surprised. So I'm going to ask you one question, and one question only. Have you seen them before? Yes, I said softly, remembering. About half a year before the events with Ace and Jansen in the cave, I had been alone in my log cabin. I made a full pot of coffee, cleaned and oiled my guns, and decided to my decided to go shooting. After pouring a huge thermos of boiling hot coffee, I grabbed my

Winchester 30-30, a beautiful gun with a polished walnut stock. I headed outside, setting up targets to shoot. I had gone to the dump, grabbed an old air conditioner and a metal trash lid, and I set these up at different distances. Because this was summer, the air smelled fresh and clean. The night time had come, and with no pollution and no clouds, all of the stars in the sky seemed to radiate a bright, pure light. It seemed as if blue flames shot out of my gun for a split second when I fired in the darkness. I'd instantly hear the ping of metal as it connected with one of my targets. I had gone on this way for a while when the crying and shrieking had started from the woods nearby. No one lived near me, so I instantly went on high alert.

For a few seconds, I tried to convince myself it was just a fox or a fisher cat, but I had heard both, and it sounded different. This seemed much louder, and almost synthetic. I reloaded my gun, stuffing an extra clip into my pocket, and began to follow the sounds. Then I heard a gunshot, then two, and the screaming grew louder. I sprinted ahead, dodging roots and rocks, moving between the evergreen and birch trees growing thick in this part of the form. The insects had mostly fallen silent after the gunshots, and the wilderness had an eerie, silent quality to it now, as if everything in these woods were staying quiet so they could hear what happens next.

And then I caught glimpses of them, two men and a red, insectal beast that stood over eight feet tall. The men looked panicked and certainly had no sharpshooting skills. They had emptied their clips from the look of it, but I only saw a couple small trails of blood on the insectoid creature, namely from shallow grooves that ran over the side of its chest and above one shoulder. It moved forward in a rage and used its razor-sharp fingers to slip the nearest man's throat. Then it moved on to the next man. I was running as fast as I could, trying to get within range to save the man's life. In horror, I watched the beast jerk its head

forward, its mouth opening wide as its jaw disengaged, and bit off the surviving man's legs at the knees. I screamed, no, and stopped running, looking through the sight and opening fire. I hit the red creature a few times in the head, right between its dark, staring eyes, and after a few seconds of screaming, it fell back. I ran forwards, going to the injured man and shaking him. What was that? I yelled at him. Who are you? What are you doing? He shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear it, then looked up at me. My name is Constantine, he said in a thick accent. I am an agent for the FSB, an agent for my home country of Russia. I would not normally tell you this, but I am dying. That creature dash, he pointed at the huge red thing lying dead on the

ground, has a bacteria in its body that has immense potential as a biological warfare agent. It can cause septic shock in any human, and most antibiotics have no effect. A millionth of a drop of what that creature has could kill a man, and when the postmortem is done, it will look like just a runaway bacterial infection, something anyone could get. Thanks, I said, putting a bullet into his head. Then I buried the two Russian agents and the red creature in a single mass grave. The soft Alaskan soil covered them all quickly. No one would have access to any biological.

weapons from these creatures while I was alive, not if I could help it. I told all this to Jansen, if that was her real name, trying to kill as much time as possible. My only hope was for some deus ex machina, some sort of fortuitous savior who could stop her. Because, in my heart, I knew she would not let me live, no more than the Russian FSB agents would have let me live if they had succeeded in killing the necrovor and knew I had seen. Jansen went pale, her face turning into a scowl. And then she nodded. So, the Russians somehow heard about the necrovores, she said to herself. And now they want to take samples, just like us, who are you with, really? I asked. I know you're no cop. I'm CIA, she said, smiling wide. I really do feel bad about this,

but orders are orders. I was explicitly told that no witnesses should survive. The CIA wishes to take some necrovores alive and see if they can't be used as biological weapons in themselves, if released in an enemy country for instance, but for now, even just the extremely powerful bacterium is enough. Goodbye, and I'm sorry. I closed my eyes, breathing fast. My time was up. I knew I would die now, shot in the back like a common criminal. But no shot came. Instead, I heard a surprised grunt of pain, and then a horrible gurgling, spitting sound started. I turned my head slowly, wondering if this was some sort of trick, and then I saw it, Jansen stood there with her throat cut, a fountain of blood pouring down the front of her clothes.

Her eyes looked amazed and surprised, as if she had just seen the world's greatest magic trick. And then she fell, her body landing hard on the stone floor of the tunnel. behind her, I saw Ace, his bloody folding knife held tightly in one trembling hand. His other hand looked black and dead, the fingers twisted strangely. Oh my God, Ace. I yelled in shock and bliss. I thought you were dead, soon, he said, falling himself on top of Janssen's body. I ran over to him, the smell of the rotting meat of his arm covering the entire area,

but I was so happy I could hug him. How? I asked Ace. He looked up at me, his eyes watery and unfocused, and then he vomited up a stream of watered down blood. It fell on the hand of Jansen. I, was attacked, Ace said. That one single slug, I had to use it to shoot a necrovor that tried to ambush me immediately after you guys left. And then someone started cooking, and I smelled meat. I had made my way slowly in the direction of the smell, and found one of those white mutants roasting a deer on a fire. They had stores of food in one room, mushrooms, ferns, meat and nuts, and it was huge. I hid behind a pile of deer skins, eating as much as I could, waiting to die, sipping some water

that trickled down from the ceiling. And then I heard you in Jansen nearby. Your voices echoed. You scared away the white mutant, the keeper, who was cooking. I heard Janssen's confession, and I killed her. He pointed to his arm. The black and purple rot had spread past his shoulder and begun to eat into his chest. I'm almost done.

Almost done. Will you give me peace? Will you do the coup to grace? I nodded, putting a slug in the chamber. Ace looked up at me, his eyes tearing up, his face reflecting the sadness and uncertainty deep within him. I'll tell everyone of your bravery, old friend, I said, pointing the gun at his forehead and pulling the trigger. There was a splash of blood and gore, and then I was alone. I took all the ammo and the gun off of Jansen, which gave me 19 rounds for the Ruger.

And then I began to walk towards the sunlight I still saw streaming across the hallway, praying for an exit. I turned into the room and saw what aes had seen. A deer roasted over a dying fire, a pile of edible mushrooms on a deerskin in the corner, a pile of fiddleheads next to it, and a variety of edible herbs from the forest on the other side. Sun dried, jerky-like meat also lay on a huge, flat rock under the sun. I saw with horrifying disappointment that the light came from a small hole in the ceiling, one where the smoke from the fire could escape. There was no way to get up there, unless I could transform into a spider,

and the hole seemed too small to crawl through anyway. But it still gave me hope. It meant I wasn't thousands of feet below the ground, and that a real exit might be right around the corner. If only there weren't so many branching caverns to get lost in, I thought. I ate well, and then took a deerskin and began to wrap up as much food as I could carry. It was undoubtedly the best meal of my life. After starving in the darkness for so long, even the most tasteless food seemed like ambrosia.

I tied the deerskin to a long stick, like a hobo going off to a train, and, balancing it on my shoulder, went off by myself. I wandered for weeks, eating as little as I could from the food. I found another kitchen, in which the keepers stored food on the second week, with elk meat and more dried mushrooms stored there, and took what I could. Cold mountain streams flowed through the caves periodically, giving me water to drink. And yet, I found no exit, and though I caught glimpses of white hands or red shells behind me, the enemy seemed happy to simply stalk me and watch. Until I neared the end, that was. It came suddenly, a huge archway up ahead past a bend in the cavern.

Because it was night, I didn't even realize at first what I saw. But the light of the moon looked so different from the dull, purplish light of the mold that I realized with ecstasy that I must be close to the end of this eternal cave. I started to run, and that was when the ambush was sprung. They came from everywhere, keepers in coarse brown robes and flashes of red from the necrovers surrounding me. The necrovers spat and hissed while the keepers rambled in their strange, high-pitched yamoring language.

I dropped my remaining food on the ground, seeing it spill out on the floor in slow motion as my adrenaline spiked, then in a blur, I had the Ruger.454 in my hand. I ran towards the door, emptying all six rounds at those necrovores closest to me. I aimed for their dark red eyes, a technique which had worked well in previous battles. I tried to clog the tunnel with the corpses of those nearest, but the smaller ones behind writh and wriggled past the twisted, bleeding bodies of their siblings. I was almost at the exit, however. I could feel the fresh air by this point.

I felt hands grabbing at me from behind. Grabbing the Ruger, I began to pistol whip anything and everything near, eventually feeling the hands release after a couple seconds. One of them grabbed at the pistol and it fell to the floor. I had no time to pick it up. Now I had necrovers on each side of me, and they moved in a blur, their legs skittering forwards as their bodies twisted from side to side in hungry anticipation. Their mouths opened wide and their claws began to whip through the air as I grabbed the shotgun, opening fire. The first one, I blew off its hand. It shrieked, looking down as blood pumped out of the stump, then began to backpedal,

knocking the necrovore behind it down. The second one jumped straight at me, its huge maw opened wide. I could see down its sleek, wet throat. It aimed at my face, and I began to shoot blindly, hitting its open mouth three or four times. It fell to the floor a few inches from me, and I heard a click as the shotgun ran out of ammo. As I ran, I put my last bullets in the shotgun, shooting behind me and hitting a couple of those who would kill me. I felt in my pocket and realized I was now down to two bullets. I sprinted through the exit, grabbing for the very last rounds.

I saw those creatures coming through the stone door, and, after slamming a slug in the chamber, dropped a large necrovore at the threshold. It fell noiselessly, blocking the door to those behind him, and I ran. I ran for what felt like hours, until I saw a small curl of smoke up ahead. I found a small Eskimo village on the coastline. An elderly woman in a little shack opened the door. Someone in the town had a ham radio, which they used to call for help and get me evacuated. When I first got back and saw myself in a mirror, I was horrified.

I had lost many pounds and looked thin and frail, my cheekbones sharp and angular, my haunted eyes sunken deep in my skeletal face. I could count every rib on my chest, and my legs looked like sticks covered in skin. I didn't tell my boss the whole story, or anyone else, for that matter. I had been missing for weeks, and mostly said I got lost in the tunnels when looking for a missing boy, which was true, to an extent. I did not tell them about the necrovores, however, or the brave actions of Ace that saved my life. That was a story I kept to myself until now. The media wasn't providing any information,

nor was the public, and the police weren't saying anything either. The pressure mounted on them, the community wanted answers. People needed to know what was going on and how they could avoid becoming victims of this mysterious man. But the police had no answers to give. It all started in September 1979 in Staun, Virginia, when psychic Norin Reneer was invited to give a lecture at a college class on mediumistic gifts and meditation. The audience was a bit difficult, but Noreen felt pleased with the turnout. Despite some resistance, people kept an open mind, calm, and receptive to her presentation. After the lecture, she began packing up her things when a young woman approached her,

asking for help. Six months earlier, the woman's sister had been attacked in a student residence. Sadly, the victim had no memory of the face of her attacker. She could barely remember anything about the incident. The girl handed Norin a ring that belonged to the victim, requesting that Norin hold it in her hands and try to see what had happened. At first, Norin declined, explaining that she didn't have time, but after some persuasion, she reluctantly took the ring. As she held it, a series of visions began to emerge. Norin saw an image of a tall, African-American man with a stocking over his face, holding a kitchen knife.

She also saw vague images of the attack that had taken place in the residence and, strangely, the man apologizing to his victim. However, she could see no further details. Unbeknownst to Noreen, the woman had recorded the entire conversation and later handed the tape to the Staun Police. The officers, upon hearing the tape, were stunned. They had no leads in the investigation, no suspects, no clues. In their desperation, they decided to reach out to the psychic to see if she could help solve the case. Noreen Reneer was born on January 16, 1937, in Massachusetts, and grew up near the small town of

Falls. She describes herself as an adventurous and free-spirited child, one who loved sports, including football, basketball, and baseball. Another passion of hers was the theater, and she frequently participated in school plays. She had dreams of becoming a singer or a Hollywood actress. She was an ordinary child, but there was something slightly different about her. Her paternal grandmother, who had the gift of reading tarot cards, often performed readings for the neighbors. Norin seemed to have inherited some of this ability. As a teenager, Norin fell deeply in love and suddenly packed her bags to run away with her boyfriend. They got married, moved out, and by the time she was in her 20s, they had two daughters,

Carla and Renee. Sadly, as time passed, the couple divorced, and they each went their separate ways. In 1976, while working as a public relations director at the Hyatt Hotel in Orlando, Norin was approached by a psychic who requested to reserve a conference room. Noreen did her job, speaking with the client, taking notes, and booking the room. But then the psychic told her he could see her aura. Some sources say he directly told her she had a gift, while others suggest he simply mentioned that she would be able to help others.

Shortly after this encounter, Norine began meeting with two friends, Helen and Joanna, to meditate once a week. They were all feeling quite stressed, and they believed meditation might help them relax. During the third session, something strange happened. Noreen sat down, took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and allowed herself to drift. It was as though she had been plugged into an electrical circuit, with electricity coursing through her body. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach and cried out in agony.

A voice, not her own, spoke through her, saying things she had no control over. As the voice spoke, she saw fleeting images. When she regained consciousness and looked up, she saw that her friend Joanna was in tears. According to Joanna, Norin had spoken as though she were her grandmother, who had passed away three years earlier. Shocked by what had happened, Norian began meditating every night with her friends, hoping to connect with spirits and receive messages for others. Slowly, she began to realize that she had a genuine gift. While it took her a while to enter a trance, she discovered a quick way to do so, by touching objects belonging to the deceased. A bracelet,

rings or a music box, if a spirit had passed on too soon, their energy seemed to linger in their possessions. By touching these objects, Norin would receive messages from the beyond. Sadly, three months after discovering her abilities, Norin was let go from her job, allegedly because her performance had declined. However, a nearby hotel quickly hired her as a psychic, though they didn't want her to talk about her gift publicly. They only wanted her to conduct readings for various clients, especially important individuals.

Her abilities continued to open doors for her, and she eventually worked with William Roll, conducting experiments that demonstrated her abilities were real. She also worked with David T. Jones, where she once again proved her gift. Noreen even investigated poltergeist cases and the alleged haunting of a spa. By 1979, she moved to Charlottesville, Virginia, and began giving lectures at universities, including the University of Virginia. It was then that she encountered the disturbing case of the masked man. On the night of Tuesday, March 14, 1979, nearly all of the students living in a dormitory

in Ston, Virginia, were asleep. It was quite late when one of the last students to enter her room was a 22-year-old woman who had been studying until the early hours. She entered the dorm, went to the second floor, changed clothes, climbed into bed, and turned off the light. It was then that a mysterious man leapt onto her, holding a knife, and assaulted her. After the attack, the man apologized and disappeared. The young woman was so traumatized that she could barely remember much of what happened.

She didn't recall his face, his physical appearance, or how he was dressed, everything happened so quickly that the details were clouded in her mind. However, once at the police station, she described her attacker as a tall African-American man wearing a stocking over his face and holding a knife. At first, the police thought it was an isolated case, but two months later, another young woman reported a similar attack, just two blocks away from the dormitory. Once again, a young woman entered her room, changed clothes, got into bed, and turned off the lights. A tall African-American man, wearing a stocking over his face and holding a knife, jumped on her.

Afterward, he apologized and disappeared. At the time, the police didn't have the means to investigate using DNA evidence or other modern forensic techniques, so solving crimes of this magnitude was extremely difficult, especially when the victims had only vague memories of the attacker. The media provided very little information on the case, and the police were tight-lipped. They didn't disclose anything about the victims or the suspect. With two attacks in just two months, panic began to spread through Staun. Young women in the area started to avoid going out after dark, unsure of how the attacker

chose his victims or how he got into their homes. Fear spread quickly throughout the town. Then, something happened that turned everything upside down. One of the victims, while walking near a construction site, pointed to a worker and shouted that he was her attacker. The police arrested the man, but once at the station, they began to have doubts. The attacker had worn a stocking over his face, so the woman couldn't be 100% sure it was him. Yes, he was tall and African American, but that was all they had to go on.

Moreover, the man had no criminal record related to assaults, only minor thefts. So, without any concrete evidence, they released him. Then, the other victim, while walking down the street, also identified a tall African-American man and screamed, leading to another arrest. But once again, another crime occurred. The attack happened quickly, in the dark, and followed the same pattern, stocking over the face, knife in hand, a rapid assault, an apology, and then the disappearance of the attacker. Three attacks in just four months, and the town couldn't take it anymore.

The media had no information, the public was terrified, and the police were tight-lipped. The pressure was mounting. People wanted answers, they needed to know how to protect themselves from this man. But the officers couldn't reveal anything, as a mistake could ruin the entire investigation. In the midst of the chaos, it was discovered that strange robberies have been happening in the area, someone had been breaking into homes and stealing women's underwear. The police considered this an important clue. It seemed there was a pattern, first, the robberies, then, possibly, the assaults.

They needed to stop him before things escalated. further. On September 2nd, the man attacked again. This time, the victim was a young woman who was babysitting for some friends. A few weeks later, he broke into the room of a 23-year-old woman and did exactly the same thing. The attacks were becoming more frequent, and the pressure on the police department intensified. They had no suspects, no solid leads, no clues. Then, something extraordinary happened. A university student came to the police station with a tape in hand. She introduced herself as the sister of the first victim and explained that Norin Reneer, a renowned psychic, had been giving lectures in Stahn.

She told the police that she had attended one of Norin's talks and had handed her a ring belonging to the victim, asking Noreen to reveal what she saw. On the tape, Noreen Reneer described the masked man as a tall African-American man wearing a stocking over his face, and she could see him with a knife in his hand. The police were astounded. They realized they were dealing with something far beyond ordinary detective work. They reached out to Norin, asking for her help in solving the case. At first, Norin didn't know if she wanted to be involved, but the police convinced her to meet with them.

Soon, they provided her with the only concrete information they had, one of the victim's descriptions of the attacker. Noreen focused on the psychic readings, reaching out to the victim's energy, even their physical presence. Using her abilities, she saw an image of the attacker in her mind, but there was still no name, no solid physical evidence to work with. But she saw something that caught her attention, a very distinctive piece of jewelry, a gold chain necklace. She felt certain that the necklace was important, but the police couldn't find any such necklace during their search of the suspects. Then, two weeks later, the breakthrough came. Another psychic working with the police reported seeing the same piece of jewelry, a gold necklace,

on a man. This time, they had a suspect. They worked quickly, identifying the man who had been connected to the string of attacks. His name was David, and when they searched his apartment, they found the gold necklace and other stolen items. He was arrested. The police were able to piece together that David had been involved in the robberies and assaults, though his true motives remained unclear. It was later determined that David had been using his occupation as a construction worker to gain access to women's homes and apartment buildings. He had been breaking into their rooms, stealing their underwear, and then assaulting them.

He had been living a double life, leading a normal existence during the day while committing horrific crimes at night. David was convicted of multiple crimes and sentenced to life in prison. As for Noreen, she was hailed as a hero for her role in solving the case, though she remained humble, acknowledging that she had only helped with what she saw. Despite her psychic abilities, Noreen never sought fame or fortune and instead continued her work helping others. The masked man case is one of the most well-known and widely discussed examples of psychic

involvement in solving a crime. Norin's ability to describe the attacker helped bring closure to the victims and their families. Her story remains an example of the ways in which the paranormal and psychic gifts can be used to assist law enforcement in solving difficult and chilling cases. We begin. On Wednesday, March 1, 1995, two friends decided to go out, partying. They were just 20 years old, in, the prime of life, and the night in Manhattan always held promise. Their names were Kim Antonakis and Lease Peace. Kim was driving and Lease was giving directions. The streets at that time were empty, there wasn't a soul, and the, traffic lights, magically, were all green.

Kim dropped her friend off at the door, of her apartment at, 3.45 in the morning, and from there she headed, to her house, where she would arrive at around, for, but what she didn't know was that she would never make it through the door. By mid-morning, she was supposed to be at work, she worked, a half day at her father's company, and when she didn't show up, her supervisor, got worried. The boss's daughter could do a thousand things, go partying, shopping, meet up with friends, do crazy things, but work. She never, missed it. So the supervisor called her by phone, and when she didn't answer, he called, her father directly, who lost his mind. It was the darkest moment of my life when they called me and told me my daughter hadn't come, home. First, as you'd expect, he called his daughter, and then all her friends, her, best friend, the neighbors, classmates, people from work, and without hesitation, the father, went straight to her house. He had a spare key, and as soon as he entered, he looked in the garage, where, mysteriously, he didn't find her car, but lying on the ground.

he found, an earring that he himself had bought her, which, for him, was a huge red flag. So from that house, he went directly to a police station, where he reported that his beloved daughter had, disappeared. Normally in these cases, the police wouldn't move until 24, hours had passed, and back then, sometimes even, 48, but Kim's case was, very special because her father was, a very important man. But we'll, return to this. point later. The girls' profile was quite high, and the case was assigned to, Detective Philip Tricola, who, first and foremost created a psychological profile of the victim, and from there, he, extended the alert to several police stations. Kimberly Antinacchus, better, known as

Kim, was born on November 15, 1974 in Queens, New York, as the only daughter of Marlon and Tommy Antinacchus. This marriage didn't last. long, they divorced when she was still very young, and it seems Kim always lived, with her father in New York, while her mother moved to Florida. Now I have to tell you about the family dynamic. Kim was her father's princess, his pride and joy, his perfect girl, and everything, she asked for, she had, in front of her. For Tommy, this wasn't difficult, since he was a computer consultant and, according to the New York Post, he was, rich. If Kim wanted something, she had it immediately. Although I must tell you she was very well raised, she was aware she was rich,

but at the same time, didn't abuse it. She knew things had to be earned, with effort and consistency, and above all, she was very humble. According to those who knew her, Kim was beautiful, naive and lively. She loved to dance and also loved rap music like Mary J and Notorious B.I.G. She was always very popular, not just because of her looks but also for her generous and friendly nature. She made everyone feel part of the group, and if she could help you with anything, she was there for you, without expecting anything in return, which, according to her friends, made her an easy target for opportunists. They saw her as the typical sweet, rich, girl, and took advantage of that image. However, I must tell you, that Kim was very intelligent. At 20 years old, not only was she studying a degree,

but she was also working, yes, it was her father's company, but, according to people, she worked harder than anyone else. She gave her all, in both areas, and was excellent, at both. However, In 1994, she decided she wanted to spread her wings. Her friends were becoming independent, moving in with partners, and meanwhile, she was still living, with her father. She was happy with him, she felt protected, deeply loved, but at the same time, she wanted her own space. She told Tommy, explained it to him, but he didn't understand.

She was his baby, his princess, he didn't want her to leave. But after much insistence, he finally accepted. It was a two-story house with a garage, a garden, it was a fairly spacious place, and according to her, it had, a justification, the extra room, was for when her mother visited, from Florida, since hotels were very, expensive. Her mother would come to see her, stay with her, and they'd, spend more time together. At 20 years old, Kim didn't party much. She lived for and because of work, to study, to work, to save, she lived thinking of the future, not the present. And her friends insisted she had to, live. But even living independently, she kept the same routine, as if she were still living with her father, waking up early, having breakfast, cleaning the house, and going to bed, as early as possible.

But after a year, this girl, finally relaxed and realized, she could do whatever she wanted. sleep in, eat whatever, go anywhere, come back whenever. That's how she became, a star of New York's nightclubs. She flirted a lot and always found, a guy willing to dance with her. Though I must say she didn't want anything serious, her priorities were still studies and work. She was too young for problems, for commitments, she just wanted to enjoy, herself and have fun. And so, on Tuesday, February 28, she made plans with her best friend, Lease Peace, to go out partying. The night was supposed, to be chill, go dancing, have a couple drinks, get back home early. But even before heading out the door, Kim grabbed the phone and called her father, because that habit never left her.

With this information, the police called Lease. She went to the station, talked about Kim, what she was like, as a friend, as a person, and then told them about the night. She explained that at 9.30 p.m., Kim showed up at her place. She arrived with her car, parked, came upstairs, and for the next three and a half hours, the girls chatted, did their makeup, got ready, talked, and then left Lisa's house, and went straight to a club called, SOPs, where, according to security, they arrived at 1.30 a.m. The girl's plan was to dance, have fun, and maybe meet some guys. But that night, specifically, there were no young guys.

just couples, older folks, so after a couple drinks, they headed home. At 3.45, Kim dropped off lease, and from her friend's apartment, she supposedly headed to her own. But from here on, all trace of her was lost. The police notified not just every unit, but also all departments. Several patrols combed through, all of Manhattan, hotspots for drug trafficking, robberies, assaults, and they also searched for something, very specific, in New York, there were gangs that stole cars, and dismantled them. Although Kim's car wasn't, anything flashy, it was a white, Honda Civic, but as parts, it could bring in a decent amount of money. Still, at this point, Lease, told the police something very interesting, the biggest profit thieves could get, wasn't from Kim's car,

but from Kim herself. That night she was dressed to the Nines, she wore gold, hoop earrings, a thick gold bracelet, and a ring with a large violet gem, surrounded by white stones. Also, according to Lees, she carried, a brown handbag from the brand Giorgio, meaning, likely, Giorgio Armani. We're not talking about a $50 purse. This was a much more expensive piece. So the whole outfit, was worth a lot of money. Kim Antinakis herself, was the perfect victim for a kidnapping group, she was young, attractive, the daughter of a rich man, dressed in expensive clothes, with a purse worth a fortune. She was the perfect target, for a kidnapping. So, according to the police, Tommy should expect a call from these people. And on the afternoon

of March 1st, when he got home, he saw that the landline phone had missed calls. In total, there were two calls, and a message on the answering machine. He rushed to check it, but the message was empty. He hit play, listened, but, unfortunately, nothing was recorded. And with this information, the police believed there was no kidnapping, because those people, hadn't left a message. The police kept searching tirelessly, for Kim, they checked hospitals, morgues, nothing. And they looked into her inner circle. They discovered that two weeks earlier, the room in Kim's house meant for her mother, was occupied by a family of three. Her friend April told them that, her building was being renovated, they were fixing the facade, and there was a lot of smoke, which wasn't good at all for her,

two-year-old son. She was afraid he'd get sick, develop lung problems, and, asked Kim if they could please, temporarily stay in the spare room. Kim said yes. So they moved into her home, her friend April, April's partner, Joshua Torres, and their two-year-old son, Tymy, and for two weeks, they didn't pay a single cent. Their excuse was that Kim didn't want them to pay anything. But according to Lees, her best friend, those people were taking advantage of her. Not even a minimal effort, not grocery shopping, not cleaning the house, they were free-loading, locked in the room doing nothing. Still, Kim was very happy because she felt she was, being a great help. To be continued.

However, Kim was very happy because she felt she was being of great help. Days passed and there were no signs of Kim. The streets were plastered with her face, with her description, and her father Tommy made a lot of noise. He called the radio, television, various magazines, he made a huge fuss. Her mother, Marlon, arrived in New York on March 3rd, and the first thing she did was ask everyone for the number of a psychic, because according to her, that was the last thing missing. No one had seen her, no one had heard anything. They had no leads, absolutely nothing, and the police didn't even know where to start. So the last bullet was the psychics.

A friend recommended Ellie Crystal. Ellie at the time was quite well known and had a very good reputation. At age 11, she allegedly interacted with her first spirit, and from there she never stopped. As she grew up, she became more and more sensitive, and in adulthood she studied two degrees, psychology and special education. Between 1991 and 1993, she produced and hosted the talk show the metaphysical experience, gave lectures and conferences, and had a long resume. For this reason, Marlon considered her the perfect person to investigate her daughter. daughter's case. She got the phone number, called her, and briefly explained what was happening.

But during the call, Marlon was very upset, she stuttered, her tone changed, rising and falling, crying, showing deep distress. So Ellie gave her an appointment for that same day. Marlon showed up with a camera. Her idea was to record everything to later give it to the police, friends, and family. If the session went well, Ellie would have all the information. If what she said was real, they'd know exactly where to look for her daughter. Ellie agreed. Marlon went to her office, turned on the camera, and handed Ellie a photo of her daughter. As soon as she touched it, Ellie began to say things, things that initially seemed to make no sense.

The first thing she assured was that she was channeling the soul of her daughter, who was still alive. She felt cold, darkness, dampness, exhaustion, hunger, thirst. She felt a flame, the flame of her soul, drowning in embers. If they didn't find her immediately, Kim would die, because at that moment she was being left to die. She could clearly see what the police suspected, the girl had been kidnapped, tried to escape, scream, flee, but these people caught her and tied her up in a dark and very cold place. They didn't give her food or water. She was alone, isolated.

Her hands were tied so tightly that blood couldn't circulate. She also felt that all of this was carried out by several men, but they were all taking direct orders, orders from someone who knew Kim very well. The attack was personal, direct, out of envy, resentment, and also for money. Because they knew exactly who this girl was, where she came from. They knew the Antinacus family. Kim was regretful. If she were freed, she would never trust anyone again, because at that moment she felt betrayed. The session was about to end, and Ellie was about to let go of the photo when she suddenly

mentioned the letter, J. She said that J was very present in the case, that there were JS everywhere. J, J, J, J, that this letter was part of a name, or names. She begged Marlon to tell the police, because this letter would be very important. With that information, Marlon stopped the recording and went straight to her daughter's house in Brooklyn. On the way, she called everyone, friends, family, trusted people, and asked everyone to come to the house because she had something very important to show them. Once gathered, they all went to the living room and the woman played the recording. Everyone listened attentively, and among them were two people who became very uncomfortable,

Joshua Torres, who lived with Kim along with his wife and child, and Jose Negrin, better known as Joey. Within moments, they stood up and walked out the door, saying they couldn't wait, that they were going to look for Kim and ask for help. But that behavior raised a lot of suspicion. At 3 a.m. on March 4, 1995, the day after Marlon visited the psychic, a fire broke out. out in an abandoned house located on 86th Avenue in Woodhaven, Queens. Miraculously, the flames were controlled within minutes. Firefighters arrived, intervened, and in no time, everything was over.

The fire's origin was a specific point, right in the center of the basement. When the firefighters looked more closely, they immediately called the police, because there was a lifeless body. Within hours, they realized it was the body of a woman, around 20 years old. She had been tied to a chair, gagged, and then doused with gasoline and set on fire, while still alive. That body was quickly presumed to be Kim Antonakis. She had exactly the same tattoos, and DNA later confirmed it. In the following days, the police had some names, but made no arrests.

That's when Tommy Antonakis decided to step up. He listened to the tape, to everything the psychic had said, and realized that his daughter had been burned alive. So he asked the police to please collaborate with the psychic. She had been right about the kidnapping. They had no arrests, only names. At first, the detectives wouldn't listen. To them, it was pure coincidence. Ellie Crystal had no special gift.

But Tommy insisted, and on Saturday, March 10th, several people went. to Ellie's office, including Marlon, Tommy, her brother Joey, Detective Louise Pia, and another officer. Ellie did the exact same thing, grabbed a photo, focused, channeled the girl's soul, and immediately revealed a lot of information. She spoke of cold, darkness, hunger, thirst, anxiety, fear, betrayal. She spoke of a kidnapping, revenge, rage, envy, money, and most of all, she again emphasized the letter J. Everywhere she looked, there were J.S. In her mind, there were four men.

To the police, the letter J was familiar. For them, Joshua Torres was a person of interest. Joshua, his wife, and their child had been living with Kim for two weeks without paying anything. Kim had everything in life. Joshua had had a rough life. There wasn't much information about him, but reports. said he had a criminal record. So the contrast might have sparked conflict, envy, resentment, rage. All of that was circumstantial, a hypothesis. But digging deeper, they found that Joshua

had several friends whose name started with Jay, and all of them were troublemakers. He had two friends named Jose Negren and Julio Negren, not related, and another friend named Nicholas Labretti, nicknamed Little J. In total, for J.S. But again, all of this was circumstantial. Maybe they wanted to kidnap her, steal her car or her jewelry. But sadly, there was no evidence against them, and as weeks and months passed, the case stalled. So Tommy Antonacus stepped up again and made a lot of noise. He called the media, the TV, the radio.

He gave interviews constantly and appeared everywhere, presenting himself as a completely devastated father. This way, he made sure people wouldn't forget his daughter and that the whole community would empathize with what he was going through. I have no life. Kimberly was my princess. And then came September 6, 1995. A young couple in their 20s walked into a police station with a clear message. A few days earlier, Joshua Torres had gotten drunk at a party and started saying he had killed Kim, that he kidnapped her, left her in the dark, starving and cold, and finally set her on fire and left her to die. With this information, the police could go after him. But first, they looked for one of his friends, Julio Negren, and asked him about it. Supposedly,

Julio had been there when he confessed while drunk. After an interrogation, Julio broke down and confessed that he and several others were involved in the crime. The names of those involved were, Joshua Torres, Julio Negren, Nicholas Labretti, aka Little J, and Jose Negren, but the latter had died in a shootout that June and could not be arrested. The rest were arrested, and all of them talked, all except Joshua, who claimed he was innocent, that he hadn't done anything and knew nothing. But according to the others, he was the mastermind. According to them, here's what happened, Joshua moved in with Kim, along with his girlfriend and son. For two weeks, they paid nothing, because Kim said it was okay, they didn't need to worry. In that time, Joshua discovered Kim had money.

Her father was rich, she had a nice house, clothes, jewelry, bags, she was happy and had it all. So he had the bright idea of calling his three friends and inviting them to kidnap her. Joshua had a key to the house, knew her schedule, where she worked, partied, he knew everything. On the night of March 1st, in the early morning, he left the house unlocked for Nicholas and Jose. These men hid in the garage, and when Kim arrived around 4 a.m., they attacked her and kidnapped her using her own car. They drove directly to the abandoned house in Queens. There, they tied her to a chair and left her in the dark for days, no coat, freezing, thirsty, hungry. She spent all that time completely alone, seeing no one, understanding nothing.

Slowly, Kim was dying. These men didn't even consider that. The day of the kidnapping, Joshua recorded a ransom message. In it, he demanded a large sum of money. The idea was to call Kim's father and play the tape. The plan was simple and airtight. That same afternoon, they were going to do it. But Kim didn't show up to work, and her father called the police.

That afternoon, Joshua called Tommy, one. Once, no answer. Twice, no answer. On the third try, Tommy picked up. Joshua quickly played the tape, but it went to voicemail. So he hung up. When Tommy got home and checked the message, he heard nothing, because Joshua had left no recording. In the days that followed, chaos erupted.

Police everywhere. Flyers distributed. The father making noise. TV, Radio Joshua Torres was terrified Then Marlon went to the psychic And the woman revealed exactly what was happening That the girl was in the dark, hungry, cold, alone, dying.

That there were JS behind it all, full of resentment, wanting money. That's when Joshua and his partners panicked. They went to the abandoned house to let Kim go. But they supposedly believed she was dead, she wasn't moving, wasn't making any sound, was cold. They thought they had killed her. So they decided to destroy the evidence. That's when Joshua poured gasoline on Kim's body. And before setting her on fire, he kissed her and said, life is shit. The trial against Joshua Torres began on November 1st, 1996. Despite the evidence, he pleaded not guilty. But the jury thought otherwise. He would

was found guilty of arson, kidnapping, and first-degree murder, and sentenced to 58 years in prison. Nicholas Labretti, aka Little J, was also sentenced to 58 years, but died in prison two years later from AIDS. Julio Negren was sentenced to six years, as it was determined he didn't kill Kim but also didn't stop the crime. Now it's your turn. What do you think of the case? Do you think the sentences were fair? End. Hi, I'm Bobby, I'm a 25-year-old man, I work as a junior project manager in construction, and recently things in my life have taken a bit of a turn. This post will be quite long, because, well, I have a lot to get off my chest. I spent the first four years of my life in the

care system, luckily my memories of this time are very little and there's been no lasting trauma. From what I've been told the home in which I spent the earliest years of my life was and is well-regarded for the care that it shows the children living there. At the age of four I was taken in by the Roberts a husband and wife who would take presents to the children's home every Christmas, something they still do, and by the time I was five they had officially adopted me. From here on they'll be referred to as ma'am, 60F, and dad, 60M. According to my mother they both fell in love with this shy little boy who sat in the corner on Christmas Day, while the other children couldn't contain their excitement at tearing into every box and packaged that they could.

By New Year's Eve I was living with them. From there on I experienced a completely normal upper middle class upbringing, I grew up in Cardiff, ma'am owned a chain of salons around South Wales and Dad wore a suit to work every day. I was blessed with two wonderful older sisters Claire, now 42F, and Sally, now 40F, who completely doted on me, they'd take me everywhere they could, and thanks to an extended family who also showered me with love I always, and still do, felt like I belonged. The only thing that would maybe differ from a normal upbringing would be that my sisters and I all attended private school, a day school due to ma'am not being able to bear the thought of being away from us. But, a private school nonetheless. My dad always said,

that you can't put a price on education, but he and my mother did a fantastic job in keeping us grounded, they were both from tough working class backgrounds and we were taught to appreciate everything we had, and worked for any luxuries we wanted. Another way of keeping us grounded was by getting us into boxing from as early as I could remember. You see my dad in his best friend Jason or Mr. James as I was taught to acknowledge him, both funded a small boxing gym in the Ely area of Cardiff where they both grew up and trained together as kids, this is what led to them forming a friendship that has lasted over 50 years. I loved it, I did well as an amateur, and that 18 represented Wales at the Commonwealth Games as a heavyweight, winning a bronze medal.

I thought about turning pro after the games, but my dad talked me out of it, stressing to me the importance of putting my education first, and that he'd have no issues in supporting my career as long as I'd finish a university degree first. I didn't end up following that dream, my priorities changed after Union sparring with the boys at the gym is enough for me to get my fix for now. The old man Mr. James are inseparable, and so are my mother and Mrs. James. So you can imagine their excitement when their daughter Chloe, 26F, and I announced that we were together. Due to the closeness of our parents, we spent a lot of time together growing up and I can't deny that I always had a soft spot for Chloe which would often be projected. through childish teasing. Well, one day, Chloe and I were at the gym, I would have been 15 at this

point and she'd had enough of my wind-ups and demanded that we get in the ring. I agreed saying that I'd keep my hands behind my back and if she could land a punch within a minute I'd stop the teasing, if she couldn't she'd let me take her out. Well, I danced around for 60 seconds without her laying a hand on me, as the timer rang to signal that a minute was up, she landed a right hook that Mike Tyson would have been proud of. Nose bleeding, pride-hirting I got to my feet, she approached wiped the blood away, then kissed me softly on the lips. Ten years later we've been married three years and have twin Sarin, 2F, Welsh for Star,

and Lou, 2M, Welsh for Lion. I love her with all my heart. So yeah, pretty normal upbringing. So here's the not-so-normal part. During the earlier mentioned conversation with my dad around me going pro as a boxer, he revealed to me why he really wanted me to focus on my education and what he really does for work. You see growing up in a working class family in Ely, opportunities to succeed at the time were few and far between.

Due to their backgrounds as Boxer's dad and Jason, Mr. James, were recruited by some older gentlemen who were involved with the local nightlife to work as bouncers in the city center. From there they were introduced to people working with an organized crime who soon took them on as enforcers. Dad and Jason soon moved up the ranks to where they now have their own syndicate working around a South Wales area. He didn't go into any further detail but shared that this was something he's always waited until his kids were 18 to tell them. He's still dad, I don't see him any differently, but obviously it was a shock to find out at the time. Now to the reason I need to vent. On Friday last week, I came home to absolute silence, no toddlers running around my feet,

no music, no telly, silence. I walked up the stairs and approached the bedroom where I could hear muffled sobs, I opened the door and could see Chloe there. She was crying into her pillow, I called her name and she looked up I could see her eyes red and soaked from crying. I asked what was wrong, but before I could say another word, she hit me with one of those right hooks she'd caught me with ten years ago. She began screaming at me telling me she saw me, that I know what I did. I managed to calm her down and

asked her to explain what she meant. She pulls her phone out and shows me a picture of me and another woman sat at a table at a cafe in town, then another of me kissing said woman. I was dumbfounded, the man in the picture was identical to me, my complete double in every feature. I was dumbfounded, but managed to log on to the CCTV from my work that clearly shows that I was on site all day. Chloe apologized for hitting me, but honestly I couldn't blame her. I'd have been absolutely crushed if I was in her position, and fair play to her, she's still got it. We racked our brains for a while on who that man could be, Chloe eventually looked at me and said, Bob's, you're adopted.

What if you have a twin? We've got twins and they can be hereditary. Honestly, that question has sat with me ever since. I've always had such a great relationship with my family that I've never put much thought about my biological parents or any possible siblings. For the first time in my life, I feel slightly lost. A, it's been a week since I last posted and it's been a bit of an emotional roller coaster. I spent the day of my last post pretty down, in one of those states of my mind. where I didn't really know how to feel if that makes sense.

For the first time in my life, not knowing where I came from really bothered me, I guess I felt a bit empty. There was a deep feeling of guilt too, my parents, my sisters and all my extended family gave me such a wonderful life growing up, was I disrespecting them by wanting to find out where I came from? I'd think about my parents and how often they remind me how proud they are to have me as a son, am I letting them down? My mood shifted pretty quickly when Chloe and the kids came through the door, they'd brought my

sisters Claire and Sally along with them. They sat me down claiming they could tell that I wasn't myself, and that Chloe had let them know I was having some of the feelings I've already mentioned. Claire looked me in the eye, the same way Dad does and basically laid it out that I don't just owe it to myself to find out about my biological background, but to the kids as well, to know of any health conditions that could affect them as they get older. The biggest takeaway I had from that conversation was that regardless, I'd always be their baby brother. My parents thankfully mirrored those words when I spoke to them later that evening, ma'am was quite emotional and held on to me for a while, touched that the biggest reason for me not looking for my birth givers was how it would

affect their feelings. Dad just gave me that clap on the shoulder and said no matter what, I'm their son. Luckily my boss was understanding and gave me some time off. On Monday, my first port of call was to contact the adoption agency. There was no record of my existence prior to my time in the children's home. They stung, but I was determined to carry on. We contacted the children's home to see if there was any records of my time there, there was and we arranged for me to go and collect a copy the following day. From what I could see from the records I'd been there from a week old, but no record of whom my parents were. Unfortunately for me, there was no one for my time at the home still working there.

However, they were able put me in touch with Julie, 68F, who was the manager of the home when I was there, I spoke to her over the phone and she agreed to meet me on the following Saturday morning to chat. That was this morning. I met Julie at a coffee shop in town, she was a sweet older lady with a warmth that felt so familiar. She approached me, placed her hand on my cheek and said, Baby Bobby, you've grown so much, she sat down opposite me with a smile, you remember me? I asked. She replied, of course I do, I named you sweetheart.

I know you're here to find out about your birth parents, but I'm sorry to say that we never knew who they were. You turned up on the doorstep of the home in a Moses basket, covered in blankets with a handwritten note that read the 11th of December 1919. You were so tiny, we came to the conclusion that it was your birthday, you'd have been a week old. We tried for the years you were with us to locate who left you, we even got the police involved, but we always came up short. Then when you were four, the Roberts took you in. Every year they'd come at Christmas you could see that you just melted their hearts, and that last year you were with us they were completely in love with you.

There was no keeping them from you, they were offered the chance to foster you, but I remember Remember your mother just saying no, that's my son. Your parents would update me on how you were doing every year when they came to give presents to the kids. It brought me so much joy to know that the timid little boy we once had was becoming a strong young man. I left the conversation with Julie with a mix of emotions, on the one hand I felt grateful, lucky to be taken into a family that really loved me.

On the other, worthless, was that all I really was to the people who gave birth to me? No name, just a Moses basket in a date of birth. Fuck them, I never needed them and I certainly don't now. B, I never thought I'd end up back on here, but here I am. Six months later things had just slipped back into normality, and honestly I'd forgotten about the whole situation. That was until I received a call for my father last week. Just a quick FYI about the old man, as much as my sisters and I are aware of what he does,

he's always kept us away from it all. To the outside world, he and Mr. James are business partners that own a few restaurants and shops. My mother won't let him anywhere near the salons. To Dad it was always I do this so you don't have to, which is why the call was such a shock. It was a Saturday evening, Chloe had gone out to dinner with my sisters and I had just put the kids to bed. I answered the old man's call, he spoke and didn't let me reply. Your mother's on her way to look after the kids. When she arrives you get straight into the car and come to the pottery in town, no questions, they'll be answered when you get here. So I did what he said, ma'am arrived and I got straight into the car and headed to the pottery, one of the restaurant's dad and Mr. James own. The old man was waiting for me at the door and had one of his employees parked my car. He let me know that he'd been called to the restaurant because a customer had been disrespectful to one of the waitresses and had made a scene. when they tried to remove him.

The reason Dad and Mr. James were called. The staff thought the customer was me. He opened the door into the back, we headed to the office and there he was, the man from the picture. Sat surrounded by a few of Mr. James and the old man's employees, seemingly too scared to move. It was like looking into the fucking mirror. He looked at me, and the fear left his face, replaced by a look of absolute shock. I spoke, me, what's your date of birth?

Him, what? Me, what's your date of birth? You heard me the first time. Him, it's the 11th of December 1999. Me, fuck. Who are you? Why are you here? Him, my name's Andy, I travel for work.

I get sent all over the country. I'm a sales rep for my dad's company. What's going on? Who are you? Jesus we look alike. Me, were you adopted? Fostered or ever in care? Where did you grow up?

Him, no, I grew up in a small village in the Cotswolds, with my parents and sister. Who are you? Why am I here? Me, I think we might be brothers. We've got the same birth date, we're identical in every way. How long are you in town for? Him, brothers. Don't be stupid, it's just a coincidence. I'm going home tomorrow, I'll be back here in two weeks. Me, okay. Look, whether you like it or not, we're going to be doing a DNA test to

prove it. Don't breathe a fucking word of this to anyone, I'll take your number. Come to my house tomorrow to do the test and I'll send it off, I'll text you the address in the morning. If I get the results back before you're here next I'll call you. Again, don't tell a fucking soul. And lastly, if you come to one of our restaurants again, you show some fucking respect. The old man was pleased with how I handled the situation, I think he's starting to notice that he's rubbed off on me over the years. Anyway, the results came back today and as I suspected it was a match. I'm about to call him, and if what he says is true about not being adopted, I'll be paying mummy and daddy a little visit. It's been a year since everything went down, things have been

pretty hectic, but everything has finally calmed down enough for me to give an update. Strap in, there's quite a lot for me to cover, it'll be a long one. For some reason I didn't trust Andy, and this led me to not call him and wait for him to come into town. I sent him a message on the Saturday he was here and told him to meet me at the office that my dad and Mr. James owned that afternoon, the old man made sure that some of his guys were there to keep the peace. Andy arrived when asked and I told him to sit down, I placed the results on the table in front of him. He looked stunned, he murmured slightly, but couldn't get any words out, so I spoke first. Andy, I'm not adopted, I'm the image of my father.

I don't know what's going on here, I'm confused, I've never been told I have a twin, it was always just the four of us. That test must be wrong. Me, you're taking me to them, tonight. I wanted it to be a surprise. I found out from Andy that his parents' names were Cat and Pete, both 50 and that he had a 27-year-old sister Laura. A couple of hours later, we arrived at a cottage in the village of Aston.

Carl and Tom stayed in the car as Andy led me into the house. There they were, my birth parents and sister. The surprise on their faces at seeing Andy home a day early was replaced with horror when they noticed me step in behind them. I smiled, miss me. I asked. Silence filled the room for what felt like a lifetime before the woman finally spoke in a whisper. How did you find us? Me, that's no way to say hello now, is it?

Pete, who are you? What are you doing here? Me, don't play dumb peedy boy, you know who I am. Are we just going to go round in circles or are you both going to give me an explanation as to why I was left outside a children's home, with nothing but a date of fucking birth? Pete started to shove me, pushing me towards the door, I hit him with a quick jab that knocked him onto the sofa. I turned to cat. Me, look, I'm not after some beautiful homecoming. Not that you give a shit, but I was adopted age for by a fantastic family who've given me a wonderful life.

I want to know two things, are there any health conditions that I need to worry about? And again, why? Cat, well, there's no running from it anymore. Andy, Laura, you have a brother. When I was pregnant with Andy I was actually pregnant with twin boys, your father, and I kept it to ourselves. Everyone thought that I was pregnant with the one child, you see we never wanted more than two children, it just didn't fit our vision of how we wanted to look. Andy came out first, so he was who we decided to keep.

Then we did what we had to, to make sure we had the family we envisioned. We kept you for a week while we made a plan, we kept family and friends at arm's length not to give anything away. We decided to head into Cardiff to leave you at a home there, we knew it'd be harder to trace you back to us and it worked, until now anyway. Laura, it seems like it all worked out anyway, you've got your family so there's no need to bother us any further. You look like you've done okay for yourself, so I think you should go. Me, I've got what I wanted, I'll leave you be.

Andy, my car. Me, you'll have to get yourself to Cardiff to get it, won't you? I felt a lot more whole leaving and more grateful than ever for the family I have. Even I'm certainly not finished with them. If they showed a bit of remorse, I think I could have let it slide, but they'll definitely be seeing me again. That night, my life took another turn. I got into the car and Tom let me know that my father and Mr. James wanted to speak to me when

I got back. I walked into the office and they were both sat at their desks, they turned to me and my dad spoke. Dad, Bobby, I'm so proud at how you've handled meeting your birth family. You've taken control of the situation. you've been assertive and you've shown the qualities of a real leader. Myself and Jason have been speaking and well we think you're the right man to take over the reins of the business. Mr. James, we've spoken to your sisters, your mother and Chloe, you have their full support. You'll work under your father and me for a year. All we ask is that if you decide to do this, you keep the kids away from it all.

Your father never wanted this for you, but I've convinced him that over the years you've become just like him and there's no one better to take over than you. Believe it or not, to do what we do you have to be a man of principle, and that is just what you are. As you know, we're not bad people in this game, but sometimes we have to do things that aren't inherently good. What do you say? I didn't take much convincing, if I'm honest it had been something I'd been thinking about for a while.

I've worked under my father and Mr. James for the past year, I'll be taking control of the business very soon. This will be my last update. It's been a year since I first met my birth family. Not long after my last post I took over the reins from my dad and Mr. James, with them staying on in an advisory role. The first thing I did was fully legitimized a couple of the businesses, the others got sold on. I used some of the funds from the sold businesses to purchase the construction company I was working at, the rest was donated to the children's home that I was adopted from.

My family are all well, around the time of my father and Mr. James handing the business to me, my mother decided to pass on her salons to Chloe, my parents are both enjoying retirement. My sisters are both flying, they are both solicitors and have been given some money from our parents to open up their own practice. This update won't be a long one, just one to let you know how things have been the past year. I suppose a few of you are curious as to how things are with my birth family, while I tried to reach again, they still didn't let me know of any health conditions that may affect my children. Unfortunately my calls and messages were all ignored. As it goes I'll never be able to contact them

again, they were killed three months back in what's been quite the scandal. National News I'll attach what one of the papers wrote below, family killed in Aston murder. A family of four have been found dead at their home in Aston, Oxfordshire. Pete White, 51, his wife Kat, 51 and their two children Laura, 28, and Andy, 27 were all found dead at their Aston home on Saturday night. Each family member was found with a single gunshot wound to the head, and a card placed on their chest stating their date of birth. Police have no leads. We advise anyone with any information to contact Thames Valley Police.

So yeah, that's where we're at now. I won't be posting on here any further. Thank you all for the advice, I guess. Let me take you on a long, raw, and brutally honest ride through the history of capital punishment in Singapore. This isn't your typical classroom history lesson, so buckle up, because this one is layered with colonial legacies, policy shifts, drug wars, public outrage, and a whole lot of hangings. Yeah, we're going there. So let's rewind way back to 1819. That's when Singapore officially became a British colony. And like most colonies under the British Empire, they didn't just bring tea and red coats,

they brought their legal system too. And with that came the death penalty. Hanging was the method of choice. You messed up real bad. You swing. Crimes like murder, mutiny, and war atrocities. would get you that dreaded trip to the gallows. One of the earliest mass executions took place in 1915.

A total of 47 sepoys, Indian soldiers and the British Army, were executed for mutiny. Fast forward to the end of World War II, and between 1946 and 1948, 11 Japanese soldiers faced the same fate for war crimes committed during the Japanese occupation. Then came 1965. Big year. Singapore gained independence and started to chart its own path. But even as the nation built skyscrapers and financial hubs, the hangmen stayed busy. Some crimes like rape and mutiny were taken off the capital punishment list, but murder still

carried the ultimate price. In that same year, 18 men were hanged for the Palo-Sinong prison riot that left four people dead. Executions would typically take place at dawn inside the infamously tight-lipped Chinese prison. No drama, no public spectacle. Just finality. And only those above 18 and mentally fit could legally be executed. Then in 1967, a man was hanged for killing his girlfriend. A year later, two Indonesian militants were hanged for the McDonald House bombing,

which killed three and injured 33. Then came 1970, and once again the Gallows creaked as two men were executed for murdering a police officer. Singapore wasn't playing around. Now, let's talk guns and drugs. In 1973, Singapore introduced the death penalty for firearms-related offenses. This was a response to rising concerns over violent crime. But even more pressing was the looming threat of drug abuse. The government noticed how countries like China, Vietnam, and Thailand seem to keep their drug problems in check, and guess what they all had in common.

That's right, the death penalty for drug trafficking. So in 1975, Singapore followed suit. From 1971 to 1990, a total of 35 people were executed, most for murder. One of the darkest names on that list. S.E.K. Kim Waugh. This guy was a serial killer who murdered five people back in 1983. He met his end in 1988. Same year, three people behind the 1981 Toa Paio ritual murders, Adrian Lim, Tan Muichu, and Ho Kha Hong, were also hanged.

It was a haunting case involving bizarre rituals and child victims. Singapore was stunned, but the executioner was unfazed. Now buckle up because here comes a major spike. Between 1991 and 2001, the Gallows saw 340 people executed. Most were drug traffickers. That's nearly one person every 11 days. The country had taken a hard stance and stuck with it. Some high-profile cases during this period include John Martin Scripps,

an English serial killer who murdered three tourists. He was executed in 1996. Then there were the five Thai nationals responsible for the brutal 1992-192-93 construction site murders that left three workers dead. They, too, were hanged in 1996. From 2002 to 2009, another 85 people were executed. Still mostly drug-related cases. But the list also includes some pretty grim local stories.

Like Anthony Lur, a Singaporean man who hired a teenager to kill his wife. The plan worked, and so did the justice system, Lur was executed in 2002. Another one was Arun Prakash by Thilingam, an Indian National who murdered his roommate. He was hanged in 2003. Then there was a bit of a slowdown. In 2011, only four executions took place, two for murder, two for drugs. In 2014, just two people were hanged, both for drug trafficking. But the death penalty never really left the picture.

From 2015 to 2019, there were 33 executions, most for drug-related offenses. If you got caught trafficking a significant amount of drugs, especially heroin, morphine, or meth, you were basically signing your own death warrant. 2022 rolled in, and boom, 11 executions, all for drug trafficking. The gallows were back in action. Then in 2023, five more people were executed. again all drug traffickers. Around this time, it was reported that 50 inmates sat on death row. Of those, three were in line for execution due to murder charges, while the remaining 47 were in for

drug trafficking. In 2024, the pattern continued. Nine people were executed. One for murder, eight for drugs. Then came 2025. So far this year, seven people have been executed, two for murder, five for drug offenses. As it stands now, 34 individuals are sitting on death row, all awaiting execution for drug trafficking. And that number could very well climb. There are still multiple people in pretrial detention for capital offenses, including both murder and trafficking. If convicted, they too will likely face the noose. Not surprisingly, Singapore's use of the death penalty has drawn major heat from international organizations. MSD International, human rights groups, and vocal anti-death penalty activists have long called on the city state to abolish it.

But change is slow to come. Why? Because the majority of Singaporeans actually support it. Public opinion polls suggest that most citizens believe that the death penalty is what keeps Singapore safe, clean, and low in crime. They think it's the reason murder, kidnapping, and gun violence are practically unheard of. So there you have it. A gritty, bloody walk through Singapore's death penalty timeline. From British hangings to modern drug crackdowns, the rope has always played a role in shaping the country's justice system. Whether you agree with it or not, there's no denying that capital punishment is deeply embedded in the nation's laws and mindset. It's not just about justice or deterrence. It's about identity,

Fear, power, and control. The end? Not quite. As long as those gallows stand at Chongi, this story keeps on going. The end. So, before I ask for your stories, I want to get something off my chest. This one's been rattling around in my head for years, like a loose screw I've never quite had the nerve to tighten.

I first stumbled across this story a long while back, one of those old Reddit threads that feel like a whisper instead of a scream. It might have been from our slash Nassleep, but it could just as easily have been buried in some dusty, half-forgotten subreddit where the air feels a little heavier. I don't remember the username. I don't think they ever came back after their fourth update. It was that kind of post. But man, it stuck with me. Like gum on the bottom of your shoe that you keep scraping at but it never fully goes away. Not the kind of scary that makes you check under your bed. No, this was worse. It was the type of story that made you feel like your spine was listening to. Like something was watching you read it. I saved it. Still have it.

Every once in a while, when I can't sleep or when the world just feels a little too, thin, I pull it back up and read it again. I think it's because it echoes something deep in me. Something that I never talked about. Something I wish I never remembered. But we're not talking about me. Not yet. For now, I'm just going to share what they wrote, in my own words. It started like this. What's the scariest, real thing that's ever happened to you? The girl who wrote it said she couldn't sleep. She had the dream again, the one with the woods, the thick metallic air, and the feeling that something was breathing right behind her, step for step. She didn't just want to tell her story, she had to. You could feel

the urgency. Like if she didn't get it out, it might consume her. She was 25, but the events she described happened when she was 17. She lived somewhere quiet in upstate New York, near the Catskills. The kind of sleepy town where porch swings still squeak and people leave their doors unlocked. Her name? No clue. She used a throwaway account, said not even her boyfriend, therapist, or sister knew what happened. That alone was enough to make me sit up. Her little crew back then was just four people, her, a dude named Eli, his cousin Noah, and a girl named June. They were tight.

Always out exploring random places, like they were collecting haunted locations like other kids collected baseball cards. That night? Just a casual bonfire out past Alder Creek. Nothing crazy. Just them, a few drinks, and the ruins of an old cabin Noah swore was a bootleggers hideout back in the Prohibition era. It sounded kind of badass, actually. They hiked out to the clearing, flashlights bouncing through the underbrush, gear strapped to their backs. But she said the air was weird.

Too warm for October, almost muggy. She said it felt like the forest was sweating. They built their fire beside what was left of the stone cabin. Only the base and a chimney were still standing, moss crawling up the sides like it was trying to drag the whole thing underground. Everything was chill for a bit. Laughing Ghost Stories

June was halfway through some corny tale about a phantom hitchhiker when Eli suddenly got real quiet. He was staring into the woods, past the fire. Do you see that? At first, everyone figured he was just screwing around. But then Noah stood up too, squinting. That's when they all saw it, a bluish light, not quite like a flashlight, more like a candle if it had frosted in it. It flickered.

Moved slowly. Twenty feet away. Drifting through the trees. None of them brought lanterns. Eli, being Eli, wanted to follow it. And our girl, like a total idiot, her words, not mine, followed him. June refused. Noah hesitated, then caved.

They pushed deeper into the trees. And that's when things went sideways. She says her memory gets foggy after that. Not like she forgot, but like the memories didn't want to be remembered. Still, she recalls this much, the light wasn't floating. It was coming from someone, a tall, figure, barely moving, holding it. They were wearing old, stiff clothes.

Not blowing in the wind. Their face was all wrong, like a broken TV signal. Static where features should be. Then the forest went dead. No bugs. No wind. No sound. Even their footsteps vanished.

It was like the whole world hit mute. And then the figure turned. Not like someone spinning, just suddenly facing them. Instantly. And with that turn, came this pressure. Like her skin didn't fit right. Like her brain was being squeezed by something invisible. Eli whispered one word, run. She turned. But the forest wasn't the same. The trees were warped. Closer together. Twisting in impossible ways.

The fire was gone. The smell in the air was coppery and sweet, like rotting pennies. They ran. Noah tripped, tore open his palm on something sharp. His scream was barely audible, like it was being filtered through water. Then they saw the cabin. Not the ruins. A whole cabin.

Windows glowing gold. Smoke puffing gently from the chimney. And someone was inside. Humming. A woman. Soft voice. Almost familiar. The door creaked open. And she saw herself. Same clothes. Same face. But the eyes were pitch black. Like voids. An older version of herself. That version smiled. Eli grabbed her, and they bolted. This time, the forest let them out. Just spat them back onto the service road like it was tired of them. June was hysterical, said they were only gone ten minutes. But her phone. 3.17 a.m.

They went in at 10.42 p.m. Noah bailed to Florida within the week. Eli ghosted her. Deleted his online presence like he was running from something. She never forgot. She still dreams of the cabin. of humming, of a woman in the doorway who wore her face like a mask. Now, here's where it gets worse.

A few days later, she posted a part two. Said she hadn't planned to. But she got this sudden it she couldn't ignore. She was driving to her mom's near Alder Creek. Past that same barely there service road. And something inside her pulled. Like her bones remembered something her brain didn't. She told herself to keep going.

She even turned up the music to drown out the feeling. But half a mile later, she turned the car around. She didn't even have to think. Her feet found the path. Like muscle memory. Like she'd never left. Daylight made the wood seem harmless. But as she went deeper, everything changed.

The trees got tighter. The air thickened. She started seeing her breath even though it was noon. She just wanted to peek at the ruins. That was it. But the ruins weren't ruins. The cabin was whole again. Same warm windows.

Same lazy smoke. Same wrongness humming through the ground. But this time, the door was shut. Waiting. She couldn't stop. Her body moved on its own. The forest leaned in around her. Sounds twisted.

Colors got oversaturated. She felt like she was walking into a memory that wasn't hers. Then she heard the humming. Same song. She reached for the knob. It turned before she touched it. And there she was. Her again.

Younger this time. Seventeen. Same outfit from that night. Black eyes. But no smile this time. She stepped aside. And our girl, yeah, she went in. The cabin pulsed.

The walls breathed. The candles didn't flicker. They glowed with that same ice-blue forest light. In the center, a table with four items. A cracked flashlight. A torn piece of red flannel. A rusty gardening trowel. And a phone.

Her phone. Buzz. One new voicemail. She pressed play. Static. Then her voice. You shouldn't have come back. Silence.

Then, it's waking up. She turned to leave. No door. Just wall. She screamed. Pounded. Nothing. The air rippled.

Candles flickered. Something moved behind her. She turned. The girl, her, was in the corner, hugging her knees. Humming. She looked up. You weren't supposed to remember yet, she whispered. You came too early.

She asked what that meant. The girl just shook her head. You pulled the thread. Then she handed her a Polaroid. Old. Warped. It showed the four of them in the clearing. Smiling.

But behind them, in the trees, was a fifth figure. Tall. Blurred. Watching. I thought it wanted you, the girl said. But it was me. Then the room groaned. The walls pulsed harder.

Something massive shifted. The girl grabbed her hand. You need to wake up, she said. Before it marks you again. And then, everything shattered. Literally. Like a snow globe dropped off a table. Light exploded.

Time folded. She saw that night again. June. Screaming. Noah bleeding. Eli whispering. Run. And then.

She woke up. In the ruins. Back where it started. Alone. And that's where it ended. No third update. No follow-up. I check every few months.

Still nothing. But the thing is, I know she didn't make that up. You can feel it. That story breathes. And lately, I've started dreaming about that cabin too. I swear I've never been to the Catskills. But part of me is convinced I left something behind there.

Something that's still waiting. Still humming. Still waking up. So now that I'm not. I've shared mine. Tell me yours. The end. Carpets had always been in my family. My father was a carpet fitter, as was his father before, and even our ancestors had been in the business of weaving and making carpets before the automation of the industry. Carpets had been in my family for a long, long time. But now I was done with them, once and for all. It started a couple of

weeks ago, when I noticed sales of carpets at my factory had suddenly skyrocketed. I was seeing profits on a scale I had never encountered before, in all my 20 years as a carpet seller. It was instantaneous, as if every single person in the city had wanted to buy a new carpet all at the same time. With the profits that came pouring in, I was able to expand my facilities and upgrade to even better equipment to keep up with the increasing demand. The extra funds even allowed me to hire more workers, and the factory began to run much more smoothly than before, though we were still barely churning out carpets fast enough to keep up. At first, I was thrilled by the uptake in carpet sales. But then it began to bother me. Why was I selling so many carpets all of a sudden?

It wasn't just a brief spike, like the regular peaks and lows of consumer demand, but a full wave that came crashing down, surpassing all of my targets for the year. In an attempt to figure out why, I decided to do some research into the current state of the market, and see if there was some new craze going round relating to carpets in particular. What I found was something worse than I ever could have dreamed of. Everywhere I looked online, I found videos, pictures, and articles of people installing carpets into their bathrooms. In all my years as a carpet seller, I'd never had a client who wanted a carpet specifically

for their bathroom. It didn't make any sense to me. So why did all these people suddenly think it was a good idea? Did people not care about hygiene anymore? Carpets weren't made for bathrooms. Not long term. What were they going to do once the carpets got irremediably impregnated with bodily fluids. The fibers in carpets were like moisture traps, and it was inevitable that

at some point they would smell as the bacteria and mold began to build up inside. Even cleaning them every week wasn't enough to keep them fully sanitary. As soon as they were soiled by a person's fluids, they became a breeding ground for all sorts of germs. And bathrooms were naturally wet, humid places, prime conditions for mold growth. Carpets did not belong there. So why had it become a trend to fit a carpet into one's bathroom. During my search online, I didn't once find another person mention the complete lack of hygiene and common sense in doing something like this. And that wasn't even the worst of it. It wasn't just homeowners installing carpets into their bathrooms, companies had started doing the same thing in public toilets, too. Public

toilets. Shops, restaurants, malls. It wasn't just one person's fluids that would be collecting inside the fibers, but multiple, all mixing and oozing together. Imagine walking into a public WC and finding a carpet stained and soiled with other people's dirt. Had everyone gone mad? Who in their right mind would think this a good idea? Selling all these carpets, knowing what people were going to do with them, had started making me uncomfortable. But I couldn't refuse sales. Not when I had more workers and expensive machinery to pay for. At the back of my mind, though, I knew that this wasn't right. It was disgusting, yet nobody else seemed to think so.

So I kept selling my carpets and fighting back the growing paranoia that I was somehow contributing to the downfall of our society's hygiene standards. I started avoiding public toilets whenever I was out. Even when I was desperate, nothing could convince me to use a bathroom that had been carpeted, treading on all the dirt and stench of strangers. A few days after this whole trend had started, I left work and went home to find my wife flipping through the pages of a carpet catalog. Curious, I asked if she was thinking of upgrading some of the carpets in our house.

They weren't that old, but my wife liked to redecorate every once in a while. Instead, she shook her head and caught my gaze with hers. In an entirely sober voice, she said, I was thinking about putting a carpet in our bathroom. I just stared at her, dumbfounded. The silence stretched between us while I waited for her to say she was joking, but her expression remained serious. No way, I finally said. Don't you realize how disgusting that is?

What? She asked, appearing baffled and mildly offended, as if I had discouraged a brilliant idea she'd just come up with. Nero, how could you say that? All my friends are doing it. I don't want to be the only one left out. I scoffed in disbelief. What's with everyone and their crazy trends these days? Don't you see what's wrong with installing carpets in bathrooms?

It's even worse than people who put those weird fabric covers on their toilet seats. my wife's lips pinched in disagreement, and we argued over the matter for a while before I decided I'd had enough. If this wasn't something we could see eye to eye on, I couldn't stick around any longer. My wife was adamant about getting carpets in the toilet, and that was simply something I could not live with. I'd never be able to use the bathroom again without being constantly aware of all the germs and bacteria beneath my feet. I packed most of my belongings into a couple of bags and hauled them to the front door. Nero, please reconsider, my wife said as she watched me go. I knew she wasn't talking about me leaving.

No, I will not install fixed carpets in our bathroom. That's the end of it, I told her before stepping outside and letting the door fall shut behind me. She didn't come after me. This was something that had divided us in a way I hadn't expected. But if my wife refused to see the reality of having a carpet in the bathroom, how could I stay with her and pretend that everything was okay? standing outside the house, I phoned my mother and told her I was coming to stay with her for a few days, while I searched for some alternate living arrangements. When she asked me what had happened, I simply told her that my wife and I had fallen out, and I was giving her some space until she realized how absurd her thinking was.

After I hung up, I climbed into my car and drove to my mother's house on the other side of town. As I passed through the city, I saw multiple vans delivering carpets to more households. Just thinking about what my carpets were being used for, where they were going, made me shudder, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel. When I reached my mother's house, I parked the car and climbed out, collecting my bags from the trunk. She met me at the door, her expression soft. Nero, dear. I'm sorry about you and Angela.

I hope you make up. Me too, I said shortly as I followed her inside. I'd just come straight home from work when my wife and I had started arguing, so I was in desperate need of a shower. After stowing away my bags in the spare room, I headed to the guest bathroom. As soon as I pushed open the door, I froze, horror and disgust, gnawing at me. A lacy, cream-colored carpet was fitted inside the guest toilet, covering every inch of the floor. It had already grown soggy and matted from soaking up the water from the sink and toilet. If it continued to get more saturated without drying out properly, mold would start to grow and

fester inside it. No, I thought, shaking my head. my own mother had succumbed to this strange trend. Growing up, she'd always been a stickler for personal hygiene and keeping the house clean, this went against everything I knew about her. I ran downstairs to the main bathroom, and found the same thing, another carpet, already soiled. The whole room smelled damp and rotten. When I confronted my mother about it, she looked at me guilelessly, failing to understand what the issue was. Don't you like it, dear, she asked. I've heard it's the new thing these days. I'm rather fond of

of it, myself. Be but don't you see how disgusting it is? Not really, dear, no, I took my head in my hands, feeling like I was trapped in some horrible nightmare. One where everyone had gone insane, except for me. Unless I was the one losing my mind. What's the matter, dear, she said, but I was already hurrying back to the guest room, grabbing my unpacked bags. I couldn't stay here either. I'm sorry, but I really need to go, I said as I rushed past her to the front door. She said nothing as she watched me leave, climbing into my car and starting the engine. I could have crashed at a friend's house, but I didn't want to turn up and find the same thing. The only safe place was somewhere I knew there were no carpets in the toilet.

The factory. It was after hours now, so there would be nobody else there. I parked in my usual spot and grabbed the key to unlock the door. The factory was eerie in the dark and the quiet, and seeing the shadow of all those carpets rolled up in storage made me feel uneasy, knowing where they might end up once they were sold. I headed up to my office and dumped my stuff in the corner. Before doing anything else, I walked into the staff bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief. No carpets here. Just plain, tiled flooring that glistened beneath the bright fluorescence. Shiny and clean. Now that I had access to a usable bathroom, I could finally relax. I sat down at my desk and immediately began

hunting for an apartment. I didn't need anything fancy, just somewhere close to my factory where I could stay while I waited for this trend to die out. Every listing on the first few pages had carpeted bathrooms. Even old apartment complexes had been refurbished to include carpets in the toilet, as if it had become the new norm overnight. Finally, after a while of searching, I managed to find a place that didn't have a carpet in the bathroom. It was a little bit older and grottier than the others, but I was happy to compromise. By the following day, I had signed the lease and was ready to move in. My wife phoned me as I was leaving for work, telling me that she'd gone ahead and put carpets in the bathroom, and was wondering when I'd be coming back home.

I told her I wasn't. Not until she saw sense and took the carpets out of the toilet. She hung up on me first. How could a single carpet have ruined seven years of marriage overnight? When I got into work, the factory had once again been inundated with hundreds of new orders for carpets. We were barely keeping up with the demand. As I walked along the fact factory floor, making sure everything was operating smoothly, conversations between the workers caught my attention. My wife loves the new bathroom carpet. We got a blue one, to match the dolphin accessories, really? Ours is plain white, real soft on the toes, though. Perfect for when you get up on a morning, oh yeah. Those carpets in the strip mall across town are really soft. I love

using their bathrooms, everywhere I went, I couldn't escape it. It felt like I was the only person in the whole city who saw what kind of terrible idea it was. Wouldn't they smell? Wouldn't they go moldy after absorbing all the germs and fluid that escaped our bodies every time we went to the bathroom? How could there be any merit in it, at all? I ended up clocking off early. The noise of the factory had started to give me a headache. I took the next few days off too, in the hope that the craze might die down and things might go back to normal. Instead, they only got worse. I woke early one morning to the sound of voices and noise directly outside my apartment. I was up on the third floor, so I climbed out of bed and peeked out of the window.

There was a group of workmen doing something on the pavement below. At first, I thought they were fixing pipes or repairing the concrete or something. But then I saw them carrying carpets out of the back of a van, and I felt my heart drop to my stomach. This couldn't be happening. Now they were installing carpets, on the pavement. I watched with growing incredulity as the men began to paste the carpets over the footpath, cream-colored fluffy carpets that I recognized from my factory's catalog. They were my carpets.

And they were putting them directly on the path outside my apartment. Was I dreaming? I pinched my wrist sharply between my nails, but I didn't wake up. This really was happening. They really were installing carpets onto the pavements. Places where people walked with dirt on their shoes. Who was going to clean all these carpets? when they got mucky. It wouldn't take long, hundreds of feet crossed this path every day,

and the grime would soon build up. Had nobody thought this through? I stood at the window and watched as the workers finished laying down the carpets, then drove away once they had dried and adhered to the path. By the time the sun rose over the city, people were already walking along the street as if there was nothing wrong. Some of them paused to admire the new addition to the walkway, but I saw no expressions of disbelief or disgust. They were all acting as if it were perfectly normal. I dragged the curtain across the window, no longer able to watch. I could already see the streaks of mud and dirt crisscrossing the cream fibers. It wouldn't take long at all for the original color to be lost completely. Carpets, especially

mine, were not designed or built for extended outdoor use. I could only hope that in a few days, everyone would realize what a bad idea it was and tear them all back up again. But they didn't. Within days, more carpets had sprung up everywhere. All I had to do was open my curtains and peer outside and there they were. Everywhere I looked, the ground was covered in carpets. The only place they had not extended to was the roads. That would have been a disaster, a true nightmare. But seeing the carpets wasn't what drove me mad.

It was how dirty they were. The one-screen fibers were now extremely dirty and torn up from the treads of hundreds of feet each day. The original color and pattern were long lost, replaced with new textures of gravel, mud, sticky chewing gum, and anything else that might have transferred from the bottom of people's shoes and gotten tangled in the fabric. I had to leave my apartment a couple of times to go to the store, and the feel of the soft, spongy carpet beneath my feet instead of the hard pavement was almost surreal. In the worst kind of way.

It felt wrong. Unnatural. The last time I went to the shop, I stocked up on as much as I could to avoid leaving my apartment for a few days. I took more time off work, letting my employees handle the growing carpet sales. I couldn't take it anymore. Even the carpets in my own place were starting to annoy me. I wanted to tear them all up and replace everything with clean, hard linoleum, but my contract

forbade me from making any cosmetic changes without consent. I watched as the world outside my window slowly became covered in carpets. And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. It had been several days since I'd last left my apartment, and I noticed something strange when I looked out of my window that morning. It was early, the sky still yokey with dawn, bathing the rooftops in a pale yellow light. I opened the curtains and peered out, hoping, like I did each morning, that the carpets would have disappeared in the night.

They hadn't. But something was different today. Something was moving amongst the carpet fibers. I pressed my face up to the window, my breath fogging the glass, and squinted at the ground below. Scampering along the carpet, was a rat. Not just one. I counted three at first. Then more.

Their dull gray fur almost blended into the murky surface of the carpet, making it seem as though the carpet itself was squirming and wriggling. After only five days, the dirt and germs had attracted rats. I almost laughed. Surely this would show them. Surely now everyone would realize what a terrible, terrible idea this had been. But several more days passed, and nobody came to take the carpets away. The rats continued to populate and get bigger, their numbers increasing each day.

And people continued to walk along the streets, with the rats running across their feet, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The city had become infested with rats because of these carpets, yet nobody seemed to care. Nobody seemed to think it was odd or unnatural. Nobody came to clean the carpets. Nobody came to get rid of the rats. The dirt and grime grew, as did the rodent population. It was like watching a horror movie unfold outside my own window. Each day brought a fresh wave of despair and fear that it would never end, until we were living

in a plague town. Finally, after a week, we got our first rainfall. I sat in my apartment and listened to the rain drum against the windows, hoping that the water would flush some of the dirt out of the carpets and clean them. Then I might finally be able to leave my apartment again. After two full days of rainfall, I looked out my window and saw that the carpets were indeed a lot cleaner than before. Some of the original cream color was starting to poke through again. But the carpets would still be heavily saturated with all the water, and be unpleasant to walk on,

like standing on a wet sponge. So I waited for the sun to dry them out before I finally went downstairs. I opened the door and glanced out. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. As I stared at the carpets on the pavement, I noticed they were moving. Squirming. Like the tufts of fiber were vibrating, creating a strange frequency. of movement. I crouched down and looked closer. Disgust and horror twisted my stomach into knots. Maggots! They were maggots. Thousands of them, coating the entire surface of the carpet, their pale bodies writhing and wriggling through the fabric. The stagnant, dirty water basking beneath the warm sun must have brought them out. They were everywhere. You wouldn't be

able to take a single step without feeling them under your feet, crushing them like gristle. And for the first time since holding up inside my apartment, I could smell them. The rotten, putrid smell of moldy carpets covered with layers upon layers of dirt. I stumbled back inside the apartment, my whole body feeling unclean just from looking at them. How could they have gotten this bad? Why had nobody done anything about it? I ran back upstairs, swallowing back my nausea. I didn't even want to look outside the window, knowing there would be people walking across the maggot-strewn carpets,

uncaring, oblivious. The whole city had gone mad. I felt like I was the only sane person left. Or was I the one going crazy? Why did nobody else notice how insane things had gotten? And in the end, I knew it was my fault. Those carpets out there, riddled with bodily fluids, rats and maggots, they were my carpets. I was the one who had supplied the city with them, and now look what had happened.

I couldn't take this anymore. I had to get rid of them. All of them. All the carpets in the factory. I couldn't let anyone by any more. Not if it was only going to contribute to the disaster that had already befallen the city. If I let this continue, I really was going to go insane. Despite the overwhelming disgust dragging at my heels, I left my apartment just as dusk was starting to set,

casting deep shadows along the street. I tried to jump over the carpets, but still landed on the edge, feeling maggots squelch and crunch under my feet as I landed on dozens of them. I walked the rest of the way along the road until I reached my car, leaving a trail of crushed maggot carcasses in my wake. As I drove to the factory, I turned things over in my mind. How was I going to destroy the carpets, and make it so that nobody else could buy them? Fire.

Fire would consume them all within minutes. It was the only way to make sure this pandemic of dirty carpets couldn't spread any further around the city. The factory was empty when I got there. Everyone else had already gone home. Nobody could stop me from doing what I needed to do. Setting the fire was easy. With all the synthetic fibers and flammable materials lying around, the blaze spread quickly. I watched the hungry flames devour the carpets before turning and fleeing, the factory's alarm ringing in my ears.

With the factory destroyed, nobody would be able to buy any more carpets, nor install them in places they didn't belong. Places like bathrooms and pavements. I climbed back into my car and drove away. Behind me, the factory continued to blaze, lighting up the dusky sky. with its glorious orange flames. But as I drove further and further away, the fire didn't seem to be getting any smaller, and I quickly realized it was spreading.

Beyond the factory, to the rest of the city. Because of the carpets. The carpets that have been installed along all the streets were now catching fire as well, feeding the inferno and making it burn brighter and hotter, filling the air with ash and smoke. I didn't stop driving until I was out of the city. I only stopped when I was no longer surrounded by carpets.

I climbed out of the car and looked behind me, at the city I had left burning. Tears streaked down my face as I watched the flames consume all the dirty, rotten carpets, and the city along with it. There was no other way. I cried out, my voice strangled with sobs and laughter. Horror and relief, that the carpets were no more. There really was no other way, every summer when I was a kid my parents took me on a road trip across America. They'd save up their vacation days and we drive west for weeks from our home in.

Nova Scotia. The destinations varied. Texas, the Pacific Northwest, Alaska, twice, California. It was during a trip to Los Angeles, the last trip we ever took, as we were crossing Nevada, one of those stretches of land that seems to go on in barrenness forever, that my dad pulled off the highway into a rest stop so he could take a break from driving and we could enjoy a bite to eat. The rest stop was empty. As we slowly crossed its newly paved parking area, the sound of tires on asphalt spread like butter on a heated pan across the flat landscape, which odd me with its expansiveness, running impossibly in every direction before ending on a distant promise of mountains so much like paper cutouts that I imagine they must be as false as the idea

of infinite space beyond the passing clouds. We stopped near a small strip of grass on which a picnic table had been set up, chained to metal stakes in the ground. The air-conditioned interior of the car was comfortably cool, but already through the windows we could see the outside air shimmer with the dispersing heat of the accumulating earth, so that when Dad cut the engine and we opened the car doors it hit us like a weight of cosmic gelatin. Mom started unpacking food from the car. Dad stretched. I took in the surroundings.

After Mom had fixed the meal, sandwiches, Coke and a few hard-boiled eggs left over from yesterday, we sat at the table and started eating. A few cars passed by along the highway. Then, when we were almost done, as Dad smoked a cigarette, one of the passing cars pulled into the rest stop. We watched it methodically circle the parking area several times before stopping in the middle of the lot with its front windshield facing us. The only person inside was the driver. Nothing about the car was threatening in any way except the fact of its presence, which had upset our solitude. The driver kept the engine running. What do you think he's doing? Mom asked

Dad. I don't know, Dad said. Eat your food, Mom told me, but she had stopped eating hers and dad was merely holding his cigarette in his hand, the end burning, becoming a column of ash that crumbled eventually to the grass. The driver, who'd been keeping his hands on the steering wheel, took them away and appeared to reach into the glove compartment, from which he pulled an object that looked to me like a dark box and placed it on the dashboard. What's that he's got? Mom asked. Dad said nothing. Dad said, gather up our stuff and get in the car. The driver opened the box. Oh God, Mom said, is it drugs? Is he going to inject himself?

The driver took something out of the box, he's got a gun, Dad said, Dot, and Mom wrapped everything quickly in the checkerboard plastic tablecloth we've been eating on and shoved the resulting ball of dishes and food into the car's trunk. She shut the trunk. Get in the car, she said to me, her voice breaking. Dad got up, tossed his cigarette aside and stomped on it. Don't look at him, he said. Mom pulled me into the car.

He had tossed the car keys to her through the open passenger's side door and told her to start the engine. "'What are you doing?' She asked as he stood there looking at the driver. Dad didn't reply. Mom tried the ignition, but the car wouldn't start. "'I think he's going to kill himself,' Dad said, and for the first time in my life I felt my nerves squirm-like tentacles getting themselves into knots inside my body, inside my soul.

It was even hotter than it had been on the grass outside. Mom was panicking. Dad shut the passenger side door and began walking toward the other car. Where are you going? Mom yelled, but he ignored her, and I watched in hot fear as he walked off the grass onto the black asphalt. I was sweating. Dad reached the other car and knocked on the glass.

The driver lowered the passenger's side window. Dad said something, then the driver said something. Then Dad looked at us, his eyes even at such a distance sinking visibly into a depth many times greater than that of his head, and he opened the car door and got in, taking a seat beside the driver. Mom, who still hadn't gotten the car started, was repeating, what's he doing? What the hell is he doing? And sweat slid down my face, my back, down my thighs, shins, calves, into the grooves of the

rubber mat on the car floor. What's he doing? Just what in God's name is he doing? Dad talked to the driver. The driver talked to Dad. had talked to the driver. The driver talked to Dad. Mom punched the car horn, again and again, and in the other car, in the backseat behind both Dad and the driver a third figure appeared.

It hadn't been there before. I knew it hadn't. When the car had pulled off the highway the only person in it had been the driver. Now the third figure, whose eyes shone crimson, reached its arms around the sides of both front seats. Arms ending in claws. Inhumanly large, with long and slender fingers that concluded in dense talons. And the talons closed around Dad's head, and the driver's head,

and it pushed their two heads together, pushed them both, one into the other. So, that Dad's body subsumed the drivers. Oh God! Oh God, Mom screamed. Where before there had been Dad and the driver now there was only Dad in the driver's seat, reaching into the box on the dash, pulling out a gun. The driver's side door opened. Dad got out and began walking towards us, his face a shifting contortion of smiles, laughter, tears and anger, madness, uncertainty, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. I remembered playing a fighting game once where a glitch caused both controllers to control the same character.

That's what he looked like. That's what Dad looked like as he crossed from the middle of the parking lot to where Mom was crying and screaming, trying desperately to start the car, and where I felt like I was drowning in my sweat. I felt underwater. I felt under fucking water as, Dad's body took a few. steps forward, wrenched itself sideways. Fell. Got back up. The arm holding the gun pointed it at us. The other arm grabbed it. The two arms wrestled and the first got free and smashed

Dad's face and the second grabbed the first's wrist, but it didn't drop the gun and and Mom finally got the engine started. Dad fired, the bullet hit our car. But not us. Dad reset his aim and I could see him pointing the gun at me. My own father was pointing a gun at me. My own father, his arms shaking, his lips making the shapes of words I could not understand, wanted to kill me. But despite seeing it I couldn't believe it. I was crying. Mom was crying. But I couldn't believe it even as I prepared for death, and as I did, Dad's face became grimacing pain and in a sudden, overpowering motion he lifted the gun to his head and pulled the trigger and bang.

Mom, pressed the accelerator, our car shot forward, swerved and skidded, leaving marks on the surface of the parking lot, and we were on the highway, flying down the highway, leaving Dad's crumpled body behind on the hot black asphalt. We drove stunned, our cries subsiding gradually to an uncertain, whimpering silence, the result of a stunted understanding of what had come to pass. We didn't speak about it, then or ever, but the lack of Dad's presence was monumental. Gazing out the window I saw, the distant mountains had disappeared, and as far as I could see in all directions there was nothing but boundless desert. At the nearest town we reported the incident to the police.

We gave statements, and the police concluded, contrary to what I'd seen and what I knew to have happened, that Dad committed premeditated suicide. That's how they explained the presence of the second car, which Mom and I both saw arrive at the rest stop, but that the police decided had been there the whole time, apparently planted by Dad, who hadn't been away from us for more than a few minutes in the past two and half weeks. It was a wrong but, rational explanation, one that in time even Mom accepted as true because it was easier to believe than her own fading memory, which leaves me as the only person in the world who can attest to what really happened, even if that reality remains beyond my ability to comprehend. That's why I wanted to share. To give a touch of permanence to the flickering of an ever-passing world. The figure standing before me was more shadow than substance, their voice soft but commanding.

You can visit one of these three people one last time before moving to the afterlife, they said, motioning to the doors behind them. The first leads to one you hold most dear, the second to the one you most despise, and the last one is, some guy. I frowned. Some guy. Yes. Someone whose life you can influence in a meaningful way. The choice is yours. I hesitated. The first door called to me, promising warmth and comfort, a reunion with the person whose absence had left a hollow ache in my soul. The second door was cold and sharp, a chance to confront the one who had wronged me, perhaps to find closure. But the third door, it was plain, unassuming, and puzzling.

Some guy. Do I get to know who the guy is? I asked. No, the figure said simply. Well, that's helpful. I stared at the doors. The first was painted in soft hues, the second dark and foreboding, the third a simple would grain. My hand reached instinctively toward the first door, but I stopped. Whoever was behind that door knew how I felt. Our bond was strong, even in death. As much as I longed for them, their memory had already carried me this far. The second door. No. I'd spent too much time in life giving power to my anger. Carrying that weight into eternity seemed foolish.

I sighed and walked to the third door. All right, some guy, let's see what this is about. The shadowy figure inclined their head. A noble choice. Enter. I pushed the door open and stepped into a small, dimly lit room. A man sat slumped at a rickety desk, his head in his hands. He looked ordinary, average height, messy brown hair, tired eyes.

Bills and eviction notices were strewn across the desk. A photo of a smiling child was propped up near a flickering lamp. His despair was palpable. I moved closer, unsure of what to do. Hello. I said softly, though I knew he couldn't hear me. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. I'm sorry, kiddo, he murmured to the photo.

I tried. I felt a pang of sympathy. His anguish was a storm, but beneath it, I sensed a faint flicker of determination. He wasn't ready to give up entirely, he just needed a push. I reached out, instinctively placing my hand over his. To my surprise, he paused, as if he felt something. His head snapped up, and he looked around the room. What the, he muttered, standing.

His eyes landed on a moment. an old guitar leaning against the wall, dusty and forgotten. He hesitated, then picked it up. Plucking a few strings, his expression softened, a memory surfacing. I used to play for her, he whispered, his voice trembling. She loved it. He sat back down, this time with the guitar. Slowly, hesitantly, he began to play. The notes were rough, but they carried a spark of hope. As the melody filled the room, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't much, but it was a enough, a moment of light in his darkness. The shadowy figure appeared beside me. You've done what you can, they said. It is time. I nodded, watching the man's strum,

his shoulders a little straighter now. I didn't know what the future held for him, but I felt at peace knowing I had given him a reason to try. As I turned to follow the figure into the afterlife, I heard him hum a soft tune, the sound carrying me forward. Sometimes, helping some guy was the most meaningful choice of all. The office was a a mess, if you could even call it an office. More like a corner of a dingy studio apartment that doubled as a workspace, dining area, and general storage. Stacks of unopened mail crowded the desk, a leaning tower of unpaid bills. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything. The wallpaper, peeling at the edges,

might have once been cream-colored but was now a patchwork of gray smudges. Danny leaned over the desk, his head buried in his hands. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. a stale bagel he found in the back of the cupboard, and his stomach protested, but he didn't care. Hunger was the least of his problems. The eviction notice was the nail in the coffin, the culmination of months of scraping by on a threadbare paycheck that barely covered his daughter's school expenses, let alone rent. The photo on the desk caught his eye. Lily, his nine-year-old daughter, her gap-toothed smile brighter than the sun. She was clutching a flower she'd picked during one of their rare trips to the park.

His chest tightened. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. I tried, kiddo. I really did, then, something shifted. The air grew still and warm, a strange comfort pressing against him. He froze, his heart quickening. The room felt, different, as if someone else was there. He looked around, but nothing seemed out of place.

And then he felt it. A faint touch on his hand, warm and fleeting, like a brush of wind. He jerked upright, his eyes darting around. the room. What the, his eyes drifted to the guitar. It was as though it was calling to him. The guitar leaned against the wall across the room, neglected and gathering dust. Once, it had been his lifeline. Music had been his escape, his passion, his way of connecting with the world, and with Lily. But life had a way of grinding down even the strongest of loves. First, the divorce. Then the endless, exhausting grind of trying to provide for his daughter while keeping his head above

water. Music didn't pay bills, and dreams didn't feed children. He hadn't picked up the guitar in years. I used to play for her, Danny whispered to no one in particular. His voice cracked under the weight of his memories. She loved it. The pole was undeniable. He stood, hesitant, and crossed the room. The instrument felt lighter than he remembered as he picked it up, the wornwood familiar beneath his fingers. He sat back down and plucked a string. It was horribly out of He adjusted it, then another, until a clean, clear note rang out. Danny strummed a few chords, tentative at first. A melody surfaced in his mind, one he hadn't thought about in years.

It was Lily's favorite, a lullaby he used to play when she was little. His fingers found the notes instinctively, and soon the room was filled with music. It was imperfect, but it was enough to crack the wall he built around himself. Tears blurred his vision as he played, and for the first time in months, the suffocating weight on his chest began to lift. The music reminded him of who he was, who he used to be. He stopped playing, his breath ragged. What am I doing? he whispered. But then he looked at the photo again, and this time he smiled. The next morning, something was different. He woke up with a sliver of hope, a tiny

ember he hadn't felt in years. He spent the day cleaning the apartment, organizing the papers on his desk. In the afternoon, he dug out his old laptop and started searching for gigs. By evening, he'd booked two, a small birthday party and an open mic night. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Over the next weeks, Danny played more and more. He even began writing new songs, drawing inspiration from his struggles. His music became a journal, a lifeline that connected him to the world, and to Lily. When she visited, he played for her, and her laughter filled the room like sunlight.

Later, Danny found himself on stage at a local music festival, his first big gig in over a decade. The crowd's energy was electric, and for the first time in years, he felt alive. After his set, a man approached him, an agent, he said, offering him a chance to record an album. Danny took the offer. It wasn't about fame or fortune. It was about showing Lily, and himself, that he could rise again. And he never forgot the night it all started, when a stranger, unseen but deeply felt, had guided him back to his guitar and his purpose. He often wondered who or what it had been. An angel? A ghost?

He didn't know. But whenever he strummed that old lullaby, he played it as a thank you to whoever, or whatever, had given him a second chance. I couldn't believe I had gotten a call after I had already settled down for the night. I drove my work-issued jeep through the jungle maintenance roads of the park. Heavy rain was pouring down on my windshield, large trees towering over me on either side, as darkness enveloped the road.

The only light helping me see ahead was the high beams on the top of the Jeep. I had heard over the radio that the forecast report for tonight and the rest of tomorrow was nothing but rain. I couldn't help but audibly groan and roll my eyes thinking about the weather, at least I'd be inside. But still, my conscience wanted to complain that I had to fix a snap in the line powering the west side of the island. Although, my brain quickly justified it, reminding me that I would be getting a bonus for doing this, or so I was told. The Jeep's engine groaned as I slowly drove it up the hill towards the geothermal plant, I parked it just a few feet away from a side door to the large concrete building.

I noted that it was covered with a network of steel red pipes that wrapped around the structure and extended over the top of the roof. I clumsily threw on my windbreaker and stepped out of the vehicle. The rain was pouring down so fiercely it blew sideways. I shielded my face from the wet droplets that were raining down like somewhere, spraying me with a garden hose. I hastily made my way to the back of the vehicle, squinting the entire time. I looked around for my VHS camera, flashlight, and tool belt, which was quite a tremendous task considering it felt like I was effectively being waterboard and could barely see.

I turned to the direction I believed to be the building and made a beeline for the door, the gravel crunching underfoot. Approaching the door, I swiftly inserted my key, turned the doorknob, and slipped inside. Despite the damp and cold interior of the building, I was grateful to have a barrier between me and that horrendous weather. I shut the door with a loud thud, turning around to lean against it before letting out a sigh of relief. I pulled off my once-dry windbreaker, tossing it onto a wooden crate beside me. Using my shirt to wipe my wet face, I retrieved my work belt and fastened it around the loops of my pants, securing it in the middle. With a click, I turned on my flashlight and scanned the room.

This room served as a side office, connecting to the other rooms on the first floor and acting as the only entry point after work hours. Additionally, it had a staircase leading to the service tunnels below. I aimed the flashlight to locate the record button on my camcorder, finding it quickly I pressed it with a click. The tape began to hum, and I couldn't help but wonder why we needed to bring camcorders after hours. I assumed it was some safety protocol, so I brushed off the thought. After all, I was just a maintenance engineer responsible for making sure the plant supplied power to the animal's enclosures, and also would soon cater to the wealthy visitors who would flock to see these animals when the park opened. So with that in mind, I cautiously descended the stairs

and entered the heart of the machine. After reaching the bottom of the stairs, I walked for a little bit before slowly approaching an intersection of linking hallways. I proceeded towards the generator room, assuming that starting at the source and then following the designated power line that supplies the west side of the island was the best approach to find where the line had snapped. I found myself in the generator room where the low humming of the machine bounced off the walls, creating a strange reverberating sound. I directed my flashlight towards the generator, locating the designated line in question, and started following it.

I began hoping for the best case scenario, where it might have just been slightly frayed from something accidentally damaging it. The worst case scenario would be severe damage caused by, who knows what. This situation raises the question of what could have caused this issue. It couldn't have been an electrical overload, as there are specific runoff lines designated to handle large build-ups of electricity, which should charge the emergency power generators all across the park. So, the possibilities are either sabotage by someone within the park or something that entered the plant and caused the damage. I rounded the corner to the left hallway, and after walking for a short minute, I found where the wire had been damaged. Looking at the line, one of my suspicions was correct, this wire looked mangled, torn apart by what appeared to be claw marks.

Not from a large animal but from something slightly smaller. This wasn't going to be a quick fix. I grabbed the necessary tools and began fixing the line, slowly and meticulously piecing it back together. I was about 20 minutes into the fix when I started to wish I had brought my Walkman. I could be listening to some tunes right now, but instead I'm stuck listening to the faint hum of the generator and the hoots of some animal. Wait a minute.

Why am I hearing an animal down here? It was hard to tell where the sound was coming from. It almost sounded like an owl. But that couldn't be right. Of all the indigenous life on the island, there weren't any owls. Only birds that thrived in tropical conditions. The hoots grew louder, and I knew the source was getting closer. Panic set in, and I began to worry that it might be an escaped dinosaur.

I scrambled to find somewhere to hide. I shine my light over a small grate in the wall. Perfect. A vent large enough to hide inside. I slowly pried the grate open. carefully placed it to the side, and slid inside the vent, followed by carefully dragging the grate back into its original spot. I quickly turned off my flashlight and stayed absolutely still, trying to make as little sound and movement as possible. The hoot sounded ever so near as a faint new sound could be heard, the clicking of feet on concrete.

I peered out through the slits between the grate and saw two scaly legs in the darkness. The legs were accompanied by muscular thighs attached to a fairly large body, it was hard to make out what the creature was, but it was tall, standing around at least 17 feet and measuring around 15 feet in length. The creature raised its head and let out a hoot, the sound echoing eerily in the confined space. It was then that I noticed two protruding crests running along the top of its head from the snout all the way to the back. I remembered this dinosaur from the tour, although this one seemed bigger than the ones we had seen earlier. A small carnivore no bigger than maybe five feet at most, but this one dwarfed them in comparison. Could this be how big they really get?

We were told that these are ambush predators and they don't actively hunt prey. So it made me wonder if this creature was the reason the power line was mangled. I had too many questions and not enough options to help me get out of this situation. Perhaps if I could just get to my Jeep I could radio the nearest ranger station and call in a team to tranquilize the animal. As I contemplated my escape plan, I accidentally shuffled in the tight space, creating a noise that reverberated loudly through the ventilation shaft. The animal snorted, and its head snapped in the direction of the Great. I froze, my heart pounding so loudly that it felt almost audible. I struggled to calm down.

But that was proven rather difficult with a ferocious creature mere inches away from me. The animal's head slowly lowered level to the grate peering in. Its amber-colored eyes felt sharp. The darkness provided some cover, making me think that it couldn't see me if I didn't move, just like how the Terex's eyesight worked. I breathed the quiet sigh of relief as the animal eventually got bored and turned its attention back to something else. Once this is all over I am sleeping like a log, I thought to myself, though I knew my next

shift was looming. However, lost in my thoughts about the end of this ordeal, I didn't notice the faint, strange green light I was basking in. I peered out through the grate to my sheer horror as the creature was now covered in green light. With stripes of green stretching from the back of its eye all the way to the end of the tail. There was even a red stripe running down its spine. I remembered learning about this process in high school, certain animals had developed adaptability to darker conditions

by producing bioluminescent light from their bodies. But the scientists in the lab had assured us during the tour that all the dinosaurs that are bred in the lab are as close to their prehistoric predecessors as possible, unless they were lying, and this is some kind of secret genetic experiment. The animal suddenly caught a whiff of something in the air, and it snarled before ruthlessly leaping forward in a single fluid motion. crunching something in its jaws.

Whatever it had eaten squealed, and I could hear the bones snap and buckle under the weight of the beast's jaws. It swallowed its meal, hooded once more, and then ran off in the direction of the intersecting hallways. This creature appeared unusually aggressive, perhaps due to its bioluminescence. The best bet was to keep my guard up and carefully navigate my way out of the plant and back to my Jeep. If I encounter that thing again, I highly doubt I'm going to have such a lucky fate.

With caution, I opened the grate and crawled out into the hallway. I couldn't risk using my flashlight and revealing my position, so I had to rely on the faint lights above me and using the pipes beside me as a reference guide. Slowly and quietly, I retraced my steps through the intersecting hallways, climbing the stairs with every step carefully cushioned. As I neared the door I had entered through, I began to consider the likelihood of the creature escaping and potentially disrupting the ecosystem in the park. My hand hesitated over the doorknob.

I realized that I had to lock this creature inside and find a way to contact the ranger station from within the plant. Then it struck me, the plant's main control office had a direct phone line to the engine facility on the northwest side of the island. If I could make that call, they could send in a team to neutralize the dinosaur. I turned around, facing the daunting staircase that seemingly led to nowhere and in one final decision, I began my descent downwards once more. I reached the intersection and continued straight to the generator room. Upon entering the room, the air was filled with the sounds of a low hum, providing some cover for my actions. However, I wasn't taking any chances.

I circled around the large industrial generator to the other side of the room. There, I spotted a small room built into the wall a few feet off the ground with a ballistic glass window. This room housed the main control unit, which powered the generator in most of the plant. It was also where I expected to find the emergency helpline. I ascended a couple of stairs to reach a metal door situated to the side. I swiped my key card and the metal door slid open smoothly. Stepping inside, I swiped my card once more to secure the door behind me. Making my way over to the control unit, I located a flashing button and pressed it.

In response a deep alarm blared once in the door beside me locked, along with most of the main doors to the plant. At this point, that thing was effectively locked and here. with me, or so I hoped. I turned away from the unit, facing away from the window, and walked over to a red phone hanging on the wall. I picked it up and dialed the number. The phone began to ring. As each passing ringtone entered my ear, anxiety welled up inside me. I heard a click and a man with a faint accent spoke through the line. Engine here. What seems to be the problem? I need assistance at the geothermal plant. There's a dinosaur that has made its way inside, and it's extremely aggressive. I trapped it inside the plant with me, I spoke as calmly as I could.

Understood, I'm dispatching a couple rangers. Were you able to identify it? The man asked. Sorry I'm not good at identifying dinosaurs. I replied, copy that, listen to me very carefully, find an exit and carefully make your way there, wait outside till the rangers can reach your current position. Do you understand? The man spoke firmly. Yes, understood, but there's something strange about this one. It's similar to one of the dinosaurs on the tour, but it's much bigger and it has bioluminescent scales that make it glow. As I was explaining, I noticed a faint, familiar green light basking me. My heart dropped as I slowly turned around to see the same dinosaur from earlier, staring at me from behind the window. This time, it could definitely see me, with that

sharp amber-colored I fixed on mine. It felt like it was peering into my soul. The dinosaur snarled, its lip curling, and it took a step back. Sorry, you said something about it having bioluminescence. Hello. The man continued to ask. The phone slipped out of my hand and dangled by the cord. I felt my body trembling in fear, but tried to assure myself that the ballistic glass was impenetrable, not even a slug round from a shotgun could breach it.

However, my assurance quickly crumbled and the animal rammed its massive body against the glass, causing a crack to form. I backed up against the wall. Hello, are you there? What was that noise? The man beckoned through the phone. I picked up the phone and began screaming frantically, you have to come quickly.

It found me, and it's trying to break the glass. The animal repeatedly backed up and slammed its body against the window, weakening its integrity. A few more attempts and it would be able to reach me inside. The Rangers are coming fast, please just hold out for a little longer. The man attempted to assure me, All sense of security was lost when the dinosaur backed up further and, in one final motion, rammed the glass, causing it to shatter on the floor.

The dinosaur hissed as it tried to reach me, snapping its jaws. The window inhibited it from coming in any further, as it was too small for the creature to fit through. It stepped back, staring at me. Suddenly, it cocked its head back, and I was flashed by something bright red. I shielded my eyes. When my eyes finally adjusted, I looked back to see, two bioluminescent frills sticking out of its neck just behind its head. They rattled like snakes, and the dinosaur began to hiss. It opened its mouth, and I covered my face again. All of a sudden

I felt something warm and sticky hit my chest. I looked down to see faintly green, glowing saliva dripping from it. The fumes from the spit made my eyes water as it smelt like rotten flesh. Ada for the Rangers is about eight minutes from now till then you're on your own, the man said. I hung up the phone and carefully made my way to the corner of the room, keeping my eye on the dinosaur the entire time. I didn't see where I was going when I accidentally bumped into something. I turned around to see a locker. I quickly opened it and, to my surprise, found a prodding stick in there.

I grabbed it and turned it on, the low hum of the electricity sparking between the two copper prongs. I turned around towards the creature once again, and it started hissing once more. I decided to take my chances and charged forward. Driving the prodding stick into its mouth and pressing the button. It crackled, causing the dinosaur to jolt and rear its head while screeching loudly, before it backed up and ran off. I seized the opportunity and hopped over the ledge, with pieces of glass digging into my palm,

but that was the least of my worries. I rushed out of the room and through the hallway, passing by the intersection and up the stairs. However, my heart sank when I reached the top and found a security blast door block my exit. I tried lifting it, but it wouldn't budge. I couldn't afford any roadblocks at this moment. I needed to get out of here now. But then, I recalled a window in the main lobby of the plant. I quickly turned around and sprinted down a hallway to find myself in the lobby. I opened the door and stepped inside. Across the room, I spotted the window just above the main door. I pushed a desk in front of it and climbed on top. After unlatching the window, I pushed it open and saw the night's

sky. To my surprise, the storm had passed, and even better, I noticed headlights at the bottom of the hill. I yelled and waved my arms, hoping they would see me. My heart swelled with relief as I had finally escaped this relentless situation. However, my elation was short-lived, as a chilling breeze, reeking of death, brushed the nape of my neck, freezing me in terror. I turned around once more, only to meet the gaze of the relentless dinosaur that had been tormenting me. Its face was level with mine, and as it cocked its head, back, I brace myself for what I thought was its dreaded spitting attack. However, something far more sinister occurred, a sensation akin to daggers pierced either

side of my head. To my horror, I realized that my head was now trapped between the jaws of this monstrous beast. With a swift motion, the dinosaur swung its head, sending me hurtling through the air. The gruesome sounds of flesh being torn from my face filled my ears as I crashed into an unknown object. The impact struck my spine, rendering my legs entirely numb and paralyzed. Desperation coursed through me as I attempted to crawl, but a searing pain slashed across my back like a sharp knife. In unbearable agony, I cried out, lying on my back, helpless. When I mustered

the strength to look up, I found those malevolent eyes fixated on me. The dinosaur flared its frills and unleashed another torrent of spit, this time landing directly on my face. The burning sensation in my eyes far surpassed any discomfort I had felt earlier, it was as if someone had poured acid on them. I writh in excruciating pain, screaming in torment. When I opened my eyes, everything was a hazy blur. I realized that I was now blind. The jaws of the dinosaur once again encircled my head, and there was nothing I could do. The grim reality of my impending doom loomed over me. In my final moments, I recollected my earlier thoughts about the sleep I had hoped to enjoy when this whole ordeal was over. It seemed that I would be indeed getting that rest. I closed my eyes as the

crushing weight of the creature's jaws sealed my fate.