Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Secrets: True Crime and Terror Marathon

Episode Date: January 2, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #crimehorror #darkmarathon #paranormal #spookystories Explore the darkest corners of human nature and the paranormal in Dark Secrets: True Crime and Terror Marathon. This marathon dives into gripping true crime cases, chilling mysteries, and hair-raising paranormal encounters. Perfect for horror enthusiasts and true crime fans, this collection will keep you riveted for hours horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrorortales, truecrime, murdermystery, paranormal, scaryvideos, chillingstories, darktales, haunted, terrifying, suspense, creepy, horrorcommunity, crimehorror, mysterious, spookynightsThis episode includes AI-generated content.

It was the year 1728 when a French ship docked at the port of New Orleans. At the time, the area was still a French colony, bustling with a mostly male population. If the settlement was to thrive and grow into something sustainable, it was clear what was missing, women. Specifically, young, fertile women who embodied the values of a good Christian, housewives, mothers, caretakers. And so, the French crown made a plan. They would send young, virtuous girls between the ages of 12 and 25, carefully selected and vouched for by local priests. These weren't just any girls,

they were supposed to be the very image of purity, the foundation for the new world. For six long months, these girls braved the sea, enduring the treacherous voyage across the Atlantic. Finally, they reached the shores of New Orleans. According to the stories, when the ship was spotted,

the men in the town erupted in cheers and excitement. They shouted, sang, whistled, and rushed to the docks to welcome these young women, envisioning new beginnings for their rough and tumble settlement. But when the girls stepped off the ship, the excitement faded. Yes, they were young, and some even quite beautiful, but there was something off. They looked pale, deathly pale. Their eyes were red and sunken, some had blood-streaked lips, and their skin seemed to blister

in the sunlight. Whispers spread like wildfire. Were they sick? Or was there something darker at play? Each girl carried a small chest, a coffer, but behind them were large. heavy trunks that required multiple men to haul off the ship. No one knew what was inside those trunks, and the girls never said a word about them. From the docks, the women were escorted in a solemn procession to the Ursuland convent.

The plan was for them to stay there until they were ready for marriage. The heavy trunks were carried to the attic of the convent, locked away and forgotten, or so it seemed. As time passed, the girls settled in, receiving instruction on how to become proper wives and mothers. They were married off, one by one, and life in the colony went on. But then, one night, a curious nun ventured into the attic. She had always wondered why none of the girls had taken their trunks with them when they left. She opened one trunk, then another, and another. They were all empty.

Two theories emerged. Some believed the girls had unknowingly transported vampires in those trunks, serving as their unwilling hosts and food source during the journey. That would explain their sickly appearance. Others thought the truth was even darker, the girls themselves were vampires. Panic gripped the convent. The nuns took drastic measures, sealing the attic, boarding up windows, and hammering in blessed nails to keep whatever evil might be lurking inside from escaping. The entire convent underwent an exorcism, just in case.

The fear wasn't contained to the convent. Word spread throughout New Orleans, and soon, the entire town was consumed by the legend. spoke of shadows in the attic, ghostly presences, and creatures that stalked the night. Over the years, the stories grew, each telling more chilling than the last. The convent itself sealed those windows as a precaution after the damage caused by Hurricane Katrina. The rumors of Vatican involvement were merely exaggerations spread by those who wanted to add a supernatural flair to the already chilling story. The nails used were ordinary, not blessed, and the sealing was done to prevent rain and further damage, not to keep vampires at bay.

wasn't entirely convinced, though. As she explored more of the attic, she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something sinister might have happened there. The layout was just too peculiar, too aligned with the eerie legends that had floated around New Orleans for centuries. The guide explained that the architectural choices were based on practical considerations from the 18th century, but the shadowy corners, the faint scent of aged wood, and the oppressive silence in the attic told a different story. The legend spreads further. After her visit, Marita wrote extensively about her experience, and her descriptions only fueled the growing fascination with the Ursuline convent. Some locals claimed to have seen shadows moving in the attic

windows late at night, long after the building had been locked up. Others swore they heard whispers or the faint sound of chains rattling. Paranormal enthusiasts flocked to New Orleans, hoping to catch a glimpse of something supernatural. The lore surrounding the attic and the so-called casket girls took on a life of its own. New Orleans' already thriving reputation as a city steeped in mystery, magic, and voodoo only added to the allure. Tour companies began offering vampire tours that highlighted the story of the convent and the girls, and bars and restaurants in the French quarter began naming cocktails and dishes after the infamous legend. Debunking the myths, historians and skeptics have tried to debunk the myths over the years. They argue that

the story of the Casket Girls is more fiction than fact. The term Casket was likely a a mistranslation or a misunderstanding, as the small chests the women carried were not coffins but simple luggage, called cassette, in French. These chests held their personal belongings, and there was nothing sinister about them. As for the girl's pale appearance and sickly demeanor upon arrival, the explanation is far more mundane. The voyage from France to New Orleans was long and arduous. Many of the women suffered from malnutrition, dehydration, and diseases like scurvy and tuberculosis, which were rampant on crowded ships. The blood around their mouths was a symptom of illness, not evidence of vampirism.

The Ursuline convent, with its charitable mission to aid the poor and care for orphans, was indeed a place of refuge, not a den of the undead. The attic's strange layout, with its odd flooring and chains, was likely a reflection of the convent's role in housing and treating people with mental illnesses or other health conditions. The power of storytelling. Despite the logical explanations, the story of the, Casket Girls, persists. It's a testament to the power of storytelling.

and the human fascination with the macab. New Orleans, with its rich history and cultural melting pot, is the perfect backdrop for such legends. The city has always been a place where fact and fiction blend seamlessly, creating a unique atmosphere that attracts dreamers, romantics, and thrill seekers. The legend of the Thasket Girls is more than just a tale of vampires or haunted addicts. It's a reflection of the fears and anxieties of the time, fear of the unknown, of illness, and of the thother.

It also speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, as these women braved incredible odds to start new lives in a strange land. The legacy of the convent. Today, the Ursuline Convent stands as a historic landmark, a reminder of the city's colonial past and the role of the Catholic Church in shaping New Orleans. Visitors can tour the convent and learn about its history, including the role of the Ursuline nuns in education, health care, and social welfare. The attic, however, remains closed to the public. Whether it's due to structural concerns, preservation efforts, or simply to keep the legend alive, no one knows for sure. What is certain is that the mystery of the attic continues to intrigue and inspire.

They say what is suspicious that he is using, the cards but in doing so public, this person stops and already when, 1990 there is another suspect with a scar in hand the police reopens the case. We started the morning on August 16th, 1990 Charles woke her daughter to Pan from, a very strange way sat in his bed woke her up and reminded him of several occasions how much pam wanted her i understood what was happening and why his father woke her like this but things they could still get more strange the kitchen prepare breakfast and then the phone sounds char about responds and his attitude changes for complete conversation is very brief and after this hangs things end he says that now that now

comes back became an eternity and therefore the whole family was having breakfast passes the seconds the minutes and when Pam raised to go to the kitchen the door of the entrance is cast down and in a few moments everything is filled with agents of the FBI armed agents to teeth who say that his father has been arrested since apparently it is one of the most wanted criminals of states United is where the incident begins case of music today Charles Thurman Sinclair was born on 24 November 1946 in y'all new Mexico being the youngest of the four children of a family of working class his father died when he was very small for what he grew up without that figure but instead his mother made great efforts to raise them and to the three older brothers in fact

at one point he opened a business a lot of laundry of coins that also gave services more specific ironing and care of some charles or better charles garments as charlie was a student completely normal did not stand out no subject but there was a couple of things that did very well First is that he was a charismatic boy, open and very cheerful became friends with, anyone and was so nice and fell, good to all and the second is that I had, very good aim and when the, studies enrolled in the Navy and arrived, fight in Vietnam always liked, coins know where they came from, ancient were and therefore the, in fact, collected his biggest dream was, open a store dedicated to this exposing, your collection by more coins, sell them but at this point we will return. Later with the

years Charlie knows. A girl named Debbie and with her. House and has two children Pam Michael the time continues and finally. Reality the dream of your childhood to open. A new Hobbs tent. Mexico with this store wins a lot. Money and make contacts is fine with the. Neighbors with the police ago many. Customers many friends and people. Pushes to expand your business no longer sells. Only coins and hardware store now sells. Guns material hunting licenses. Clothing office sells many things but it should be said that some comment that it covers people too, comment and maybe the business is not so, profitable as it seems and in 1970A, event that changes everything forever. One night Charlie stays to work, until late and between one thing and another, it falls a little

solvent on the carpet, clean it a little above closes the, store goes home and in the morning, next very early return to, clean it thoroughly draws several products, start cleaning but has a bit of, cold thus connects an electric stove and there a spark jumps a spark that, sell fire to entire store tries, turn off the fire open the windows but, unfortunately it fails to stop it and the subject ends up escaping through the door of. The firefighters arrives the ambulance, and this man is taken to the hospital, a couple of days is admitted and who has, given a lot of smoke and has minor burns. But after these returns home like this, an accident so insurance pays, damage, but once they have the money there, family leaves there they want to change,

airs start from scratch and begin to, travel differently, states from there is where, the family's version begins. Specklair specifically that of Pam which told his story for the program. Living with a murderer, she said that. His father was a great person was, sincere, very sympathetic joker. Nice but there were a little signs. Strange and is that he got tired very quickly. To always live in the same place were going. They were established to a site made friends, and soon Charlie got tired. They made their suitcases to another place and, again they started again they made friends. They felt at ease and Charlie returned to, get tired and another thing that I constantly travel, one two weeks and then return to house but in this detail we will return more go ahead when pam had

about ten years the family stayed during a time in a road motel arrive there they register go to the room install the days and everything goes well but one afternoon the parents are going to buy in pam and michael stay in there room playing cards are laughing to have a good time and out of nowhere the phone sounds pam gets up grabs the phone responds and on the other side there are a guy asking Mr. Wee, Pam, he tells him that he was wrong that in that. Room is not Mr. We and act, followed hanging without further ado depart from. Telephone goes with your brother grabs the, letters and the phone rings again the. Girl approaches again and, on another side there is a person asking, exactly the same if the Lord is, we're and can be put and Pam tells him that. He

was wrong that he has called. Same room and that in that room. Is not Mr. Wee and then, hung again but before the, girl can grab the cards the. Telephone sounds again again and the other. Side is the same question if in that room is Mr. Weir to what? Pam replies that this room is, the Sinclair three calls in a row with. The same question began to be very, I miss very sinister and children were terrified they started with the paranoias with fear stopped playing, and out of nowhere the door of the room began, to sound someone was hitting her and, demanding that they open it were so, scared who did not want to move, they wanted simply to talk, they were terrified and then the door, it opened without more in the room, a police officer and an employee of the

Motel and both had many questions, where were the weir who were? What did they do there alone and Pam? Responded again and again that it was the Sinclair and that their parents would return right away but the police did not believe them. I was convinced that these children were. Hanan Fagadu from home and demanded a test that their parents were there with them. Children get very nervous looking. Everywhere the backpacks open, bags and they don't find a single, proof that parents are there with. They and then in the middle of the chaos. The marriage appeared through the door. Sinclair demanded to know what devils. and because there were two men with your young children and that is when

uncovers something quite strange and is that apparently Charles had registered them as the Weir family and supposedly did they did not want calls they didn't want discomfort they just wanted to be calm and they're the police and the employee went calm to the children they say nothing happens that I don't know worry and then announce them something very interesting and is that from they will no longer be the family sincler but the we music during the following years this family he continued moving without a parent rest. I went to a city they settled. Friends and automatically had to leave. Pam's parents didn't like, stay in the same place, and the children were confused for it.

On several occasions they decided to send him. Letters to grandparents, but casually, they never had seals asked for seals to. Father, he said that he did not have and four. It was all easier he offered to send the cards, but actually, Pam never did not understand why. Grandparents never responded because no, they called because they were not going to see them, end, though. Reality is that the elders carried, years trying to look for them denounced. Before the police they did not stop looking for them, but the children had no idea that, returning to the life of the new family, where P. noticed very strange things and is that, sometimes being a girl confused her, surname until 10 years was Sinclair, and now it was where sometimes confused,

he escaped him and then his father put, very nervous at first did not ask though, why of this change but over time, he started insisting I wanted to know why, I did not find a meaning in the father. He told him that it had to do with him. Fire of his beloved store said that. It was an accident but that the government does not. I agreed with that so. They constantly moved and changed the last name because if the police, he caught prison with that. Pam explanation understood 100% and never said again that. Named Sinclair from here, very rare things continue to happen for. And the family establishes in Washington and children not only make friends but, they create links with the entire neighborhood and there with the passage of both P. and Michael noticed the

following the pairs of your friends have jobs interesting actors musicians but they don't know what their parents are always at home they have money and can always allow things that others not a new tv going to the movies every week going to restaurants ask for pizza so they ask their parents what they do but these ignore the subject change theme do not want to answer and before the charles pressure tells you something and is that long ago discovered a sight of oil and thanks to this they could withdraw for that alleged site family is very rich but very soon the questions turn and it is although the father does not work twice a year he travels business goes for business and then he returns with a lot of money it goes at the beginning of the year later in late

and pam ask again if he doesn't have work why travel for business and charles does not know what to answer another interesting point is that whenever this man leaves home whenever travel returns with a different style though black tinged hair mustacho without beard with glasses new way of dressing and when pan asks this says that only try to go fashionable for a night pan raise to go for a glass of water and, when he went down to the kitchen, his father cleaning some coins knew that. His father collected coins but not. I knew I had so many and therefore, asked where he had taken them out, that this responded that. Grandfather after a few years living in, Washington Charles decides that they are going to. Alaska at that time the children already, they were teenagers

and had their lives, also made Pam went to classes of. Clarinette went there with the friends, like a boy began to fool, want to leave and this change did not even. Pinch of Grace was discussed with his father. He said he didn't plan to leave and he four, convince her gave her a new clarinet. This does not calm Pam's outrage more. On the contrary, he believes that his father, try to buy your happiness and this. Very annoyed with which he does not accept. The gift leaves it in your case does not touch it. Never again but still have to leave and. In a few weeks they are established in Kenny. Lake Alaska went from living in the great city to a small house surrounded by, forests and paths in a beautiful area. But for two teenagers it wasn't what. Better and then the last

trip arrives of his father in the spring of 1990 this time charlie is away from home for three months a week passes a whole month arrives at summer and has not yet i return but when it does more comes happy that he never brings very money and also many gifts among which is a ancient rolex that gives her son michael the boy is obviously very content with this does not think too sometimes he accepts and puts it on but some a few days later charlie on fifteen august occurs an event that puts everything Above up as I mentioned before the family lived in Kenny Lake Alaska, specifically in a very removed area. In a large house with a large land, trees trails a river near was a point where there were bears and neighbors. They had weapons were in the middle of nowhere, and having

weapons was completely legal, so this point should not worry. However, on the night of August 15th, the family decides to stay on the porch to take the air they take drinks feel. They begin to chat to laugh and for the. A man appears this subject, walk directly to the house end, before even rubbing the porch. Charles stands up there, stares and ask him what he does there. Man comments that he is looking for a house and, who has learned that someone sells, his likes the area, curiosity wants to live there and, ask what is your last name to what? Charles replies that we're according to Pam, though. His father's attitude is completely, different he is always very outgoing, very nice open but this time, it is tense give short answers does not follow,

the conversation and in a few minutes, dispatched man in Pam's mind, having silence share zone. At night there are armed people than a guy out there at night asking, By houses for sale it was very strange, very, sinister, so it was normal for your. Father was tense, but after, talk to him Charles orders everyone to, they get at home and close doors and, windows and the next morning 16 of, August follows the father, gets up very early and at the moment it goes, room of your children and wake them up, telling them how much he wants them says, that worships that he loves them with all his, Alma and please never forget it, and then he invites them to go down to the kitchen to make breakfast together,

Charles Debbie Pam Michael and, while cooking the phone sounds, approaches and at the moment your attitude changes respond at all times, with short phrases and when he hangs he grabs, all his things and says that now he returns. The seconds past the minutes and Charles does not return with which his wife and children. They go to the dining room and start eating until, this point seems normal R. Calm laughing but when Pam knows, raised to go to the kitchen the door of, the entrance falls down and in a, flickering everything is filled with agents of the, FBI agents who armed up to. Teeth say Charles Sinclair is, one of the most wanted criminals. The states, United for several years there was a series of crimes that were repeated in. Different states were

crimes, practically identical but the attacker, a man with, bug mustache without beard black hair, blonde hair some way of dressing glasses, without them the attacker was very different and, therefore for many years I do not, related everything to each other the first case. It was on January 27, 1980 David Sutton, from Everett Washington was found, dead of a shot in a head, weapon used was a 22 caliber gun, and after ending his life the attacker, he emptied his store stole many coins, and a total of 8,000 in silver on 28. August 1985 Thomas Roar de Mishawaka. Indiana died in the same way first. I was in his second coin store. He was shot in the head and third. Used weapon was exactly the same. November 5th, 1986 Rubin Lucky Williams by Vacaville.

California suffered the same shot the, 22 caliber and robbery in store. Coins on July 14th of the following year, Leo Kashot from Spin, Washington suffered. Same and on March 14th of the year. The same was also repeated in this. Occasion the victim was the Harroy Hoffman, of Kansas City, Missouri and Ponto by. Point is repeated exactly the same, different, different victim cities, but the stage was identical and, then we arrive at the month of April, 1990 for several days and educated. Texas Farmer is dropped by a store called Legacy Rare Coins in. Murray Yuda, her name was James Stockton, and he was a friendly guy was outgoing. Close was that kind of person who, I immediately like you sometimes. I arrived at the store several times a day,

and always made orders of the most. Strangers asked for the rarest currencies already. Who said it was his investment for that? Reasoned the owner of the Kelly store. Finnegan caught him confidence, trick tips to buy and sell, trick coins to invest and Jim. I took note of everything was great, until May 4th, 1990 when Jim appears through the store minutes before, let the blind down those hours, Kelly. I was already collecting everything was, turning off lights about to make the box, and he set out to save the objects of value in the safe but as i trusted jim for importance jim i went in the halls looking objects coins and kelly turned her back on her the safe and began to save things that's when he notes that his friend the following stupid words mutter bastard jim was a very educated guy and kell hearing this turned around that is when he noticed an impact on all the forehead and because of this one fell on the ground that impact was that of a balance but luckily he did not go through the head just touched him and was so in shock that pretended to

to be dead in. Silence saw Jim looted his store. Emptied the safe goes out all. Money gave a couple of turns and then, well, he left without more when everything ended. Kelly recounted and discovered that his friend Jim stole 6,000 in a very Rolex. Old grabs the phone call 911 and, of course, he denounces the police, account that this subject is high brown and that carries a beard and also in his hand. Wright has a scar but, agents believe that this case is isolated, which is a simple robbery that is not, connected to nothing more but the few. Once the story is repeated again, this time with a tragic end Charles, 60-year-old Sparrow had a life, full invested in real estate and made incredibly rich he had so much.

Money I didn't know what to spend it like this. What did he open to open a coin store in? Billings, Montana did not give him big benefits but still past it. Well, I was going to attend to the client sold coins chatted with the people, but when they bored who. He occupied the store was a 47 woman. Years named Catherine Newstorm everything was. Good until July, 1999 when they begin to receive the visit of a very special client, a farmer,

Alto Moreno very nice outgoing end, which wants to invest in coins itself, history that Kelly knew pretended without, embargoing Charles Sparrow was a very, observer was very nice, very nice, it fell very well but there were points that they did not make sense made a Pontiac of, silver color and always parked him, several streets away from this, store in front of the store always, there was parking but he parked, Far and went to Potta and another very point, Interesting is that this man said, Farmer said to be very hardworking, always in the field, but his hands were, as soft as those of a banker, someone so hardworking would have brands from.

This and although he had a scar in the right hand their fingers had no roosters, this is how we arrive at July 31st, 1990 when the lifeless bodies of Charles Spowe and Catherine Newstorm are, found in your coin store, both died for a shot of a, 22 caliber gun and after or the aggressor, Heist. Fifty-four thousand in coins and gold Jim Sparrow son. Charles told him the police. What did he know the scene of? Crime and also had suspicious people. He hated his father with whom he had. Problems and also mentioned the client. I missed that high farmer from. Banker with a bit separate teeth and a scar in hand. Right after these crimes, authorities are looking for links and soon, they discover all cases that resemble. Both cases ranging from, 82. 1990 are robberies in coin stores. Same modus operandi

same type of weapon, but the attacker is always different. Basic structure preserves it but with, the passage of time changed to your look in, a most tacho eight in another, beard in another knob in another hair glasses. Black Rubio seems the same subject, but this is changing what agents, they decide to publish in the press the last, robot portrait and thanks to this the owner, of a spoken store calls to say, that face sounds a lot says that. In April 1989 he had a client called, J.C. where physically is subject, very much to the drawing and also mentioned, that that were had a Pontiac. Silver, the police are looking for this name and, indeed they bought a Pontiac. Silver in Washington looking for the car, registration and see that the license is. He took

in Jackson, Wyoming, place where they are supposedly living go to the address are looking for it and realize that does not exist with which J.C.W. may not even. Even your name is clear is, that the car is real that this Pontiac, Silver has to be somewhere. So agents publish a newsletter to the different department's share, registration the description all, car information and end up, finding parked very close to the Wyoming airport several units are, move there immediately and, when they open it they discover very interesting inside the vehicle there is a calier gun 22 and a silencer and several papers with photographs of coins that have been stolen having the car there the police think that perhaps J.C. where has traveled somewhere that has,

parked the car has gone to the airport, has caught a plane and the more they look for, more are and that is that one J.C. Where has traveled from Wyoming to, even Alaska specifically until Anchorage everything pointed to him towards. This man but then another. Police Department publishes a alarm and there is another crime no, resolved that could point to him. Dagmer and Robert Lentonis, retiree marriage lived in Lodi, California and they liked to make trips, short of lakes and areas remote in the summer of 1986 went to Vancouver and on the way they were calling. Loved ones stopped in hotels in. Restaurants made calls. Communication was constant but once. They arrived in Washington stopped doing it. His red and white trailer was found, completely

empty in a camp, located in Washington and his truck was, abandoned at Cede Airport. Tacoma in the trailer there was nothing. Strange but the truck was marks of struggle and blood remains, belonging to three different people. Dagmar Robert and someone unidentified, their belongings seem intact but card money had. Therefore, the police during, several months tried to track the card movements and indeed, they noticed that there were movements in these. They tried to follow them hand. Mainly they happened in Washington. Someone had surely killed them and, he took the cards and his last purchase. It was a clarinet in a store of. Music witnesses said this. Person was a tall brown man with, beard and with the right hand bandaged end. With this information the police warn,

the media say how suspicious, is using the cards but in doing so, public this person stops and already. When in 1990 there is another suspect with, a scar in hand the police, reopens the Case on August 16th, 1990, the FBI after, join all the pieces arrest Charles, Thurman Sinclair and try to connect it, with at least eight crimes after putting it. In prison some records are made end. It is discovered that this man in, Washington acquire a shed go-to. There they open it and within this. They find elements that call a lot, though. Attention has lots of maps, identification instruments, false landmines, more explosives, C4 and of course tens of coins, valuable but at home there are two, more evidence that makes it clear that.

is the culprit the first one is a old Rolex that was found in the Michael Room according to Michael was a gift that his father brought from his last trip but on that last trip the type stolen Kelly Finnegan store who casually lacked a Rolex and the second was a clarinet found in his daughter Pam's room when they were from Washington Alaska Pam angry with his father and this apology bought a clarinet but she never used it left it in the case and he kept it however it seems that the Instrument was bought with Dagmer and Robert Linton Cards. Charles Thurman Sinclair was in the Palmer Alaska Prison under bail, 500,000 and for several months. I hoped was extradited to Montana, but what happens that more departments of, police were claiming him committed, crimes in many

different places and, therefore many departments argued, their extradition had many cases without, solved cases for which they were going to, judge it, but on October 30th of that, same year Charles Sinclair died and, today we don't know what crimes, he committed and which were not his so, Now is your turn what do you think of the case, and you think this man could, repent at some point, it all started with a letter. Nothing flashy. Just a beat-up envelope, smudged with a greasy fingerprint that looked like someone had half-assed a signature. No return address, just a Michigan postmark, like a ghost had mailed it from a forgotten corner of the map. And inside? A manuscript. Wrapped up tight with twine, like it had been bound in secrecy. The title of the title of the

scrolled across the front was, my truth, the final confession of Edward Vance. Now, here's the thing about Edward Vance, he was a myth wrapped in rumors dipped in blood. To most people, he was nothing more than a name whispered in cold case forums and true crime binge nights. The kind of guy you never really believed existed. But he did. Oh, he definitely did. The man had 41 confirmed victims, probably more. His crime stretched across three states and 15 years. He was a shadow, a legend, and he was never caught. Not until he sent that manuscript. The woman who opened the package, a mid-tier publisher named Meredith Shaw,

probably should have torched the damn thing the second she saw it. But humans are dumb, and curiosity is a disease. So she read it. And those pages? They were venom. The first line punched her straight in the gut, you know me. Even if you think you don't. Then it got worse, I was your neighbor once.

Your waiter. I fixed your damn water heater in El Paso. I smiled at your daughter in a grocery store in Ohio. I've been everywhere, and the world let me. Because I knew how to disappear. I was the magician of murder. But I'm tired. And the truth?

The truth tastes better than blood now. Every chapter was a confession. Every chapter was a name. Some were just cruel nicknames, the screamer, dog walker number two, the twitchy one. Others had full names, like the kind etched onto graves that families never got to visit. He wrote about how long he stalked them. How he picked them. What he did?

The peppermint obsession was the strangest part, he chewed the. peppermint before every kill. Like it helped him savor the moment. And on the final page. One line, circled in thick black marker, I want to be found now. I want you to find me. Meredith didn't hesitate. She called the cops.

The FBI, though. They were skeptical. Too many frauds trying to get famous off fake confessions. But two weeks later, beneath an old shed in Vermont, they found the screamer. The remains were right where Vance said they'd be. She'd been missing since 1994. That's when shit got real.

But Edward Vance wasn't waiting at some bus stop with a smile and cuffs ready. It took another five weeks, a few more bodies confirmed, and one creepy-as-hell phone call from a blocked number. The voice was polite. Chill, even. Gave them coordinates. led them to a cabin up in the Rockies. They found him there.

Vance. Sitting on the floor, peppermint in his mouth, blood all over the manuscript beside him. Knife in his hand. But he didn't wait for a rest. He'd already cut his throat wide open. No grand finale. No courtroom drama. Just one final screw you to the justice system.

But that wasn't the end. Next to the blood-soaked confession was something new. Pages that hadn't been in the version Meredith got. They were handwritten. Shaky. Ink smudged like his hands were trembling. Addendum, it said at the top. And then came the most disturbing part,

I thought the worst thing you can feel is being hunted. Turns out, the worst is realizing you were never the most dangerous thing in the woods. Vance wrote that after mailing the manuscript, something shifted. He felt watched. Not by law enforcement. Not guilt. But something else. Like something, answered. He got phone calls. No voice, just static. Sometimes laughter. Sometimes just breathing. Once, just the word, pretender. Packages arrived at the cabin. One had a jar of human teeth. Another had a VHS tape, grainy footage of Vance sleeping.

Filmed from inside his closet. The last one. A human tongue nailed to wood. It had a note, you were sloppy. I marred. Then came the noises. Footsteps in the woods. Doors he locked at night would be open in the morning.

He watches me at night. I hear him breathing behind the walls. I don't sleep. I don't eat. He's unmaking me. Vance started losing it. Or maybe, for the first time, he was seeing things clearly. He leaves me trophies now, he wrote.

Bits of my past. My first kills necklace, dug up and left on the porch. My father's obituary with my face beside it, like we died together. And this line. It haunted me, he's in my head. Like he's always been. in there. Waiting for me to write it all down. The feds found scratch marks inside the windows. Too deep for fingernails. Almost like claws. Some agents swore they felt watched. Cameras wouldn't

work. One tech barfed in the woods, said she saw, a face in the trees with too many eyes. They tried to bury it. The FBI, I mean. But someone leaked the addendum. It hit. It is a Hit the internet like wildfire. Suddenly, everyone had theories. Podcasters, YouTubers, Reddit sleuths, they all wanted to crack the mystery of the second killer. They gave him a name, the editor. A ghost who rewrites other killer's stories.

A predator that hunts predators. A nightmare with a red pen and an ego. Then people started disappearing. True crime YouTubers. Journalists. anyone who claimed to have new info always the same calling card left behind a red pen stabbed into the wall a month ago a new manuscript showed up no postage no author name just dropped at a newspaper office like a cursive present scrawled across the cover second confession first page neat block letters the story was never his he was a footnote I'm the narrative.

And at the bottom, written in thick, violent red ink, now it's your turn to write. You ever read something and feel like it sees you? Like the words are looking back. That's what this feels like. I don't know who the editor is. I don't know if he's real or if we all just want him to be. But that manuscript, it's out there. And maybe you'll be the next to find it.

Maybe you already have. Maybe this, is it? The end. Part 1. I didn't believe my grandma's stories when I was a kid. She used to talk about the Sunday that her entire town disappeared. She said one moment, everyone was in the church, singing hymns and praising God, and the next, silence. She hadn't gone to the service that day, she was home sick with a fever. That's why she survived.

The next day, the sheriff found the church doors locked from the inside. side, the pews empty, the pastor's Bible left open on the pulpit. But no congregation, no bodies. No explanation. She said she could still hear them sometimes. On quiet nights, when the wind was just right, she'd hear the faint sound of their voices, humming through the hills. They're still singing, she'd say. They're still waiting for us to come back. I thought it was just a story. A small town myth passed down to make the place sound more interesting than it was. Until last week.

That's when I got the letter. I hadn't been back to my grandmother's hometown since her funeral. The place was a ghost town, literally. Most of the buildings were falling apart, the windows boarded up, the streets overgrown with weeds. Only a few families still lived there, clinging to whatever memories they couldn't bear to leave behind. So when the letter arrived in my mailbox, stamped with the name of the town, it took me

a minute to even process what I was looking at. It was handwritten, shaky and uneven, like the person who wrote it was in a hurry, or scared. Come to the church. It's time you knew the truth, there was no name, no signature. Just those nine words, scrawled across the back of an old him sheet. For days, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was a prank or someone trying to stir up old rumors. But the letter stayed with me, burrowed into my thoughts like a splinter. Because the date at the bottom wasn't random. It was the anniversary of the vanishing. I drove into town the night before. The church sat at the edge of the woods, the steeple rising high above the trees like a jagged finger pointing at the sky. It looked just like the pictures my grandma used to show

me, except older. The paint had peeled away, leaving bare wood that was dark with rot. The stained glass windows were cracked, but they still glimmered faintly in the moonlight. The front door hung slightly ajar, as if it was waiting for me. I almost turned back. But then I thought of Grandma. The way her voice would lower to a whisper when she talked about that day, her hands shaking just slightly as she told me about the hymns that still echoed through the hills. She always said someone in our family would have to go back.

That the church wasn't finished with us yet. I took a deep breath, grabbed my flashlight, and stepped inside. The smell hit me first. Old wood and mildew, mixed with something faintly metallic. Like blood. My flashlight beam swept across the pews, revealing thick layers of dust. A few hymnals lay scattered on the floor, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Cobweb stretched across the rafters, swaying gently in the breeze that shouldn't have been there.

But it was the silence that unsettled me the most. The kind of silence that feels alive. Heavy. Like the building itself is listening. I walked down the aisle, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the warped floorboards. At the front of the church, the pulpit still stood, the pastor's Bible lying open on top of it. The pages were blank.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring at the empty book. Something about it felt wrong. It wasn't just that the words were gone, it was the way the paper shimmered faintly in the light, like it was made of something that wasn't quite paper at all. I reached out, hesitating for just a moment before touching it. The instant my fingers brushed the page, I heard it. A voice. Low and faint, like it was coming from somewhere deep inside the walls.

I jerked my hand back, my heart racing. But the voice didn't stop. It grew louder, joined by another. And another. Until it wasn't just one voice anymore, it was dozens. Hundreds. The sound of an entire congregation, whispering in unison. I backed away from the pulpit, nearly tripping over one of the pews.

The whispers were everywhere now, surrounding me, pressing against my ears. And then they started to sing. It was a hymn I recognized. My grandma used to hum it to herself while she cooked, a soft and mournful tune that always made my chest feel tight. But there was something wrong with the way they sang it. The melody was off, twisting and bending in ways that didn't make sense. The voices weren't human anymore, they were too deep, too sharp, too loud.

And they were coming closer. I turned and ran. The whispers chased me, growing louder with every step. The air was heavier now, thick and suffocating, like the church itself was trying to hold me back. When I reached the door, I slammed into it, shoving it open with all my strength. The second I stepped outside, the voices stopped. I stumbled down the steps, gasping for air, and turned to look back at the church. The door was closed.

The lights in the stained glass windows flickered once, like a candle guttering in the wind. And then I heard it. A single voice, soft and clear, echoing through the night. Come back, Part 2, I didn't sleep that night. I couldn't. The hotel room I'd booked in the next town over felt too small, the air too thin. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the church. Heard the whispers.

Felt the weight of their song pressing against my chest. By the time the sun rose, I'd made up my mind. I couldn't leave, not yet. Whatever had happened to the congregation, whatever was haunting that church, it wasn't done with me. And maybe, maybe I wasn't done with it either. I arrived just after dawn. The church looked different in the daylight. Less like a haunted relic, more like an old building simply forgotten by time.

The cracks in the walls seemed smaller, the peeling paint less sinister. But as I approached, the weight returned. It was subtle at first, just a faint pressure in my chest, like the air was heavier here. But with every step, it grew stronger, settling deep in my lungs. When I reached the doors, I hesitated. I told myself I was doing this for my grandma. For the people who had vanished. Foreclosure.

But deep down, I knew the truth. I was doing it because the church had called me back. The door creaked open, the sound echoing through the empty nave. Inside, it was just as I'd left it. Dust. Cobwebs. The faint, metallic tang in the air. But now, there was something else.

A trail of footprints, leading from the door to the pulpit. They weren't mine. The prints were large, barefoot, and smudged, like someone, or something, had walked through ash. The floor creaked under my weight as I followed them, my pulse thudding in my ears. When I reached the pulpit, I froze. The blank Bible was gone. In its place was something else.

A candle, blackened and misshapen, its wick smouldering faintly. The smell of burnt wax filled my nostrils as I stared at it. trying to make sense of what I was seeing. And then the whispers started again. They were louder this time, clearer. I could make out fragments of words, phrases that seemed to come from every direction at once. We were lost. He promised us salvation.

But it was a lie. I stumbled back, my flashlight shaking in my hands. The whispers grew louder, overlapping each other until they became a single, unified voice. Stay. The door slammed shut behind me. Panic surged through me as I ran toward the exit, yanking at the handle. It wouldn't budge. The air grew colder, the smell of ash and wax thickening around me.

I turned, my back pressed against the door, and froze. The congregation was there. They filled the pews, their faces pale and blank, their bodies twisted into unnatural shapes. Some of them had no eyes, just empty sockets that seemed to stare straight through me. had mouths that stretched too wide, their lips curling into grotesque grins. And at the front of the church, standing behind the pulpit, was the pastor. Or what was left of him? He was tall and skeletal, his robes hanging off his body like shrouds.

His face was wrong, his skin stretched too tightly over his skull, his eyes sunken and glowing faintly in the dim light. And he was smiling. Welcome home, he said, his voice low and hollow. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. What, what do you want from me? The pastor tilted his head, his smile widening. We've been waiting for you, the congregation shifted, their heads turning toward me in perfect

unison. Their mouths opened, and that horrible, twisting him began again, echoing through the church like a thousand voices crying out in pain. I clamped my hands over my ears, but it didn't help. The sound wasn't just in the air, it was inside me, vibrating through my bones, wrapping around my thoughts. And then I understood. They weren't singing.

They were screaming. The pastor stepped closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Do you know why they vanished, he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. It wasn't an accident, he said. It wasn't God's will. It was a choice, the congregation fell silent. They gave themselves to me, the pastor continued, his skeletal hand reaching out toward me.

In exchange for salvation. peace. But they didn't understand the cost. His grin widened, splitting his face nearly in half. Now they sing for me. Forever, I scrambled backward, my hands searching for anything I could use as a weapon. Why are you telling me this? Because, he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, it's your turn.

The air around me seemed to collapse, pressing down on my chest and stealing the breath from my lungs. The congregation rose from the pews, their movements slow and jerky, like puppets on tangled strings. They reached for me, their twisted fingers clawing at the air. No. I screamed, shoving myself to my feet. I'm not like them, the pastor laughed, a deep, guttural sound that rattled the walls.

You carry their blood, he said. Their debt is your debt, I stumbled toward the pulpit, my heart pounding. The black candle still smoldered faintly, its wick glowing like a dying ember. Let me go, I begged. The pastor's grin faltered. Light the candle, he said, his voice sharp and commanding. Join us, and you will be free. I stared at the candle, the smell of wax and ash filling my nose.

My hand trembled as I reached for it, my mind screaming at me to stop. And then I saw it. The faint outline of my grandma's face, flickering in the smoke. She wasn't smiling. I grabbed the candle and hurled it to the ground. The flame extinguished with a hiss, and the pastor let out an inhuman scream, his body collapsing into ash. The congregation followed, their twisted forms disintegrating as the church began to shake.

I ran. The door flew open before I reached it, and I stumbled into the daylight, gasping for air. When I turned back, the church was gone. I don't know what happened to the congregation, or why the church called me there. But sometimes, late at night, I hear the hymn again. And when I close my eyes, I see them, waiting. And I know they're not finished with me yet. So this has been going around my head for too long and I finally got it out, on paper, today.

It's not meant to have a moral to it, nor is it meant to hit you over the head with political ideology. It's just a story. I mainly just wanted to stop riding around my mind like a mosquito in the dark. I was minding my own business while eating some mediocre breakfast at a small cafe in my suburb. Everyone had opinions, yes, with a capital, oh, about the war. While many accepted that such things were necessary to fight off the invasion, there were a few who believed that diplomacy can solve all problems. Like the young man at the table next to me.

Now I'm ready to admit that I have preconceptions about what such people look and behave like, but this guy didn't come across like this stereotype. He was dressed smartly, his hair combed and not in dreadlocks, and he was actually quite eloquent in the way he spoke. Alas, the one thing he was doing which correlated with my idea of the peace-loving hippie concept was that he was way too loud and almost aggressive in volume. As if everyone wanted to hear his diatribe, and that he was the one to deliver the sermon. He spoke about the failures of the government of the time, and how they should have talked down the saber-rattling of the foreign warmongers, at least as a way to stay out of the conflict that was building

between them and other powers, if not to act as arbitrators for the whole point of a grievance. He spoke of how the local military and resistance forces should have stood aside when confronted, in order to demonstrate their moral high ground. He spoke of the terrible repercussions that the instigator of war felt when other nations responded. He spoke of the thousands of combatants who were killed from all nations, and the millions of civilians vaporized by both conventional and nuclear weapons. He spoke of the monstrousness of those who took up arms, of those willing to mercilessly slaughter the people who were deemed an enemy. Eventually, with his energy and confidence building, this young man started to look around and address the occupants of the tables

directly. I avoided what I could of this simply by averting my gaze, but soon his boldness got the better of him and he started to place himself directly at each table. Including mine. I think part of the problem was that nobody was rising to his challenges. We'd all heard this sort of thing before, and knowing that some people's minds cannot be changed, it's easier to just try and ignore it than to have a conversation that often sucks up a lot of your time. Some people will argue, but there weren't any of that cohort at the cafe today so I couldn't hide behind somebody else's argumentative nature. He slid into the chair in front of me, a kindly grin on his face, but the sort of glint, in his eye that gave away the fact that he was intent on convincing people of the error of their

ways. Hello, sir, he began almost breathlessly, what do you think was the failure point that started the whole war? I just want it out. I try not to think of what happened during those short months, which felt like lifetimes, and I definitely don't want to talk to strangers about it. So I told him just that. I avoid thinking of the whole thing as much as I can, that wasn't enough for him.

He told me to think of what it must have been like for the multitude of partners, parents and children who lost their dearest relatives. I answered as best as I could, but soon after I started talking I found that I couldn't stop. When the bombs first came, my wife and children were in the city. The kids had a school excursion and some of the parents had volunteered to help. I was at home working. It was all so sudden and unexpected. I lived about 25 kilometers from the city as the crow flies.

Being north, I was less than 20 kilometers from the closest army base. I heard a strange concussion of sounds outside. It was like a hundred distant cars had all backfired within moments of each other, pop, pop, popping, without pause or end. It was so strange that I had to step outside to look. While I couldn't see the city, I could see the smoke, back and accurately. as a scar across the sky. Scores more tiny pinpricks were streaking their way through the air, and it took me a moment

to understand what I was looking at, munitions coming from the east and blasting their way into the concrete and flesh that used to be the city and its people. Within moments all communications and power were cut off. No internet, no phones, and the electricity went out. I saw more people along my street poke their heads out of their houses, all eventually turning to the billowing plumes of death rising from the south. I heard lots of gasps, a few screams, then shouting as their demeanor turned to panic. I don't know how long I stood out there, but it wasn't long before my neighbors were fleeing in their cars. No doubt some were racing

to their own children and loved ones, and many more just getting away from the potential of harm. I don't know why, but I was rooted to the spot, unable to divine what was happening or what to do. I must have been there for a while because I can still remember smelling the faint rancid fumes of carnage floating on the wind from the ruins in the distance. I remember seeing my street, a relatively minor one, fill with cars of people taking the opportunity to get out while they could via any route that seemed valid. I remember the police inching their way through the traffic announcing to all that they needed to evacuate. We were at war.

I can't remember if it was told to me, or if it was just the apt to be. of the situation that was so fundamentally full of the declaration. The irrational part of my brain took over and demanded that I find my wife and children. I can't even remember having conscious thoughts for a while after that, though I must have readied myself somewhat as the next thing I can recall is wearing my sturdy work trousers, steel-capped boots, and a jacket that I swear I'd never seen before. Let me be clear now, I have never been in the military. Yet somehow I'd managed to rustle up whatever stuff I could that would approximate the most analogous outfit to camo stuff that I could. I wasn't to know that there were landing parties already

coming in from the coast. I do remember the first guy I killed, though, the look of fear and pain on his face as I had somehow managed to bury his own knife into his chest. I don't know how I did it, but I do have vivid memories, and ongoing nightmares, of my hands getting covered in his blood as it gushed out from his wound. His gun clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees and the sound must have alerted some of his squadmates as shouting and the thud of boots came my way. I was in a suburban backyard at this point, his rifle landing heavily on the concrete path to the clothesline, and my conscious mind roaring to the floor as I started to understand my predicament. Luckily for me, these rifles spew bullets at an alarming rate. I found out

later at the soldier I had killed was carrying it wrong, with neither the safety or single-shot mechanisms engaged. Before I knew, I was firing ammunition into and through the hapless folk who were coming to help their dead friend. With no targets to see any more I dropped the gun foolishly and ran like I was being chased by the devil. I climbed fences, went through side streets and barged my way through bushes. My hands were warm with the drying blood of the soldier I'd driven the knife into. I don't know how far I got, but it was far enough to be safe, evidently. In someone's now abandoned front yard I puked and wretched for an interminable amount of time. Nobody sings ballads of the blood, mud, and tears. Nobody romanticizes the pain, shit and vomit.

Or the sensation of the ringing you hear in your head forever more after brutally murdering someone. It was likely in self-defense, but that makes no difference to the unstoppable. bit in your brain that screams at you about taking another person's life. Even now, a decade after the invasion, I can still hear the echoes of that beast within roaring in disgust, regret and sorrow. From there it was a slog into the city. I had to see for myself, though I knew it was folly. I knew that there would be no survivors from the desolation, but I was running on a mixture of fear, anger, and heartbreak. As I came closer first the army base, then into the the city, bodies littered the streets. Fires were burning in buildings that had suffered damage

from nearby explosions. The enemy army had been through finishing off anyone looking dangerous, or taking survivors to concentration camps scattered throughout the greater city area. I managed to attain a couple of weapons during this part, though I'd rather not say how. I'd rather not remember at all, to be honest, but that time has well and truly passed. I was well on the way to becoming a monster and the brain tends to resolve terrible things in order to continue functioning. Turns out that I was very good at war. I instinctively understood how to build traps, avoid detection, and to snuff the life out of other people, often many at a time. I had no news of the outside world.

I didn't know what was happening elsewhere. But I knew that I needed to stop anyone in the uniform of the invaders. And by stop, I mean in a terminal fashion. I didn't have the capacity to take hostages, nor to tend to the wounds of other people. I performed summary justice to those who stood against me, not out of pleasure, but out of necessity, revenge and national pride. I committed acts that were intolerable in any decent society, and probably a few that amounted to war crimes.

I brutally murdered hundreds of these invaders through the machinations of sabotage, ambush and sheer application of firepower. I assassinated at least a dozen of their ranking leaders in order to sow fear and confusion into their plans. I fought this war for what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality, was just over a month before remnants of the local military, supported by forces of half a dozen other countries, came to restore power. The whole story would sound like a gratuitously violent, blood-drenched and disgusting boy's own adventure version of John Marsden novels if I told it all. And I don't want to do that, because I try to repress all the memories every day. I'll tell you, son, that war is a political hammer, and the

nails are the soldiers who fight it. I don't hate the invading people for their part in it, because they were simply acting on the orders of the psychopaths in power. Don't hate the players, hate the game is one way of putting it, as long as you consider the game as being the governments of the world. Most soldiers don't ask to be shot at, they don't ask to be the one who pulls the trigger and they don't ask to lose the people they stand beside. I never wanted war. I certainly didn't want my wife and children to die. But I did what I needed to. I don't regret what I did, but I most definitely wish I had never needed to do it. With that, I pushed the remains of my half-eaten breakfast away and stood clumsily. Half of my lower left leg was missing

from an unexpected granade, and my cane supported my weight where the leg could not. I didn't want to look at the young man who had dredged up my memories, but I am a stickler for manners. He had tears in his eyes and a blank look on his face as if I had just upended his whole worldview, which I probably had. He never expected this daughtering old man to have been one of the few who had held back the invasion of our city through the extreme application of bloodshed and violence. I'm sorry you had to hear that. I hope you can understand some of the other side of the story now. Good day, with that, I shambled away.

Not as a dignified and proud statesman, but as a wounded and haunted old man. So let me take you way back for a second, back to high school, when everything felt dramatic and every relationship seemed like the biggest deal in the universe. I was 17, just stepping into my junior year, and that's when I met her. Let's call her. Amanda We were both the same age, both dumb enough to think we had it all figured out, and both 100% sure we were each other's soulmates.

You know the type of relationship I'm talking about, movie nights, cringy couple selfies, staying on the phone till we passed out. Classic teen romance vibes. We dated for four whole years. That's basically a lifetime in high school relationship years. We stuck together through senior years. year, then right into college. Things got serious fast. Like, real serious. We started having those late-night talks about marriage and kids, and what kind of dog we'd get, golden retriever,

naturally, and which state we'd settle down in. We even took the leap and moved and together during our second year of college. Shared apartment, joint groceries, the whole domestic thing. For a while, it felt like we were building something real. But oh man, looking back, there were so many red flags I ignored like a blindfolded bull charging at a brick wall. Anyway, summer rolls around after our first year living together, and Amanda decides she's going to spend the break with her mom and older sister. They lived across the country, and she had done this the summer before, so I wasn't too worried. We'd still talk every day, face time at night, text all day. At least, that's how it started.

Then, radio silence. Halfway through the summer, she ghosted me. Like, fully disappeared. No texts. No calls. I'd leave voicemails, send messages, even hit her up on Facebook, Instagram, you name it. Nothing. Just a big O.L. Wall of nothing.

I was confused, panicked, and honestly scared. After four years together, this first. felt like a total mind-fuck. I even reached out to her mom and sister, hoping maybe they'd tell me she dropped her phone in a lake or something, but they didn't respond either. Not a peep. Six days passed, six very long, very anxiety-ridden days. I wasn't eating, barely sleeping, constantly checking my phone like a psycho. Then finally, my phone rings. It's her. Heart racing, I pick up, ready to hear some explanation, any explanation. Maybe she got into an accident.

Maybe she was overwhelmed. Maybe she'd been kidnapped by a cult and was calling me from inside a bunker. But no. She just says, stop F asterisk asterisk king calling me. Leave me alone. And hangs up. Just like that. For years together and all I got was a F asterisk asterisk K off.

Like a damn subscription service getting cancelled with a single click. I was floored. Totally blindsided. Imagine getting hit by a truck you never saw coming, and then realizing that truck was driven by someone you trusted. That's how it felt. I sat there, phone still in my hand, staring into the void, wondering what the hell just happened. For a while, I blamed myself. Maybe I said something wrong.

Maybe I was too clingy. Maybe I didn't love her right. But eventually, after talking it out with friends and family, the truth started to click. Amanda had always been, a bit of a narcissist. She loved attention. She manipulated people like it was a game. She could charm the pants off anyone, until she didn't need them anymore. I hadn't noticed it before, probably because I was head over heels and love,

or just really good at ignoring red flags. But looking back, the signs were everywhere. The mood swings, the gaslighting, the way she always made me feel like I was the one doing something wrong, even when she was clearly in the wrong. After the breakup, or ghosting, or whatever you call that, I went through a rough patch. A dark hole of confusion, self-doubt, and what the hell just happened? It messed with my head more than I care to admit. Even years later, the emotional bruises would sometimes show up in weird ways, especially in my next serious relationship.

But thank God for my wife. Yeah, spoiler alert, I eventually found someone amazing. My wife is everything Amanda wasn't, kind, stable, loving, funny as hell, and most importantly, not a sociopath. She's been my rock, especially when the old trauma creeps back in. Like, I'll flinch when someone doesn't respond to a text for a few hours, and she'll be like, Hey, you're safe. I'm not going anywhere. And I believe her.

So that's the background. That's the prelude to the absolutely insane plot twist that happened recently. A couple months ago, one of my old friends from high school, someone who still keeps up with hometown gossip, sends me a link. No context, just a headline and a dude. you need to read this. I open it up, and there it is, Amanda's mug shop. Turns out my ex, my former high school sweetheart, the one who dumped me by ghosting and cursing me out, had just been convicted of first-degree murder.

Yeah. Murder. As in, spend the rest of your life in prison, level shit. So here's what went down, according to the article and later news reports. After we broke up and she vanished into the ether, she got with some guy, and they ended up having a baby together. Things went south in their relationship, shocker, and he eventually split. But when he tried to stay involved in the baby's life, she wasn't having it. She got full custody and wouldn't let him see the kid at all. So the guy

did the reasonable thing and hired a lawyer to get joint custody. Amanda. She didn't like that. Not one bit. And instead of, I don't know, talking it out like it out like. a normal person or working through the legal system, she did something straight out of a crime documentary. She bought a gun at a gun show, because apparently it's way too easy to do that, convinced a friend to drive her over to her ex's house, knocked on the door, and when he answered, bam, shot him in the face. Killed him instantly. Let that sink in. Shot him. In the face. And she didn't even try to hide it. She literally bragged to a co-worker that she was going to claim self-defense and walk away Scott-free.

Like it was some reality show scheme. Except real life doesn't work like that. At least, not always. Police found the gun, a few blocks away, ditched in some alley. Ballistics matched it to the scene. No alibi. No signs of struggle. And the friend who drove her.

had no clue she was planning to kill someone he straight up testified against her in court probably shocked he was unknowingly the getaway driver in a murder case the jury barely needed any time to deliberate two hours including lunch two hours to decide her fate guilty first degree murder no parole when i told my wife her response was instant she said Deadpan, well, looks like you dodged a bullet. I swear to God, I laughed so hard I almost cried. Because wow, what an understatement. My wife, queen of dark humor and one minors. She was right, though. I really did dodge a bullet. Literally and metaphorically. If I hadn't been dumped the way I was, cold, brutal, and sudden, I might have stuck around longer. I might have been the one to have a kid with her. I might have been in that guy's shoes. And here's the thing, sometimes terrible people skate through life untouched. They lie, manipulate, hurt people, and never face any consequences. But sometimes, the universe catches up. And this time, it did. Now, I don't celebrate

death. I don't cheer when someone loses their life. That poor man she killed. He didn't deserve any of it. And their kid? That child has to grow up without a father, and with a mother in prison for the rest of her life. That's the real tragedy. An innocent kid caught in the middle of a nightmare. But if we're being real, Amanda was a ticking time bomb. The writing was always on the wall. She just finally exploded.

And me? I'm grateful. Not just that I got out when I did, but for the life I have now. For my wife, who loves me like I've never been loved before. For the peace I feel knowing I'm not living in chaos. For the ability to look back on all of it and just say, damn. That was wild. Life has a weird way of working out. Sometimes it hands you heartbreak, confusion, and trauma, and you think it'll never make sense.

Then years later, you stumble across an article about your ex getting life in prison, and suddenly, the chaos aligns. The storm you went through was the very thing that got you out in time. So yeah. That's the story of how my ex turned out to be a literal murderer. And how my wife, with her savage sense of humor, summed it all up in five words, looks like you dodged a bullet, and she wasn't wrong. The end. Creepiest encounters in the woods, stories that still haunt me,

let me tell you about some of the creepiest things I've come across in the woods. These stories span different times and places, but they're not. They all share one thing, a bone-chilling vibe that still makes me shudder. Story number one, The Scream and the Cabin. About twenty years ago, I was stationed at a little-known naval base in the Kitsap Peninsula. Part of my duties involved standing guard at different posts, many of which were deep in the woods. Each spot had its own lore, and over time, I had my fair share of strange experiences. But two moments, in particular, stand out.

The first one involved this abandoned cabin, an old bridge leading nowhere, and a great with dates from the Civil War era. Everyone knew about these landmarks, and it became sort of a ritual to try and find them during patrols. The first time I joined the hunt for that mysterious bridge, we were a group of four. Only two of us had night vision goggles, the point man at the front and the guy at the rear. I was stuck in the middle, practically blind, stumbling along in the dark. At some point, I bumped into the point man, who had suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

As I was about to ask what was going on, the guy behind me crashed into me, swearing loudly. The rear guard tried to move past us to figure out why we'd stopped. The point man whispered for silence. His entire body was frozen, his gaze fixed ahead. That's when we all heard it, a scream that felt like it came from the depths of hell. It wasn't just loud, it resonated through our chests, leaving us breathless. It lasted in eternity, or so it seemed. When it finally stopped, there was this eerie silence for a moment.

Then we heard something massive tearing through the forest, crashing trees as it barreled toward us. I don't remember exactly how it happened, but the next thing I knew, we were all on our knees. Then we scrambled up and started shoving each other in a mad dash back to the vehicle. It felt like we were running forever, even though we'd only gone about two kilometers into the forest. The crashing sound stopped right as we reached the military truck. When we got back to the guard post, we made an unspoken pact not to mention this to anyone. Over time, we did manage to find all the landmarks, including an old animal cage that looked at least 100 years old.

But the point man, he never told us why he stopped on that trail. Story number two, lights in the sky, the second experience took place near the waterfront of the base. There were some controlled access docks and small guard shacks at the gates. One night, I was on mobile patrol with a buddy, and we stopped at one of the shacks to chat with the gate guards. As we stood there, there was this pause in the conversation. My buddy suddenly pointed toward the treetops on a hill and said, What the hell is that? We all turned to see a strange light just below the tree line.

It started rising slowly, and as it did, we realized it wasn't just one light, it was two big white ones in front and two smaller red ones on the sides, forming a diamond shape. The lights descended below the trees, and we just stood there in stunned silence until one of the guards asked if we were going to check it out. So, naturally, we hopped in our vehicle and headed toward the hill. When we got to the spot, we ran into another team from a different branch of the military. They'd been sent by the radar station that monitored the airspace. At first, we were all suspicious of each other, trying to figure out what the other group was doing there.

But then it became clear, we were all looking for the same thing. So, we teamed up and searched the area together. We found nothing. NADA. The next day, civilian-dressed individuals came and confiscated our reports. They even wiped the records clean. To this day, I have no idea what that was. This was at least 15 years before drones became common, so it's not like we could just chalk it up to that. Whatever it was, it's still a mystery. Story number three, Bone Rituals in Wisconsin. In my early 20s, I frequently hiked a well-maintained trail in northern Wisconsin. It had loops ranging from a

mile to over seven miles. One year, I started noticing something odd, animal bones appearing along the trail. At first, they were small bones, bleached white, stuck into rotting logs or trees. Then, I started seeing bones tied together with strings, forming strange symbols, hanging from branches just off the trail. Some were tied so high up, I had no idea how anyone could have reached that height. Later, I stumbled upon entire deer limbs, stuffed into tree hollows or wedged between rocks. They were fresh, still red, but weirdly untouched by insects or animals. The creepiest find was a pile of deer limbs carefully arranged on a rock, partially covered

with forest debris. Again, no bugs, no signs of scavengers. It felt like something straight out of a horror movie. I convinced myself it was probably just someone messing around or some odd ritual, but the unsettling part. I never saw anyone setting up those things. I hiked that trail multiple times a week, at all hours, in all kinds of weather. Yet, the bone displays seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Story number four, the man in the green jacket. When I was 17, I went on a week-long backpacking trip in northern Minnesota with two friends. On our second day, we ran into a guy with a massive black wolf dog. He stopped to chat briefly, but something about him felt, off. He looked like he could have been ex-military or a cop, but he seemed anxious, glancing over. over his shoulder repeatedly. His dog kept whining and looking back down the trail. He told us he'd seen a man in a dark green jacket wandering off trail earlier that morning, and the guy had given him bad vibes. Later that day, we spotted someone in a green jacket.

They quickly ducked off the trail as soon as we noticed them. Over the next two days, we kept seeing glimpses of this person behind us and hearing footsteps near our campsite at night. We were so spooked, we started going to the bathroom in pairs and sleeping with knives and bare spray within arm's reach. On the third night, we camped near a group of loud, cheerful college girls. We warned them about the creepy guy in the green jacket, and their mood instantly shifted. They told us they'd been hiking from the opposite direction and had been warned about the same man by another couple.

That night, chaos erupted. A girl screamed, and we all jumped out of our tents. had tried to crawl into her tent, and when she kicked and screamed, they bolted into the woods. Everyone stayed up the rest of the night, huddled around a fire we barely managed to start with wet wood. The next morning, my friends, and I cut the trip short. That incident ruined solo hiking for me, I've never been able to shake the feeling that someone's watching me in the woods. Story number five, March of the Ghostly Army. When I was 24, I went on a solo backpacking trip in Michigan. It was a peaceful, uneventful hike at first.

But my first night camping was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. I set up camp in a quiet valley, far from the main trail. It was eerily still, no wind, no rustling leaves. As night fell, the silence became oppressive. I lay in my tent, listening to the occasional sounds of animals and insects. Then, suddenly, the world seemed to mute. No animals, no bugs, just silence. The ground began to vibrate softly.

At first, I thought I was imagining. it. Then I heard what sounded like dozens, no, hundreds, of footsteps, marching in unison. Along with the footsteps came the faint murmur of voices. It sounded like a crowd in a distant cafeteria, talking and laughing, but I couldn't make out any words. The footsteps got closer. My heart raced. I checked my phone, it was 2 a.m. I sat there, frozen in fear, as the sound grew louder. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The silence returned, heavy in suffocating. I felt like I was surrounded, as if unseen eyes were watching me.

Then came the explosion. A deafening boom shook the ground and rattled my tent. I thought I'd been shot at or that my gun had gone off accidentally. But when I checked, all my rounds were intact. My ears were ringing, and my body trembled uncontrollably. I spent the rest of the night clutching my flashlight and pistol, jumping at every sound. When dawn finally broke, I packed up and hiked the remaining miles in record time. I haven't done a solo trip since.

Story number six, the cult scene, this one's just plain bizarre. My friends and I were hiking in Conyers, Georgia, near this massive rock formation similar to Stone Mountain. We'd been there plenty of times before to, uh, enjoy some herbal relaxation. As we turned a corner, we stumbled into a clearing and froze. there were twelve Roman soldiers in full armor and a guy dressed like a hippie nailed to a cross. I swear, for a moment, I thought I'd lost my mind. The largest guy in our group shouted, the creepiest things found in the woods, tales from the unseen. About 20 years ago,

I was stationed at a little-known naval base on the Kitsap Peninsula. My job. Guard duty. Sound straightforward, but some of those posts were deep in the woods, far from civilization, surrounded by tails that could make your skin crawl. Each area, including the waterfront spots, had its own story. I experienced plenty of weird moments during my time there, but two specific events stand out like a bad dream you can't shake off. Buckle up, these are my stories. Story number one, the scream and the cabin, continued.

The thing about that scream was the way it shook us to the core. It wasn't just a sound, it was like a presence. Some primal part of my brain wanted to bolt immediately, but we were frozen there, caught between curiosity in sheer terror. Looking back, I can't tell you why none of us screamed or shouted ourselves. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was fear of drawing whatever made that noise closer. Over the weeks that followed, we pieced together fragments of what might have happened. A few other guards had stories of strange sounds or even sightings near that part of the woods.

One guy swore he saw glowing eyes one night, eyes that were too high off the ground to belong to a deer or bear. Another claimed he heard voices whispering his name, though he was entirely alone. Whatever it was, those woods had a way of messing with your head. Even stranger, the area had this sense of abandonment. Like I mentioned, there were old civil war-era graves and structures scattered throughout the forest. One particularly eerie landmark was an animal cage, the kind you'd see in an old traveling circus. Rusted and ancient looking, it was hidden off trail, surrounded by vines as if the forest was trying

to erase it. Who put it there? What for? Flies flew around, from escaped circus animals to secret government experiments. No one had answers, only guesses. One night, I was back on patrol with a new partner. We decided, against our better judgment, to revisit the area. This time, armed with night vision goggles for both of us.

The woods were unnaturally quiet again. As we walked deeper, we both noticed something strange, the forest floor seemed, disturbed. Huge patches of earth looked freshly dug up, like someone, or something, had been frantically burying or unearthing something. My partner whispered, I don't like this, man. Neither did I. We never did find what made those noises, but every so often, I'll dream about that scream. And when I wake up, I swear I can still feel the rumble of something huge running through

the trees. Story number two, lights in the sky, continued. The strange lights weren't just unnerving because of how they appeared, it was the way they moved. Smooth, deliberate, like they had a mind of their own. This wasn't the erratic flight of a plane or helicopter. The white and red lights formed a clear diamond shape, and their movement seemed calculated, almost, intelligent. After our joint search with the other military team turned up nothing, we all returned to our respective posts, feeling unsettled. I couldn't shake the feeling that someone, or something, was watching us.

The radar crew we spoke to later confirmed that the object had appeared briefly on their equipment before vanishing without a trace. What really freaked me out was the aftermath. As I mentioned, some plainclothes individuals arrived the next day and confiscated everything. They didn't just take physical reports, they erased digital records too. We were told, in no uncertain terms, not to discuss the incident. Even now, I wonder if we stumbled upon something classified, or if it was something beyond our comprehension. Every so often, I hear about other UFO sightings in that region, and I can't help but think back to that night. Whatever we saw, it wasn't meant to be understood by us.

Story number three, bone rituals in Wisconsin, continued. The strangest part about those bones wasn't just their presence, it was the patterns. Whoever was arranging them clearly had some purpose, though I couldn't figure out what it was. The symbols tied with string. They reminded me of sigils or runes, like something out of an old book of witchcraft. One time, while hiking with a friend, we decided to follow the trail markers deeper into the woods. That's when we found the largest arrangement yet, an entire deer carcassimbed.

The limbs were laid out in a star pattern, and the skull was propped up on a stick, staring right at us. My friend joked that it was probably the work of some edgy teens. I laughed, but it felt forced. Deep down, I knew this wasn't just teenage mischief. I started avoiding the trail after that. Something about those displays felt like a warning. And you know what?

A few months later, I heard from another hiker that a similar setup had been found even deeper in the woods, but this time with human-like shapes carved into the surrounding trees. I never confirmed it myself. By then, I'd decided some trails are better left unexplored. Story number four, the man in the green jacket, continued. Even after we cut our trip short, the man in the green jacket lingered in my mind. Who was he? What was he doing out there?

It wasn't just his presence that unnerved us, it was his persistence. The fact that he kept following us, always staying just out of reach, felt calculated. Years later, I read about a missing person's case in the same area. A solo hiker had vanished without a trace, and the only clue was a torn piece of fabric that matched the description of a green jacket. Coincidence? Maybe. But the timing and location made my blood run cold.

Now, whenever I go hiking, I always keep an eye on the trail behind me. Because if I've learned one thing, it's this, not all who wander in the woods are harmless. Story number five, March of the Ghostly Army, continued. The march was unlike anything I'd ever heard before or since. The synchronized footsteps, the murmur of voices, none of it made sense. I tried rationalizing it. Maybe there was a nearby road, and the sound was echoing off the valley. But that didn't explain the way the vibrations traveled through the ground, or the way the

sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. After the explosion shook my tent, I sat there, clutching my flashlight and revolver, heart pounding. The logical part of me wanted to flee, but the primal part was too scared to move. At first light, I packed up and left, but not before taking a detour to the top of a ridge overlooking the valley. From there, I saw something that still baffles me. The grass and shrubs in the valley below were flattened, forming what the ground. looked like a wide, circular path.

Whatever had passed through wasn't just loud, it left a physical mark. To this day, I don't know what caused it, but one thing's for sure, I'll never camp in that valley again. Story number six, the cult scene, continued. Now, back to the Roman soldiers and the hippie on the cross. My buddy shouted, what the hell is this, and one of the soldiers turned to face us. His face was painted stark white, and he looked, amused. Not startled, not annoyed, just amused.

One of the guys in our group, the boldest of the bunch, decided to call out, Hey, what's going on here? No answer. The group just stood there, staring at us, their formation unwavering. We didn't stick around to ask questions. Turning on our heels, we hightailed it back to the car, laughing nervously the whole way. But here's the kicker, when we told the story to some locals later, they didn't laugh. Instead, one guy leaned in and said, you don't mess with them.

They've been doing that for years, apparently, it's some kind of obscure local ritual, blending ancient Roman practices with modern, whatever. To this day, I wonder what would have happened if we'd stayed to watch. Or worse, if we'd interrupted them. Conclusion, the woods are beautiful, sure. But they're also full of mysteries, some natural, some supernatural, and some downright sinister. These stories aren't just tales to spook you, they're reminders that the wild is unpredictable, and not everything can be explained.

If you ever find yourself deep in the forest and feel a chill down your spine, maybe it's best to trust your instincts. After all, you never know what might be watching from the shadows. We were the fifth family in just one week to have the same eerie experience. Eddie, too, had been tracking footprints, lending some credibility to what I witnessed. These tracks came from a farm roughly six kilometers south of us. To this day, no one has ever figured out what caused them. Now, I know everyone has their own ghost stories or strange tales about the woods.

For me, though, this isn't just a one-time occurrence, it's something I've grown accustomed to. I call it the, cloudy-eyed deer. There's a deer in my neighborhood with a cataract clouding one eye, the other is perfectly normal. But that cloudy eye, it gives the deer an unsettling look, like it's perpetually watching something beyond this world. Naturally, we nicknamed it after its defining feature. I live in a suburban area, but this deer is what you might call an urban deer. Regular forest deer. They scatter at the slightest movement.

Blink too loud, and they're gone. Urban deer, though. They don't care about anything. They'll casually stroll right in front of your car as if daring you to hit them. And the cloudy-eyed deer? That guy's a whole different breed. He's fearless, absolutely unfazed by a. anything. Take Harvey, for example. He was our big golden lab mix, full of energy and curiosity.

One day, the cloudy-eyed deer decided it didn't like him. Instead of running away like any normal deer would, it chased Harvey all over our backyard. My dad, trying to save the dog, threw a rock at the deer. You'd think it would scare it off, right? Nope. The rock hit the deer, and it just stood there, staring at my dad like, really? That's the best you've got. My dad bolted back into the house faster than Harvey. Eventually, the deer left, but not without taking its sweet time. I've seen it a few times since then, usually standing on someone's front lawn while other deer peacefully graze.

It just stares at me when I drive by, like it knows something I don't. It's unsettling in a way I can't quite describe, just an ordinary deer that doesn't feel ordinary at all. When I was a kid, my cousins lived way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense forests that stretched on for miles. I spent most summers there, exploring the woods and letting my cousins terrify me with their pranks. One summer, we played a game of hide-and-seek in the forest, a bad idea, in hindsight.

The last time we played, they decided to leave me behind just as the sun was setting. What was supposed to be a quick joke turned into a nightmare when we all got lost trying to find each other in the growing darkness? The forest, which had been fun and adventurous during the day, turned into something entirely different at night. We called out to each other, the sound of our voices swallowed by the dense trees. After what felt like an eternity, we managed to regroup using the flashlights we brought along. None of us wanted to admit how scared we were, but the panic was setting in. We decided to find a familiar landmark, a massive tree with a thick canopy we often used to navigate. From

there, we'd head back home, knowing our parents were probably already searching for us. But what was supposed to be a straightforward plan turned into hours of wandering. Our flashlight started to dim, and our makeshift wooden spears, carved earlier for fun, suddenly felt inadequate. We tried to calm ourselves by cracking jokes, convincing each other that help was just around the corner. Then we heard it, a sound that froze us in place. Laughter.

Not just any laughter, but the unmistakable giggles of children, light and carefree. The problem? It was coming from just a few meters away, and there were no kids. in those woods except us. We sprang to our feet, frantically shining our flashlights in every direction, but there was nothing. No movement, no shapes in the darkness, just the lingering sound of those eerie laughs. We huddled together, too scared to move, waving our flashlights around as if that would somehow protect us. It felt like hours before we saw the lights of ATVs cutting through the trees. My uncle and older cousin had come to find us. We ran to them,

barely able to get the words out as we tried to explain what had happened. But, of course, they brushed it off, chalking it up to our overactive imaginations. Even now, years later, I text my cousins about that night. They swear they heard the same thing I did, a clear, close sound of children laughing. None of us have ever been able to explain it. Fast forward a few years. A friend of mine had just bought a fancy camera and was obsessed with experimenting with long exposure photography. You know, the kind of photos were light streaks across the image, making it look all artsy.

He wanted to try it out in the woods, so we grabbed some colorful plastic cups, our phone flashlights, and headed out to a trail we knew well. It was midnight, the perfect time for complete darkness. My job, along with another friend, was to hold the glowing cups above our heads and walk slowly down a hill toward the camera. Simple enough, right? Except my phone had to be recording video for the flashlight to work, so I hit record and we started walking. We were chatting as we walked when my friend suddenly stopped,

his eyes wide with fear. He stared at me like I had something horrifying behind me. Naturally, I froze, my heart racing. What is it? I whispered. He didn't answer at first, just kept looking around like he was expecting something to jump out at us. Finally, in a shaky voice, he said, do you hear that? I strain to listen and then I heard it, the sound of laughter. Not just any laughter, but the giggles of children, faint yet unmistakable. We were in the middle of the forest, miles from any houses or people. There shouldn't have been anyone out there, let alone kids. We panicked, bolting down the hill faster than we were supposed to. Our friend with the camera was annoyed when we reached

him too quickly, ruining the shot. But we told him what we'd heard, and of course, he didn't believe us. Then I remembered, I'd been recording. Maybe the sound had been captured on my phone. We played back the audio, and there it was. Clear as day, the sound of two, maybe three children laughing. To say we got out of there quickly would be an understatement. A few years ago, I went elk hunting with a friend in Colorado. We like to go way off the beaten path, far from any trails or campsites. This particular trip, we were in a remote area that would take at least ten hours to drive back to civilization.

It was just us and the wilderness. While exploring, we stumbled across something odd, a backpack under a tree. It wasn't buried or hidden, just sitting there, aged and weathered. Inside, we found a few survival items, some spent cartridges, and a degraded role of film. The dates on the items suggested they were from the early to mid-1990s. Curious, we searched the area and found more scattered belongings, empty shells, bits of hunting gear, and other random items. It was like someone had just dropped everything and vanished. We tried to piece together what might have happened.

Was someone defending themselves? Did they get lost? Or were they just careless during a hunt? The scene didn't make much sense. There were too many spent cartridges, and the items were scattered in a way that didn't suggest a calm departure. We notified the authorities once we got back to town, but we never heard anything about what they found, or if they even investigated.

To this day, I can't shake the feeling that something went very wrong out there. These experiences, scattered across different places and times, have stuck with me. Maybe they're just coincidences, but they all carry the same weight, a sense of something being just slightly off, something that lingers long after the moment has passed. If you wanted to get there, you would have needed a helicopter. It wasn't exactly a forest, but a big stretch of trees sitting between a bustling commercial district and some suburban homes. Near the edge of the trees, right by a cliff, I came across something weird, a car.

It was a bright red one, maybe from the late 80s, and it was completely wrecked. It had clearly fallen off the cliff and just, stayed there. Nobody had bothered to retrieve it. That car wasn't the weirdest thing I found, though. During my teenage explorations in these woods, I came across six cars in total. My favorite? A fully intact sedan from the 40s or 50s, just sitting there in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't smashed or vandalized, just rotting away like it had parked itself in the middle

of the forest for a nap and never left. Now, what made that sedan terrifying wasn't the car itself, but what I found nearby. About ten meters away, there was a pile of bones, human-sized ones. I panicked, bolted out of there, and spent the night freaking out. After mulling it over, I went back the next day to call the cops and show them the spot. But when I arrived, I noticed something, the skull was hidden in a nearby bush. Thankfully, it wasn't a human skull after all. It was a deer skull, complete with antlers.

That relief, though, didn't stop the chills from running down my spine. Another time, back in 1990, I was hiking far from civilization, about two kilometers from the nearest road. Out of nowhere, I stumbled upon what looked like an entire neighborhood. I'm talking paved streets with curbs, gutters, fire hydrants, and driveways leading to, nothing. No houses. Just old forest reclaiming the land.

It was like someone had planned to build a suburban neighborhood, installed all the infrastructure, and then said, eh, never mind. The weirdest part. I couldn't figure out how construction equipment even got in there. The forest was thick in every direction, and there were no visible roads leading to the spot. At the end of one of those dead-end streets, there was an abandoned school bus. Someone had clearly lived in it at some point, there was a fire pit, an old mattress, empty beer bottles, and random junk scattered around.

But it didn't look like anyone had been there recently. Years later, when I told this story, I decided to look up the spot on Google Maps. Turns out the city had expanded into the area, and now there's some suburban complex there. I guess they eventually sold the lots for people to build their homes. Still, I'll never forget that eerie experience. It felt like I'd wandered onto the set of Stranger Things. Fast forward to August 2019. My best friend and I were in Russia and decided to explore an abandoned camp deep in the woods.

When we got there, some creepy guy stepped out of one of the buildings and saw us, two terrified teenagers standing there like deer in headlights. He told us to leave, saying we had no business being there. And, well, he wasn't wrong, but we ignored him and continued our little investigation. It quickly became clear the camp wasn't as abandoned as we thought. I snapped a bunch of photos, and everything seemed fine until we spotted another guy walking right in front of us. He didn't even notice us, but man, it was terrifying, especially because we were in the middle

of nowhere, with no cell service and no one to call for help. Thankfully, we made it out without running into anyone else. To this day, I have no clue why those men were living in that camp. Were they fugitives? Criminals. Who knows? But I learned one thing that day, the scariest thing you can find in an abandoned place is another person.

One time, on the last night of a backpacking trip, I wandered downstream from my campsite and stumbled upon an old backpack. It had clearly been shredded by a bear. The contents were scattered everywhere, and the camping cookware was full of bite marks, teeth marks deep enough to puncture metal pots and plates. Let's just say I didn't sleep well that night. On another trip, I was sleeping out in the open on a tarp when a herd of wild boars came charging through our campsite.

At first, I thought they were bears, they were huge and jet black. They barreled down the hill, saw us, and casually turned around, running back up the steep slope like it was nothing. Ever since then, I've called that experience my close encounter of the swine kind. Over the years, I've had my fair share of bizarre encounters. Here are a few that stand out, weird stuff hanging in trees. While hiking a trail on the Appalachian Mountains in New York, I came across a tree with dolls and strange icons hanging from it. I'm not superstitious, but I didn't stick around to investigate. Nope.

Hard pass. A bear outside my tent. In Ontario, Canada, I woke up one night to the sound of a bear sniffing my tent. I was in total denial, pretending it wasn't happening. My ex, on the other hand, wasn't so calm and collected. The next morning, we found fresh bear tracks right outside the tent. That's when I realized I should have been more concerned. Glowing eyes in the night. One night in upstate New York, I saw glowing red-yellow eyes staring at me and my dog from about 10 meters away. Judging by the height and color, I'm convinced it was a cougar, even though they're supposedly not in the area. My dog and I noked out of there immediately. Armed meth addicts, while hiking in Washington State, I had a couple of run-ins with armed

meth addicts in the early 2000s. Enough said. That was terrifying. A sudden war zone, during a hike in the woods, my friends and I stumbled into what felt like a war zone. One moment we were laughing and joking, and the next, we were diving behind logs as gunfire erupted nearby. It turned out to be a family firing off guns for fun. They weren't dangerous, but it was still a heart-pounding experience. Another unforgettable experience happened back home in rural Maryland. My parents owned a big property bordering a creek. The creek was technically public land, but it felt private, people rarely went there.

As a kid, my dad and I would hike there in the summers. It was about an hour's walk from the house. After college, during a summer visit home, I decided to spend a day at the creek. I wandered farther south than usual, exploring some granite formations. As I climbed down the rocks, I slipped and kicked something under a pile of leaves. It was a black plastic camera from the 90s, my camera. I recognized it instantly. It must have fallen out of my backpack 15 years earlier during one of my childhood hikes.

If I hadn't taken that specific route or slipped on those rocks, I never would have found it again. The camera was waterlogged, and the battery was corroded, but it still had film inside. I've kept it all these years but haven't opened it. Who knows? Maybe it holds nostalgic memories, or something haunting. In November 2018, while volunteering as a firefighter, I was part of a search for a missing 16-year-old girl. After getting a briefing from the sheriff, my team started searching local hangouts,

gas stations, schools, and motels. Our town was tiny, with a population of about 100 people. people, so there weren't many places to look. While driving past a cornfield, I thought I saw someone walking. I told my partner to stop the truck and grabbed a flashlight. When I shone the light into the field, I saw a man, not the girl. He was in his forties, wearing ripped jeans and a dirty white shirt. I called out to him, saying he wasn't in trouble and I just needed to ask him something.

He didn't respond, just kept walking. Then he stopped but didn't turn around. about the situation made my stomach turn. I had a sudden urge to get back to the truck. Halfway there, I glanced back, and he was gone. Just, gone. I slammed the door, told my partner to drive, and didn't look back. Fast forward to another adventure in the wilderness, a camping trip in the Appalachians. I stumbled across something eerie, hanging from a tree where creepy dolls, icons, and odd trinkets that screamed, don't mess with me. I'm not the superstitious type, but let me tell you, I wasn't about to tempt fate that day. I veered off the path,

leaving the unsettling tree decorations behind without a second glance. Then there was the night in Ontario, Canada, when a bear sniffed around my tent. At first, I convinced myself it was all in my head, denial was my coping mechanism, but my ex didn't buy it. The next morning, we found fresh bear tracks just outside the tent. Let me tell you, seeing those paw prints up close confirmed I wasn't just imagining things. Speaking of wildlife, there was another time in New York when my dog and I were hiking. Suddenly, about ten meters away, I saw these glowing yellow-red eyes staring right at us from the darkness. My heart stopped. Based on their height and color, I was sure it was a cougar. You know how they say cougars aren't supposed to be in the area?

Yeah, well, tell that to the big cat that seemed to be deciding whether we were worth the chase. My dog and I got out of their fast, and to this day, I swear it was a cougar, no matter what anyone says. Then there was the encounter with a group of armed meth addicts in Washington. Yep, you heard that right, meth heads with guns. I didn't stick around to figure out what their deal was, I hightailed it out of there. There's a certain kind of adrenaline that only comes from realizing you've accidentally walked into someone else's very sketchy business.

But the scariest moment? walking into what felt like an active war zone during a supposedly chill hike. One minute, my friends and I were laughing and taking in the fresh air, and the next, we were ducking for cover behind massive tree trunks as gunfire erupted nearby. Turns out, it was just a family having a fun shooting day in the woods. They weren't dangerous, but the sheer shock of the situation left me rattled. They even offered us a chance to try the guns, but I was too shaken to consider it. One summer, back home in rural Maryland, I decided to revisit a creek I used to love as a kid.

It was a bit of a trek, with no clear path to follow, just a general sense of direction. While exploring further south than usual, I slipped on some granite rocks. My foot hit something buried under leaves. Curious, I cleared away the debris, and my jaw dropped. It was my old black plastic film camera from the 90s. I recognized it instantly. I must have lost it nearly 15 years earlier while exploring as a kid. The camera was waterlogged, the battery corroded, but it still had film inside.

I've kept it all these years, wondering what memories might be trapped on that role. As a volunteer firefighter, I've seen my fair share of strange things, but nothing compares to one particular November night in 2018. We were called to help find a missing 16-year-old girl. My partner and I were searching near a cornfield when I spotted what looked like someone walking. I grabbed my flashlight and called out, thinking it might be the girl. Instead, I saw a disheveled man in his forties, wearing ripped jeans and a filthy white shirt. As I approached, he turned and started walking away.

I called after him, assuring him he wasn't in trouble and that I just wanted to ask a few questions. He stopped but didn't turn around. Something about the moment made my hair stand on end. I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to retreat. As I walked back up the hill toward the truck, I turned to look again, and he was gone. Completely vanished, in the middle of an open field. My partner, who had been watching from the truck, confirmed he'd seen the man too. To this day, I can't explain it, and it's one of the few times in my life I genuinely felt

like I'd encountered something otherworldly. The girl was eventually found safe in a nearby town, but the memory of that man haunts me. Not all my experiences were terrifying, though some were just plain weird. Like the time my friends and I parked at the edge of a forest to smoke weed. A police car showed up, and we bolted into the trees to avoid getting caught. The cops must have assumed we'd eventually come back to the car because they stayed for ages, even setting off the car alarm to try and draw us out. We waited them out, hidden among the trees, and eventually made it home safely.

But the next day, my friend's lawyer mom told us the cops had shown up at their house in the middle of the night, asking questions about why the car had been there. It was a close call, but we laughed about it later, after ensuring we wouldn't get caught doing anything stupid again. Then there was the time in Virginia when I explored an old college campus near the James River. The area was littered with remnants of its past, including collapsed buildings and remnants of old infrastructure. One night, after a hurricane, I drove out to see the damage. As I turned my car around on a damaged road, I noticed a set of glowing eyes staring at me from

a chained-off trail. My first thought was dear, but then I noticed something odd, a donkey standing there among them. A donkey. In the middle of the woods, miles from any farm. It didn't seem threatening, but the absurdity of the situation creeped me out. To this day, I wonder how it got there. And then there's my dog, who's usually unbothered by anything.

Once, while on a snowy winter walk, we passed a woman walking alone. She seemed normal enough, though her posture was slightly off. My dog, however, lost it, growling, barking, and bearing his teeth like he'd never done before. The woman didn't react much, just stepped back slightly, but the way my dog acted made my skin crawl. As we continued walking, I noticed red stains in the snow where her footprints had been. I don't know if it was blood or something else, but it added an extra layer of unease. Three days in hell with Tim the Demon Hunter. So, this whole thing went down about three months ago.

It feels longer, to be honest, but yeah, three months. I should probably give you some background first, so you don't think I'm just some random guy making things up. I've been living with chronic back pain for years now. It started from a pretty nasty injury, the kind that doesn't go away. I've had three surgeries already, and still, the pain doesn't quit. Some days I can manage okay, just grit my teeth and go about my day. times. It gets bad. Like, real bad. When it gets to that point, I kind of shut down. I stopped answering texts, stop showing up to family dinners, pretty much goes the entire world. I become a hermit,

Netflix, dark curtains, zero human interaction. And every time that happens, my family goes into full panic mode, convinced I'm going to hurt myself. Let me be clear, I've never tried any anything, never even said I would. But they worry. And their worry gets me thrown into the psychiatric. That's when the dreaded 5,150 hits. For those lucky enough not to know, that's a three-day psychiatric hold. Basically, they decide I'm not safe on my own, and off I go.

Now, I've done this a few times before, not proud of that, so I already know the routine. honestly, it's not that bad. I've got decent insurance, so the facility they send me to. It's like a weird, sterile hotel. Okay, sure, they won't let you have shoelaces or any strings on your clothes, but still. The food's not great, but I've had worse. Now, the worst part is when they will you in. Especially if you get admitted in the middle of the day, like I did this time. They will you right through the day room, where everyone else is. already hanging out. Picture it, all the patients sitting in mismatched furniture, staring at the fresh meat rolling in. It's like being a new inmate on a TV prison show. And I'm not exactly a forgettable sight. I'm a big dude, just over six foot two, weigh about 285, covered in tattoos from wrist to shoulder. This time around, I hadn't shaved or cut my hair in months. So, with my wild beard and shaggy hair, I looked like a biker who just crawled out of the woods after living off squirrels for a season.

Usually, people don't mess with me. I'm a nice guy, but unless you know me, I probably look like the last person you'd want to mess with. So, they do the usual, check me in, strip me of anything that might be considered dangerous, could buy hoodie strings, and assign me a room. This place is co-ed, but you only room with someone of the same sex. So, it's supposed to be low security, meaning nobody in here is violent or dangerous. Supposedly.

That's the part I've always had a problem with. See, people like me, dealing with depression or chronic pain or whatever, we get lumped in with others who've got, let's just say, way more serious mental health stuff going on. But I've done two previous days here without issue, so I figured I'd just ride it out for the three days and be done. The nurse tells me my roommate's name is Tim. And as she's leading me down the hall, she hesitates for a second and says, Tim's a really nice guy.

You know when someone says something like that and it sets off little alarm bells in your head? Yeah. But, hey, we're all in the psych ward, right? Everyone here's got something going on. The rooms themselves are pretty basic. Think cheap motel meets a college dorm. Two twin beds, one desk, a couple dressers, and a bathroom with these awful half-doors. You know the kind, like cowboy saloon doors, except less fun and more awkward when you're trying to poop in private.

When I walk in, it's about 3 p.m., and Tim's out cold on his bed. Not weird, a lot of the meds people take in here make you sleep like the dead at random hours. I've been stuck in the R hell for what felt like forever, so I crashed too. I wake up, not sure what time it is. There's no clock, and it's pitch black outside. The only light comes from the small floor light they can't turn off, it's just enough to see across the room. And sitting there, wide awake, on the edge of his bed, is Tim.

Hey man, I say, rubbing my eyes. I'm Brian. Would have said hi earlier, but you were out. But here's the weird part, didn't the nurse say his name was Tim? Anyway, trying to keep things friendly, it's easier to coexist that way. He responds, yeah, I was tired too. I try to sleep as much as I can, so I don't have to interact with the demons. Cool.

That was my cue, right? Giant neon red flag waving in my face. But I shrugged it off. Tim was smaller than me, and they search everyone when they come in. I didn't think he could be dangerous. So I asked him about the demons. Big mistake. Apparently, the demons were the nurses and doctors. I humored him for a bit, and then said I was still tired in going back to sleep. He nodded and said, It's nice to finally have a fellow human as a roommate, should have packed my stuff right then and

there. The next morning, I woke up early, I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and breakfast was calling. Tim joined me at the table, chatting like a mostly normal guy, if you ignored the occasional reference to the staff as demons. We were doing okay, until he suddenly froze mid-sentence and stared at someone behind me. You see her, he whispered. That's Jessica. She's an angel, I turned around and saw her. Jessica, a pretty young girl, probably no older than 19 or 20.

She waved at Tim and smiled. One of those super-friendly types who makes it their mission to say hi to everyone. She was sunshine in a place full of rain clouds. But when I looked back at Tim, he was full on staring. Not like admiring, like possessed. I snapped my fingers at him, like, dude, don't be creepy. He looked at me like I'd said something in alien tongue. Silent, confused.

Then, nothing. Didn't talk again for the rest of breakfast. Later, I ran into Jessica in the day room while I was reading. She came up, introduced herself, and asked about my tattoos. We chatted for a couple hours, turns out, she was just having a rough patch with anxiety and college stress. Totally normal person in a not-so-normal place. I didn't notice it at the time, but apparently, Tim had been walking laps around us, glaring

at me like he was shooting lasers from his eyeballs. I only found that out later. I told Jessica I was going to shower before dinner and said I'd catch her later. Now remember those bathroom doors. Half height, no locks, not much privacy. I finish my shower, towel around my waist, and look down, to see feet just outside the door. Tim. Hey, man, I say, trying to sound chill.

You need to use the bathroom? I'll be out in a second. no answer. Just breathing. Heavy, creepy breathing. Dude, seriously. Back up, then he starts screaming. You're Satan. You're Lucifer. Over and over. I'm soaking wet, half naked, with a psycho shouting biblical curses at me. I didn't want to throw hands, I knew if I did, I'd end up in the isolation room, not him. But I was trapped. Eventually, after what felt like forever, he backed off. I dried off, got dressed in record time, and made a beeline for the nurse's station to tell them what happened. They didn't hesitate. Move me to a new room immediately. That night, I stayed alert.

Didn't sleep a wink. I kept hearing noises from the hallway. Then around who knows what time, I hear Tim's voice from the day room. Where is he? Why isn't he coming back to sleep? Same tone from the bathroom. Cold. Creepy. A nurse calmly told him I'd be around in the morning. Go back to bed, Tim, but I have to see him tonight. It's an emergency, he said. They went back and forth until security finally came. There was a scuffle. I cracked my door just enough to hear the tail end of it, but I wasn't about to poke my head out. Eventually, his voice faded, and I figured they'd put him in the quiet room. Next morning, my doctor, who I usually didn't see until evening, was already there. Weird. He called me in for a chat, asked about everything that happened with Tim.

I gave him the whole story. He nodded, said, you don't have to worry about Tim anymore. He's been transferred to another hospital. Now, I live around here. I knew the place they were talking about. It's no joke, way higher security, borderline lockdown. Basically, where they send the people who really can't be around others. I felt a little bad. I mean, the guy probably thought I was trying to steal his angel. But I also felt, relieved.

My three days were almost up. I was feeling better, pain under control, and ready to stop being a cave dweller. My grandma came to pick me up. I thought I was done. But then a nurse gave her a weird look. And suddenly, I was back in the interview room again. That's when they told me the real story. Apparently, after I got moved, Tim kept asking about me for hours.

The nurse didn't tell him I'd been switched, just said I'd be around in the morning. Eventually, he lost it and had to be sedated. When they went to move his stuff, they found. found it, a seven-inch piece of sharp metal he had broken off from a table in the TV room. He'd hidden it. And the worst part? That room had cameras. And while Jessica and I were talking, he was staring at me, no, studying me, probably deciding where and when. He wasn't trying to scare me in the bathroom. He was waiting. To be contued. You know how people always say, trust your gut. Yeah, well. I should have. And I almost paid the price for ignoring it.

This happened when I was 19. I just graduated from high school and was bouncing between part-time gigs while trying to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. One day, while scrolling through job ads, I came across this super vague post, caretaker needed. Live in optional. Must be discreet. Cash pay. There was a phone number, no company name, no job details, nothing. Now, I'm not exactly a cautious person. And the idea of getting paid in cash with the option to live rent-free sounded like a golden ticket. So, I texted the number. Within minutes, I got a reply, come by today if you're free. Bring ID. Address, redacted. Don't be late. That should have been the first. first red flag. But I told myself rich people are just weird like that. So I hopped on my bike and rode to the address.

When I got there, I was hit with some real haunted mansion vibes. The house was ancient, like straight out of a gothic horror novel. Peeling paint, overgrown hedges, windows so dusty they looked frosted. But whatever, I needed cash. The door creaked open before I even knocked. there was this old man. Super tall, thin, and pale as hell. He was wearing what looked like an old butler's uniform. He didn't smile. Just stared at me like he was calculating something. You're here for the position, I nodded and handed him my ID. He looked it over, then motioned for

me to come in without saying a word. The inside of the house was somehow even creepier than the outside. Dim lighting, old paintings of stern-looking people, weird antiques everywhere. The air smelled like mothballs and dust, but also something else, something metallic. He led me to a study where another man was waiting. This guy looked mid-50s, well-dressed, but he had the kind of smile that makes your skin crawl. Too wide. Too perfect. Thank you for coming, he said. I'm Mr. Harrow. I'll keep this brief. My brother and I live here alone.

We're collectors. We need someone to maintain the basement, inventory, cleaning, organizing. No questions about the items. Ever. You'll be paid $800 a week. Room and board included, I blinked. 8.00. A week.

Just for cleaning a basement. Either they were nuts or they were. was a catch. But I was broke, so I shook his hand and said I'd start the next day. Day one, the door, so I moved in. My room was small but clean. Bed, desk, closet. Nothing fancy. Meals were left outside my door every day, always lukewarm, always tasteless, like hospital food. I rarely saw the two men. They were either holed up in their rooms or gone entirely. The basement, though, that was a different story. The door was locked with three different dead bolts.

I was given a massive ring of keys and told I could only enter during daylight. Harrow made that very clear, never go in after sunset. Never, cool, cool, cool. Totally normal. The first time I stepped into that basement, I felt it, this weird pressure in my chest, like the air was thicker. The lights were dim, old bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The room was lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with the strangest stuff I'd ever seen.

Dolls. Dozens of porcelain dolls with cracked faces and missing eyes. Jars filled with cloudy liquid and what looked like body parts, animal, I hoped. Old books with symbols I didn't recognize. There was even a medieval torture mask. I told myself it was just some weird collection, like a haunted museum. I got to work, organizing, dusting, trying not to stare too long at anything. Then I found the second door.

It was tucked away behind a shelf. Metal, rusted, and covered in deep scratches. I swear I heard something from the other side, like breathing. But when I pressed my ear to it, there was only silence. Day four, whispers, that night I dreamed. of the dolls. They weren't on shelves anymore. They were standing in a circle around my bed, heads tilted, eyes moving. One of them whispered, don't open it. I woke up, drenched in sweat. My room was freezing, even though the heater was on. I didn't go back to the basement that day.

I said I was sick. The butler, I never did get his name, just nodded and slid my food tray under the door without a word. The next day, I was. I forced myself back down there. I tried to ignore the second door, but my curiosity was eating me alive. And the dreams were getting worse. Every night, the whispers grew louder. By the end of the week, I'd convinced myself that maybe there was a raccoon or something behind that door. Maybe that's what I'd heard breathing.

Maybe the dreams were just stress. So yeah, I unlocked it. The room behind the door, the metal door groaned as I opened it. The smell hit me instantly, wrought, mildew, something sour and old. It was a small room. Cement walls. A cot in the corner with yellowed sheets. Chains bolted to the floor.

A bucket. That's it. Nothing else. Except, someone had scratched words into the walls. Dozens of them. Over and over, it's still here, don't sleep, eyes in the dark, the doll is alive, then I saw the last message. Bigger, carved deeper than the rest, run, my body went ice cold. That's when I heard it.

A shuffle behind me. Not footsteps, something dragging. I turned, heart pounding. Nothing. The main basement was empty. I closed the metal door and locked it again. Then I turned to leave, and every single doll was facing the door now. Not one had been before.

Day nine, it got out. I woke up to the sound of scratching. Not outside my door. Inside my room. I bolted upright. Everything looked normal, but then I saw it. One of the basement dolls. Sitting on my dresser.

Head tilted. Smiling. I didn't bring it there. I opened my door and threw it down the stairs. But when I came back into the room, another one was there. This one was missing both arms. I snapped. I ran to Mr. Harrow's study and pounded on the door.

No answer. I tried the butler's room, empty. The whole house was silent. I went outside to call someone, but my phone had no signal. Dead. I rode my bike into town as fast as I could and stayed with a friend that night. The final visit, I went back one last time the next morning to get my stuff. The house looked darker, like the shadows were thicker.

I grabbed my backpack and was about to leave when I noticed the basement door was wide open. Not just unlocked, open. Every light inside was off. But I could hear breathing again. louder this time. Then came the whisper, Don't leave me, I ran. I didn't stop until I was back in town.

I never went back. I changed my number. Moved two towns over. Took a job in retail and tried to forget about it. But sometimes, when I'm alone at night, I still hear the whisper. And every now and then, a doll shows up. In my car. On my porch.

In my dreams. So yeah. If you ever see a job ad that seems too good to be true, run. The end. When I was just 12 years old, Saturdays meant something special to my friends and me. It was the one day a week we all looked forward to with a kind of wild, almost sacred enthusiasm. Every Saturday morning, without fail, the four of us, me, Ryan, Brie, and Jacob, would hop on our bikes, our pocket, stuffed with quarters, dollar bills, and sometimes even nickels.

It wasn't just about having fun, we'd worked hard during the week for those coins. Mowing lawns, taking out the trash, doing extra chores, whatever it took to earn enough to afford hours of uninterrupted gaming bliss. Our town had three arcades, each with its own unique charm. We always argued over which one to visit, but our decision-making method was simple, a quick, spirited game of rock, paper, scissors. I usually won, though I wasn't the kind to lord it over the others. In fact, more often than not, I ended up picking the place we all secretly wanted to go to anyway. So really, my victories were kind of symbolic.

That summer was especially exciting because something new had come to town, a fresh arcade. We first learned about it through a flyer that seemed to appear overnight, plastered on the front doors every house with kids. The new spot was called Clifford Clown's Arcade. The name itself sparked curiosity, but what really caught our attention was the cartoonish clown face printed on the flyer. He had an enormous red nose, bright, exaggerated eyes, and a grin that was just a little too wide. We assumed that was Clifford himself. The flyer promised games for just a nickel, a nickel. That blew our minds. We were used to feeding our face. favorite machines quarter after quarter, so the idea of spending just five cents per game was

irresistible. Naturally, that Saturday we gathered all the nickels we could find, some from couch cushions, others from our parents changed jars, and sped off on our bikes like our lives depended on it. When we arrived, the arcade building stood tall, taller than the others we were used to. Two stories high, it was painted in loud shades of red, green, and blue, almost as if the building itself was screaming for attention. Above the door, the sign boldly read, Clifford Clown's Arcade. Our excitement went through the roof. We parked our bikes haphazardly and rushed inside like a mini stampede. The interior was overwhelming in the best way. Hundreds of games lined the walls and filled the space, everything from classic shooters and

racers to games we'd never even seen before. There was even a laser tag arena and wild, over the top decorations that made the place feel like an explosion of fun. Kids were everywhere, jamming coins into machines, laughing, shouting, having the time of their lives. There was one part of the arcade that was off-limits, though, a staircase leading to the second floor, marked with a sign that read, employees only. Nobody paid much attention to it. Why would they? We were there for the games. What struck me as odd from the get-go, however, were the so-called mascots wandering around. They called themselves Clifford Clown's friends. Dressed in multicolored clown suits, their faces painted white with drawn on red noses and stretched smiles, they moved

around the arcade offering hugs, signing autographs, and handing out pens with Clifford's grinning face on them. While some of the other kids seemed to love them, I couldn't shake a weird feeling about them. Something felt off. Their smiles didn't reach their eyes. I mentioned it to my friends. Brie agreed, he had that same gut instinct. Ryan and Jacob, on the other hand, shrugged it off. They were too busy immersing themselves in the games to care. Brie and I decided to ignore the clowns and just enjoy ourselves.

And honestly, the games were incredible. I'd never seen anything like them before, some were so advanced. I wondered how they only cost a nickel. hours went by in a blur until suddenly, an announcement echoed through the arcade, Clifford Clown himself was going to make an appearance. The reaction was immediate, cheers, squeals, and a mad dashed toward the center of the arcade. Kids swarmed the area, pushing to get a glimpse. When Clifford finally stepped out, the room erupted. He didn't speak or wave. He just stood there in his red wig and creepy, cartoon-style mask, the same one from

the flyer. The mask looked old and worn out, like it had seen better days. He didn't acknowledge the other mascots and didn't make a sound. Just stood there, staring. Brie and I stayed back while Ryan and Jacob dove into the crowd. I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in my chest. Eventually, we ran out of coins. Brie and I were ready to head out, but Ryan wanted to stay. Jacob was on the fence, but after some coaxing, he agreed to leave. Ryan told us it was fine, he'd ride home alone. We let him. A decision I would come to regret.

The next day, we got the call, Ryan never made it home. His mother called mine in a panic. Within days, posters with Ryan's face were all over town. The police questioned all of us, asking what we remembered. I told them the truth, that Ryan chose to stay and we left him behind. The working theory was that he'd been kidnapped on his way home. Nobody had seen anything. Not long after, another kid went missing.

Then another. Clifford Clown's arcade became a place of fear and rumors. My mom didn't want me going anywhere, especially not there. But I begged, swearing I'd stay with my friends the whole time. She reluctantly agreed but gave me a strict curfew, be home by four o'clock. That Saturday, we gathered again. This time Jacob won rock, paper, scissors, and, of course, he chose Clifford Clown's Arcade. Bree and I weren't thrilled but rules were rules.

We headed back to the place that had now gained a sinister reputation. Things felt different. Clifford showed up again, but something about him had changed. He was taller now, and his costume looked brand new. The mask didn't seem worn anymore, it almost looked, replaced. I tried to focus on the games, but I could feel eyes on me. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, Clifford was watching me. Not the crowd. Not the arcade.

Just me. When 4 o'clock hit, I was out. I told Brie and Jacob I had to leave. Jacob protested but followed. As we rode away, I made the mistake of looking back. Clifford was in an upstairs window, staring down at us. Then, suddenly, he started banging his head against the glass. Some of the other clowns rushed in to pull him away. For more kids went missing in the days that followed.

The town was in chaos. It finally clicked for the authorities. Every one of those kids had been last seen at Clifford. Clown's Arcade. The police moved in. What they discovered was worse than anything we'd imagined. The owner, Jeff Andrews, had been murdered weeks earlier. His body was found upstairs, in the employee's only area. The place had been taken over by a cult. They impersonated Andrews, ran the arcade, and disguised themselves as the clown mascots. They'd been the ones interacting with kids, giving out hugs, pens, and autographs.

Three of the missing children were found dead in that same upstairs room. Three others were alive, but traumatized beyond words. Their mouths had been sewn shut. Among the dead was Ryan. The cult had forced the kids to wear the Clifford mascot costume and walk around the arcade. All for some deranged ritual or belief. It was a horror no one in our town would. ever forget. But my story doesn't end there. When I was ten, two years before Clifford

Clown's arcade ever opened, something happened that still haunts me. My mom dropped me off at an arcade in the mall so she could go grocery shopping. Seemed harmless enough. I was used to playing alone. After some time, I decided I wanted to play Dance Dance Revolution. I asked one of the employees for help. Or at least, I thought he was an employee. He looked older than the others, late 30s maybe. Dark complexion, curly hair, and a beard. He seemed nice enough at first, helping me get started. But then he just, stood there. Watching. I tried to ignore it, thinking maybe he was just making sure I was okay. But even after a few songs, he didn't move. He just kept staring. It made me uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. I stopped playing.

Moved to another game. He followed. Every single. Time. His expression had changed, too. No longer friendly, just intense. Dangerous. And that's when I noticed, his clothes weren't quite right. similar to a uniform, but not the same. I was too shy, too scared to ask for help. The arcade was full of kids and parents and real employees, but no one seemed to notice. Probably thought he was my dad. I just kept trying to play, hoping Mom would come soon. Eventually, I gave up. I decided to go find her myself. As I left, heading for the escalator, he followed. I could feel him closing in. Just as I stepped outside, he whispered something I couldn't hear. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and repeated it, what's your name? Right then, my mom showed up. Like magic. He instantly

switched back to being nice. Smiled, nodded, walked away. I didn't say anything, I just wanted to go home. As we walked to the car, I looked back one last time. He was still there. Watching me. Waving. Mouthing the words, I'll see you, and as if that wasn't enough, there's another story. When I was eight, my family lived in Japan. My dad was stationed there, and we'd been living off base for three years.

My older brother and I were used to walking around alone, it was safe. Or so we thought. One day, we decided to walk five blocks to our favorite arcade. It was on the 20th floor of a high-rise. As we walked, we noticed a man dressed in all-white traditional Arab garb standing in an alley. Not unusual, but enough to catch our attention. We passed him. Then we heard footsteps.

He was following us. We picked up the pace. Made turns. Luke's detours. He kept following. My brother finally shouted for me to run, and we took off. We darted through alleyways and shops, finally making it to the arcade. We hid behind a massive machine.

Sure enough, he came up the escalator. Looked around. Then disappeared. No cell phones back then. We took a cab back to base, made sure people were around. Told the guard everything. Stayed on base for weeks afterward. Because there's always a reason to be afraid.

The end. In the dusty borderlands of Ciudad Juarez, where the relentless desert sun meets the flickering neon lights of Macalodora's, a chilling shadow lurks. It's a shadow that has haunted the city for decades, an open wound that refuses to heal. This is the story of the women of Juarez, a story of tragedy, injustice, and resilience that reverberates

far beyond the city limits. Ciudad Juarez, perched precariously, on the northern edge of Mexico, is a city of contrasts. On one side, it's a place of opportunity, a hub for manufacturing and commerce. But on the other, it's a city plagued by violence, corruption, and a grin legacy that has come to define it in the eyes of the world. Since the early 1990s, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women have vanished or been brutally murdered here. The true number is elusive, obscured by official indifference and the murky waters of underreporting. The victims share haunting commonalities.

Many are young, some just teenagers. They come from modest backgrounds, working in maculodoras, the sprawling factories that churn out goods for export. Their lives are marked by struggle, their families often living on the edge of poverty. And then, one day, they're gone. A missed shift at work, an unanswered phone call, a pair of shoes left behind in the dirt. Sometimes they're never found. Other times, their bodies are discovered in desolate stretches of desert, there remains bearing

the scars of unspeakable violence. For years, the murders were met with a deafening silence. Authorities brushed them off as isolated incidents or blamed the victims themselves, perpetuating a culture of impunity. The families, however, refused to stay silent. Mothers, sisters, and friends took to the streets, demanding answers, carrying photographs of their lost loved ones. They painted murals, built altars, and held vigils, their grief transforming into a defiant cry for justice. But justice has been elusive. The investigations, when they happen, are often botched or half-hearted. Corruption runs deep, and powerful interests ensure that many cases never see the light of day. Over the years, various theories have emerged

to explain the killings. Some point to the drug cartels, their violent turf wars spilling over into civilian life. Others blame human trafficking networks or even a twisted conspiracy involving local elites. Then there are the lone wolf theories, shadowy figures who prey on the city's most vulnerable. In 1993, the body of Alma Chevira Farrell, a 13-year-old girl, was discovered in a vacant lot. Her death marked the beginning of what would come to be known as the Femicides of Juarez. Over the years, the list of victims grew, their names etched into the collective memory of the city. There was Lillia Alejandra Garcia-Andrade, a young mother abducted in 2001. Her body was found days later, showing signs of brutal torture. Or Esmeralda Herrera Monreal, a 15-year-old

who disappeared on her way to work. Her remains were discovered in 2009, buried in a cotton field alongside other victims. Despite the horror, the women of Juarez have not been silenced. Their voices echo in the streets, in the plazas, and in the art that blooms amidst the city's pain. Feminist collectives have taken up the cause, organizing protests and creating spaces for remembrance. The iconic pink crosses, painted with the names of the victims, stand as stark reminders of the lives lost. Artists have turned their grief into powerful expressions of resistance, using music, poetry, and visual art to demand accountability. The international community has also taken notice. Documentaries, books, and films have shed

light on the crisis, amplifying the voices of those fighting for justice. Activists and human rights organizations have called on the Mexican government to take meaningful action. And yet, the killings continue. The story of the women of Juarez is not just a story of tragedy, it's also a story of resilience. It's about the mothers who refuse to give up, who keep searching, who keep demanding answers even when the odds are stacked against them. It's about the activists who risk their lives to expose the truth. And it's about the city itself, scarred but unbroken, still standing in the face of

unimaginable loss. As the sun sets over Ciudad Juarez, casting long shadows across the desert, the fight for justice continues. It's a fight that belongs not just to the city, but to all of us. Because the women of Juarez are more than victims, they are daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends. And their stories demand to be told, remembered, and acted upon. In her initial statement, she admitted there were errors, and after giving it more thought, she decided she wanted to change a couple of things. And this is where things get interesting. She ends up spending two whole hours completely reworking her version of events, adding new details, providing new information,

and leaving the police in absolute disbelief. It all started at around 6 p.m. on Thursday, May 4, 2017. The Mossos d'E Squadra, the Catalan police, received a rather curious phone call. A jogger who was running near the Foy Reservoir noticed a burned-out car on the side of a path. Now, while this may sound like a shocking discovery to some of you, the Mossos weren't exactly phased. Calls like this happen all the time. Burned out cars are pretty common. It's practically a trend, abandoned vehicles in industrial areas, remote paths, or deep in the mountains, often vandalized and set on fire by vandals. So, as far as the Mossos were concerned, this was just another routine call.

They planned to show up, check out the car, cordon off the area, call a tow truck, and move on. But when they arrived and opened the trunk, they stumbled upon a scene straight out of a horror movie. Inside the car, they found the charred remains of a human body. The state of the body was so bad it was impossible to make a visual identification. The forensic analysis later revealed this. Gender, unknown, apparent age, adult, position, left lateral decubitus, lying on the left side, external condition, completely burned, external injuries, impossible to assess due to the degree of burning.

The first hypothesis. A cartel hit. Drug trafficking gangs were active in the area, and 2000. had already seen five deaths attributed to them. But as the investigation progressed, it became clear that this was not the case. Both the body and the vehicle held two critical clues that would eventually lead to identifying the victim. First, the body was fragmented, with significant carbonized areas, making DNA sampling nearly impossible. It was clear that the fire in the trunk had reached temperatures exceeding 300 degrees Celsius 572 degrees Fahrenheit.

height. Initially, there was no way to know who the victim was. However, the forensic team noticed something unusual in the spinal column, screws. These screws suggested the individual had undergone surgery for a herniated disc. Such screws always come with serial numbers, which can be traced back to the manufacturer and matched with the patient's medical records. Second, the car's chassis number, essentially the car's fingerprint, allowed investigators to identify the owner. The car belonged to a man named Pedro Rodriguez, 37 years old. Pedro was a member of the Guardia Urbana, the municipal police of Barcelona, specifically assigned to the traffic unit. At the time, Pedro was recovering from back surgery, making it highly likely he was the victim. Since Pedro

was a law enforcement officer, the police dug into his file. That's when things took a strange turn. Pedro was suspended from duty at the time of his death. Why? Back in the summer of 2016, Pedro had assaulted a civilian during a traffic stop. He had been assigned to oversee the Valvedrera Road, a curvy, accident-prone highway notorious for illegal street races. One day, an 18-year-old motorcyclist ignored Pedro's stop signal. Furious, Pedro jumped into his patrol car and pursued the young man all the way to the gates of an animal shelter. That's where Pedro got out of the car and began beating the motorcyclist. Unfortunately for him, a surveillance camera at the shelter captured the entire incident, footage that proved key in the subsequent trial.

As a result, Pedro was suspended without pay. The car registration revealed Pedro lived in Villanova I. La Geltru, Barcelona, on a street called Caradel's lorers. That same evening, around 11 p.m., the Mossos knocked on his door. They were greeted by Pedro's partner, Rosa Peral, a 33-year-old woman. Rosa told the officers Pedro had been missing for two days. According to her, they'd had an argument, and Pedro left, as he always did when they fought. It was his thing, he'd yell, grab his car keys, and storm out. That's why she hadn't reported him missing. She thought it was just one of his usual tantrums.

When the police informed her that Pedro's car had been found burned near the Foy Reservoir, Rosa remained remarkably calm. She didn't cry or panic. She simply stated she couldn't leave the house to go to the station and give a statement because her two daughters, aged six and four, were asleep upstairs. She promised to come in the next morning after dropping the kids off at school. The police agreed. As soon as the Mossos learned Rosa was Pedro's partner, they knew who she was.

Rosa was also a member of the Guardia Urbana, having joined the force in 2008. However, her career had been marred by scandal early on. Shortly after joining, an explicit photograph of her surfaced. The image showed Rosa about to perform an intimate act. act on someone. Her face and hand were clearly visible, but the identity of the other person remained unknown. Rumors suggested it was a superior officer within the Guardia Urbana, but without a clear face, nothing could be confirmed. For years, the photo circulated among her colleagues, causing immense humiliation. Rosa initially chose not to report the leak,

perhaps out of shame, but when she began dating Pedro, he encouraged her to file a complaint. The trial was scheduled for 2017, but it had to be postponed just 15 days before the original date. But that wasn't the only controversy surrounding Rosa. On August 9, 2014, she and another Guardia Urbana officer, Albert Lopez, were involved in the death of a street vendor named Jose Antonio Gonzalez on Montjuic Hill. That day, Rosa and Albert were part of an operation targeting illegal street vendors. During the operation, Rosa approached Jose Antonio to question him.

him, but he panicked and stabbed her with a knife before fleeing. Albert chased after him. The pursuit ended near a lookout point where Jose Antonio fell 20 meters, 65 feet, off a cliff. Official reports claimed the fall was accidental, but rumors suggested Albert may have pushed him in retaliation. Despite the speculation, no irregularities were found during the investigation. On the morning of Friday, May 5, 2017, Rosa arrived at the station to give her first statement. She talked non-stop, sharing details, many unnecessary, as the police listened attentively.

She described Pedro as impulsive, emotionally volatile, and intensely jealous. He had extreme mood swings, going from joy and excitement to anger and despair in a flash. Both were under a lot of stress, Pedro was suspended, while Rosa was embroiled in her lawsuit over the leaked photo. They argued often, usually about their ex-spouses. Pedro had a son from a previous marriage, and Rosa had two daughters from her previous relationship with Ruben Carbo, a Maso-Dia squadra officer. Their custody battles only added fuel to the fire.

Rosa told the police their latest argument happened on Tuesday, May 2nd. The topic? Rubin Pedro was jealous of Rosa's ex and upset about her custody issues. He took the car keys and stormed out. Rosa wasn't worried because this was typical behavior for Pedro. Plus, he had texted her that night, saying, Don't be mad at me.

You know I don't want to involve you in my stuff. You know I say things I don't mean when I'm angry. Love you. I'm turning my phone off so it doesn't vibrate. Rosa also mentioned that if Pedro was involved in something shady, it wouldn't surprise her. She described him as hot-headed and hinted that he had enemies. She even claimed Pedro had threatened Rubin in the past,

saying he'd slash his tires or hit him with a baseball bat. Rosa's lengthy statement painted Pedro as unpredictable and troubled, but it also pointed fingers at Reuben. The police brought Rubin in for questioning. He told a very different story. According to him, Pedro wasn't the issue, Rosa was. Rubin explained that he and Rosa had separated around Christmas 2016 because of her infidelities. The final straw was her affair with Pedro. But it wasn't her first betrayal. Back in 2013, she had an affair with Albert Lopez, the same officer involved in the Montjuic incident. The police decided to question Albert next.

Albert's demeanor couldn't have been more different from Rosas. While she was chatty and overly detailed, he was curt and evasive. Albert admitted he dated Rosa while she was married to Rubin. Their relationship ended in 2016 because they wanted different things, Albert wanted to travel, while Rosa wanted to remarry and have another child. When Rosa started seeing Pedro, Albert stepped back. He described Pedro as jealous and possessive, saying their love triangle wasn't sustainable. Yet, he revealed that on May 2nd, Rosa had called him, distraught, saying Pedro had left after an argument.

Albert claimed he went to comfort her but insisted that was the extent of his involvement. At this point, the investigation became a tangled web of motives in Al. It all started as just another weekend getaway, the kind of trip I'd planned dozens of times before. I needed to escape the monotony of city life, and what better way to clear my head than a solo hike deep into the wilderness. I'd found an obscure trail online, one that supposedly led to an abandoned cabin tucked away in the mountains. That's all I needed to hear to pack my bag and head out. The drive to the trailhead was uneventful, but as I got closer, the paved roads gave way to dirt and gravel. My car bumped and jolted over potholes, and the trees seemed to close in tighter with

every mile. By the time I reached the start of the trail, the afternoon sun was already beginning its descent. The air was cool, crisp, and laced with that distinct smell of pine and damp earth. Perfect hiking weather. With my backpack snug on my shoulders, I set off. The trail was narrow, winding, and clearly seldom used. Branches reached out like skeletal fingers, snagging on my clothes, and the underbrush threatened to swallow the path entirely in some spots. Still, I pressed on, enjoying the solitude and the rhythmic crunch of my boots against the ground. About an hour in, I noticed the first sign that something was, off. It was subtle at first.

The usual forest sounds, birds chirping, leaves rustling, the distant gurgle of a stream, seemed to fade the deeper I went. It wasn't silent, exactly, but there was a heavy stillness in the air, like the forest was holding its breath. I shook it off. It wasn't my first time in the woods, and I knew. how easy it was for the mind to play tricks when you're alone. But then I found the footprints. They weren't mine, and they weren't fresh. A single set, heading in the same direction I was

going. They looked old, maybe a few days, but what struck me was how deep they were. Whoever left them had been carrying something heavy, or maybe they were just, big. No big deal, I muttered to myself. It wasn't unusual to come across signs of other hikers, even on lesser-known trails. Still, the sight of those prints sent a shiver up my spine. I quickened my pace. As the sun dipped lower, the shadows stretched long and thin, creeping across the path like dark tendrils. The cabin was supposed to be about three miles in, but as the minutes dragged on, I started to wonder if I'd missed it. Just as I was debating whether to turn back, I saw it. The cabin was, well, calling it a cabin might have been generous. It was more of a shack, really, a sagging structure

of weathered wood with a crooked roof and a single window, black and empty like an eye socket. The clearing around it was small, overgrown with weeds and littered with debris. An old axe leaned against a stump, its blade rusted and pitted. Home sweet home, I muttered, though I wasn't feeling nearly as brave as I sounded. The door creaked ominously as I pushed it open, revealing a single room. Dust moats floated in the weak light that filtered through the cracks in the walls. There was a rickety table, a couple of chairs, and a fireplace filled with old, crumbling ashes. Against the far wall was a cot, its mattress stained and sagging.

The place reeked of mildew and abandonment, but it would do for the night. I set about making the place as livable as possible, which mostly involved clearing cobwebs and laying out my sleeping bag on the cot. I had just finished building a small fire in the fireplace when I heard it, a sound that froze me in place. Footsteps. They were faint, but unmistakable, crunching through the underbrushed just outside the cabin. My heart leapt into my throat.

I hadn't seen another soul all day, and the idea that someone else might be out here, this far off the beaten path, was unsettling. I killed the fire and pressed myself against the wall, straining to hear. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. I held my breath, counting the seconds. One, two, three, nothing. Just when I thought I'd imagined it, there was a knock at the door. It wasn't a polite knock.

It was slow, deliberate, and heavy, each thud reverberating through the tiny cabin. My mind raced. Who the hell would be knocking on the door of an abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere? Hello. I called out, my voice shaky. No answer. Just another knock, louder this time. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, the rusted axe from outside, and edged toward

the door. Who's there? I demanded, trying to sound braver than I felt. No answer. My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob, the axe poised to swing. I yanked the door open, ready to face whoever, or whatever, was on the other side. There was nothing there. The clearing was empty, bathed in the pale light of the rising moon.

My eyes darted from shadow to shadow, but there was no sign of anyone. Just the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze. I slammed the door and bolted it with a piece of wood I wedged into the frame. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I decided then and there that I wasn't staying the night. I'd hike back to the car, even if it meant navigating the trail in the dark. But as I gathered my things, I heard it again. Footsteps, this time circling the cabin.

Slow, deliberate, and far too heavy to belong to an animal. My breath came in shallow gasps as I clutched the axe, backing into a corner. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, the doorknob rattled. I'd had enough. With a surge of adrenaline, I threw open the window and scrambled out, landing hard on the ground. Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I took off running. The trail was barely visible in the dim moonlight, but I didn't care.

I ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like jelly. When I finally stopped, the cabin was long out of sight, and the forest had closed in around me. I leaned against a tree, trying to catch my breath. That's when I heard it. The sound of footsteps, coming from the direction I just fled. I didn't wait to see who or what was following me. I ran again, pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion. By the time I reached my car, the first light of dawn was breaking over the horizon.

I didn't stop to rest or look back. I jumped in, started the engine, and tore out of there like my life depended on it. To this day, I have no idea what happened at that cabin. Was it a person? An animal? Something else entirely. All I know is that I'll never set foot on that trail again. Some places are better left unexplored. So far it seems that the culprit could. Being him had a history he had the vehicle they were looking for but then remember, something. We start at the present day. We will move to the municipality, Colombian Vicencio capital of, met a department

for years. It was a very quiet place there were people, humble worker and like any, place was carried out some other. Problem there was nothing really. Striking we are talking about a place that in 2021 has a population of 550,000 inhabitants report robberies and altercations in a population like that. It should surprise us but in 2016 everything. Uncle a complete turn and that is that on the 12th of September of that same year or so. Two at noon a 68-year old woman called Teresa opened his eyes and gave himself, realized that he was in the middle of, a forest all his body hurt, horrors but especially the area of, face touched his face and saw that he had. Blood and not only that but the area of. The ear had worms tried, get up but

couldn't have strength, and his body collapsed according to some. Fuentes spent three more unconscious days, and according to others there were two but it is like, outside the subject here is that in the end, managed to get up and with the few. Forces I had sought the road, he left the forest he walked slowly, the road and asked for help and from there. A vehicle called emergencies is there, where an investigation begins that. It would last several. Teresa 68 years lived in villa. Vicencio and it was a house that did not. I had problems with anyone who, he knew he wrote it with very good, words and find it in so bad. Conditions made no sense as, the agents arrived at the scene. They transferred to the nearest hospital end. There were some

tests through, of which they discovered the following. First he had shattered face. They had been repeated, occasions with a blunt object, partition was broken and several lacked, teeth of the lower jaw in. Second place one of the years was, completely shattered and in fact, inside this i had third worms place your clothes is in very bad condition i was full of mud and also his underwear was missing and showed signs of sexual abuse and forth to be able to treat it they had to shave the head doctors did not understand how algian who suffered such a terrible attack had survived and more a woman of that age had not drunk or eaten in three days was very bad had lost a lot blood but teresa had a lot strength and although two was unconscious days in the hospital when opening the eyes i wanted to speak wanted to tell his story, asked for help and the police listened to her with. All the agents that days ago had what to make a trip took a bus from. The Porfia neighborhood in Villa Vicensio but, we don't know exactly where, directed what we do know is that in a certain moment realized that the stop had passed and not having. Mobile got off the vehicle and asked, some people who

let him call, your child but unfortunately for more than. He called his son did not answer does not have. Money to pay Autotransporter A. Bus a taxi had no way to return to. House and as logical it became very nervous started walking at his pace, but at some point a motor. Blanco stopped next to her. Point must be made a parenthesis is that, coming from the source this vehicle, call one or another motoccaro, motikero, but the important thing here is that, it is a light vehicle to wear, small merchandise merchandise that does not, they weigh too much returning to history. From Teresa the driver was a boy, young of more or less about 30 years I measure, met 65m was thin wore a cap, a shirt and jeans and something very, he is striking of him is that he

showed much Adam's apple had it quite exit and this detail called him the attention was very nice and pleasant and treated it enough in fact respect on several occasions repeated the following mother words what do you do here walking to where is mother to the beginning teresa refused and told her that she wanted to go alone who wanted to walk from going to his rhythm but the man insisted and was so nice that the woman could not denying must be taken into account that it was an older person and this boy in that moment was your only mode of transport the woman knew perfectly not. I could go home and therefore end it, accepting toured together the road that black pipes crossed and in principle. Everything was going well this boy fulfilled

his word and was taking her home but, then he gave a slight flying end, stopped on one side of the road, specifically at the entrance of a farm. The guy told him that they had to do, a small stop because your boss had, that paying them together a little and they reached a wire and there the boy asked for a little favor and it was, set the other side of the fence to, see if he recognized his boss if he saw. Movement if I saw someone in Dona. Teresa listened to her back. He looked through the fence he put on. Puntillas and in a flickering collapsed. That boy gave him a strong blow, from behind and from there not, remembered anything when he opened his eyes. He found alone in the forest has, knees and clothes pants. Interior was torn and on one side of, his body clearly

that guy had, hit and then abused her and already, thinking that I was dead, without more Teresa since then he had to deal with physical sequela and, psychological one of his ears did not return. To be the same and communicated cost him, very much with the description given by the victim the agents created a portrait, robot, but not finding that. Person was going to be a very, complicated not only because it's searching, a needle in a haystack, but because crime was very weird normal in this. Class of crimes is for the victim to be, a young girl not an advanced woman. Age and another very interesting detail is that the subject abused his victim when this was unconscious what it gave to, understand that maybe I wanted to have. Relationships with

the body really. Teresa when she was found was in unfortunate conditions and the most. It is likely that the attacker will think that I was dead and that is why this crime was. Very strange too much with all this. Agents go to the crime scene and there. The alleged weapon are a large stone that had the blood of Teresa the weapon the modus. Operandi as a whole seemed like a very personal attack for what it gave to. Understand that it was some kind of revenge. But Teresa had no problems with anyone. She was an older woman who loves house and on several occasions he repeated that. I did not know his aggressor and this took the researchers to investigate a little more in. The crimes occurred in the area. They wanted to know if there were. Similar victims if other

people. They lived the same as her and indeed. They found two more crimes in 2008 A. 50 year old woman was IDDA in the same zone and in the same way was hit in the head left unconscious. The pants broke his clothes, interior left aside and after. They have just left her and abandoned her thinking, who was dead but this victim. He managed to live and the police gave him a, description practically identical to, that Teresa was telling a boy, very nice young thin and also, Adams Apple was marked in 2012, in the same area another, identical attack this time against a 70-year-old woman and the modus operandi was, the same circled down, underwear to leave it a side victim, and to disappear clearly they were, in front of a series-in-series

but what? There would be so much space between victims was, very strange or this person took his time or between there were more victims, that had not been found and, staying with this point because more, the attack will be very important. Of Teresa took place on the 12th of, September 2016 and six months later. It seems that the aggressor attacked again, specifically on March 23rd, 2017, but no owes that the case would be so easy because the police hypothesis. Here it collapsed since the victim in. This occasion was a young girl named. Jeanette Jeanette was married and two months pregnant live in V.E. Vicencio has always been. The street sale sold red and empanadas to their neighbors and to do it i was walking was when i a white motor color approached and

his driver went down to buy food and drink was young of more or less your age may a little more greater than her and was very nice and nice was thin we wore a cap and once again i had the nut very marked he asked what he was called where he lived and how long did he dedicate himself to that and jeanette chatted with him quietly was a client and i wanted to sell something should be nice but then the subject asked him if, wanted him to take some part and, their Jeanette cut the conversation, said not that it was fine that I don't know, worry and the guy insisted seeing that, I did not convince her that she surrendered and, he turned around for supposedly, grabbed the wallet, but at that time, he took out a razor and threatening her with this, forced her to get on the vehicle,

disguised down the road to, enter black pipes and there too, Quatikwia River Shore the subject stopped, the engine and forced the woman to get off, Punta de Navaja made her undress for, complete and after assaulting it for 15 minutes pushed the waters to the river they dragged hard and she fought with following nails for moving afloat and four good luck caught the attention of two people that helped her took her out of the water they covered and accompanied her to police station and once there the girl denounced in a beginning the agents do not relate genet attacks is between twenty and thirty years and his aggressor has not hit the head but then the girl gives a physical description of this man and this agrees one hundred percent with which teresa gave months ago is from this point that the aggressor is nicknamed the monster of Canos, Black Jeanette not only gets right to your attacker but also manages to say why Rhodes Past End, there the police are looking for cameras from, vigilance which ends up finding, give a total of 250 hours of, recordings and luckily

finds the moment in which it appears in a vehicle, within which Jeanette and his, aggressor but there are two more problems here. The first is that they can't see the, faces know that Jeanette for the time, because she says it and know that, man is his aggressor but unfortunately, image quality is not very good that let's say and secondly that same quality does not allow to see the registration of the vehicle for this reason lays a silent operation and is that he tries locate all owners of motor caros from the area they take them out photographs without knowing them in a database review cameras of surveillance but spends the weeks and not they have results do not find the culprit they do not know how to find him and at nine of the tomorrow of april twenty fourth two thousand seventeen a man call the police because he has found a terrible scene the informant against. His name called Ruben and says he has, left your job for a few minutes, to hide behind bushes to do your needs and it is at that time, when you run into a macabre scene and, is that the weeds found the lifeless body of a woman of more or, less 80 years old his face was,

completely disfigured they had, repeatedly beaten with a, rocca and has the pants down and the torn underwear when calling. Police the agents knew it was, work of the black pipe monster, and they activated an entire device. They investigated who was the victim. how ended who could be the, suspicious but in principle they did not have. Nothing however know the environment of this woman her name was Maria Elvia Munoz and was 78 years old was, very dear in Vicencio was good, good neighbor and her great love were. His grandchildren had two children Edgar and, Cecilia and I was always in contact with. They knew their routine where, I went with who knew that many times, I slept at a neighbor's house and that if not, I was there

in church was, practicing Catholic and whenever I had, a free time was there. This when the morning of April 24th does not. They were able to contact her knew that I would be with her friend and indeed it was. The night of the 23 slept at home but six 30 minutes in the morning left. There and this friend thought she went to the church, but when the sun went to, asked they told him that there was no, presented they called everyone, they moved sky and earth and finally. Rumors reached rumors that they said that an older woman had S. Sinada in black pipes and the sun before. These data are forced to go to the morgue and once there he had to, identify your body to these. Heights no longer knew what to do and through four, for different ways the first

era. Search in the area similar murders. This no longer searching now they were looking for. Murders and as they imagined there, they found in 2015 in the same place. They found the lifeless body of a 50-year-old woman named Gisela L. Body was in advanced state, of decomposition and your case never. Resolved but that's not all and is that. Also very close to the scene of, crime met the passage of, years bone remains that never, they could identify were already too many, crimes and they were discovering it vary slowly the time ran against him and resolved the case or the subject would go from the hands in second place check the surveillance cameras and a even more they capture the victim the vehicle and the aggressor but the quality of the images is lousy do not

see faces to detail do not see registration no who are seeing but unfortunately not they can identify it and in third place they look for witnesses and this time they find one a man who is 6.30 in the morning, he ran along the road. Subject says that he ran quietly and that next to him passed a Moto Cargaro, white on which Elvia was going but that. It's not all and it apparently knew, to the driver a 34-year-old neighbor, his called Ruben Villobos Herrera. The hours pass and that witness finds out that Elvia has been killed and four, we attack so much that Ruben is the killer and therefore he will look for him and face him begin to disgust the. Theme is heeding and finally, they end up fighting several witnesses to see. This leads to the

police and both men, an accusation like the one that the witness was very serious and for, both the police review the entire information from Ruben Naino, that was born in 1983 in Via Vicensio and that, I was also married if history was, clean was a good, good friend good, husband and had a good job, he was employed in a hardware store and all. The companions said wonders of him. That was pleasant, sympathetic, passive, and especially remarked even a fly, but, thus this person has been accused of, something very serious for what the police, all your history must very well, but no matter how much they had nothing. His identification was quite old and, in the photo he looked much younger ever. Robo never assaulted anyone was a guy, normal very

quiet and also was not. Owner of no motocale this subject. He could not be the aggressor however his. Brother did own a vehicle of. That guy Rubin's brother was called, Gumersindo and also had history. Own mother denounced him for fraud and, physically the two brothers looked like. Maybe Gumersindo was, guilty so the police investigated. Everything but once again they are given from Bruce's, with a alley without, exit here it seems that the culprit, it could be Mercindo he had, background he had the vehicle that they were looking but then remember, something and if I told you before one, Rubin reported body finding without, Elvia's life and reviewing a little more, realized that such Ruben is, precisely Ruben

via Lobos looking for a little more if they realized that Ruben also found the body without. Gisela's life this person appeared in, the file had too many times, found too many bodies and always in the same area so they review the context of the last finding and are given realize that it does not have the slightest since reuben said he found the body in a break of work care going to the bathroom looked for a wooded area separated but this distance did not have sense because the forest was three kilometers of your job and your home in change was three streets why leave to the forest why not go home fourth made no sense and the only way to know if it was guilty was delivering a photograph of yours to both victims who had survived and is then when they

create an operation new a device that would say to the police take your photo and be that they invent a fictitious raffle through the which every driver who participates can receive free tires stop at drivers ask for their data they take a photograph and automatically they are participating and that is how they get the following photograph of rubin via lobos with this image justice creates a compilation of photographs which are shown to teresa and janet and both at zero coma they identify him as his aggressor is as well as may 30th 2017 Vialobos Herrera is arrested and accused, formerly, a femicide attempt at homicide and violent carnal access was suspected that, on his shoulders he had many, crimes, but at that

time, they accused four murder of, Gisela in 2015 Elvia in 2017 and, the committed between 2016 and 2017 against Teresa and Jeanette, but from the minute, one this subject was created innocent, smiling and without any apex of, remorse said he knew nothing about, theme denied the testimony of the victims and said they were perhaps confused of doors to outside was innocent but doors inside the man carried out a very curious and that apparently did not want go for a trial perhaps because i knew that all its crimes and their modus operandi would be exposed prosecution i had a lot against them found blood of some victims in the vehicle in question he reported two of his own crimes and two victims thus identified that reuben high a pre agreement through which he accepted all charges but refused to give no information and also to grant. Interviews the prosecutor's office could demonstrate that those 11 positions are responsibility. Penalty of this monster had a route, established in the black Kano sector, where he had his victims accessed them, and he also murdered acts of, Neckh, of its victims

on May 4, 2018, a sentence was expected to receive, between 41 and 50 years in prison, but finally received 32-something that outraged, very much to the victims and the families of these sentences. It seemed ridiculous and today they continue, saying the same so now is your. What do you think of the case and you think? The sentence was fair. We begin. Pedro Rodriguez-Felio was born on October 29, 1954, in Santa Rita do Sapukai, in the south of Minas Jure, as the oldest of eight children of Manuel Filio and Pedro Rodriguez. The life of this man was marked by violence long before he was born. His mother suffered abuse from his father. This said that his father was an honest and hard-working man, but unfortunately, he was an alcoholic.

Whenever he drank, he became violent, and his main target was his wife. He would yell at her, humiliate her, beat her, and when she was pregnant with Pedro, he beat her so badly that the fetus suffered the consequences. He kicked her so hard in the belly that little Pedro suffered a cranial injury, an injury that, according to some experts, may have affected the brain areas associated with empathy and reaction to external stimuli. But this injury would not be the only violence in his life, as his childhood was also marked by it. His father drank, beat the children and his wife, and Pedro always got in the middle, always defended his mother, always stood up for her. He adored her more than anything. Although, I must tell you,

she wasn't innocent either. This woman was devoutly religious, and Pedro always went to church with her. However, from time to time, if he fell asleep during prayers, his mother would beat him as punishment. Everything in his house was chaos, violence from his father, from his mother, between siblings. And where they lived on the streets, there was also violence, in a troubled, chaotic area. The only piece this boy had was with his grandfather, a man named Joaquin. According to Pedro, this man was a simple gentleman. He taught him how to swim, plant, harvest, defend himself, and also taught him values. He also taught me to be a dignified, proper, and just man.

My grandfather loved me, of all his grandchildren, I was the most loved. But this man also taught him how to shoot and hunt. And since the man was a butcher, he took him to work and taught him how to skin animals, how to handle a knife, dev one an ox, skin it, and remove the hide. He taught him all of this, and little Pedro enjoyed it. It's good for your health. My grandfather died at 98, still strong. His family had few resources, so all the children had to work, not just at 14 or 15, but

Pedro was already working at a poultry slaughterhouse at the age of nine, and his entire salary went to his parents. At that age, he began to run away from home, he went to his grandparents' house, to his godparents, and from time to time committed robberies. However, his worst crimes began to be committed from the age of 13. At this point, I must make a small parenthesis, according to some sources, Pedro exaggerated things a bit. He had a tendency to embellish, to stretch stories. So, what comes next? We don't know if it's true or not.

An example of this is his date of birth. Officially, he was born on October 29th, but according to him, he was born on the 31st, the eve of all saints day, and he said this to add a mystical air to his story, to give his birth a magical, spiritual touch. But the official date is October 29th. And of what I'm going to tell you now, there's no evidence, so we really don't know if it's true or not. However, as I mentioned, at 13 years old, he nearly committed his first homicide, and this was carried out against his cousin. The story goes like this. It was a calm day, no surprises. He was on his grandfather's farm and decided to take his cousin's horse for a ride.

He didn't ask for permission, didn't tell anyone, he just took it out of the stable and wrote it. He brought it back, and at that moment, his cousin was furious. He hadn't known for some time where the animal was, who had it, why, and logically, he was angry. So, he went up to Pedro and punched him in the face. According to Pedro, this wasn't the first time. he had hit him before, mocked him, was violent. But again, we have no evidence, only his word, his story, his version of the events. And at that moment, he didn't react, didn't punch back, didn't scream, didn't push. He simply said the following words, I'm going to kill you, these words were probably taken as a joke by the cousin. Days past, Pedro didn't react,

didn't seek revenge. It seemed like he had forgotten it. But the truth is, he was waiting for the right moment, and when it came, he got to work. At that age, he worked at his grandfather's sugarcane plantation, doing long shifts with the large press machine. One day, when the two boys were alone in front of that machine, he grabbed his cousin and tried to get the machine to completely crush one of his arms. The idea was to stick the whole arm in, have the machine crush it, to kill him. But the machine wasn't made for that, it was for sure. sugarcane, with a very small space. So, after struggling, he pulled out pruning shears and stabbed his cousin. The boy survived but was completely wrecked. And of course, Pedro was arrested.

He spent two nights in jail, but with him in jail, the family lost a salary. They had few resources, every coin counted. So, the grandfather went to the jail and said he wouldn't press charges. Pedro got out of jail, returned home, kept working, and life went on as if nothing had happened. So, in reality, he faced no consequences, no punishment, no problems. And psychologically, this meant a lot. A year later, when he was 14, his father was fired for an unfair reason, and that's when his mind clicked. Let's remember, his father was no saint.

He was an alcoholic, violent, beat his mother, the person Pedro loved the most. But what happened to this man marked a before and after? It turns out he had worked for 12 years as a night janitor in a local school, every day from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. He never failed, was a good employee. But one day, he was accused of stealing food and school supplies from the kitchen. Of course, he denied everything, said it wasn't him, that it was the morning guard. He had no proof, but he knew it was him. However, the bosses didn't believe him, not the principal, nor the deputy mayor, who had the power to hire and fire

guards. Now, everyone thought he was a thief, so no one would hire him. He knocked on doors, asked for work, they wouldn't hire him. Knocked on another, they kicked him out. And this meant he'd stay home drinking and being more violent than ever. Pedro couldn't allow this. I set up the tent and stayed there for about 30 days. My friends were animals, monkeys, rabbits, snakes, and jaguars stayed near me, surrounded me, but didn't harm me. During my time in the forest, I only killed what I needed to eat, only what was necessary to survive. I never exploited the forest or mistreated animals. But I wasn't there to live or hide from my problems. When I got the weapons, I had a plan, I already knew what I was going to do. I was going to get revenge. He took

a tent, a machete, a rifle, all the weapons were taken from his grandfather. And when the time came, he killed the man who had fired his father. He went to his estate, waited at night, and when he got out of his vehicle, Pedro pointed the rifle and shot him twice. Then he waited a bit and went after the real thief. We really don't know if the father stole or not, if it was this man or someone else, we don't know for sure, and Pedro didn't either. However, at that moment, he didn't even think, he went to the school during the day, cornered the man, pointed the rifle, and said,

You saw what you did. You destroyed my family. My siblings are starving because of you. Is it fair you did this? And then, he shot him twice and set him on fire. From here, he decided this would be his mission, going around the world doing justice. After committing this last crime, Pedro went to Sao Paulo to his uncle's house. Once there, he got involved in robberies and drug trafficking.

And thanks to that, or rather, because of it, he met a woman nicknamed Bosha. This woman was an adult, the widow of a well-known drug dealer, and she used her beauty to manipulate young boys, usually minors. She would flirt with them, seduce them, have relationships with them, and make them believe they were in a relationship. In this way, she used them for theft, drug trafficking, exchanges, she did whatever she wanted with them. She had several boys in her service, they were her hit men, her toys.

But what happened? Pedro became her favorite, and this did not sit well with the gang. Other boys were jealous and supposedly ambushed him. But Pedro came out victorious, it was three against one, but he allegedly defeated them all. He killed two and sent the third to the hospital. And because he used a sought-off 12-gauge shotgun, from that moment on, everyone knew him as Padrinho Carter-Cyra. As time went on, Bosha gave him more jobs, In fact, she sent him to rob a very famous mobster, a man nicknamed China.

They planned a big plot, a big robbery, and finally pulled it off. But this mobster got extremely angry and allegedly swore revenge, a point that will become very important later. Over time, Pedro formed his own gang, made up of him and two more friends, Gauchinjo and Zapata. They carried out several operations, everything went well, they were close friends. But at one point, during a drug transaction, a deal, the police found them. They opened fire, and Bosha was killed.

Pedro was injured. That woman had been his mentor, his protector, and now, without her, Pedro was at risk. So, temporarily, he sought refuge with his uncles. At first, they didn't accept him, they saw he was dangerous, people were after him, police, enemies. Having Pedro at home was too risky. So, for a while, he lived on the streets. But eventually, he took shelter with them and discovered they were practitioners of Candamble, a totemic and animist religion. He immediately felt a great interest. They spoke to him about spirits, salvation, rituals, rituals through which he would become invincible, protected,

stronger than ever. And of course, he accepted. After that, the police opened fire but the bullets didn't hit me. Enemies attacked, and I defended myself with ease. Nothing stopped me. Before, I was afraid, but after the ceremony, it was like nothing could affect me. From this moment on, he decided to become a defender of the weak. He hijacked food trucks, went with them to the slums, distributed the food among the poor, punished animal cruelty, and defended women from abusive men.

People admired and feared him in equal measure. And at just 16 years old, he already had a long list of enemies. To be continued. He was feared and feared others in equal measure, and at just 16 years old, he already had a long list of enemies. He moved to Campo Grande, continued on his path, and met a girl named Maria Apparicita Olympia. The relationship between them was incredible. They started dating, moved and together. and she got pregnant. And of course, Pedro kept doing what he did, he kept killing bad people,

drug dealers, murderers, abusers. He kept making enemies, and one day, someone discovered where he lived. So they broke into his house and killed his girlfriend. At that time, Maria was seven months pregnant, and her death was tremendously painful. But the worst part comes now, when Pedro found the scene, he saw that with his girlfriend's blood, someone had written on the wall the following words, we will catch you. For over a year, Pedro investigated the case. He didn't kill anyone else, he just investigated. He wanted to know who had killed her because he would take revenge. And that's when a woman came to him and confessed. This woman was the ex-girlfriend of a mobster nickname China, and she told him that he had killed Maria in revenge for something Pedro

had done years ago. Pedro had participated in a robbery against him, and China considered it fair to now kill his girlfriend. With this information, Pedro got to work. He discovered that the following Saturday, China's brother was getting married. He got the location and the time and decided to call his two friends, Gauchinjo and Zapida. He ordered them to go there and kill all the men. Women and children couldn't be touched, but all the men had to die. It didn't matter if they were innocent, if they understood nothing, if they were men, they had to die. So the three of them went there and opened fire, killing seven men and injuring 16.

But for Pedro, it wasn't enough. After this feat, Pedro was nicknamed Padrinjo Matador, little Pedro the killer. He began a period in his life where he killed nonstop. If a day passed without him killing someone, he got nervous, anxious, paranoid. And when he killed his victims, he drank their blood because his grandparents had told him that animal blood gave strength, so, logically, his victim's blood would too. And so he continued, making more enemies, confronting the police, he had enemies around every corner. The tension was such that his two friends lost their lives, Gautchenho died at the hands of the police during a robbery, and Zepeda at the hands of the death squad that was hunting him. Finally, on May 24, 1973, when Pedro was 18 years old, he was arrested.

According to the official version, he was in a bar having a drink, and thanks to a tip-off, the police were able to find him. They surrounded him, a shootout occurred, Pedro was wounded, and after being arrested, he was sent to a hospital. When he opened his eyes, he was handcuffed to the bed and surrounded by many people, nurses, police officers, journalists. At that moment, he was accused of murder, but what he didn't know was how many. That's when they started asking him questions, there were cameras, recorders, and he proclaimed himself a vigilante. He bragged about never having killed someone who didn't

deserve it, that he had killed evil men, vile, twisted people, bad people, that he only killed that kind of people and no one else. And when he went to trial, he said something else. The judge accused him of taking 18 lives, and he was offended. He claimed to have killed more than 100, not 18, but 100 or more. Even so, they could only charge him with 14 crimes, for which he was sentenced to 126 years in prison. They put him in a vehicle, took him to prison, but on the way there, inside the vehicle, he was seated next to a suspected rapist, and when he found this out, he ended his life. In fact, when the car stopped, only Pedro got out, his companion was no longer breathing.

In prison, he was in his element, surrounded by murderers and criminals. Brazilian prisons were extremely dangerous. The conditions were unsanitary, violent, aggressive, the guards were corrupt. But even so, Pedro felt safe. He felt that he had nothing to fear, rather, the rest of the inmates should be afraid, because he wouldn't stop until he had killed them all. The average life expectancy of a prisoner in Brazil back then was very low. It was unheard of for a prisoner to survive 15 years in prison, they could get sick, be killed, anything could happen. But Pedro did very well. When I went through processing,

I started to understand what was awaiting me. The cell was small. There was no mattress, nothing, only the frozen concrete floor. No shower, just a water spout. No toilet, just a hole in the ground. In total, it is believed he killed between 43 and 47 inmates in prison. Among them, two stand out. The first was his protege, his cellmate, a man named Claudio. In prison, they got along very well, became close friends,

and when Claudio was released, he sought protection at Pedro's grandparents' house. He stayed there, met his sister, fell in love with her, and they got married. But later, he had a fight with Pedro's brother, and both pulled out weapons, they fought, yelled, fired shots, and Claudio accidentally shot and killed Pedro's sister. After committing this crime, he returned to prison, and Pedro, though it was an accident, still ended his life. He had killed his sister, and so Claudio had to die. The next crime was that of his own father. This man had killed Pedro's mother, not with one, but with 21 machete blows.

And incredibly, he was sent to the same prison where his son was. Pedro, without hesitation, ended his life with 22 machete blows. Sometimes I kill him again when he appears in my dreams. He appeared in a form of a snake, talking. He looked like a snake, and in my dream, he attacked me, bit me, and I hugged him and said, I killed you, it's true, and I will kill you again. And I crushed the snake that spoke. It was a snake, but it was my father talking.

At a certain point in prison, Pedro began killing indiscriminately. Any silly thing was a good reason to kill someone. In fact, the judge kept asking why he did it, and he gave the most absurd answers, I didn't like his face, how he looked at me, he snored too much. On one occasion, Pedro mentioned that a trans inmate named Cabrini fell in love with a friend of his. But that love was unrequited, so Cabrini made up a rumor about him and spread it throughout the prison. Eventually, someone killed Pedro's friend. So Pedro decided to take revenge.

The trans inmates were housed in a separate area, so Pedro went in there and started killing indiscriminately. It is said he killed 16 people and that for a long time afterward, he could still hear their screams. By then, the body count of this man had risen to 71, and his sentence totaled more than 400 years. It was so extreme that the justice system considered it enough, this man had to be stopped, and they didn't know how. Psychiatrists Antonio Jose Elias Sandrauss and Norberto Zonerger evaluated him in 1982 and wrote that his greatest motivation in life was the violent affirmation of his own ego, and they diagnosed him with a paranoid and antisocial character. In 1985, Pedro was sent to the

maximum security prison and psychiatric treatment center in Taubate. They ordered that he have no contact with any prisoners. The prison method seemed to work, and for 10 years, Pedro remained in isolation. He entertained himself by reading, writing letters, playing solitaire, and repeatedly punching the wall of his cell, until they finally allowed him to use a punching bag. In the early 1990s, a new prisoner arrived in Taubate, former plastic surgeon Joceman Ramos. Pedro had a few run-ins with this man. He found out that Ramos had told the guards another inmate was planning an escape, and the day after finding out, Ramos hit Pedro in the face with a tray.

Days later, Pedro attacked him, according to guards, they found Pedro with his foot on the man's neck. A war broke out between them, but I must say that for the next 10 years, Pedro didn't kill anyone else. So the conflict didn't escalate. Now there's a twist, Pedro's sentence had reached 400 years, but at the time, the maximum sentence in Brazil was 30 years, which he had already served. By 2003, he was eligible for parole, which he was granted in 2007. He was released from prison, started over, and became a security guard. However, on September 15th, 2011, he was sent back to prison for other crimes. He was fully released again in 2018 and supposedly came out as a changed person, someone completely different. At that time,

he was 64 years old and had converted to Christianity. That's when he decided to open a YouTube channel, which he created in collaboration with another person. The content was mainly podcasts, he talked about his life, crime cases, commented on different topics, and reached over 250,000 subscribers, with his videos accumulating millions of views. But overnight, the channel changed owners, it now belonged to his partner, not him. Many videos were deleted. Pedro started another channel, uploaded everyday content, different stories, started. started from scratch.

But I must emphasize, he really didn't know how social media worked. He didn't know the boundaries of what could or couldn't be said. And in 2023, he made a serious mistake, on Instagram, he shared everything about his life, where he went, with whom, what he did. At that time, he lived in Miris Cruces, and everyone knew he moved around there. But he didn't take precautions. On March 4th of that year, he posted a video on Instagram playing pool at a bar, which gave his enemies a rough idea of his location.

According to the police, it's most likely that his enemies tracked the location, watched the video, took note, and the next day, a group of masked men showed up in the area. They found him with his niece and her daughter at their doorstep. They parked their car in front of them, rolled down the windows, opened fire, and after ending his life, told the women, don't worry, this isn't about you. Then they got out of the vehicle and allegedly slit Pedro's throat. Witnesses called emergency services, but sadly, there was nothing they could do. Pedro Rodriguez died at the scene. According to various sources, the culprits were not identified. Here I must make a parenthesis, I just found an article claiming

that yes, the police did identify the culprits. But I haven't found any more information about them, so I don't know if it's true or not. So now it's your turn. What do you think about the case? Do you think the ending was fair? The end. The rain had finally stopped, but the city still glistened like someone had smeared Vaseline all over it.

From the edge of the monarch building's roof, it looked like the whole place had been dipped in neon and tossed into a blender. The crimson protector stood tall at the ledge, his red leather suit clinging to him like a second, very dramatic skin. The horns on his mask twitched slightly in the wind, which he pretended was just the universe giving him a wind-machine moment. Another night, another ridiculous chase, he grumbled under his breath. Crime never sleeps, and apparently, neither do emotionally damaged vigilantes with a flare for leather and sarcasm. His target tonight.

A tech genius turned financial bandit who was skimming retirement accounts and funneling the money into fake charities, fronts for arms deals, most of likely. The police? Totally outmatched. Every trace of evidence evaporated like a magician's trick. But the crimson protector didn't need subpoenas. He needed a good reason to punch someone in the face. And maybe therapy, but he'd get to that later. 20 floors below, a shadow moved where no shadow should have been. Bingo! The guy was in the next building over, skulking around like a rookie. Seriously? Nighttime crime in the financial district. Could you be any more cliche? No more waiting. He leapt. And man, that leap was majestic. Wind roared past his ears, city light streaking by like laser beams. His target, the maintenance lift hanging from the next building side. Because what screams justice more than a superhero landing on janitorial equipment? Perfect trajectory. He landed like a pro. Not so perfect.

The mechanical brake on the lift. It gave out with a groan that sounded suspiciously like it was laughing at him. A cable snapped, and now the platform hung at a stomach-turning angle, swaying gently 70 floors up. Welp. This is how it ends. Not in a blaze of glory, but dangling like a weird Christmas ornament, he muttered. He grabbed the railing, his boots slipping sluging. slightly on the slick metal. Should have called myself the slightly imbalanced Avenger. He reached

for his grappling hook. Empty. Great. Must have dropped it mid-stunt. Time for plan B. He tapped his earpiece. Dispatch, this is crimson. We got a situation. Nothing but static. Because of course his super-expensive communication system couldn't survive one bad fall. I swear, if I survive this, I'm buying a burner phone and duct-taping it to my leg. No crowd below yet, thank whatever God watches over crime-fighting idiots. He didn't need a bunch of rubberneckers posting videos of him on TikTok. No grappling hook. No comms.

No phone. Just leather, attitude, and bad luck. He sighed, pulled a small notebook and pen from a secret pocket, because yes, he had space for office supplies but not a phone, and started writing. Day 1, Window Lift Prison. It's been about two hours since I became a literal cautionary tale. Nobody knows I'm up here. This building has mirrored windows. Great for sneak attacks. Terrible for screaming for help. I'm thinking maybe leather isn't the best crime-fighting material. it squeaks when you move it sticks when it rains and right now every time i shift it feels like my thighs are trying to file for divorce fun fact being a vigilante isn't all high-flying action sometimes it's just you your regrets and a rickety platform dangling above traffic i feel like a cat that climbed too far up a tree except cats don't usually have to worry about becoming memes If the liquidator saw me now.

Oh, he'd love this. He'd be somewhere in his evil lair, sipping wine, petting an evil cat, and laughing at my expense. By sunrise, the platform had shifted again. Now it tilted in a way that made his stomach do gymnastics. Morning-like made things visible. Very visible. Bad news, visibility worked both ways. Day two, public spectacles.

people saw me, took photos. I'm trending online. Hashtags include hashtag dangling devil and hashtag crimson calamity. The internet is undefeated. A guy named Miguel, window washer, spotted me around 8 a.m. Couldn't stop laughing. Eventually offered me half a sandwich. I accepted because hunger to pride. He promised not to tell anyone. Then I heard him say this'll go viral into his phone. So much for secrecy. The rescue crews apparently devising a plan. Translation, they're figuring out the funniest way to get me down. I can practically hear them laughing down there. Still no phone. Still stuck. At least I have a pen. I might die up here, but at least my final words will be grammatically correct. Afternoon brought more helicopters.

Not rescue. News As in, full-blown, news at 11 stuff. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Day two, afternoon, peak humiliation. The mayor said rescuing me is a, top priority. Same guy who called me a menace in a Halloween costume last month. Amazing how quickly opinions shift when there's cameras involved.

Miguel came back with another sandwich and a water bottle. his daughter wants an autograph. I signed his hard hat. He asked why I always carry a pen but not a phone. Told him it was for dramatic effect. Truth is, I spent the phone budget on customizing the horns on my mask. Priorities, right? As the sun began to set, the sound of a real rescue chopper grew closer. The real deal. Finally, Crimson tucked his notebook away like it was some kind of sacred scroll. Because honestly, after this ordeal, it kind of was. He didn't say anything as they lowered the harness.

Just nodded solemnly, let them hoist him up, and avoided eye contact with the dozens of people filming from the rooftops. Epilogue, three weeks later, back on the Monarch building. Same ledge. Same city. But different gear. The new suit. Less leather.

More utility pockets Backup phone Check Grappling hook Check Zippers Everywhere Because apparently zippers are the unsung heroes of costume design

And the notebook Still there Waterproof pocket this time Those pages A reminder that even heroes eat humble pie now and then Especially when served from 70 floors up. He spotted something in an alley. Movement. Sketchy. Possibly crime why. Round two, he whispered. And he jumped. But like, with slightly more caution. No need to go viral again.

The end. I remember when I first heard the rhyme as a child. It terrified me. To me, the crooked man was some sort of boogeyman with freakishly long arms and legs that were twisted and broken in horrifying ways. I still have the rhyme memorized. It repeats in my brain like a skipping record. There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence against a crooked style, he bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house. My brother Benton, who loved to torture me as a child, ended up adding his own parts to the rhyme over time. The extra parts he added did nothing to console me or end my nightmares of this twisted

boogeyman who always seemed to slink through the shadows. I remember the rhyme Benton told me by heart to this day. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. The crooked man twists and crawls. He uses his crooked blade to kill. And when the curtain of night falls, he comes. comes to get his thrill, so I found it strange when, a few weeks ago, I was sitting with a couple

of my friends drinking and the subject of the crooked man came up again. They were rambling about shootings and serial killers and other fairly interesting subjects that I knew almost nothing about. But my friend Iris knew everything about such morbid subjects. She was a small drink of water, no more than five feet, with platinum blonde hair and green eyes like a cat. She was extremely attractive with high cheekbones and a small nose and chin. She always talked extremely fast and made violent slashing gestures with her hands.

Sometimes I wondered if she had a secret amphetamine habit I didn't know about. But did you hear about the murders in union? Iris asked, glancing over at her boyfriend, Ben. Ben was the opposite of Iris, tall and nerdy with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a low whisper of a voice. I just heard that some kids went missing, Ben murmured. I shrugged. I don't watch TV, I said.

The news is all bullshit anyway. They only show you the bad stuff. After all, no one wants to hear about new breakthroughs in fusion technology or discoveries in particle physics. Instead, people just want to watch others get murdered, robbed and beaten, so that they can feel that at least someone else has it worse than them. That's all the news is, really, a form of schadenfreude, the joy people get from seeing others' misfortune and suffering. Our entire media industry is built on a foundation of schadenfreude. I took a long sip from my beer, a harpoon that tasted like pure raspberries.

Iris rolled her eyes. While probably true, I don't care, she said, turning her green eyes on me. Don't you want to know what happened to the kids? I do, Ben said, leaning forward. Was it something, supernatural? Iris gave a sardonic laugh at that. Ben sat back, offended. What's so funny? I heard there was weird stuff going on around that factory. In fact, I heard they used to manufacture some dye there for clocks and stuff, right? So all these people went to work, painting watches and clocks and whatever else they told them to paint. was this special green dye that would glow in the dark. The factory was staffed by mostly women, and I heard they used to lick their paintbrushes to form them into points. They figured this stuff was just regular paint that glowed in the dark. I leaned back, interested. Ben started talking faster, getting more animated. So what happened? I asked, my curiosity peaked.

Well, the workers started getting cancer and dying in huge numbers, Ben continued as the kitchen lights sparkled off his glasses. One woman even had her entire jaw rot off. Others had pieces of their faces falling off. So it turns out, they were using radioactive isotopes to make the paint glow. And these women were just licking the paint brushes and touching the paint. Holy shit, I whispered, horrified. They called them the radium girls, Ben said. That factory killed hundreds and hundreds of people. That's why a lot of people think it's haunted. People claim they see ghosts and weird shit around it. And that's not all. The case gets even weirder when you look at workers' families. It seems a lot of their kids went missing, too.

The cops never found any of them. The entire time the factory was operational, and even after it shut down, the families of the workers kept having strange things happened, children disappearing from their bedrooms in the middle of the night. Strange murders and unexplained suicides that kept killing off healthy, normal people all over town. So, anyways, Iris continued, looking slightly annoyed at the interruption, the kids that went into that abandoned factory were all found, torn apart. Their limbs were all amputated and crooked. She leaned forward, using her spooky campfire voice. And the limbs were long.

Freakishly long, as if they had just grown overnight to inhuman lengths before they got lopped off. But they never found the heads or the torsos. All they found was ten legs and ten arms, and no one knows what happened. I asked. She shook her head. Officially, no. The police and media said it was some sort of serial killer, of course. But there wasn't a shred of evidence anywhere.

It was like a ghost had done it. Where the limbs were piled up in the basement, there was no evidence that anyone had been there in months, no footsteps or microscopic evidence of any presence. But the story doesn't end there. Because there were six teenagers that went into that building, and one of them was found alive three months later, wandering, covered in blood and scratches,

mostly naked and totally insane. One of my friends is an EMT and she said that the kid would not stop talking about the crooked man taking his friends and keeping him prisoner in some other world. At the mention of those words, the crooked man, a chill went down my spine. My heart felt like ice. What did you say? What did the kid say? I asked anxiously. Suddenly the room felt very hot and the alcohol was not sitting well in my stomach. He said he got kidnapped by someone called the crooked man, Iris repeated, taking a long sip from her wine.

According to the kid, it was some sort of fucking monster, apparently. I think his mind must have just snapped. He was probably kidnapped and held in the basement of some serial killer for three goddamn months. Who knows what he saw and experienced? People make up all sorts of crazy shit when they're traumatized. My hand was shaking so badly that I had to put my bottle down on the table. For some reason, my mind kept flashing back to my sister, Amelia, who had been kidnapped

from her room in the middle of the night when my brother Benton and I were little. She had never been found. We had never gotten a ransom note or found a body. It was as if Amelia had simply disappeared, vanished from the surface of the planet in an instant. I think some of that stuff is real, Ben said. People have been talking about cryptids and ghosts for thousands of years across countless different and unrelated cultures. What are the chances that all of them are just hallucinations or delusions?

I didn't know, but I thought I might know someone who might. My brother Benton was a long-term drug addict living in a flop house. I went to see him the next morning. He opened the door with a glazed, half-aware expression. Scars covered his arms and legs. He looked like a walking skeleton. His eyes shone like the last bit of water at the bottom of a dying well. Jack, he said, surprised, appearing to wake up slightly.

What are you doing here? I need to talk to you, I said, pushing past him into the one-bedroom place he called home. A cockroach skittered across the wall. As he closed the door, I saw bites from bedbugs all over his body. Benton turned, spreading out his hand. Well, what is it, little brother? You know I'm all ears, you remember that rhyme you used to scare me with when we were little. I asked.

That rhyme you made up about the crooked man. He seemed to go a shade paler. I didn't make anything up, he said. That rhyme came from Grandma. She told it to Dad when he was little, before she died, Grandma. I asked, startled. Our grandmother had died of Canada. when she was extremely young, in her late twenties.

Did you hear about the murders over in Union? The survivor was talking about the crooked man. That's pretty freaking weird, man, he said. Especially considering what happened to Grandma and Amelia, you know. He sat down on the threadbare mattress, laying back and sighing. Why is it weird? I asked. Because, you know, that's where Grandma used to work.

work at that factory in union didn't dad ever tell you i shook my head feeling sick so grandma was one of the radium girls i said my brother shrugged his thin shoulders the stained t-shirt clinging tight to his frail body i don't know what that is but whatever she was doing there it killed her but what does that have to do with amelia i asked my heart pounding at the mention of our long lost little sister He shook his head in wonder You don't remember You were older than me when it happened Before she went missing

She kept talking about the same thing Saying weird stuff about some crooked man Don't you remember what happened the night she went missing I thought back but it all seemed like a blur I remembered flashing police sirens and my parents screaming I had tried to block it out but apparently Benton hadn't been able to That night must be like a fresh wound on his mind all the time. No, I just remembered, screaming, and police, I whispered, my voice trailing off into nothing.

Benton leaned forward on the bed, looking sick. We both saw it, he said. The crooked man. That thing she was talking about. It was real. We saw it in her room that night when it took her. I shook my head, refusing to look at him. Feeling sick, I walked toward the door without looking back.

Where are you going? I'm going home, I said. I can't deal with this shit right now. But that night, I would find out that the long-lost nightmare for my childhood was not nearly as buried in the past as I thought. I was laying in my dark bedroom, reading the local news on my phone, when I saw an article that disturbed me greatly. I sat up, looking out the window into the cloudless night. The sky hung overhead like a black hole, colorless and empty.

Fear radiated through my heart as I glanced back down at the screen and started reading. Soul Survivor of Serial Killer commits suicide, the article read in garish black and white letters. Michael Galentino, 18, was found dead in a psychiatric facility early this morning. In February, Michael Galentino and five others entered a local abandoned building. Friends who knew them stated that they often explored abandoned structures as part of an urban exploration group. But this would not be a normal night for the group. They all disappeared, and within 24 hours, police and search teams have been dispatched to look for the missing teenagers. The house was silent.

I read the rest of the article with bated breath, my eyes wide. Some of the details I already knew, but others, such as the radioactive isotopes, found on the dismembered limbs of the victims, I did not. I wondered about that. The police claimed that, after finding this strange clue, they had sent a team to inspect the abandoned factory with Geiger counters and look for signs of radioactivity. Perhaps the radium, which had a notoriously long half-life, had accumulated on the surfaces over the decades. But they said the radioactivity within the building was all within acceptable levels. It was just another bizarre piece of a puzzle that no one could solve. The house was deathly silent. I could hear my own heart beating

a runaway rhythm in my ears. A rising sense of anxiety was filling me, but I didn't know why. It felt like some sort of pressure had changed all around me, as if the first wave of a massive blizzard had just blown into the room. I heard a creaking from across the dark room. At the same time, I felt a sting on my arm. I looked down, seeing a bedbug crawling across my skin, a small red welk rising in its wake. Fuck! I swore, grabbing it between my fingers and slicing it between my nails. Crimson spurred it from its swollen body as if it were a tiny balloon.

It exploded, staining my fingers red with my own blood. I should have never gone to see my brother. God-dammed bedbugs, I muttered to myself. I hoped that was the only one. If I had picked up some extra travelers at the flop house, I knew they would spread throughout the entire house within days. The creaking came again, louder this time, almost insistent. I glanced across the curtain of shadows that hung thick and black in the room, seeing the

dark silhouette of my closet door swinging open. I could only stare, open-mouthed. A long moment passed, and then I heard breathing. It came out, ragged and slow with long pause. like the choking of a murder victim. Slowly, I raised my phone's dim light, shining it across the room. On the closet door, I saw four inhumanly long, crooked fingers. They shone pale like the skin of a corpse. They twitched, then started rhythmically tapping on the door. And then I heard it, that rhyme, that horrible, gurgling rhyme. It came echoing out from the door in that same

choked voice, like a forgotten wound from long ago. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. It felt like I was in some sort of nightmare, but I knew from the sweat dripping down my forehead and the sensation of cloth sheets against my skin that this was all too real. Even a couple months later, I still remember that sensation of dread, the first of many terrors that this night would bring. I looked around for a weapon. All I found was a letter opener sitting next to some male on the nearby nightstand. I grabbed it, a flimsy piece of metal in my shaking hands. I was afraid to move, afraid to call out or do anything, out of fear it might shatter the stillness and cause that ineffable horror to come oozing out. I knew I didn't

want to see what was hiding behind that door. I looked at the open window. I was on the second floor. I was afraid to even breathe too loudly at that moment. With the letter opener in my hand, I tried to silently slide myself across the mattress to the window only a few feet away. The bed frame groaned softly as I shifted my weight. The breathing from the closet stopped abruptly. I heard the door creaking open, the floorboard shifting. Heavy steps started in the darkness, heading towards me. As I pushed myself off the bed, I glanced back and saw something twisted loping across the room on crooked legs. It was the crooked man, the nightmare for my childhood. He towered over me with a top hat that nearly scraped the ceiling. His lidless eyes were

pure darkness, as black as death. They contrasted heavily with his bone-white skin. His lips and fingernails were a suffocating, cyanotic blue, like the lips of a murder victim. He stood up tall. The bones in his freakishly long legs cracked as the many strange joints of his enormous limbs bent in ways no human limb should bend. His fingers were strange and misshapen, each a foot long. They ended in sharp points of bone that poked out through the dead, white skin. He wore a black suit on his tall, emaciated frame. He moved towards me like flashing static, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer in every moment. In panic and terror, I dived headfirst toward the open window, hearing the gurgling breathing

of the crooked man only a few feet behind me. I felt slashing talons of bone rip across my back, a burning pain and a feeling of blood soaking my shirt. Then I was flying out the window and falling headfirst towards the grass and bushes below. Time seemed to slow down as the ground rushed up to meet me. The wind whipped past my ears like the currents of a tornado. Instinctively, I tried to curl into a ball. As I smashed into the first of the bushes under my window, I rolled to try to put the brunt of the impact on my right shoulder. The thin branches of the bush crumpled under me like wet cardboard. I felt sharp sticks stabbing into my skin, opening up new slices and cuts to mix with the deep gashes on my back. I hit the dirt hard,

a sudden pain radiating through my back. A jarring sensation crashed through my body. I rolled as I hit the ground, smacking my head into the lawn. The world spun around me and went dark. Suddenly, I was somewhere else. I found myself standing in a dark factory, surrounded by debris. Broken glass covered the floor, twinkling like fireflies under the light of the distant streetlights outside. Strange graffiti covered the concrete walls all around me.

Don't look behind you, one of the tags read in slashing red letters. Underneath it, someone had spray-painted pure black eyes over a massive grinning mouth full of crooked black teeth. Destroy it with fire. Save your soul, another one read in small, blue letters. I ran my hands over my face, wondering if I was dreaming. This all felt so real. I could feel the gentle breeze blowing through the broken windows on my skin, hear the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside. I heard soft sobbing behind me.

I remembered the first graffiti tag I had seen and a sense of panic gripped my heart. I did not want to look back. Fuck, I swore under my breath, trembling as I turned. But I didn't find some eldritch monstrosity with obsidian teeth and black, lidless eyes waiting there. Instead, I found a woman. She was crying, her back turned to me. She wore a black funeral gown that looked ancient and decayed. With a trembling heart, I took a step forward, wondering if I would regret this.

Hello. I called out. She spun, her eyes widening. In front of me stood a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, one that I immediately recognized. for I saw many of my own features reflected in that panicked face, the high cheekbones, the large chin, even the waviness of her hair. Grandma, I whispered, looking around and wonder, What is this? Am I dead? She shook her head, her eyes still wet and red. She took a deep, shuddering breath and gave a faint smile. Jack, she said in a soft, melodic voice. I'm so happy to see you.

I've been watching you. I've been so proud of you. Even though we never met, I want you to know that. I wished I could have lived longer, could have met you. If only I hadn't been murdered by that thing, she spat the last word with hatred and fear oozing from her voice. I thought you died of cancer, Grandma. I asked. What do you mean, he killed you?

She shook like a leaf in the wind, refusing to meet my gaze. my gaze. Everyone in that place was touched by something evil, she murmured, putting her face in her hands. Her voice quavered like a frightened little girls. The sickness radiated from that thing. It followed us like a cancer, made us weak, and then took our breath away. After the long torture was finished, he came to strangle me. He didn't just kill me, Jack. He murdered my sister and brother, too. I saw it. Her head ratcheted up, looking behind me all of a sudden. Her eyes widened in terror. You need to kill it, Jack, she whispered grimly. He's woken up again after all these years, and he's starving. The crooked man must feed, and feed he will if you don't

stop him. You need to come to the factory and end it. Otherwise, he will keep on killing. The crooked man will never stop hunting you. He will kill you and everyone you love. How? I asked, afraid to look back as the disturbing sounds grew closer and closer. Grandma backpedaled quickly, as if the demons of hell were approaching. How? How do I end it? I heard a horrible, choked breathing behind me, then the world faded. I woke up suddenly on the lawn, my head pounding. It didn't seem like much time had passed. I must have knocked myself out. I raised my fingers to my forehead. My fingers came away slick with blood. For a long moment, I lay there, hyperventilating and looking up at the cloudless abyss of a sky. My body felt bruised and battered, and I wasn't even sure if I could

walk. Then I saw a pale, hairless visage peeking over the edge of the windowsill with eyes as dark as night. Its face split into a grin with a crack, making a sound like ripping plastic. The bone-white mask of dead skin looked at me with a feverish intensity, a kind of psychopathic hunger that radiated from every pore of his body. With horror, I saw the crooked man's teeth were as black as his eyes, gleaming like polished jetstone. A rush of adrenaline pushed me up from the ground. I realized I was tremendously lucky, that I had been laying there with my keys still in my pocket and my cell phone in hand, fully dressed except for the fact I was wearing slippers. I sprinted across the lawn towards my car. I heard the crooked

man scream out after me. You'll be with grandmother soon, Jackie Boy, he hissed in his gurgling voice. No one escapes. No one. I flew down the highway in my car, the phone in my trembling hand. Looking down at it, I called Iris right away. She answered grogily. Hello, she said. Jesus, Iris, it's after me, I said frantically. Something's happening. I got attacked in my own bedroom. Did you call the cops? She asked, seeming to wake up instantly. I looked down at the clock in the center console, seeing it was already past midnight. It wasn't a person. I saw something. I think it was the same thing that took those teenagers, and now it's after me.

Are you guys home? There was a long pause on the other end. I heard whispering in the background. Yeah, sure, come over, she said. I knew Ben was somewhat of a gun nut and had a nice little collection at the house. I would feel much safer if I made it there. And if I had them on my side, that would be all the better. Ben and Iris lived in the middle of a back road surrounded by forests.

The dark trees loomed overhead like priests with their heads bowed. The light from their front porch streamed into the creeping shadows as I pulled into their driveway. The sound of the car idling seemed far too loud in this place where the woods closed and all around me. I didn't know what was hiding in those trees. I immediately shut it off. Ben was a veteran who knew much more about combat and guns than I did. His collection was also somewhat impressive, an Armolite AR-15, a judge, a 12-gauge Benelli, two crappy little point-22s, a .45 Ruger, a nozzleer 21 and a 10-gauge Mossberg.

I had gone out shooting with him and Iris quite a few times. I would feel much safer once I was inside. The cloudless black sky hung overhead like the low. lid of a coffin. Their little two-story place with a wrap-round porch looked quaint, almost like a little rural cabin. I stumbled out of the car. I'm sure I was quite a sight, battered and covered in clotting gashes and cuts, my eyes wide and panicked. I constantly looked around, checking my back. Every time I did, I expected to see something there, something close by with blue lips like a corpse and deformed, twisting bones. I had nearly gotten to the front of the house

when I saw, through the narrow sidelines at top of the door, the face of the crooked man standing only feet away, I heard faint gurgling of his diseased breathing even through the wall. His hairless face was split into a grin like a death's head, his lidless eyes bulging and excited. He raised his misshapen fingers to the window and gave me a little wave, opening and closing his fingers slowly. Then he turned and disappeared deeper into the house. I immediately tried opening the door, to yell to Iris and Ben to watch out, but the door was locked.

I called Iris. Each ring seemed to take an eternity. Finally, she answered. Hello. What, are you here, she asked. Iris. Get the fuck out of the house. You and Ben aren't alone in there.

There's a man coming in your direction right now. I screamed, panicked. Jump out the window if you have to. It's coming, what? she said, sounding alarmed and confused. Are you being serious? I heard soft murmuring in the background. Tell Ben to grab a gun right now. I started to say, but a high-pitched scream carried through the phone and the house at that

moment. Iris? Answer me. I said. The call immediately went dead. From inside, I heard the first of the gunshots. At that point, I decided to run back to my car. I needed to get inside and help them. A small voice in the back of my mind asked me what I could possibly do, however. If an AR-15 or a lead slug from a 12-gauge couldn't stop the crooked man, then what could? At that moment, I wished fervently that Grandma would have told me. I grabbed a tire iron from the back of my trunk and sprinted back toward the front of the house. They had large windows leading into the kitchen from their wraparound porch. Without hesitation, I drew the tire iron back and smashed it. The tinkling of glass seemed explosively loud. I realized that the gunshots and screaming

had stopped. At that moment, something pale came scurrying around the side of the building. I jumped, but I looked over and realized it was Iris, dressed in a white hoodie in white pants. Her pale face was contorted with mortal terror. To my horror, I realized hundreds of small drops spattered her clothes, covering her face and body like crimson raindrops. She had the point four five Ruger in her hands, and she was limping. where's Ben? I cried. She shook her head. I jumped out the bedroom window, he was behind me, she said. Suddenly, there was another explosion of glass from behind the house. Something heavy thudded hard against the ground. We heard wretched wailing follow it. Looking at each other with horrified eyes,

we both turned and ran towards the noise. We found Ben laying on the lawn. The right side of his neck was nearly severed. Bright red streams of blood spurted from the mutilated flesh. His back looked broken as well. He laid there like a hornet smashed under someone's boot. With dilated eyes, he looked from me to iris. Terror and agony oozed from his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a frothy puddle of blood came up. his eyes turned away, looking straight up into the cloudless black void of a sky. The last exhalation came, the death gasped that bubbled and stretched out until I thought it might never end.

He died staring into that abyss, that eternity from which no one returns. I grabbed Iris and pulled her toward the car. She stood like a statue, resistant and unmoving. Iris, we need to go. I hissed. She seemed to wake up then, looking at it. at me. Then she looked past me, her eyes glancing up and widening with horror. I turned, seeing the crooked man peering down from the upstairs window, his top hat balanced on his

alien skull, a grin of sadistic glee marring his face. We need to leave, I repeated, pulling her. She came willingly. We stumbled away from the corpse of Ben. The crooked man's black eyes followed us like cameras. I got her in the car and peeled out of there. Every time I closed my eyes, though, even just a blink, I would catch a glimpse of the crooked man's smiling visage. Where are we going? Iris called. We need to call the cops. My phone is upstairs on the floor somewhere. The cops aren't going to help us, I said. That thing isn't human. It can go wherever it wants, apparently. You think a police station would protect us. The cops would leave for a few minutes and come back to find us dead.

We need to end this. We need to go to the abandoned factory, the abandoned factory. Iris asked, confused. I told her the story, everything that had happened up to that point, even the vision of my grandmother. That's fucking nuts, Iris muttered. This whole thing is crazy. There's no way there's actually such a thing as a crooked. I look at man shit like that doesn't happen in real life. It's got to be a serial killer in some sort of weird costume. You know it's not, I answered. You saw that thing.

That's no mask. I sped on the highway at 100 miles an hour toward Union, toward the abandoned factory where this had all started so many years ago. As we pulled into the cracked lot surrounding the old, rundown building, a sense of overwhelming dread crashed through my chest. I felt like I was stuck in some cyclical nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. I pulled out a cigarette and lighter from my cup holder and lit it. Iris gave me a strange look. This is probably my last cigarette, I said. Might as well enjoy it. Iris didn't say anything, her dilated eyes simply flicking around randomly. She looked like she was

still partially in shock. Slowly, she got out of the car, limping across the parking lot by my side. I hurt my ankle when I jump from the window, she said. I don't think I'm going to be doing much running. It feels swollen. I'm just glad you still have the point four five, I said. Though I wish you had grabbed the AR. She shook her head. Ben shot that thing with a 10-gauge shotgun in the chest. With a slug, she said. It didn't work. The pistol might slow it down, but it's not going to kill it.

We need to find another way. I remembered the graffiti in the factory, destroy it with fire. Save Your Soul, we found a threshold in the back where the door was totally knocked off the hinges. It lay on top of crunching shards of glass and layers of thick dust. Old rectangular tables were still. nailed into the wooden floor, their surfaces pockmarked and covered in grime. Most of the windows had giant, spiderwebbing cracks running through the glass, though some

were just smashed entirely. I had never been here, but as I walked further in, I realized it was exactly the same as I had seen in my vision with my grandmother. Even the same graffiti was there. Don't look behind you, was splayed across the wall in giant letters. Look, this place is creepy, Iris whispered. She held the rougar clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white. Where do we go? I'm not sure, I said.

I think we're supposed to burn something. Maybe we should just burn down the whole factory. Iris gave me a funny look. That's your plan. Lighting an abandoned building on fire, she asked with an expression of grave concern. Let's look around, I said. Maybe we're supposed to find something. We descended deeper into the factory, through more identical rooms that looked like they were

from the apocalypse. At the end, I found old, concrete steps leading down into the pitch-black basement. I pulled out my cell phone, shining the LED light down the steps. Iris gave me a worried look. Let's go, I whispered grimly. I felt watched here, even more than at Iris House. I knew the crooked man was near, biting his time, playing with his food like a cat with a mouse. The steps led into a concrete boiler room with ancient, rusted machinery still welded into the floor.

All over the dark walls, someone had spray-painted pictures of extended, contorted arms and limbs with fingers like talons. There was a smell down here, too, a smell like rotting bodies. As we got to the center, I heard crying behind us. I turned to see my grandmother, pale and ghostly, crying into her hands. Grandma! I whispered. Iris looked at me, confused. Who are you talking to? she asked.

I shook my head. My grandmother looked up at me, fresh tears in her ghostly eyes. Jack, you need to burn it, my grandmother said with a quaver in her voice. The corpse of the owner, the one who killed us all, it's hidden in the surge pump. We came together to end it, to end the deaths, but it didn't stop it. Somehow, he's still connected to this world through that body. It's been in there, festering like an open wound for who knows how long, I looked at the surge pump across the room. Iris could apparently neither see nor hear my grandmother. It's in there, I murmured, pointing at the pump.

We need to burn the body hidden in there. The surge pump had valves and a giant wheel at the end. It was a horizontal cylinder that looked just big enough to stuff a man's body into. The rusted pipes grew smaller as they crawled up the wall. I put my hands on the rusted wheel and turned. It looked like something from a submarine door. With a squeal of tortured metal, the surge pump began opening. It was difficult going. Iris came and put her small body behind it, and I felt it turning faster. How are we going to burn it, though? I asked myself, grunting through the effort. Looking behind the surge pump, I found the answer. A fairly fresh dead body lay there hidden under the metal of the surge pump, holding a small

can of gasoline. It looked like a young man in his twenties with dark hair and tanned skin. His arms and legs had been ripped off, and now only a decomposing torso and head remained. Another victim of the Crooked Man? Iris asked. He was so close, I wondered, at that moment, how many others had been drawn here, how many victims the Crooked Man was hunting. I grabbed the gasoline. I heard a skittering of feet behind us.

Iris backpedaled and gave a horrified scream. In terror, I looked behind us and saw the crooked man, flanked by the transformed bodies of seven children. Their arms and legs had all grown in humanly long, bending in strange places like crooked stalks. Their faces have become like the crooked man's, their eyes black and lips blue, their teeth long and dark, their movements jerky and eerie. Iris raised the Ruger. In that concrete tomb, the gunshots reverberated like exploding missiles, deafening me. With waves of adrenaline shaking every muscle in my body, I swung the end of the surge pump open. Stuffed into the narrow metal steel tube, I saw a mummified corpse covered in tattered rags. Its grinning skull was a mass

of cobwebs and dead insects. I unscrewed and overturned the gas can, then pushed it quickly into the tunnel. It just fit through the narrow enclosure. The gunshots ended as abruptly as they had started. Beside me, Iris was still frantically pulling the trigger, her face a broken mask of shell shock. I dared not look back as I pulled the lighter out and flicked it. With my ears ringing from the gunshot still, I couldn't hear a thing, though the ringing had started to slowly fade. A wave of cold, dead flesh crashed into my back. I went flying forward. Next to me, Iris threw the empty pistol at the nearest of the transformed children. It smacked the boy in the head with a dull crack, but his black, lidless eyes never looked away.

As I fell, the lighter touched the edge of the surge pump. A few drops of gas ignited, sizzling and dripping in liquid flames. After what felt like an eternal moment, the rest of it lit up with a wump and a flash of burning heat. The crooked man started wailing, a tortured, diseased wailing that seemed like it had the voices of many screaming children mixed in with it. I knocked hard to the ground, slamming my head against the concrete floor. Four of the children used their bent, stick-like arms to gingerly pull the burning mummy out of the metal tomb, their claws talons of fingers grabbing the burning flesh without hesitation. On the other side of the room, the form of the crooked man started

to blacken and drip as his mummy did the same. Next to me, a transformed girl in blood-stained rags held Iris arms tightly behind her back. Iris gave a scream of pain. I saw the demonic girl biting at Iris neck and shoulders over and over with her long, black teeth, ripping off strips of bloody skin and muscle between her blue, dead lips. She grinned as she bit and chewed. Iris struggled like a woman being burned alive, but the superhuman strength of the girl held Iris wrists pinned together behind her back with an iron grip. With the sound of hissing flames and shrieking echoing all around me, I watched as the children laid the burning body of the crooked man gingerly on the concrete floor. One by one, they laid down on it, smothering the fire with

their own pale bodies. The flames continued to whip and flicker for a long moment. The children bodies caught on fire, their white skin blackening in cooking. Even as they burned, though, the fire on the crooked man's body had started to die down, and the mummified corpse wasn't even most of the way burned yet. No. I wailed, a sense of deep loss ripping its way through my heart. I saw Iris, too, her entire body covered in blood, her white clothes turned ruby red with blood and gore. She had stopped screaming and struggling by this point, even as the girl leaned forward and ripped her left ear off with her predatory teeth. The flesh gave a sickening, tearing sound as it came off.

Iris eyes rolled up in her head, showing only the whites as her teeth chattered. The demonic girl laughed and pushed the limp form of Iris forward. Her still body spurred blood from dozens of deep gashes. Her legs and arms twitched, as if she were seizing. I found myself alone with these abominations. The crooked man's screaming stopped suddenly. He stepped forward, his bleached white skin blackened and peeling now. His clothes had nearly burned off, and his top hat stood as a smouldering pile of ashes.

Yet he still moved fast, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer, his misshapen legs jerkily skittering to the left and right in rhythmic cracks. Then he was standing over me, a pillar of burnt skin and insanity. With his sharp fingers, he reached down and grabbed me. I blacked out at that moment, and merciful oblivion took over my mind. I don't remember much of the next couple months. I woke up in some strange, otherworldly city where the sky rained fire and corpses hung from lampposts all down the street.

Empty skyscrapers filled with skeletons and spiderwebs stretched around me, seemingly forever. I could see no end to the city in any direction, even from the top of that. highest buildings. The world there was always dark, the sky always black and cloudless as drops of burning flame fell from it, searing me whenever I tried to go outside. I wandered there constantly, the crooked man always behind me. As I wasted away in that land of shadows, he grew stronger, his body healing slowly. I felt something vital and deep within my heart drained more and more, day by day, until I was no more than a walking skeleton clad in rags, hopeless and insane. After what felt like an eternity of endless nights in that place, waking up to see the

crooked man grinning over me, it abruptly changed. One day, I woke up at the edge of some woods in a light drizzle, the rain soaking my threadbare clothes. My emaciated body shivered constantly. I started crawling out to find help. With the last of my strength, I pushed myself off the ground. Behind me, I heard a gurgling voice ringing out from every tree. I'll be with you until the end, Jack. I need you just as you need me. For the more who know my story, the more fear will spread,

and I will be able to come into their homes next. For this, you must live. But I will always be watching you, and soon, we will be reunited. To me, you must always return. A driver found me wandering the roads, shell-shocked and half-mad, about 20 minutes later. The police came, surprised to see me still alive. Apparently, I had been missing for over two months. They had found the bodies of Iris and Ben, and assumed that I had been abducted and killed

by the same serial killer. I tried to explain the true story over and over to anyone who would listen, but they simply gave me sickening looks of pity and ordered an involuntary commitment to a psych ward. After a few days in the psych ward, they reluctantly released me. No one believed a word I had said. The cops thought it was some sort of mass psychosis, I'm sure, some urban legend that delusional idiots had come to believe was real. But I know it was real.

I know my days are numbered. It might look like a suicide or a murder or an accident, but, in the end, the crooked man always comes back and takes what's his. I remember when I first heard the rhyme as a child. It terrified me. To me, the crooked man was some sort of boogeyman with freakishly long arms and legs that were twisted and broken in horrifying ways. I still have the rhyme memorized. It repeats in my brain like a skipping record.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence against a crooked style, he bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house. My brother Benton, who loved to torture me as a child, ended up adding his own parts to the rhyme over time. The extra parts he added did nothing to console me or end my nightmares of this twisted boogeyman who always seemed to slink through the shadows. I remember the rhyme Benton told me by heart to this day. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. The crooked man twists and crawls. He uses his crooked blade to kill. And when the curtain of night falls, he comes to get his thrill. So I found it strange when, a few weeks

ago, I was sitting with a couple of my friends drinking and the subject of the crooked man came up again. They were rambling about shootings and serial killers and other fairly interesting subjects that I knew almost nothing about. But my friend Iris knew everything about such morbid subjects. She was a small drink of water, no more than five feet, with platinum blonde hair and green eyes like a cat. She was extremely attractive with high cheekbones and a small nose and chin. She always talked extremely fast and made violent slashing gestures with her hands. Sometimes I wondered if she had a secret amphetamine habit I didn't know about. But did you hear about the murders in Union? Iris asked, glancing over at her boyfriend,

Ben was the opposite of iris, tall and nerdy with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a low whisper of a voice. I just heard that some kids went missing, Ben murmured. I shrugged. I don't watch TV, I said. The news is all bullshit anyway. They only show you the bad stuff. After all, no one wants to hear about new breakthroughs in fusion technology or discoveries in particle physics. Instead, people just want to watch others get murdered, robbed and beaten, so that they can feel that at least someone else has it worse than them.

That's all the news is, really, a form of schadenfreude, the joy people get from seeing others' misfortune and suffering. Our entire media industry is built on a foundation of schadenfreude. I took a long sip from my beer, a harpoon that tasted like pure raspberries. Iris rolled her eyes. While probably true, I don't care, she said, turning her green eyes on me. Don't you want to know what happened to the kids? I do, Ben said, leaning forward. Was it something, supernatural? Iris gave a sardonic laugh at that. Ben sat back, offended. What's so funny? I heard there was weird stuff going on around that factory.

In fact, I heard they used to manufacture some dye there for clocks and stuff. right? So all these people went to work, painting watches and clocks and whatever else they told them to paint. It was this special green dye that would glow in the dark. The factory was staffed by mostly women, and I heard they used to lick their paintbrushes to form them into points. They figured this stuff was just regular paint that glowed in the dark. I leaned back, interested. Ben started talking faster, getting more animated. So what happened? I asked, my curiosity peaked. Well, the workers started getting cancer and dying in huge numbers, Ben continued as the kitchen light sparkled off his glasses.

One woman even had her entire jaw rot off. Others had pieces of their faces falling off. So it turns out, they were using radioactive isotopes to make the paint glow. And these women were just licking the paintbrushes and touching the paint. Holy shit, I whispered, horrified. They called them the radium girls, Ben said. That factory killed hundreds and hundreds of people. That's why a lot of people think it's haunted.

People claim they see ghosts and weird shit around it. And that's not all. The case gets even weirder when you look at workers' families. It seems a lot of their kids went missing, too. The cops never found any of them. The entire time the factory was operational, and even after it shut down, The families of the workers kept having strange things happen, children disappearing from their bedrooms in the middle of the night. Strange murders and unexplained suicides that kept killing off healthy, normal people all over town.

So, anyways, Iris continued, looking slightly annoyed at the interruption, the kids that went into that abandoned factory were all found, torn apart. Their limbs were all amputated and crooked. She leaned forward, using her spooky campfire voice. and the limbs were long, freakishly long, as if they had just grown overnight to inhuman lengths before they got lopped off. But they never found the heads or the torsos. All they found was ten legs and ten arms, and no one knows what happened. I asked. She shook her head. Officially, no. The police and media said it was some sort of serial killer, of course. But there wasn't a shred of evidence anywhere.

It was like a ghost had done it. Where the limbs were piled up in the basement, there was no evidence that anyone had been there in months, no footsteps or microscopic evidence of any presence. But the story doesn't end there. Because there were six teenagers that went into that building, and one of them was found alive three months later, wandering, covered in blood and scratches,

mostly naked and totally insane. One of my friends is an EMT and she said that the kid would not stop talking about the crooked man taking his friends and keeping him prisoner in some other world. At the mention of those words, the crooked man, a chill went down my spine. My heart felt like ice. What did you say? What did the kid say? I asked anxiously. Suddenly the room felt very hot, and the alcohol was not sitting well in my stomach.

He said he got kidnapped by someone called. called the crooked man, Iris repeated, taking a long sip from her wine. According to the kid, it was some sort of fucking monster, apparently. I think his mind must have just snapped. He was probably kidnapped and held in a basement of some serial killer for three goddamn months. Who knows what he saw and experienced? People make up all sorts of crazy shit when they're traumatized. My hand was shaking so badly that I had to put my bottle down on the table. For the some reason, my mind kept flashing back to my sister, Amelia, who had been kidnapped from her room in the middle of the night when my brother Benton and I were little. She had never

been found. We had never gotten a ransom note or found a body. It was as if Amelia had simply disappeared, vanished from the surface of the planet in an instant. I think some of that stuff is real, Ben said. People have been talking about cryptids and ghosts for thousands of years across countless different and unrelated cultures. What are the chances that all of them are just hallucinations or delusions? I didn't know, but I thought I might know someone who might. My brother Benton was a long-term drug addict living in a flop house. I went to see him the next morning. He opened the door with a glazed, half-aware expression. Scars covered his arms and legs. He looked like a walking skeleton. His eyes shone like the last bit of

at the bottom of a dying well. Jack, he said, surprised, appearing to wake up slightly. What are you doing here? I need to talk to you, I said, pushing past him into the one-bedroom place he called home. A cockroach skittered across the wall. As he closed the door, I saw bites from bedbugs all over his body. Benton turned, spreading out his hands. Well, what is it, little brother? You know I'm all ears. You remember. You remember. that rhyme you used to scare me with when we were little. I asked. That rhyme you made up about the crooked man. He seemed to go a shade paler. I didn't make anything up, he said. That rhyme came from Grandma. She told it to Dad when he was little, before she died, Grandma. I asked,

startled. Our grandmother had died of cancer when she was extremely young, in her late 20s. Did you hear about the murders over in Union? The survivor was talking about the crooked man. That's pretty freaking weird, man, he said. Especially considering what happened to Grandma and Emilia, you know. He sat down on the threadbare mattress, laying back and sighing. Why is it weird? I asked.

Because, you know, that's where Grandma used to work. At that factory in Union. Didn't Dad ever tell you? I shook my head, feeling sick. So Grandma was one of the radium girls. I said, My brother shrugged his thin shoulders, the stained t-shirt clinging tight to his frail body.

I don't know what that is, but whatever she was doing there, it killed her. But what does that have to do with Amelia? I asked, my heart pounding at the mention of our long-lost little sister. He shook his head in wonder. You don't remember. You were older than me when it happened. Before she went missing, she kept talking about the same thing, saying weird stuff about some crooked man.

Don't you remember what happened the night she went missing? I thought back, but it all seemed like a blur. I remembered flashing police sirens and my parents screaming. I had tried to block it out, but apparently Benton hadn't been able to. That night must be like a fresh wound on his mind all the time. No, I just remembered, screaming, and police, I whispered, my voice trailing off into nothing. Benton leaned forward on the bed, looking sick. We both saw it, he said.

The crooked man. That thing she was talking about. It was real. We saw it in her room that night, when it took her. I shook my head, refusing to look at him. Feeling sick, I walked toward the door without looking back. Where are you going? I'm going home, I said. I can't deal with this shit right now. But that night, I would find out that the long-lost nightmare for my childhood was not nearly as

buried in the past as I thought. I was laying in my dark bedroom, reading the local news on my phone, when I saw an article that disturbed me greatly. I sat up, looking out the window into the cloudless night. The sky hung overhead like a black hole, colorless and empty. Fear radiated, through my heart as I glanced back down at the screen and started reading. Soul survivor of serial killer commits suicide, the article read in garish black and white letters. Michael Galantino, 18, was found dead in a psychiatric facility early this morning. In February, Michael Galantino and five others entered a local abandoned building. Friends who knew them stated that they often explored abandoned structures as part of an

urban exploration group. But this would not be a normal night for the group. They all disappeared, and within 24 hours, police and search teams have been dispatched to look for the missing teenagers. The house was silent. I read the rest of the article with bated breath, my eyes wide. Some of the details I already knew, but others, such as the radioactive isotopes found on the dismembered limbs of the victims, I did not. I wondered about that. The police claimed that, after finding this strange clue, they had sent a team to inspect the

abandoned factory with Geiger counters and look for signs of radioactivity. Perhaps the radium, which had a notoriously long half-life, had accumulated on the surfaces over the decades. But they said the radioactivity within the building was all within acceptable levels. It was just another bizarre piece of a puzzle that no one could solve. The house was deathly silent. I could hear my own heart beating a runaway rhythm in my ears. A rising sense of anxiety was filling me, but I didn't know why.

It felt like some sort of pressure had changed all around me, as if the first wave of a massive blizzard had just blown into the room. I heard a creaking from across the dark room. At the same time, I felt a sting on my arm. I looked down, seeing a bedbug crawling across my skin, a small red welt rising in its wake. Fuck! I swore, grabbing it between my fingers and slicing it between my nails. Crimson spurted from its swollen body as if it were a tiny balloon.

It exploded, staining my fingers red with my own blood. I should have never gone to see my brother. God-damned bedbugs, I muttered to myself. I hoped that was the only one. If I had picked up some extra travelers at the flop house, I knew they would spread throughout the entire house within days. The creaking came again, louder this time, almost insistent. I glanced across the curtain of shadows that hung thick and black in the room, seeing the dark silhouette of my closet door swinging open. I could only stare, open-mouthed. A long moment

passed, and then I heard breathing. It came out, ragged and slow with long pauses, like the choking of a murder victim. Slowly, I raised my phone's dim light, shone. shining it across the room. On the closet door, I saw four inhumanly long, crooked fingers. They shone pale like the skin of a corpse. They twitched, then started rhythmically tapping on the door. And then I heard it, that rhyme, that horrible, gurgling rhyme. It came echoing out from the door in that same choked voice, like a forgotten wound from long

ago. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue, it felt like I was in some sort of nightmare, but I knew from the sweat dripping down my forehead and the sensation of cloth sheets against my skin that this was all too real. Even a couple months later, I still remember that sensation of dread, the first of many terrors that this night would bring. I looked around for a weapon.

All I found was a letter opener sitting next to some mail on the nearby nightstand. I grabbed it, a flimsy piece of metal in my shaking hands. I was afraid to move, afraid to call out or do anything, out of fear it might shatter the stillness and cause that ineffable horror to come oozing out. I knew I didn't want to see what was hiding behind that door. I looked at the open window. I was on the second floor. I was afraid to even breathe too loudly at that moment.

With the letter opener in my hand, I tried to silently slide myself across the mattress to the window only a few feet away. The bed frame groaned softly as I shifted my weight. The breathing from the closet stopped abruptly. I heard the door creaking open, the floorboard shifting. Heavy steps started in the darkness, heading towards me. As I pushed myself off the bed, I glanced back and saw something twisted loping across the room on crooked legs.

It was the crooked man, the nightmare for my childhood. He towered over me with a top. top hat that nearly scraped the ceiling. His lidless eyes were pure darkness, as black as death. They contrasted heavily with his bone white skin. His lips and fingernails were a suffocating, cyanotic blue, like the lips of a murder victim. He stood up tall. The bones in his freakishly long legs cracked as the many strange joints of his enormous limbs bent in ways no human limb should bend. His fingers were strange and misshapen, each a foot long. They ended in sharp points of bone that poked out through the dead, white skin.

He wore a black suit on his tall, emaciated frame. He moved towards me like flashing static, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer in every moment. In panic and terror, I dived headfirst toward the open window, hearing the gurgling breathing of the crooked man only a few feet behind me. I felt slashing talons of bone rip across my back, a burning pain and a feeling of blood soaking my shirt. Then I was flying out the window and falling head first towards the grass and bushes below. Time seemed to slow down as the ground rushed up to meet me. The wind whipped past

my ears like the currents of a tornado. Instinctively, I tried to curl into a ball. As I smashed into the first of the bushes under my window, I rolled to try to put the brunt of the impact on my right shoulder. The thin branches of the bush crumpled under me like wet cardboard. I felt sharp stick stabbing into my skin, opening up new slices and cuts to mix with the deep gashes on my back. I hit the dirt hard, a sudden pain radiating through my back. A jarring sensation crashed through my body. I rolled as I hit the ground, smacking my head into the lawn. The world spun around me and went dark.

Suddenly, I was somewhere else. I found myself standing in a dark factory, surrounded by debris. broken glass covered the floor, twinkling like fireflies under the light of the distant streetlights outside. Strange graffiti covered the concrete walls all around me. Don't look behind you, one of the tags read in slashing red letters. Underneath it, someone had spray painted pure black eyes over a massive grinning mouth full of crooked black teeth. Destroy it with fire. Save your soul, another one read in small, blue letters. I ran my hands over my face, wondering if I was dreaming.

This all felt so real. I could feel the gentle breeze blowing through the broken windows on my skin, hear the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside. I heard soft sobbing behind me. I remembered the first graffiti tag I had seen and a sense of panic gripped my heart. I did not want to look back. Fuck, I swore under my breath, trembling as I turned. But I didn't find some Eldritch monster.

with obsidian teeth and black, lidless eyes waiting there. Instead, I found a woman. She was crying, her back turned to me. She wore a black funeral gown that looked ancient and decayed. With a trembling heart, I took a step forward, wondering if I would regret this. Hello. I called out. She spun, her eyes widening. In front of me stood a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, one that I immediately recognized. For I saw many of my own features reflected in that panicked face, the high cheekbones, the large chin, even the waviness of her hair. Grandma, I whispered, looking around and wonder, What is this? Am I dead? She shook her head, her eyes still wet and red. She took a deep, shuddering breath and gave a faint smile.

Jack, she said in a soft, melodic voice. I'm so happy to see you. I've been watching you. I've been so proud of you. Even though we never met, I want you to know that. I wished I could have lived longer, could have met you. If only I hadn't been murdered by that thing, she spat the last word with hatred and fear oozing from her voice. I thought you died of cancer, Grandma.

I asked. What do you mean? He killed you. She shook like a leaf in the wind, refusing to meet my gaze. Everyone in that place was touched by something evil, she murmured, putting her face in her hands. Her voice quavered like a frightened little girls. The sickness radiated from that thing. It followed us like a cancer, made us weak, and then took our breath away. After the long torture was finished, he came to strangle me. He didn't just kill me. He didn't just kill me. me, Jack. He murdered my sister and brother, too. I saw it. Her head ratcheted up, looking behind me all of a sudden. Her eyes widened in terror. You need to kill it, Jack, she whispered grimly.

He's woken up again after all these years, and he's starving. The crooked man must feed, and feed he will if you don't stop him. You need to come to the factory and end it. Otherwise, he will keep on killing. The crooked man will never stop hunting you. He will kill you and everyone you love. How? I asked, afraid to look back as the disturbing sounds grew closer and closer. Grandma backpedaled quickly, as if the demons of hell were approaching. How? How do I end it? I heard a horrible, choked breathing behind me, then the world faded. I woke up suddenly on the lawn, my head pounding. It didn't seem like much time had passed.

I must have knocked myself out. I raised my fingers to my forehead. My fingers came away slick with blood. For a long moment, I lay there, hyperventilating and looking up at the cloudless abyss of a sky. My body felt bruised and battered, and I wasn't even sure if I could walk. Then I saw a pale, hairless visage peeking over the edge of the window sill with eyes as dark as night. Its face split into a grin with a crack, making a sound like ripping plastic.

The bone-white mask of dead skin looked at me with a feverish intensity, a kind of psychopathic hunger that radiated from every pore of his body. With horror, I saw the crooked man's teeth were as black as his eyes, gleaming like polished jetstone. A rush of adrenaline pushed me up from the ground. I realized I was tremendously lucky, that I had been laying there with my keys still in my pocket and my cell phone in hand, fully dressed except for the fact I was wearing slippers. I sprinted across the lawn towards my car. I heard the crooked man scream out after me. You'll be with grandmother soon, Jackie Boy, he hissed in his gurgling voice. No one escapes. No one. I flew down the highway in my car, the phone in my

trembling hand. Looking down at it, I called Iris right away. She answered grogily. Hello, she said. Jesus, Iris, it's after me, I said frantically. Something's happening. I got attacked in my own bedroom. Did you call the cops? She asked, seeming to wake up instantly. I looked down at the clock in the center console, seeing it was already past midnight. It wasn't a person. I saw something. I think it was the same thing that took those teenagers, and now it's after me. Are you guys home? There was a long pause on the other end.

I heard whispering in the background. Yeah, sure, come over, she said. I knew Ben was somewhat of a gun nut and had a nice little collection at the house. I would feel much safer if I made it there. And if I had them on my side, that would be all the better. Ben and Iris lived in the middle of a back road surrounded by forests. The dark trees loomed overhead like priests with their heads bowed. The light from their front porch streamed into the creeping shadows as I pulled into their driveway.

The sound of the car idling seemed far too loud in this place where the woods closed in all around me. I didn't know what was hiding in those trees. I immediately shut it off. Ben was a veteran who knew much more about combat and guns than I did. His collection was also somewhat impressive, an Armolite AR-15, a judge, a 12-gauge Benelli, two crappy little point-22s, a .45 Ruger, a nozzler 21 and a 10-gauge Mossberg. I had gone out shooting with him and Iris quite a few times. I would feel much safer once I was inside. The cloudless black sky hum overhead like the lid of a car.

coffin. Their little two-story place with the wraparound porch looked quaint, almost like a little rural cabin. I stumbled out of the car. I'm sure I was quite a sight, battered and covered in clotting gashes and cuts, my eyes wide and panicked. I constantly looked around, checking my back. Every time I did, I expected to see something there, something close by with blue lips like a corpse and deformed, twisting bones. I had nearly gotten to the front of the house. I had nearly gotten to the house when I saw, through the narrow sidelines at top of the door, the face of the crooked man standing only feet away, I heard faint gurgling of his diseased breathing even through the wall. His hairless face was split into a grin like a death's head, his lidless eyes bulging and

excited. He raised his misshapen fingers to the window and gave me a little wave, opening and closing his fingers slowly. Then he turned and disappeared deeper into the house. I immediately tried opening the door, to yell to Iris and Ben to watch out, but the door was locked. I called Iris. Each ring seemed to take an eternity. Finally, she answered. Hello. What, are you here, she asked. Iris. Get the fuck out of the house. You and Ben aren't alone in there. There's a man coming in your direction right now. I screamed, panicked. Jump out the window if you have to. It's coming, what?

She said, sounding alarmed and confused. Are you being serious? I heard soft murmuring in the background. Tell Ben to grab a gun right now. I started to say, but a high-pitched scream carried through the phone and the house at that moment. Iris? Answer me. I said.

The call immediately went dead. From inside, I heard the first of the gunshots. At that point, I decided to run back to my car. I needed to get inside and help them. A small voice in the back of my mind asked me what I could possibly do, however. If an AR-15 or a lead slug from a 12-gauge couldn't stop the crooked man, then what could? At that moment, I wished fervently that Grandma would have told me. I grabbed the tire iron from the back of my trunk and sprinted back toward the front of the house.

They had large windows leading into the kitchen from their wraparound porch. Without hesitation, I drew the tire iron back and smashed it. The tinkling of glass seemed explosively loud. I realized that the gunshots and screaming had stopped. At that moment, something pale came scurrying around the side of the building. I jumped, but I looked over and realized it was. was iris, dressed in a white hoodie and white pants. Her pale face was contorted with mortal terror. To my horror, I realized hundreds of small drops spattered her clothes, covering

her face and body like crimson raindrops. She had the point four-five Ruger in her hands, and she was limping. Where's Ben? I cried. She shook her head. I jumped out the bedroom window, he was behind me, she said. Suddenly, there was another explosion of glass from behind the house. Something heavy thudded hard against the ground. We heard wretched wailing follow it. Looking at each other with horrified eyes, we both turned and ran towards the noise. We found Ben laying on the lawn. The right side of his neck was nearly severed. Bright red streams of blood spurted from the mutilated flesh. His back looked broken as well. He laid there like a hornet smashed under someone's boot. With dilated eyes, he looked from me to iris. Terror and

agony oozed from his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a frothy puddle of blood came up. Then his eyes turned away, looking straight up into the cloudless black void of a sky. The last exhalation came, the death gasped that bubbled and stretched out until I thought it might never end. He died staring into that abyss, that eternity from which no one returns. I grabbed Iris and pulled her toward the car. She stood like a statue, resistant and unmoving. Iris, we need to go. I hissed. She seemed to wake up then, looking at me. Then she looked past me, her eyes glancing up and widening with horror. I turned, seeing the crooked man peering down from the upstairs window, his top hat balanced on his

alien skull, a grin of sadistically marring his face. We need to leave, I repeated, pulling her. She came willingly. We stumbled away from the corpse of Ben. The crooked man's black eyes followed us like cameras. I got her in the car and peered. out of there. Every time I closed my eyes, though, even just to blink, I would catch a glimpse of the crooked man's smiling visage. Where are we going? Iris called. We need to call the cops. My phone is upstairs on the floor somewhere. The cops aren't going to help us, I said. That thing isn't human. It can go wherever it wants, apparently. You think a police station would protect us. The cops would leave for a few minutes and come back to find us dead. We need to end

this. We need to go to the abandoned factory, the abandoned factory. Iris asked, confused. I told her the story, everything that had happened up to that point, even the vision of my grandmother. That's fucking nuts, Iris muttered. This whole thing is crazy. There's no way there's actually such a thing as a crooked man shit like that doesn't happen in real life. It's got to be a serial killer in some sort of weird costume. You know it's not, I answered. You saw that thing. That's no mask. I sped on the highway at 100 miles an hour toward Union, toward the abandoned factory where this had all started so many years ago. As we pulled into the cracked lot surrounding the old, run-down building, a sense of overwhelming dread crashed through my chest.

I felt like I was stuck in some cyclical nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. I pulled out a cigarette and lighter from my cup holder and lit it. Iris gave me a strange look. This is probably my last cigarette, I said. Might as well enjoy it. Iris didn't say anything, her dilated eyes simply flicking around randomly. She looked like she was still partially in shape. shock. Slowly, she got out of the car, limping across the parking lot by my side. I hurt my ankle

when I jump from the window, she said. I don't think I'm going to be doing much running. It feels swollen. I'm just glad you still have the point four five, I said. Though I wish you had grabbed the AR. She shook her head. Ben shot that thing with a 10-gauge shotgun in the chest. With a slug, she said. It didn't work. The pistol might slow it down, but it's not going to kill it. We need to find another way. I remembered the graffiti in the factory, destroy it with fire.

Save Your Soul, we found a threshold in the back where the door was totally knocked off the hinges. It lay on top of crunching shards of glass and layers of thick dust. Old rectangular tables were still nailed into the wooden floor, their surfaces pockmarked and covered in grime. Most of the windows had giant, spiderwebbing cracks running through the glass, though some were just smashed entirely. I had never been here, but as I walked further in, I realized it was exactly the same as I had seen in my vision with my grandmother. Even the same graffiti was there.

Don't look behind you, was splayed across the wall in giant letters. Fuck, this place is creepy, Iris whispered. She held the ruger clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white. Where do we go? I'm not sure, I said. I think we're supposed to burn something. Maybe we should just burn down the whole factory. Iris gave me a funny look. That's your plan.

Lighting an abandoned building on fire, she asked with an expression of grave concern. Let's look around, I said. Maybe we're supposed to find something. We descended deeper into the factory, through more identical rooms that looked like they were from the apocalypse. At the end, I found old, concrete steps leading down into the pitch-black basement. I pulled out my cell phone, shining the LED light down the steps. Iris gave me a worried look. Let's go, I whispered grimly.

I felt watched here, even more than at Iris House. I knew the crooked man was near, biting his time, playing with his food like a cat with a mouse. The steps led into a concrete boiler room with ancient. rusted machinery still welded into the floor. All over the dark walls, someone had spray-painted pictures of extended, contorted arms and limbs with fingers like talons. There was a smell down here, too, a smell like rotting bodies. As we got to the center, I heard crying behind us.

I turned to see my grandmother, pale and ghostly, crying into her hands. Grandma! I whispered. Iris looked at me, confused. Who are you talking to? she asked. I shook my head. My grandmother looked up at me, fresh tears in her ghostly eyes. Jack, you need to burn it, my grandmother said with a quaver in her voice. The corpse of the owner, the one who killed us all, it's hidden in the surge pump. We came together to end it, to end the deaths, but it didn't stop it. Somehow, he's still connected to this world

through that body. It's been in there, festering like an open wound for who knows how long, I looked at the surge pump across the room. Iris could apparently neither see nor hear my grandmother. It's in there, I murmured, pointing at the pump. We need to burn the body hidden in there. The surge pump had valves and a giant will at the end. It was a horizontal cylinder that looked just big enough to stuff a man's body into. The rusted pipes grew smaller as they crawled up the wall. I put my hands on the rusted wheel and turned. It looked like something from a submarine door. With a squeal of tortured metal, the surge pump began opening. It was difficult going. Iris came and put her small body behind it, and I felt it turning

faster. How are we going to burn it, though? I asked myself, grunting through the effort. Looking behind the surge pump, I found the answer. A fairly fresh day. dead body lay there hidden under the metal of the surge pump, holding a small can of gasoline. It looked like a young man in his twenties with dark hair and tan skin. His arms and legs have been ripped off, and now only a decomposing torso and head remained. Another victim of the crooked man? Iris asked. He was so close, I wondered, at that moment, how many others had been drawn here, how many victims the crooked man was hunting. I grabbed the gas. I grabbed the I heard a skittering of feet behind us.

Iris backpedaled and gave a horrified scream. In terror, I looked behind us and saw the crooked man, flanked by the transformed bodies of seven children. Their arms and legs had all grown inhumanly long, bending in strange places like crooked stalks. Their faces have become like the crooked man's, their eyes black and lips blue, their teeth long and dark, their movements jerky and eerie. Iris raised the Ruger. In that concrete tomb, the gunshots reverberated like exploding missiles, deafening me. With waves of adrenaline shaking every muscle in my body, I swung the end of the surge pump open. Stuffed into the narrow metal steel tube, I saw a mummified corpse covered in tattered rags.

Its grinning skull was a mass of cobwebs and dead insects. I unscrewed and overturned the gas can, then pushed it quickly into the tunnel. It just fit through the narrow enclosure. The gunshots ended as abruptly as they had started. Beside me, Iris was still frantically pulling the trigger, her face a broken mask of shell-shock. I dared not look back as I pulled the lighter out and flicked it. With my ears ringing from the gunshot still, I couldn't hear a thing, though the ringing had started to slowly fade. A wave of cold, dead flesh crashed into my back.

I went flying forward. Next to me, Iris threw the empty pistol at the nearest of the transformed children. It smacked the boy in the head with a dull crack, but his black, lidless eyes never looked away. As I fell, the lighter touched the edge of the surge pump. A few drops of gas ignited, sizzling and dripping in liquid flames. After what felt like an eternal moment, the rest of it lit up with a wump and a flash of burning heat. The crooked man started wailing, a tortured, diseased wailing. that seemed like it had the voices of many screaming children mixed in with it.

I knocked hard to the ground, slamming my head against the concrete floor. Four of the children used their bent, stick-like arms to gingerly pull the burning mummy out of the metal tomb, their claws talons of fingers grabbing the burning flesh without hesitation. On the other side of the room, the form of the crooked man started to blacken and drip as his mummy did the same. Next to me, a transformed girl in blood-stained rags held iris arms tightly behind her back. Iris gave a scream of pain. I saw the demonic girl biting at Iris neck and shoulders over and over with her long, black teeth, ripping off strips of bloody skin and muscle between her blue, dead lips. She grinned as she bit and chewed. Iris struggled

like a woman being burned alive, but the superhuman strength of the girl held Iris wrists pinned together behind her back with an iron grip. With the sound of hissing flames and shrieking echoing all around me, I watched as the children laid the burning body of the crooked man gingerly on the concrete floor. One by one, they laid down on it, smothering the fire with their own pale bodies. The flames continued to whip and flicker for a long moment. The children's bodies caught on fire, their white skin blackening and cooking. Even as they burned, though, the fire on the crooked man's body had started to die down,

and the mummified corpse wasn't even most of the way burned yet. No. I wailed, a sense of deep loss ripping its way through my heart. I saw Iris, too, her entire body covered in blood, her white clothes turned ruby red with blood and gore. She had stopped screaming and struggling by this point, even as the girl leaned forward and ripped her left ear off with her predatory teeth. The flesh gave a sickening, tearing sound as it came off. Iris eyes rolled up in her head, showing only the whites as her teeth chattered. The demonic girl laughed and pushed the limp form of iris forward. Her still body spurted blood from dozens of deep gashes. Her legs and arms twitched, as if she were seizing.

I found myself alone with these abominations. The crooked man's screaming stopped suddenly. He stepped forward, his bleached white skin blackened and peeling now. His clothes had nearly burned off, and his top hat stood as a smouldering pile of ashes. Yet he still moved fast, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer, his misshapen legs jerkily skittering to the left and right in rhythmic cracks. Then he was standing over me, a pillar of burnt skin and insanity. With his sharp fingers, he reached down and grabbed me. I blacked out at that moment, and merciful oblivion took over my mind. I don't remember much of the next couple months. I woke up in some strange, otherworldly city where the sky reigned fire and corpses hung from

lampposts all down the street. Empty skyscrapers filled with skeletons and spiderweb stretched around me, seemingly forever. I could see no end to the city in any direction, even from the top of the highest buildings. The world there was always dark, the sky always black and cloudless as drops of burning flame fell from it, searing me whenever I tried to go outside. I wandered there constantly, the crooked man always behind me. As I wasted away in that land of shadows, he grew stronger, his body healing slowly. I felt something vital and deep within my heart drained more and more, day by day,

until I was no more than a walking skeleton clad in rags, hopeless and insane. After what felt like an eternity of endless nights in that place, waking up to see the crooked man grinning over me, it abruptly changed. One day, I woke up at the edge of some woods in a light drizzle, the rain soaking my threadbare clothes. My emaciated body shivered constantly. I started crawling out to find help. With the last of my strength, I pushed myself off the ground. Behind me, I heard a gurgling voice ringing out from every tree.

I'll be with you until the end, Jack. I need you just as you need me. For the more who know my story, the more fear will spread, and I will be able to come into their homes next. For this, you must live. But I will always be watching you, and soon, we will be reunited. To me, you must always return. A driver found me wandering the roads, shell-shocked and half-mad, about 20 minutes later. The police came, surprised to see me still alive. Apparently, I had been missing for over two months. They had found the bodies of Iris and Ben,

and assumed that I had been abducted and killed by the same serial killer. I tried to explain the true story over and over to anyone who would listen, but they simply gave me sickening looks of pity and ordered an involuntary commitment to a psych ward. After a few days in the psych ward, they reluctantly released me. No one believed a word I had said. The cops thought it was some sort of mass psychosis, I'm sure, some urban legend that delusional idiots had come to believe was real. But I know it was real.

I know my days are numbered. It might look like a suicide or a murder or an accident, but, in the end, the crooked man always comes back and takes what's his. There had to be something inside that old shack. It was too boarded up, not just your run-of-the-mill abandoned building kind of boarded up. Someone had gone out of their way to make sure nobody got inside. I mean, who uses perfectly measured, store-bought MDF panels to seal up a rickety, weather-beaten shack in the middle of nowhere. If all you wanted was to keep animals out, you'd just nail a couple of old planks across the door, right?

No, this was different. Someone wanted whatever was inside to stay inside. And I wanted to know why. Now, I'm not exactly a professional when it comes to breaking and entering, but it doesn't take an expert to know how to pry some would lose. with a crowbar. Lucky for me, I had the best crowbar money couldn't buy. This beauty had history. It was the same crowbar my dad used to take down his old treehouse, and my granddad before him did the same. A generational tool passed down for one noble purpose, tearing down childish things and moving on. I, on the other hand, had never had a treehouse of my own. Never

had anything to dismantle in the name of growing up. But looking at that shack, I figured maybe, just maybe, I could turn whatever was left into something of my own. You know, after I ransacked the place. The first board gave way with a satisfying squeal, the kind that makes your teeth tingle and your heart race. A good, solid nail squeak is something special, like a reminder that you're really making progress. But as the nails pulled free, I noticed something off. The shack looked ancient from the outside, all gray. splintering wood and rotting beams, but the way these boards were attached told a different story.

The wood under the MDF was fresher than it had any right to be. Someone had been here. Recently. And that could only mean one thing, something valuable was inside. I worked carefully, prying loose each board and resisting the urge to take a peek until I had a full view. Patience is a virtue, sure, but I had already spotted something strange through the widening gap. A faint, pulsing glow. Black light, maybe.

And an electric hum, like an old neon sign struggling to stay lit. My fingers itched with excitement. I hung my crowbar on a couple of rusted nails jutting out of the wall, took a deep breath, and yanked the last board free. Then I stuck my whole damn arm in before I could think better of it. The space inside was smaller than I expected. Dark. Muggy.

and weirdly vibrant. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I wasn't alone. Across from me, silhouetted against that eerie glow, was a row of tiny figures sitting at what looked like a miniature bar. Heads bobbed. Feathers rustled. Birds. Not just any birds, crows.

A whole gang of them, perched on itty-bitty barstools, punched over tiny mugs of what looked like frothy beer. And they were staring right at it. me. One particularly large crow, pitch black and glossy, took a slow step forward. Its beady little eyes locked onto mine as it tilted its head. Then, with deliberate force, it lunged forward and pecked me square on the nose. Call. Now, I don't speak fluent crow, but that peck carried some serious weight. It wasn't just a warning, it was a statement. A challenge. The bird wobbled its head side to side, like it was sizing me up from every angle, making sure I understood exactly how

deep in shit I was. And when it was satisfied, it looked me dead in the eye and caught again. The room shifted. The atmosphere turned heavy, almost suffocating, like a bar fight was about to break out. A terrible, ridiculous bar fight. I tried to smile, maybe diffused the tension, but my attempt at a casual shrug only wedged me deeper into the hole I had crawled through. The other crows didn't take kindly to my awkward floundering. Barstools screeched across the floor as they pushed back from the bar, tiny mugs spilling over, wings unfurling in unison. A few started making unmistakable gestures.

One flapped its wings an inch apart while eyeing me up and down, as if to say, pathetic. Another lifted a wing, let it droop sadly, and shook its head. A brutal display of mockery. I had walked into a den of trash talking, beer drinking, fully armed birds. And they did not respect me. Somewhere behind the feathery peanut gallery, the bartender crow was losing his mind. He had been cawing non-stop, but now he was waving something at me. Something small, metallic, and unmistakably deadly.

A tiny shotgun. And those beady little eyes? Yeah, they were full of murder. Self-preservation finally kicked in. I twisted, scrambled, and yanked myself out of that shack, collecting a fair share of splinters in the process. I didn't stop to catch my breath until I had slapped the boards back up in a frenzied, uneven mess, making damn sure nobody else could make the same mistake I had.

I managed to retrieve my crowbar. That was the only good news. And you know what? I did build myself a treehouse after all. Then I tore it down, set it on fire, and spit on the ashes. Because I am a man. At 6.30 in the morning on July 22, 1973, a man decided to go fishing. He chose a spot that seemed perfect for it, a small bridge located in Reading, in Suther County. But that day, he didn't find fish. Instead, he found the lifeless body of a 23-year-old girl named Nancy Fosse. The woman was a woman was. was partially dressed. She wore a miniskirt and bikini-style underwear. Near the body, a blouse was found. But the most shocking thing wasn't that. It was the cause of death, 29 stabbed wounds all over her body. It was a personal, passionate crime with a clear sexual

component. She was half-naked, lying on the ground next to the water. But there was no blood at the scene, which suggested the body had been moved there. They looked around and found tire tracks. Clearly, the body had been placed there. Unfortunately, the investigation was sloppy and rushed. Nancy Darlane Fosse, despite being so young, had five children. Five children from two different men. The first two were from her ex-boyfriend, and the next three from her ex-husband Jerry, a man with a bad reputation. They said he was violent, involved with gangs, an alcoholic, not a good man, and he had a record of abuse. In fact, Nancy had reported him. After they separated, the woman fled from him, took her kids, and tried to rebuild her life. She seemed to be doing

well. She had turned the page, but Jerry was stalking her. He would call mutual friends, family members, threaten her, follow her. He swore and swore again that one day he would kill her. So the case seemed open-end shut. But the police didn't see it that way, and Nancy Fossi's murder remains unsolved to this day. For some strange reason, the case was linked to serial killers. First to the Santa Rosa hitchhiker killer, then to Ted Bundy because of the nature of the crime. The strangest link was to the Zodiac killer, even though the modus operas. Randy didn't match. Still, the important thing is this, the crime was never solved, and the obvious suspect was ignored. It was clear that the culprit was Jerry, her ex-husband.

Even so, the police never investigated him or kept him under surveillance. They saw a woman with five kids had died, and those five kids had nowhere to go. They could have found a foster home, a good place for them. But the easiest thing was to hand them over to the victim's ex-husband. Even the older kids, who weren't biologically his, spoke with Jerry, asked if he wanted them. They told him that by taking them in, he'd receive some kind of pension or aid. Of course, he accepted. And that's when a new nightmare began. Jerry had a new partner at the time, a woman named Rebecca, and with her, he had three more children. Rebecca had been his mistress while he was with Nancy and got pregnant around the same time Nancy did. Still,

Jerry had no shame. He had two women, neither knowing about the other. And he had no remorse. Now he spoke to Rebecca about taking in the five kids, and with the pension involved, Rebecca agreed. But the house they lived and only had two bedrooms, and they would be ten people in total. Still, there was money involved. The five kids were just a little. The five kids were just a paycheck. They didn't want to care for them, raise them, give them a good life or education. They wanted the money. And as soon as the kids walked in the door, their lives became hell. Rebecca was a difficult woman, with a complicated personality, and she always favored her children over the others. Her kids had everything, new clothes, birthday gifts, Christmas presents,

special celebration surprises. Her three kids were the priority. other five were just there. She didn't care for them, didn't pay attention to them, didn't want anything to do with them. But if she was bad, Jerry was worse. He was an alcoholic, violent, and constantly lashed out at everyone. His main victim was Rebecca, he beat her, humiliated her, and once even took her to the garage, tied her up, poured gasoline on her, and tried to set her on fire. If it weren't for the children, she would have died. And even after that, Jerry continued. He kept abusing her, beating her, humiliating her, and the kids suffered too. He'd punish them by not letting them go out, not giving them food or water, and

beat them if they said they were hungry. It was horrific, inhuman. But among all the children, there was one who seemed to suffer more than the rest, Nancy Fosse and Jerry's eldest daughter, Angela Darland Fossi, born October 2, 1968. Her mother died when she was was only five years old. They had a strong bond, and Angela witnessed everything. The abuse, the escape, her mother's pain, her tears, they're fleeing. She saw it all. She suffered it. And now in Jerry's house, the hell continued. The rest of the kids, facing the abuse, stuck together, formed the tight group, became accomplices. But Angela was isolated. She didn't talked to anyone, didn't interact, barely raised her voice. And according to her siblings,

Jerry often stayed alone with her. Which suggested things were worse for her. Unfortunately, there's no evidence of what may have happened. The siblings believed Jerry abused her, but Angela never said anything. So whether it happened or not, she never spoke of it. After finishing high school, Angela packed her things and disappeared. They say she fell in love with the carnival worker and traveled the country with him. But as you can imagine, it wasn't a sweet love story with a happy ending. Angela became addicted to drugs. She stayed with this man, time passed, they broke up, and she met a truck driver named Anthony Maples, whom she fell madly in love with. The drug story repeated itself, only this time, it was worse.

The couple lost control, lived for drugs, and the relationship made no sense. They broke up, got back together, promised each other eternal love, broke up again. They had no idea what they were doing with their lives. But the one constant was drugs. At some point, they thought the solution to everything was to have kids. That children would fix the chaos. So they had three, Anthony Jr., Brandon, and little Jeanette Marie Maples, born on August 9, But as you can guess, the children weren't the answer. They didn't solve anything. The children

brought more chaos. In 1994, Angela and Anthony collapsed. They were arrested for a drug-related offense, and the three kids were left alone. That's when the system realized something was wrong. An unstable couple with addiction issues, alone with three children. Those three children were completely on their own. So social services stepped in. They went to the house, took the kids, and looked for a foster home. That's when they had the brilliant idea to contact Angela's father, Jerry. They spoke with him, asked if he'd take the kids, and mentioned he'd receive a small pension for each child. Jerry was thrilled. As soon as Angela got out of prison and found out, she demanded her kids back. But of course, it wasn't going to be easy.

A legal battle began, against Jerry and the system. Angela wasn't ready to be a mother. She had many issues, and Jerry was not fit to foster children either. But the system took a long time to realize this. Jerry kept the kids. Angela didn't get them back. Eventually, the children were placed in a foster home where they were apparently very happy. They were treated well, loved, and cared for.

Angela was granted weekly visits, but barely showed up. She'd missed them, arrive late, make excuses. There were always problems. For years, she didn't show real interest. But in 2001, she got another chance. A judge directly asked the three kids if they wanted to return to her. The answers were unexpected. Anthony Jr. flat out refused.

Brandon, too. But little Jeanette. who was eight at the time, said yes. She told the judge she loved her mother and missed her. And just for saying that, she went back to her. When they took Jeanette away, she was barely a year and a half. Since then, she'd only seen her mom once or twice a month. She'd get an occasional call, but not much else. Still, Jeanette wanted to be with her, and the judge took that seriously. The older kids stayed in the foster home, and Jeanette returned to Angela. Mother and daughter reunited in 2002.

Angela had proven herself stable, she had a good life, no addictions, and could now provide everything. She had married a man named Richard McEnolte, and they lived in a lovely house in Sacramento. A beautiful house with a nice garden, several bedrooms. A home in a good neighborhood. From the outside, they looked like the person. family. And Jeanette had a place with them. The little girl moved in. For a while, everything seemed fine. Angela got pregnant and gave birth to patients McAnulty. The family remained stable for several years. Neighbors said they seemed completely normal, and Jeanette was a sweetheart.

Loving, warm, very well-mannered. A happy, friendly little girl. At school, everyone adored her. said she was smart, got good grades, always played with others. They constantly said she was a joy, a bright light. But in 2005, the family decided to start fresh. Angela got pregnant again, and the house felt too small. In 2006, she gave birth to a boy named Richard Jr., and they packed up and moved to a city in Oregon. They looked for a large, spacious house with a garden and several rooms. They rented a place on Howard Avenue. Once there, Jeanette stood out again. Neighbors repeated what they always said, she was kind, polite, sweet, very open and friendly. At school, everyone loved her. She quickly won everyone's

affection. But soon, they realized something was wrong with this little girl. To be continued. The neighbors repeat the same, as always, that she was a tautil. attentive, polite, loving, very open, very friendly and, at school everyone adored her. In a short, time she won everyone's affection, but soon they realized that something was wrong with this little girl. Everything, started in a curious way. And it was that, overnight, Jeanette started to lose weight. She looked thinner, with, dark circles, very sleepy, very, hungry. And on her body were bruises, scratches, small wounds, bruises. Whenever they asked her, she said, she fell, that she was clumsy, that she hit herself on, a table, fell down the stairs,

but the signs got worse. She started showing up, at school with dirty hair, with, stained clothes. For several days, in a row she wore the same clothes and the little siblings were dressed well, in clean clothes. Nobody understood what was happening, so they called her mother, Angela. They asked what was going on, if there were any problems. But Angela said it was all, Jeanette's doing, that she didn't want to, change clothes, that she didn't want to eat, that she didn't want to bathe. If the girl didn't want to, she wasn't going to force her. When, they asked about the bruises, Angela, said she was just clumsy, but clear. Clearly, something shady was going on.

Angela said that the girl didn't want to eat, but at school her stomach was growling. The teachers asked about her lunch, what she had brought, and the little one had, two answers. At first, she showed, very little food, a couple of cookies, a bit, of cheese, but over time she didn't even bring anything. She started saying that at home, there was no food, that they didn't feed her, that her mother didn't let her, bring lunch. So at school, they secretly gave her food and noticed that the girl always ate in a desperate way. She ate like there was no, tomorrow, like she was starving. It was so striking that, they called the mother. And when Angela, found out, Jeanette stopped eating.

She wouldn't accept food from anyone, not cookies, not, sandwiches, nothing. She spent the whole day without eating. And of course, the school ended up calling child services because what was, happening made no sense. In total, they called twice, but neither time, did they do anything at all. They didn't, investigate, didn't ask, Jeanette directly, they went to the mother, to Angela. And this woman always had, excuses, that she had three children, that the, little ones were fine, well cared for, that the problem wasn't her, but, Jeanette, that Jeanette was rebellious, that she didn't, want to eat, that she didn't bathe, that she was, very careless, that she was a big liar. But, in 2007 came the last straw. And it was that this girl's best friend,

Amber Davis, was alarmed. She saw Jeanette in bad shape, hungry, like rats, dirty. She didn't understand what was happening and, so she asked her. about it. At first Jeanette didn't want to talk, made excuses, that she fell, that she wasn't, hungry, that she didn't want to bathe, but, in the end she broke down and confessed, told her that her mother abused her when, they were in seventh grade. She told her that, her mother was very strict with her, that, she locked her in her room for hours, wouldn't let her eat, drink, go to the bathroom, that she punished her facing the wall, with her arms up and one leg, raised. She also said that her, mother hit her for anything, for talking, for not

talking, for asking for food, for, asking for water, for anything. Angela, hit her. She hit her with hands, with objects, with cans, with branches, any object was good, to hit her. And hearing this she was, crystal clear. As soon as she got home, she told her parents and they called, the school, All the alarms, went off and child services, were alerted. This time, finally, they tried to do something. A, social worker showed up at the McAnulty, family home. Knocked on the door, came in to see what was happening, spoke with, Angela. On the surface, everything was, normal, clean house, tidy and the, younger children were impeccable, well, groomed, well-dressed, perfumed, eating in the kitchen.

of Jeanette there was no trace but of course neither did he asked he spoke directly with Angela asked about it and the woman gave a bunch of lies that Janet was very lazy that she didn't bathe didn't want to eat didn't want to drink that she was very bad behaved terribly and also was a compulsive liar so the case was closed nobody bought Angela McEnady's story story. There was something, very shady going on here, something that didn't, make sense. And every day Jeanette got worse. At school she looked very, happy. She was diligent, always willing to, volunteer for everything. Worked hard, was cheerful, pleasant, but when it was time to go home, her, attitude changed completely. She became, quieter, sad, downcast, looked terrible, and from

school went to the library. She spent the whole day out of the house and didn't return until nightfall. Nobody could call her. On the phone, nobody could visit her and her. Mother didn't let her go to anyone's house. Something very shady was going on. But after the last report, Angela removed her from school and no one ever saw her again. She told everyone, she was going to study from home, not to worry that everything was fine, that, there was no problem. Maybe she thought, that this way no one would report again, that, they wouldn't see what was going on, that she was, safe, but what she didn't count on was, that her mother-in-law would notice and that this woman wouldn't give up. Lynn McConnulty adored her grandchildren and, Jeanette was one of them.

She was, her eldest granddaughter, she adored her. That's why, on each visit she paid more attention. She saw that the little ones were well, dressed, well cared for, but Jeanette, was always punished. Always, in a corner, facing the, wall, alone. And when she wasn't, punished, she looked terrible. Dirty, hair, torn clothes, stained, very thin, worn out, bruise. And when she, asked Angela, she always had, excuses. If she was punished, she, deserved it.

If she was dirty, it was because, she didn't want to bathe. And if she was thin, it was because she didn't want to eat. And if she asked, too much, Angela would get, hysterical and kick her out of the house. Still, Lynn ignored the excuses and reported, what was happening twice. She, not only reported Angela, but also, her own son Richard and accused them, of child abuse and neglect. But, incredibly, nobody did anything. No one checked, no one investigated, this case was worthless. Nobody, answered the calls, they ignored them, and in October 2009, Lynn visited that house for the last time, and saw Jeanette like never before. By then, Jeanette, was 16.

years old, but she looked so bad, you couldn't tell. She was shorter than, normal, very skinny, malnourished, dehydrated, covered in bruises and the worst of all was that she had a split, lip. Of course, Lynn asked, for an explanation. And Angela replied with the, same excuse, that she fell. Nothing, made sense anymore. And for the third time Lynn, called child services, but again, no one listened. What was really happening in, that house was that Angela was replicating her, own childhood in her eldest daughter, Jeanette Marie, Maples. Everything she lived as a child was, now being repeated. She made Jeanette feel what she had felt and, seeing no one did anything, it escalated. It all started because supposedly, Jeanette was jealous of her little brother,

Richard Jr. she misbehaved, sought attention and consequently was locked, in her room. She was left without, snacks, without dinner. But supposedly, her behavior got worse. For days, she wouldn't let her eat, use, the bathroom, drink water, she didn't wash her clothes, didn't comb her hair, completely neglected her, and if she talked back, she hit her. Over time, the punishments escalated, not only was she not allowed. to eat, but, she locked everything with padlocks. On the cabinets, on the fridge, didn't let her, drink water. So she cut off, the water supply so she couldn't, drink, forcing her to find water, in street puddles, the toilet, or from the dog bowl of their German shepherd, named

Nikita. According to Angela, no punishment, worked. She took her toys, took the furniture from her room, took everything, and, Jeanette ended up sleeping on a piece of, cardboard on the floor. At Christmas, everyone ate a lot, elaborate meals, but Jeanette ate just, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And on birthdays there were presents, everywhere, but for Jeanette, nothing. She hit her whenever, however, with all kinds of objects. And when that, happened, she forced the girl to take off her clothes, so it would, hurt more. These scenes were, witnessed by the whole family. The little, kids saw it and couldn't do anything.

And Richard McEnolte directly, didn't interact, looked the other way, according to him, because he was afraid of Angela. This story got worse every day and on. December 9, 2009, Angela, went too far and gave her, the final beating, after which the girl didn't respond. The scene that followed was atrocious end, of course, I won't describe it. Hours passed, they didn't ask for help, didn't call an ambulance, didn't take her to the hospital and, when night came, Angela and Richard saw that Jeanette was lifeless. So, without hesitation, the woman grabbed the phone and called her mother-in-law. In that, call she was crying, screaming and said, she didn't know what happened, that she had, punished the girl and she wasn't responding. She said she was cold, that she couldn't, wake her up and Lynn asked, did you call, emergency, to which Angela, responded no, because that would mean going to, jail.

Lynn demanded to speak to her son, demanded to speak to Richard, and when he answered, she demanded he call emergency, told him to call or she would call, the police and show up at the house. That, either he called or she would, but when, she hung up she didn't believe anything. Lynn called, emergency and then called Angela again, and this time asked what, happened, to which Angela replied that she, punished her daughter, but maybe this time, it got out of hand. Dar. Daniel Davis, who handled the autopsy, said Jeanette suffered so much, damage that he couldn't determine what, killed her. Whether the blows, starvation, dehydration, pneumonia, the body was completely, destroyed, unrecognizable, and from the, wounds it was even disfigured.

Lynn, McAnulty that same night asked to see, the body, asked to say goodbye, to her granddaughter, but the police recommended, she not do it. They said, you don't have, to do this. They told her she weighed, 23 kilograms. Richard at the station tried, to take the blame. First he said, he did everything and then admitted it, was Angela. But he was just as, guilty as she was, because unfortunately, he didn't report it. He said he was afraid that she was an aggressive woman, very, intimidating in that recently

he had, a heart attack. So out of fear of another, he did nothing. And Angela, for her, part tried to deny everything. Said, Jeanette fell a lot, that she was clumsy, but later half confessed what she had, done. I hit my daughter I don't know how many times, but only on the butt. I did, wrong. It was horrible. I'm very sorry.

I wish I could take it back. I didn't, because the head wound and I know, that probably killed her. The, arrests shocked everyone. Tomir S.E. Pasi, who rented them, the house, the end. I found out about this only about a year ago, and honestly, it still gives me chills. We're now pretty convinced that my niece was being groomed, or worse, targeted, for trafficking while on a cruise ship.

I'm not going to mention which cruise line it was, because I don't feel like getting sued or hunted down, but the story is burned into my brain, and it's one I'll never forget. I heard it from my brother, and the way he told it, man, it made my stomach twist. So, rewind to when my niece was just around two years old. She's 16 now, just to give you an idea of how long this has been sitting with our family like some ugly memory tucked away in a drawer. At the time, my brother and his wife, first-time parents, young, excited, decided to go on what was supposed to be their first proper family vacation. A Mediterranean cruise. Fancy, right?

They were imagining sunsets on the sea, fancy dinners, and just soaking in the adventure with their toddler daughter. Everything was going fine, all things considered. You know how chaotic it can be traveling with a two-year-old. Screaming fits, snack time every five minutes, the occasional mysterious diaper explosion, normal stuff. But then one night, during one of those big cruise ship dinners where everyone eats in the same grand hall, something weird happened. They were at their table when this couple at another table started gushing over my niece.

I mean, it started off innocent enough. saying how pretty she was, how adorable she looked toddling around. We've all heard that before. Most of us have probably said similar things to strangers with kids. But my brother said something about the tone felt. Off. At the time, though, he brushed it off. Maybe he was just being paranoid, right?

They were on vacation. People are nicer on vacation, usually. But the comments kept coming. The woman was especially intense about it, asking how old she was, saying things like, she looks like a little doll, and just wouldn't shut up. My brother's wife, my sister-in-law, started getting this cold, weird feeling in her gut. And then the man pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of my niece. Now, let me pause here.

Who the hell does that? You don't take photos of someone else's kid without asking. Not even after a compliment. It's just not normal. That moment set off alarm bells in my sister-in-law's head. She said she felt completely freaked out, like someone had just walked over her grave. They tried to get out of the conversation as politely as they could and left the dining room early. My brother told me that on the way back to their cabin, they both agreed that the whole thing was just too weird.

From then on, they kept an eye out for that couple. turns out that wasn't the last they saw of them they ran into them again the next day then again and again and again it wasn't like they were showing up by coincidence at the buffet or the pool it started to feel deliberate they'd always smile and wave at my niece sometimes they'd make comments again about how precious she was how well-behaved how smart it felt tart targeted. Calculated. And here's the creepiest part. My brother said he caught them pointing at his family, literally pointing. As in, the man would tap the woman and then gesture subtly toward them, like, look, there they are. My brother would lock eyes with them sometimes, and instead of looking embarrassed or glancing away, they'd smile. That smile

that doesn't reach the eyes, you know. Things escalated on the fourth or fifth day. They were back in the common lounge area of the ship when the couple approached them. This time, they were more forward than ever. The man, wearing that same weird too friendly smile, said something like, Hey, we were thinking. If you and your wife wanted a night to yourselves, we'd be happy to babysit. We've got grandkids ourselves. We'd love to help.

My brother, who had already been creeped out, said his blood went cold. He forced a polite, no thanks and tried to make it clear they weren't interested. But the couple wouldn't take the hint. They pressed. Kept saying how it's good for parents to have a night alone, how they'd be careful, how it would just be a short time. It was then that my brother lost whatever politeness he had left.

He turned and walked off with his wife and daughter without another word. Back in their cabin, he was pacing, furious, scared. His wife was shaking. That night, they didn't sleep. The next morning, my brother went straight to guest services and demanded to talk to someone in charge. He said he was done being polite. If they didn't do something about this creepy couple, he was going to. He demanded that the couple be removed from the ship or at least kept away from his family.

Now, here's where things went from creepy to just downright infuriating. The cruise line. Completely unhelpful. Gave him some canned line about how no crime had technically taken place, and how there was no proof of wrongdoing. They offered to move their cabin, yeah, my brothers, not the couples, but that was it. My brother said the remaining days on that cruise were like living in a nightmare. They stayed locked in their cabin most of the time. Paranoia set in hard.

Every knock at the door made them jump. Every time they left their room to get food, they scanned every face. in the crowd. Were they watching? Were they waiting for the right moment? It got to the point where my brother and his wife took turn sleeping. One would nap while the other stayed awake, keeping watch, making sure no one tried to get into their room or follow them. The staff had done nothing. The couple was still out there, smiling, watching. When the crews finally docked and they disembarked, my brother said it felt like escaping from some twisted psychological thriller. They saw the couple one last time near the exit ramp.

The woman gave a little wave and smile. My brother just glared at them and kept walking. When they got through customs and stepped outside the terminal, my mom was waiting to pick them up. My brother said as soon as he saw her, he dropped his bags and just broke down sobbing. Now, I'll be honest. When he first told me this story, I was speechless. I was angry.

I felt helpless. Like what would I have done if it were my kid? What could I even do now? Nothing happened technically. But come on. We all know what was going on. You feel it in your bones. These people had some twisted plan.

And had my brother and his wife not been so alert, so instinctively protective, who knows what could have happened. There's something sickening about the idea that child traffickers, or whoever the hell these people were, are out there acting like friendly grandparents, cruising around international waters, smiling and chatting and hiding behind polite conversation. It's like evil wearing a mask. My brother and his wife. They swore off cruise ships for life. Said they'd rather vacation in a shack in the woods than ever board one of those floating nightmares again.

And honestly, I don't blame them. We still talk about it sometimes. When my niece was old enough, my brother told her a watered-down version of the story. Just enough so she'd understand why her parents were always so vigilant. She's a smart kid. She got it. But it made me sad, too, that part of her first vacation, the thing that should have been all sunshine and laughter, was overshadowed by something so dark and disgusting.

So yeah. That's the story. No crazy twists or Hollywood ending. Just a family who followed their gut and got out safe. And a creepy couple who disappeared back into the crowd like shadows. The end, but also not really. Because even though the story's over, the fear lingers. And every time I see news about trafficking or kidnappings, I think back to this.

Think back to that photo being taken. The weird smiles. The way they kept showing up. And I wonder just how many other families have their own horror story, tucked away in some quiet part of their memory. All I know is, if you're ever on vacation and someone gives you that gut feeling, that cold, crawling sensation down your spine, you listen to it. Trust it.

Because sometimes, that feeling is the only thing standing between you and a nightmare you can't wake up from. The end. We begin from the dawn of time. Countless people have been led astray by myths and legends, by superstitions born from their own fears. Without going any further, at the dawn of the 1900s, Sarah Winchester was overcome by her own terrors. She, a descendant of the founder of the Winchester Arms Factory, after suffering a series of catastrophic misfortunes, felt pushed to believe that all those illnesses that

had taken the lives of her loved ones had been caused by a curse. A curse whose origin was all the deaths her family had caused through the creation of the Winchester weapon, the Winchester rifle. In her desperation, Sarah sought the help of a medium who told her that the only way to avoid those souls coming after her and dragging her to hell was by building a labyrinth mansion, a mansion with no plans, no structure, and whose construction must never stop. It had to remain forever under construction, always growing. Because if it ever stopped growing, the spirits would find her and end her life. But Sarah wasn't the only person who believed in vengeful spirits.

The Lutz family also suffered the wrath of dark entities, souls that were allegedly those of the Defeo family, the family murdered in the House of Amityville. But today, we are not going to talk about baseless stories, stories that can be forgotten, stories that have merely filled pages and pages of newspapers, turning into major media spectacles. We are not going to talk about stories whose only testimony is the word of people. who claim to have experienced paranormal acts, who claim to have seen shadows, who claim to have felt presences. Today, we are going to talk about some of the most documented stories in the paranormal

world. And to take you there, I want to bring you with me to beautiful Venice, that city of idyllic landscapes drawn by gondolas sailing through its canals, outlined by the contours of its buildings at sunset, by the strolls of lovers through narrow alleys, by the locks fastened to every one of its bridges. That city that inspires poetry, that inspires art, so admired for its magnificent carnivals, its mysterious masks, but above all, for its myths and legends. Very few have dared to investigate the unresolved mysteries hidden behind the city of Venice. Because like every place of light, it too has a dark history, and its dark history could not be more sinister. From Venice, countless murders are told, countless outbreaks of plague, countless deaths by vengeance,

countless clashes, some of them on the bridges, clashes between rival gangs. Just steps away from the famous St. Mark Square, the story of a murder is told. It said that in one of the houses near the square, a woman was murdered by her husband. Upon being caught cheating, the man saw his social status and honor at risk, so he had no alternative but to kill her in cold blood and flee Venice forever. A fact that made it impossible for him ever to be arrested or punished for his crime. And for that reason, the Venetians say that the ghost of that woman, the ghost of his wife, roams the streets of Venice seeking justice, seeking the man who killed her, seeking to drag him

to death, seeking to return the 20 stab wounds he gave her. And many testify that, at dawn in St. Mark's Square, you can hear a woman lamenting, a woman crying out for justice through her wales. But let's move away a bit from that area. Let's go directly to the canals of Venice. Let's head to the stunning CA Dario Palace. To get there, one must wander through canals and narrow alleys, which amounts to taking a thrilling journey back through time into an unrepeatable historical past. The facades of the buildings one encounters are majestic and dazzling palaces, each cloaked in countless legends about the

origins of their owners and the buildings themselves. But of all of them, the most remarkable stands behind the white marble façade of CA Dario. Its story dates back to 1847, when Giovanni Dario, an important senator and merchant, decided to purchase the land to build an inheritance for his daughter, Marietta. But he didn't want to build a simple little house with a quaint garden decorated with ivy and tall lindens. He wanted to create a grand palace, and he wanted his architect to be Pietro Lombardo. Giovanni cared little for the legends about that land. He didn't care that locals repeatedly warned that beneath those mounds of earth was an ancient Templar cemetery, and that if their peace was disturbed, if the rest of each and every

Templar buried there was interrupted, a curse would fall upon his family and upon all who inhabited the house. Giovanni didn't believe in legends. He didn't believe in tales. He only wanted to give his daughter a great gift, and what better gift than a palace in the heart of beautiful Venice. construction, there were no problems. The trouble began after the works were completed and Marietta, along with her newlywed husband Vincenzo Barbaro, moved in. It was then that Giovanni

Dario died under strange circumstances. And it was then that Marietta discovered one of the family's darkest secrets, their slow descent into bankruptcy. All the couple's efforts to restore the family business were in vain. They slowly hit rock bottom, becoming pariahs of high society. No one invited them to parties anymore. No one wanted to trade with them. No one wanted to maintain social ties with the Dario family, much less with her husband's family, the Barbaros. So, little by little, the couple descended further into madness and despair, until Marietta

ultimately took her own life in the main salon. Her death was soon followed by her husbands, who also took his life, out of shame, shame for having lost everything, and for having lost his wife in such circumstances. From that moment, the black legend of C.A. Dario began, the dark legend of the palace surrounded by water and haunted by ghosts. Locals swore they saw, late at night, a female silhouette wandering through the windows, roaming the rooms, going from floor to floor, lightly striking the keys of a family heirloom piano. The people of Venice began to spread the popular belief that, anyone who sought to acquire the property would suffer the same curse as

the Darius. But those who only entered to admire its majesty, would enjoy incredible fortune for the rest of their lives. Years passed before anyone dared to live in that house again, that person was a descendant of Vincenzo Barbaro. After the couple's death, the palace had passed into the Barbaro family inheritance. In the 15th century, it was occupied by Giacomo Barbaro, thanks to his position as governor of Kandia. There, he managed to gain control over a large fleet and many villas. Jackamo practically owned half of Venice. But unfortunately, after acquiring the palace, he never got to enjoy it. Just a few months later, without ever setting foot inside, he was murdered under strange circumstances. To this day, his death remains an unsolved case.

His successor didn't fare much better. The next buyer was a wealthy diamond merchant named Arbid Abdel. During one of his business trips, he was sailing through the canals of Venice, when he caught sight of C.A. Dario's majestic facade. He quickly asked his companions about the property, but none of them dared say a word about C.A. Dario. All they told him was that the house should never be bought, and that no one should ever cross its threshold as an owner. Ignoring all warnings, the merchant went to City Hall, demanded the mayor bring the current owner before him, and offered a large sum of money to make that

marvel part of his estate within 24 hours. To the Barbaro family, this was a golden opportunity to rid themselves of the House of Horrors. They didn't hesitate a second to accept the money and hand over the property. And just as everyone predicted, soon after acquiring it, Arbit Abdel fell into bankruptcy, a bankruptcy that forced him to sell off all his assets. But there was something that kept him from selling C.A. Dario, according to him, the palace wouldn't let him leave. The palace wanted to take care of him, and indeed, it did. Until one October night, the merchant was found dead at the foot of the marble stairs in the main hall, at the foot of those very stairs that had witnessed his slow downfall, as he succumbed to a strange illness that,

to this day, remains unknown. To be continued. They had observed how he had slowly fallen into disgrace, how he had slowly been overcome by a strange illness that, to this day, remains unknown. After his death, the people of Venice once again told their legends, once again created popular songs, once again told stories about the visions of the ghosts of the former owners of C.A. Dario. People spoke of the ghost of a woman who wept, people spoke of a piano that played in the early hours of the morning, and people spoke of the coughing of a man behind the curtains of the first floor, behind the curtains that led directly to the marble staircase where Arbit doll was found dead. But once again, these stories did not manage to scare off

potential buyers. And in 1838, Brandon Brown, an English scholar on a tour through beautiful Italy, was captivated by the beauty, by the majestic beauty and the immaculate facades of CA, Dario. In that fortress, Brandon Brown saw a way out, an escape from the monotony, from the routine life of the big city. In its marbles, in its stuccoes, in its tapestries, in its carpets, in its draperies, Brandon saw paradise, a paradise that Venetians had long since ceased to perceive. So, he didn't hesitate to acquire it. But unfortunately, his stay there only lasted until 1842, the year in which both his body and that of a friend of his were found dead at the foot of the same staircase, the staircase where Arbett Dahl himself had been found.

Their autopsies showed that both had committed suicide, and the motive for their suicides could have been bankruptcy. It was well known that Brandon Brown was homosexual and had escaped there, had escaped to CA, Dario, to live happily with his lover. But shortly after acquiring the building, just like all the previous owners, bankruptcy had struck his life and had gradually dragged him into the deepest misery, a misery for which neither he nor his lover were prepared. A misery that would distance them from the upper classes. And they were not willing to live that life, they were not willing to feel socially humiliated. And so, they decided to end their lives at the same time on that same staircase.

But I suppose we will never know that for certain. Years later, the house once again found a new buyer, someone who once again ignored the ghost stories, once again ignored the legends. Once again, the house was acquired by a man in love with its architecture, in love with its art, with the sense of security, with the sense of peace that comes from passing through its gates. His name was Charles Briggs, and his origin was exactly the same as that of Brandon Brown. He was also English, and he too was homosexual. But shortly after moving into the residence, shortly after living there with his life, lover, he began to feel strange things, began to sense presences, to see shadows, to feel as if in

the middle of the night someone whispered things in his ear. And at that moment, he decided to ask the locals what had happened there. And when he heard the legend, when he heard the myth and the curse that hovered over C.A. Dario, he decided to flee to Mexico with nothing but the clothes on his back, trying to escape the curse. But unfortunately, one cannot escape fate. And shortly after arriving there, after reaching his destination, both died by suicide. Many point to the fact that Charles Briggs was a victim of bankruptcy, but to this day, we still don't know for sure. Many years passed before the house was inhabited again, before someone decided to acquire the property. And who better than someone who already knew

the legends and wasn't afraid of them? Count Gier Dan O'Dellon, who acquired the property to live there with his lover Raoul, an 18-year-old Serbian youth. Everyone knew that the Count was not willing to love only one person. He wasn't willing to be faithful to anyone, not even capable of being faithful to his wife. How could he possibly be faithful to his own lover? So, you can imagine the rest of the story. You can imagine the humiliation Raoul felt each day, seeing different men and women walk through the door, seeing the house filled with a great number of people who weren't visitors,

people who stayed for long periods, enjoying the company of his beloved count. Many say madness took hold of Roel, but others say it was the very negative aura of CA, Dario that drove the young man to commit murder, grabbing a bronze statue and striking his beloved as many times as necessary to take his life, and then fleeing to London, escaping justice, escaping the police. But he did not manage to escape his fate. He did not manage to escape the curse. For he too had lived there. He too had enjoyed the luxuries of the mansion. And it was in London that someone, whose identity remains unknown to this day, took his life under strange circumstances. The list of deaths caused by CA. Dario does not end here.

The list continues, continues with the names of people who did not believe in curses, who did not believe in ghost stories. And then came its next victim, Fabrizio Ferrari, a well-known businessman. This man, unlike the previous owners, did not buy the property out of love for its majesty. He did not buy it for the art or for what it made him feel. He bought it for the simple reason of having one more residence. He already had several in the Tuscany region, but he was missing something, something that would make his fortune, his wealth, stand out above the rest. And that was a residence in Venice, the city of love, the city of gondolas, of the most beautiful carnivals in the world. And what better display of wealth and fortune than the white marble

facade of C.A. Dario? The facade that brought together so many architectural styles, and those gates adorned with little demon heads, that also typical Venetian decoration. He wanted that residence simply to show how powerful he was. But he wasn't capable of living in such a large house alone. So, he invited his younger sister to live with him. Shortly after a inquiring it, he began to slowly fall into debt, to feel that little by little his savings were disappearing, to feel terribly alone, assaulted by a strange darkness, a darkness that spread through all the rooms of the residence. Everywhere

A dry cold in some corners of the house. Shadows. Sighs. Whispers. The sound of slow high heels in the early morning. And just like the locals had described, he too saw a woman appear. at his bedroom window and looked down. He too heard someone crying. He too followed a bodiless voice, the coughing of someone at the foot of the marble staircase. And not only he

was immersed in that anxiety, in that desperation, but also his little sister. But more than anything, what truly worried him was bankruptcy, the humiliation of no longer belonging to the upper class. So one day, overwhelmed by despair, he got into his luxury car, step on the gas, and left Venice, without realizing that the roads he was taking were too dangerous to travel at such speed. So you can already imagine his end. But the story of Fabrizio doesn't end there. Because as I mentioned earlier, under that same roof lived his younger sister, who sometime later was found dead next to her car in an empty field, and unclothed. And that death, to this day, remains a complete mystery. The police have never been able to find the culprit.

nor determine the circumstances in which Fabrizio's sister died. Next, we come across quite a peculiar case. And that is that sometime later, the Tenor Armario del Monaco suffered an accident on his way to sign the document certifying that the house would become part of his estate. He suffered an accident that left him hospitalized for eight months. After that misfortune, his loved ones informed him of the curse that loomed over C.A. Dario and all its owners. So, as soon as he recovered from the shock and the accident, he decided not to buy the house. But it was already too late, because he had fallen for C.A. Dario, and the palace of C.A. Dario had fallen for him. And weeks after making his decision, he suffered a heart attack that led to his death.

The residents remained abandoned for 21 years, 21 years left to its fate, devoured by Ivy, by the passage of time, by the wear of its stones, by the slow destruction of its legends and tales. The locals stopped hearing the piano, stopped hearing the laments, stopped seeing the female figure wandering the halls, stopped hearing the coughing, stopped feeling life in that house, stopped feeling the chill upon passing. The silence over C.A. Dario was so immense that in 1981, no one warned Christopher Lambert, former manager of Deju, about the curse of CA Dario. No one found it strange that from one day to the next, the man was captivated by the building. No one found it strange that he couldn't think about anything else, that he sighed constantly

thinking about that house, about that palace in the middle of the water, in the middle of the canals of Venice. The next day, he acquired the property, and his name was entered in the Venetian Land Registry. He received a call from his mother, who was celebrating a birthday and requested his presence. He didn't think twice, and quickly boarded a plane that took him straight to his hometown. But what he didn't know was that once there, he would fall down the stairs, hit his head, and die from a cerebral hemorrhage. The band's bassist decided to stay in CA, Dario for a while, to remember old times with Christopher. And indeed, he didn't die there, not in CA, Dario, but he did die under strange circumstances at age 57 in Las Vegas.

But the nightmare didn't end then. The nightmare ended in 1993, when Roald Jardini acquired the property and died by suicide, a suicide caused by a gunshot to the forehead. And his reasons were once again the same ones that had led to the deaths of the previous owners, ruin, despair, and the curse. A curse that ultimately led Venice to brick up those Oriental-style window, to tear down the draperies, and to completely seal off that building, to isolate it from the world, to isolate it from people, to isolate it from potential buyers.

It stopped appearing in auctions. It stopped being mentioned in popular conversation. Venice stopped speaking of it, not because they had forgotten its curse, but out of fear that someone might hear the story and want to prove themselves brave by acquiring the palace. And in fact, until then, no one had shown any sign of wanting to. to acquire it. No one had fallen in love with its majesty or its beauty. No one had been enchanted by its white marbles, until 2006. The year when the windows were no longer boarded up. The year when the bricks blocking its doors began to fall, fall due to the blows of

shovels and rakes. Because in 2006, the palace was acquired by an American millionaire, perhaps unaware of the terrible fate of its former owners. End. And the most shocking story came from an anonymous witness who said that one night he saw him summoned the underscore underscore underscore, told him that his soul was his in exchange for playing like an angel. A light turned on that blinded me. Paganini stood up and went on his way. Let's begin. Niccolo Paganini was born on October 27, 1782, in Genoa, Italy, the son of Teresa Boyardo

and Antonio Paganini, who worked in maritime trade. From a very young age, his story is tinged with superstition, as apparently when he was five years old, his mother had a dream that would change their lives forever. In this dream, an angel appeared and told her that her little boy would be the greatest violinist the world had ever seen. Upon waking, she asked her husband to teach Niccolo to play the violin. She said it was a very real dream, a divine sign, and that their child was destined to be an artist. Antonio Paganini was a master violinist and even more superstitious than his wife,

so he convinced himself he had to focus all his efforts on teaching Niccolo to play the violin. It is said the boy composed his first pieces at just eight years old, but at this point, there are contradictions, some say it was at eight, others at twelve. Some sources say his first concert was at nine, but a few more say it was at twelve. Whatever the case, when he performed in public, everyone was fast. Clearly, the boy had immense talent. By the time he was 12, he had several teachers, including Giovanni Cito and Alessandro Rola. At a very young age, he achieved great success and simultaneously made a lot of money. His shows drew massive crowds, and the audience went wild for him. He had admirers, was invited to parties, made lots of money, and by the age of 16 became addicted to gambling and alcohol. According to his biographer Peter Lentau, Paganini was saved from madness by an unknown lady who took him to her villa for three years. During those years, Paganini was almost completely isolated, studying violin and guitar, recovering, and after that time returned to the stage with more strength.

His comeback happened when he was 23 years old, specifically in 1805, and from there began his concert tour. He played in many different places, Milan, Vienna, Naples, London, Paris, and he became acquainted with great artists of his time. He was one of the first musicians to tour solo, with no accompaniment, no other musicians, just him in front of the audience. And I repeat, he amassed a great fortune because he alone could captivate the entire audience, a point that will be very important later. Paganini composed a variety of works, violin concertos, 18 sonatas for violin or guitar, 24 caprices for violin. His work is extensive and is especially known for its incredible skill. As for his personal life, we know he had some problems

in his youth. Because of his great success, he had relationships with many women, leading to various scandals. In 1828, from his relationship with Antonia Bianchi, he had his only son, Achille. That same year, Pope Leo the 11th awarded him the Order of the Golden Spur. Physically, Paganini drew much attention. From a young age, he had skin problems, and at 28 began to show signs of premature aging. He was tall, thin, with a prominent nose and large feet. His hands were also very strange, his fingers were long and very flexible. In fact, it said that because of this, he could play with great ease, precision, and speed. Additionally, whenever he played, he was overtaken by music in a superhuman way. He contorted dramatically, almost

impossibly, and people were left in shock. He twisted, shook, looked possessed. He was such an incredible musician, and his appearance was so strange, that people began to think he wasn't from this world. That's exactly how the rumor began that would follow him until his death. Some say he himself started the rumor. Others say it was the spectators. Either way, it was said that Paganini made a pact with the underscore underscore underscore to become the most virtuosic violinist in history. People told wild stories about him, lights emerged from his violin, strange energy. And the most impactful story came from an anonymous witness who said that one night he saw him summon the underscore underscore underscore, told him his soul was his in exchange for playing like an angel. A blinding light appeared. Haganini stood and went on his way. Another story about him was that, being a womanizer, he used beautiful women with good voices to steal their souls and trap them in his violin.

He spoke to them, charmed them, killed them, ripped out their souls, and trapped them forever in his violin. Thus, every time he played, the beautiful sounds were actually the voices of his victims. They also said he could tune his violin while playing. a complicated piece, that he had a phenomenal memory, didn't need sheet music, and could compose brilliant music instantly. But one rumor appears to be true, in a concert, everything was going perfectly, Paganini was playing, the audience was enchanted, then one of the violin's four strings broke. Silence filled the room. Paganini kept playing. Then another string broke. Silence again.

Shock Then Paganini kept playing Then a third string broke The audience expected him to stop, apologize, end the concert, but he kept playing, as if he still had four strings. Incredibly, the violin still sounded as if it had all four. To the audience, this man had to be a magician, a sorcerer, a demon. We're talking about a time when these types of stories deeply affected people. Superstition was rampant. But far from ruining his reputation, these rumors made him even more

famous. Tickets sold out instantly, and prices skyrocketed. Everyone knew who he was, rich and poor alike. Even beggars and prostitutes spent all they had to see for themselves if the man had really sold his soul. Hagenini embraced the rumors and made them his best weapon. According to biographers, he had a very peculiar sense of humor. If someone insulted him, he'd turn it into his shield. He did the same with the rumors. People said he was a magician, a sorcerer, a servant of Satan, and he embraced it all. Every time he appeared in public, he wore tight black clothing that made him look thinner,

more skeletal, more sinister. With his pale skin, long mane, and long fingers, he truly looked otherworldly. His appearance gave chills to the crowds, who felt both fear and admiration. They admired him, feared him, hated him, loved him. He sparked a mix of emotions, and at the end of the day, everyone wanted to know who he really was. Was he real? Fictional? A demon?

A normal man? Everyone wanted to know, and with each passing day, he grew more and more successful. When he played, he exaggerated his movements even more. It looked like he was dancing, possessed. like a demon. He used his flexibility to perform tricks while playing. They say he played with his mouth, bent backward, twisted his arm. And in the midst of this chaos, he did something that left thousand speechless, he started showing up at social events and concerts in a large black carriage pulled by four purebred black horses. Ladies fainted at his passing. They say they

literally fell at his feet. Entire families admired him, and men couldn't understand the Paganini fever. Had he sold his soul to the underscore underscore underscore? Was he just a normal guy? A sorcerer? No one knew. Then, overnight, his decline began. In 1820, at 38, he began having severe stomach problems, productive cough, weakness, digestive issues. He was given a mercury-based laxative. The pain persisted for years. Desperate, Paganini visited many doctors. One told him he had syphilis, clearly. The treatment, mercury.

If he felt a little pain, he took mercury. If not, just in case, he took mercury. This led to an addiction. In 1838, he lost his voice completely. From then on, he communicated through his son. He'd gesture, move his lips, Achille would read them and speak for him. Mercury use was common back then, so no one suspected it had stolen his voice.

They thought it was from another illness, and he was diagnosed with laryngeal tuberculosis, which was later ruled out, as his lungs were fine. His body weakened, trembling, fatigue, couldn't write, couldn't play. Every day his life worsened. He felt lonelier, more isolated, misunderstood. Because of mercury, he got a mouth infection and had surgery. that disfigured him. Now comes the darkest part. Near death, a doctor finally told him his symptoms were mercury poisoning. But Paganini was already addicted and kept using it until his death

on May 27, 1840. Here another legend arises. On his deathbed, a priest asked what was in the Strativarius case. Paganini stood up and said, that contains the devil himself. Then he opened the case, played the violin phonetically, through it, and while it shattered, Paganini fell and died. This story makes little sense, he was too weak to even speak or move, but what seems more likely is that Paganini refused to confess on his deathbed. Because of his fame as the violinist of the underscore underscore underscore, many clergymen had rejected him in life. They demanded public apologies, that he silenced the rumors, stopped wearing black. Paganini ignored them. The rumors brought fame, attention, audiences.

Without them, it wouldn't be the same. Still, according to the site HistoriaMedicina.es, the bishop of Nice sent the priest Caffarelli to Paganini's home to hear his confession and administer the last rites. The priest went peacefully, ready to reconcile church and artist. But it didn't go well. First attempt, Paganini was in too much pain to speak. Second, he was too sedated. Third, he was awake, asked for a chalkboard to write, but supposedly he couldn't write either.

Fourth, the priest arrived, but Paganini was already dead. Koffarelli was so outraged he wrote a lengthy document criticizing Paganini. Called him a heretic, said his home lacked religious images, had scandalous paintings, a very unchristian Venus, and noted that despite Paganini's wealth, he never made significant donations to the church. The bishop checked Paganini's will and found he had asked for a simple funeral. No donations, no big ceremonies, no many guests, just a simple funeral and 100 masses for his soul at the Cappishan Church. So the bishop retaliated by not allowing him to be buried in sacred ground. The family embalmed the body and, while they waited for the bishop to change his

mind, moved it to a property on the outskirts of Nice. For years the body traveled. For years the body and several versions of its fate emerged. One says he was buried in a simple grave near the sea with a modest headstone. Another says Akil took the casket on a boat and searched for the perfect place, finally burying it on the islet of Sanfariol. The third, and most widely believed version, is that 38 years after his death, the family succeeded in burying him in the Parma Cemetery. Now it's your turn. What do you think about the case?

Do you think the ending was fair? But the interesting thing here is that according to, official sources at no time, there were enemy soldiers the cells in, they didn't really be for that they were, warehouses and the castle was only, to entertain and recover soldiers, injured, we start, to know this story we must, place about 240 kilometers outside, Kansas in Missouri specifically in a, Piscito called Springfield at the beginning of, 20th century in this place began to, build an imposing castle of, approximately 4,000 MCU and the works, ended in the year, In 1913 the enclave originally was, built to vaguer the activity of, The Gentleman Pishas a Society, Secret founded in Washington, D.C. on 19 February, 1864, however strange that I can, looking like the castle was not a place, where these people live, but more, well, a meeting point in a place, impressive with large gardens A, a large amount of rooms of rooms, but still many people did not live there, first there were, the most important activities, important meetings exclusive parties, private seconds there they lived, the women and children are

of the members who, they had already died and third, when a gentleman retired, he could, choose to live in the castle, but, only if the gentleman retired. Pishas chose how this should be, room-type castle quantity, how, guide it, and of course, materials, materials among which was a native stone that according to them had, powers said that stone had, ability to attract and retain energy, energy that could be or good or bad. Initial idea is that this project could house 100 people in their interior, but it can be said that never. They got them did not let him stay. Many people were very exclusive very, closed so at some point, they decided to turn the castle into a orphanage Los Caballeros Pishas. They modified

their initial plan and they opened the doors for children, homeless children whose families did not have, resources without parents but although this may sound very good from doors, for within it was a very different from doors outside the Pishas children received the best education. They had good beds clothes, hot food low to sleep, friends places to run and scream, But, according to some sources, what happened, inside the castle it was very dark for, starting the education they received was, very strict boys and girls were, separated and could not even speak. The boys were in a wing the girls in, another and although they were brothers they could not, nor see in second place on this site. They only accepted two children of each family. If a marriage had eight children from, these eight only two and some entered.

Sources say that in this place alone, they accepted, known friends or descendants of, Pisha's gentlemen and third end. this attracts a lot of attention is said that the children throughout the day had many tasks that had to fulfill the take tomatoes clean wash clothes have everything collected clean but a good part is that the boys they could play in the basement gym and see mute movies and a movie theater that they had only for them on the one hand they had a lot of work but on the other they had great luxuries for the time and when night fell everyone slept crowded in different rooms children in one part and girls in another despite problems a woman named mildre h cherry who was there in the He said that he was quite a lot. Well, they did activities had many. Friends were well

careful, guarded and at night all. Children went down to the porch and sang, but, they did not do this for the love of music if, but because one of the gentlemen, forced to do so organize them, made form and then made them sing. Popular songs for this. Mowed the neighbors will listen to it and we sing old songs, popular then and people came. The doors and fences down to, listen to us sing, but in that place no. Everything was good in fact Mildre said that. They gave them a dress a year the people thought the children had several various costumes but in reality was one year a change that the children had to take care of one of those costumes to mildred didn't like it and when he stayed alone grabbed scissors and cut off the sleeves was a little girl did not think well in what

i was doing and when they learned adults submitted to a terrible punishment will think that maybe the time hit her but that mildre suffered was something very different and they locked her in a closet until she sew herself again the sleeves of the dress in those mom dray moments should have between six and years of age and the issue of sewing does not. It was very good so that other girls, in the middle of the night without adults, C went to the closet and sewed it. By, she spent only 26 years since. This castle worked its doors closed them, without giving any explanation this could, imply that

its history reached, its end, but it can be said that there was no, made more than start since all. Night Springfield's neighbors, they wanted to keep listening to the, orphan to sing everyone who passed, in front of the castle both day and, at night I wanted to see shadows in all. windows of adult children, listen to laugh songs people, keep thinking that the castle was, occupied and quickly rumors, extended like gunpowder during, many people sneaked into the castle and everyone who did, not feel safe inside, feeling insecure observed, persecuted they said to see shadows even, some swore and perswore, seeing ghosts of children there was great,

number of testimonies that secured, see children of flesh and blood inside, Castillo saw them run greet them, but when weighing these children, they disappeared every day there was, more stories like this and in, 1942 several years after the start of, World War II the Forces, United States Armed Acquired. This castle here is a, uncomplicated to understand and is that by, one side was the castle and on the other one, very close hospital both places, they were for the army and the two were, connected through a corridor, underground the hospital was, mainly for wounded soldiers, and the castle was to recover them and in, entertain them the soldiers went to, hospital were intervened, and then, passed through the tunnel to the castle,

There were nurses, other doctors, rooms and apart from all this, they had a lot of offers from. Entertainment was a movie theater, Boyle's dance lounger room, billiards a library and an area, dedicated to arts and crafts. Some comedian movie stars and artists of the time acted in the theater in the castle and, same happened in the dance hall where great bands acted but, interesting here is that the sources, officers say that the castle is place of rest, but others say that the history of this place was a little more, cloudy and is that during the second. in this place not only, they recovered American soldiers, but also Italian-German soldiers, and Japanese high-ranking Germans. Nurses treated very badly, they shouted to the nurses and they spit, but the Japanese, however, was well considered and treated everyone, with great respect apparently in the, Satano del Castillo, there were cells and in, one of them is a mural of Japanese style according to several witnesses in, this cell was the Japanese soldier

and, as they behaved so well they gave him, brushes and painting but interesting, here is that according to official sources. At no time were enemy soldiers. The cells really did not work for that. They were warehouses and the castle only. It was to entertain and recover. Soldiers, injured with the end of the second. World War the place was gradually, being abandoned and people started, to core inside or, out of curiosity, or to see if they found, something of value that is how again. Rumors and legends began, about the castle everyone who is. Karaba in the basement said see strangers. Orb's special mind in the area of the, cells and something very interesting is that they said that something or someone hit the pipes those blows did not seem

like rats looked like an iron bar but they looked where they did not see nobody but one of the most stories sinister happened in the sixties a family moved to the area and one of your children i swear to have made friends with children who lived there at the beginning the parents let him do left him go to the garden play with those children and after a few hours the little girl returned home frankly came with new toys with many stories commenting what he had done but in a certain moment the were missed, because apparently that place seemed, abandoned that one of the times that the child went to play with friends, they followed and discovered that in reality, the boy was playing alone ran without, that nobody persecuted him laughed alone, talked with nothing, and there they

decided to never come back, to the. Castillo L. Army sold the castle in, 1993, but from here everything is chaos. Some comment that he went from hand in, hand for a lot of time and others. That was not so that for many, years the castle did not find a buyer, but finally it was acquired by Tamara. Fine Kiaro this woman did everything for. Recover the castle fixed the. Gardens the main entrance. Restored opened several more quarters and in. 2010 opened its doors to do. Historical tours on the one hand to tours. Historical by another rented rooms and I already finally organized weddings events. Convite celebrations photo sessions. The castle is open to the public but at the same time Tamara herself lived inside and that was when, began to experience

strange things in. An occasion when I was in there. Lobby heard a woman's voice. greet her that voice was not a whisper. It was rather a shout and, that voice echoed everywhere but, look where to look at nobody. In the first instance he thought it was his. Imagination was a very big place, lonely cold emptiness and was very normal. Imagine something like that but with the passage of. Time strange things went to more. The second experience that lived there, it happened when he was heading to the old, children's rooms and is that while, I went up to the big stairs he saw the end of these a dark mass a species of fog that floated in the air, and the more that thing was fixed.

He faded immediately, to all employees to gardeners. The janitors told all the, world and everyone took her crazy but. Hours later he played a tour in, that castle and the group of visitors. There were two workers who years ago, they restored parts of the castle, the quarters showed the gardens, the dining room and after. All the workers went to, she and asked if there was already, known to the ghosts of the place. While those worked there those, men lived the most, spooky voices, shadows presences, disappearance of objects and to-mara to.

Listen to all that stayed more, quiet seeing that experiences. There they were real and more and more tourists. They saw strange things tomorrow established a tour, tour, tour that by, Incredible that seems also resulted, be a great success over the years. Fans and experts in the world, paranormal determined that in that place, there were a lot of entities, residual entities, positive entities, negative, but among all of them there were, two who caught attention on top, of all two spirits that, mainly they were in there. tunnels the first seems to be a soldier that this allegedly died there spirit seems to hit the pipes that are in the basements and popularly people call mr boots hits sure pipe shouts and occasionally when his boots sound in the dark a local news team decided to record a small special in this castle recorded the gardens rooms the dining room and then they sought strong emotions wanted call attention talking about ghosts and they entered the basements with a guide expert in the subject arrive there they record everything put some tension and the guide begins to attract the attention of

of the, Mr. Boots asks the ghost to, manifest, but this does nothing, asks again and this still does, nothing and on the third time the team, turn off the cameras do not believe in ghosts, they do not believe that nothing going to happen, listen to anything but with the cameras, often about to leave the, sound of a bell at the bottom of the, hall a hallway in which nobody should supposedly see and, this leads us to the entity that, they all fear a kind of shadow that, it also hides in these tunnels, some think that a demon is a, malignant dark entity and you were a old orphanage employee a man punished children with great severity. But whatever this entity does, very striking things the first is that makes tourists feel very uncomfortable

that feel anxiety anguish, fear sadness and in a few minutes, he steals all his energy and the second is that this being supposedly attacks. Physically some people say that inside the tunnel they feel burns, a part of the body a leg one leg, the back and when they leave there, they discover that in that area they have either moratones or scratches and in the event that Let Scratches are always three lines, which according to many implies that, that entity is demonic four. Guided T.S. impressions are very different at the top room. Dining room in all that area does not.

They feel fear they feel observed. You can see shadow listening whispers, but, when they go down to the basement, everything is different. One of the experiences they had, places that it is said that in front of, a group appeared a strange shadow. It was something fleddened but left. A group in shock, a divided group. In two visions some said it was, a shadow a shadow without shape,

but, others said he was a tall man and, thin a man who disappeared in a, simple flickering so now is you, turn not you what do you think of the case and you believe, that the experiences here are real or, they are inventions, it all started with Carl standing in disbelief. He couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening. At first, he dismissed it as a trick of the mind, chalking it up to being the new guy in town. Moving into a new place was always a little strange, wasn't it? Perhaps the employees were messing with him, playing little pranks to lighten up their days. But as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Carl realized something unsettling, this wasn't just his imagination. Let's take a step back

to the origin of this eerie story, which begins on July 1st, 1905. Henry Flagler, an influential hotel magnate, decided to build a quaint little home at 327, Acacia Street in West Palm Beach, Florida. The house stood eerily close to the Goodland Cemetery, a decision whose reasoning remains unclear to this day. Some speculate Flagler intended to rent the house out, but the proximity to the cemetery painted a darker picture for the neighborhood. The home was built in the Edwardian style, a three-story structure boasting a ground floor with a welcoming porch, a spacious living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The second floor housed the bedrooms and another bathroom, while the third floor was an attic, used mainly for storage. One thing about this

house that caught everyone's attention was its façade, it was painted in bright, eye-catching colors, usual for the time. Neighbors began referring to it as the painted lady, a name as striking as the home itself. Yet, despite its cheerful appearance, the house seemed destined for a darker legacy. A mysterious history begins, the exact details of who first lived in the painted lady are murky at best. Some accounts claim Henry Flagler himself resided there for a time, while others insist the house was initially used as a funeral parlor due to its proximity to the cemetery. The latter story seems to hold more weight in the local folklore, as the house was frequently used as a morgue and residence for funeral workers.

The funeral parlor gave rise to unsavory tales of body thefts, grave robberies, and the selling of corpses for scientific studies, a macabre business that was, surprisingly, not uncommon at the time. The employees working in the house eventually rechristened it as the Keeper's house, as if hoping a new name would erase the sinister reputation it was developing. It was during this time that the house saw its first recorded death. A man named Beck, the cemetery gardener, resided in the keeper's house. Known as a kind and simple man, Beck enjoyed long walks, sharing beers with friends, and spending quiet evenings on the porch, humming popular tunes.

However, one fateful day at the cemetery, Beck found himself in a heated argument with an unruly visitor. What started as a verbal dispute escalated into a physical altercation that tragically ended Beck's life. Locals began reporting sightings of Beck's ghost soon after. swore they'd seen him sweeping leaves, tending to flowers, or simply strolling through the cemetery. Some claimed he still sat on the keeper's house porch, humming his favorite songs as if nothing had changed. The Riddle family arrives. In 1914, the city of West Palm Beach acquired

the house, renaming it the city house. The structure changed hands a few more times before 1920, when Carl and Kenyon Riddle, two brothers who had gained prominence for their contributions to the city, became linked to the property. Carl Riddle, in particular, was beloved by the community for his role as the city's first administrator and superintendent of public works. When Carl and his wife bought the house, it seemed like a win for everyone. The riddles were admired as kind-hearted, industrious people who truly cared for their neighbors. From the outside, life in the riddle house appeared idyllic. Carl was well respected, his wife and children were charming, and the family's presence seemed to breathe new life into the house.

Yet behind closed doors, something strange began to stir. The Riddles' household staff was the first to notice the oddities. By day, the house was warm and welcoming, but after sunset, an inexplicable chill would settle in. Employees reported hearing whispers, soft footsteps, and faint murmurs, as though unseen visitors roamed the halls. At first, Carl dismissed these accounts as nothing more than idle gossip. But as the weeks wore on, he began experiencing the phenomena himself. The diary of a skeptic-turned-believer, determined to make sense of what was happening, Carl began documenting every unusual occurrence in a notebook.

He noted the date, time, and a detailed description of each event, whether it was the sound of footsteps echoing through empty hallways or the distinct sensation of being watched. The entries filled page after page, though none of the incidents were violent. Despite the eerie nature of these experiences, the Riddell family lived in relative peace, until 1929. The Great Depression brought hardship to many, including the Riddell staff. financial strain weighed heavily on their employees, but none more so than a handyman named Joseph. Despite his troubled past, which included being wrongfully accused of a crime,

Carl had given Joseph a chance, offering him steady work in the house. Joseph proved himself a diligent and trustworthy worker, but as the economic downturn worsened, his demeanor changed. He became withdrawn, somber, and increasingly isolated. One fateful day, Joseph was called to fix a leak in the attic. Hours passed, and when Joseph didn't return, the housekeeper went to check on him. What she found was devastating, Joseph had taken his own life, hanging himself from a beam in the attic. The escalation of the unexplainable, Joseph's death marked a turning point for the riddle house. What had once been subtle, benign disturbances escalated into full-blown

hauntings. Footsteps were no longer faint, they thundered up and down the attic stairs with purpose. Conversations echoed from empty rooms, and doors slammed shut on their own. These occurrences were so frequent and unsettling that the staff began quitting one by one, unable to endure the oppressive atmosphere. Even the riddles themselves could no longer bear living in the house. They moved out, but rather than sell the property, they began renting it out, hoping others might have better luck. Unfortunately, no tenant stayed for long. Families packed up and left within months, terrified by the same phenomenon of the riddles had experienced. Businesses tried to operate in the house, but none succeeded. Eventually,

the property sat vacant, its painted facade fading as time wore on. A second life in the public eye, in the 1980s, Palm Beach Atlantic College expressed interest in using the house as a women's dormitory. Initial renovations went smoothly, but on the first night, the students couldn't sleep. Unexplainable noises, icy drafts, and an overwhelming sense of unease filled the air. Rumors of haunting spread quickly, and the dormitory was abandoned within months. By the mid-1990s, the house faced demolition, but Carl Riddles' nephew, John, intervened. As president of the yesteryear village historical park, John orchestrated the relocation of the house to the park, where it was restored to its former glory. However, during the restoration process, workers reported bizarre incidents,

tools vanished, heavy objects moved on their own, and one painter was struck on the head by a flying bucket. Despite the challenges, the restoration was completely. and the house opened to the public as a historical site. Visitors soon began reporting paranormal activity. Many claimed to see a man and a woman dressed in period clothing, though no actors had been hired for the tours. Paranormal investigators identified for distinct entities within the house, a peaceful woman, a young boy, the ghost of Beck,

and the vengeful spirit of Joseph, who remained confined to the attic. A haunting legacy, today, the Riddell House is a staple of ghost tours and paranormal investigations, with countless visitors sharing their eerie experiences. Some claim to feel an inexplicable presence near the attic door, while others report seeing shadowy figures or hearing disembodied voices. The legacy of the Riddell House endures, leaving everyone who steps inside wondering, are the spirits tied to the tragedies that occurred there, or is the house itself the source of its unrelenting hauntings?

We begin. The city of New Orleans, Louisiana, is one of the most active places in the paranormal universe. Perhaps one of the main reasons for this fact lies in the historical and evolutionary origins of this city over time, or perhaps because it is crossed by several A-lines or various telluric lines. Either way, New Orleans seems to have been the home of beings coming directly from the very depths of hell. Specifically, last week we talked about one of these characters, Madame Delphine Lalori, popularly known as the witch or the monster of Louisiana. But let's refresh your memory a bit. Madame Delphine Lawlorie was a woman of high birth whose life was full of immense luxury. Having been married a total of three times and being extremely skilled in finances,

she amassed an unmatched fortune that allowed her not only to own several plantations dedicated to the exploitation of sugarcane but also to own slaves who worked from sunup to sundown for her, both on those plantations and in her family mansion located at 1140, Royal Street in New Orleans. In that residence, the best parties of the time were held, and at those events, both she and her husband, Leonard Lewis Nicholas Lalori, showed the world their most pleasant, most helpful, and most kind face. The generosity, beauty, and intelligence of Madame Lalori became famous wherever she went. However, when in 1834 a fire broke out in the kitchens of the mansion, she could no longer

hide her true identity, her true sociopathic personality. When the authorities intervened to put out the fire, they discovered what was truly hidden behind the walls of the Lalori mansion, servants in shackles, others locked in tiny cages, abhorrent surgeries, men tied to surgeons' tables who had undergone sex change operations, eyes and mouth sewn shut, fingernails torn off, limbs amputated. Madam Lalori was a true monster, a monster who loved to torture her slaves when no one else could see her. Among her favorite practices was drilling holes into the skulls of her still-living victims,

inserting sticks, and stirring them, or even filling their mouths with insects and excrement, then sewing them shut. There is an endless list of abuses, each crueler than the last. But what happened when Madame Lalori escaped to France? What happened when her beloved mansion was left at the mercy of time? That is precisely the topic that concerns us today. The story of the Lalori mansion is perhaps one of the most popular horror tales in Louisiana. For over 150 years, that residence has been considered the most terrifying place in the French quarter.

For in it were not only trapped the echoes of the moans, the cries, the sobbing heard there for years, but also the souls of all those people who lost their lives on the third and final floor of that mansion. And that was a known fact to every single person who lived in the neighboring houses. From the very moment the mansion was abandoned, the screams and slamming doors in the middle of the night were a constant. The shadows, the lights moving from one window to another, it was as real as the sun itself. Some legal documents indicate that complaints from neighbors were a daily occurrence. Some were simple noise complaints from the mansion, while others were firm testimonies about the return of the monster of Louisiana to her malevolent refuge. Yet even so, every time the police forces intervened, the house seemed completely calm, abandoned.

The house didn't appear to have been the scene of anything, no beatings, no signs of disturbance. I suppose because of those rumors, no one dared to spend a scent on it during the first three years of its abandonment. As time went on, the noises, the cries, the moans, the sound of chains, the shadows, the lights, the slamming doors, all of it intensified. There were even occasions when this began at sunset and continued until sunrise. Testimony's claimed it was as if one of Madame Lollori's parties repeated every night, always the same story, always the same noises. It was as if the cycle kept repeating itself again and again, until one day, it simply stopped. One day, the house ceased to terrify.

It became a hollow structure, a faded reflection of what it once concealed. That was when some nearby vagrants decided to start using it to shelter from the cold. According to legend, at first only a few dared to enter. But once word spread that the ghosts were nothing but childish tales, dozens of homeless men and women crowded the mansion's doors seeking a roof over their heads. Fights, murders, and rapes once again stained the marble floors and stuccoed walls, bringing back to life the demons of 1140, Royal Street, with their cries, their moans, their dragging chains. But above all, with the presence of shadows, black, opaque shadows that

roamed through each and every room. Those presences that many called myth now began to claim lives in very inexplicable ways. Many of the men and women who passed through the main gate never came back out, and their bodies were never found again. In 1837, a man whose identity remains unknown to this day fell in love with the mansion. According to the story, he was a man of letters, a lover of fine wine and the architecture of his era. He also loved classical literature, but, in contrast, rejected any stories linked to the paranormal world, the unexplained world, as he considered the mere childish tales to scare disobedient children. However, his dream of living in the French quarter was cut short the moment he stepped inside the mansion,

the moment he crossed the main gate with two architects. When they reached the third floor and began negotiating the renovations, according to the documents, they witnessed a completely hostile figure, a thick, black, large presence, that pushed them down the stairs. At that moment, the man decided to flee and never return. After its new abandonment, some city volunteers proposed that the structure could be turned into a school for girls who couldn't afford private education. Through a public vote, the citizens considered it a great idea and accepted the proposal. The renovation were didn't take long, they only had to clean and paint the walls on the first two floors and set up

some desks, chalkboards, and basic school furniture. The first days of school were joyful for both the girls and their teachers. But little by little, that joy faded. The girls didn't want to use the bathrooms. They didn't even want to leave their classrooms for recess, saying there was always a man in a suit standing at the top of the second floor staircase, watching every one of their movements. Even the teachers complained about the paranormal events happening there, objects, erasers, chalk, and books moving on their own. They claimed again and again that every afternoon the chalkboards were completely erased, but every morning upon entering the classrooms, both students and teachers saw the boards full of scribbles, macabreys and dozens of names

written with infinite rage. One month. That was how long the teachers and students lasted before they decided to abandon the place, once again leaving it to the ghosts that inhabited the mansion. Once abandoned again, the mansion resumed its midnight parties, the screams, the moans, the chain movements, the lights moving from room to room. The mansion once more terrorized the neighbors. However, this story took a complete turn in 1892, the year those festivals of banging, screaming, and slamming doors at late hours of the night completely stopped. A rumor spread, the mansion spirits had hypnotized someone again, enchanted another poor soul. And in truth, they weren't far off. Not long after the noises and events stopped,

a name appeared in the newspapers, Jose Edvin, an eccentric member of high society who swore he was totally in love with the mansion. Guess what happened next? Weeks after acquiring the property, the lifeless body of that unfortunate man was found lying face down on the third floor. Cause of death, unknown. For years, the mansion fell victim to the cruelest, most desolate abandonment ever told. And with its architecture, the horrifying stories of death slowly faded. Now our clock moves forward to 1920, the year the mansion was purchased and renovated by a businessman who intended to turn each of its rooms into individual apartments. Unfortunately, the business didn't last long because the new tenants did nothing but

complain about the sounds they heard at night, footsteps, shadows, creaking walls, cries, moans. They complained about things that couldn't be real, things that had no explanation, noises without clear origin. And to all of this was added the presence of women dressed in 19th century clothing. All owners left the building, citing strange phenomena. Even all businesses opened on the ground floor ended up closing for the same reason, first a bar where glasses inexplicably exploded, then a furniture store where, overnight, everything was destroyed. The building's owner, tired of constant complaints and unable to profit, considered the noises might be due to poor water circulation in the pipes, and that the humidity

from those pipes caused the damage in the rooms and businesses. The big surprise came when renovation work began on those pipes. When workers lifted the floor of the third floor, they uncovered a total of 75 corpses, both men and women. Bodies that Madame Lawlory had likely buried there more than 100 years earlier after torturing them day after day. Some of the bodies still had deep cuts in their bones, others were missing limbs, limbs that were never recovered. As a result, the city decided to close the building indefinitely, turning Royal Street into a landmark for mystery lovers from the mid-20th century onward. From there, we have countless testimony.

from people who snuck into the mansion to investigate or simply to experience true fear. According to the investigators, the house was described as follows, the feeling of heaviness and of being watched by a thousand eyes hits you the moment you set foot inside. At the end of April 2007, the famous actor and producer Nicholas Cage managed to acquire the mansion through the Hancock Park Real Estate Company, which had remodeled it to become a family home. The Cage family lived in the house for several years, using it at a as a retreat. The actor claimed the legends about the mansion were absolutely true. He told the press that more than one ghost lived in that mansion. He said that both he and his family heard

chains at night, whispers, cries, shadows going up and down the stairs, and that the most active part of the mansion was on the third floor, in one of the corners. He spoke of moisture stains that appeared and vanished within minutes. He spoke of cold hands caressing your hair as you knotted off on the couch. But even so, he got used to the apparitions, even claimed that those ghosts gave the house its charm. Sadly, no self-respecting demonic entity allows its owners to grow used to it. So, over time, the entities became more aggressive, increasingly hostile. But the cages never left the property by choice. Sadly, the mansion went up for auction in 2009 due to a foreclosure the cages couldn't avoid. Once auctioned, the mansion was acquired by a

finance company called Region Financial Corporation. To this day, the mansion still has not been purchased. No one dares to buy Madame Lalori's mansion. Not a single millionaire has spent a cent on it. But fortunately, if we call the finance company to ask permission, and pay a modest $30 fee, will have the chance to enter the mansion and not only that, but also conduct investment. of our choice for a full day and night, in any room we choose, including unlimited access to the infamous third floor, the floor of torture. But now comes my question, would you dare to enter it? The end. It said that a cult gathers there and performs rituals, and no one dares to speak of it being real. Something infernal is happening, while the rest of the students are out partying.

This eerie situation centers around the University of Ohio, the ninth-oldest university in the United States, located in Athens, Ohio. From its very beginning, the institution has been surrounded by a veil of dark rumors and strange happenings, all tied to its past. In 1787, the need for educational measures to support the colonization of the northeastern territories emerged. Ten years later, an area near the Hawking River in Marietta and Athens was chosen as the site for a new university. Plans were made, the first structures were built, and in 1804, the University of Ohio was officially founded. However, it wasn't until four years later that the first students were enrolled. But before diving into the history of the university itself, we must explore

a different building just across the river. This building, located on a hill just beyond the Hawking River, is a chilling site. It was established on January 9, 1874, under the name, Athens Lunatic Asylum. Eleven years later, the name was changed to, the ridges, to soften the title. The institution became a home for people with all sorts of mental disorders, including soldiers suffering from PTSD, women diagnosed with supposed hysteria, and even violent criminals, like Billy Milligan, the infamous, campus rapist. Milligan committed serious crimes, including armed robbery and three rapes. What made his case especially interesting was his defense, Milligan's lawyer argued that he had multiple personalities, meaning he wasn't the one committing

the crimes, but other personalities within him were. This disorder, known as dissociative identity disorder, suggested that Milligan himself was innocent, and he was sent from one psychiatric facility to another, eventually ending up in the ridges. Many sources indicate that Milligan's treatment there was far from humane. It said that the institution subjected him to extreme and outdated methods such as forced labor, electroshock therapy, hydrotherapy, and even lobotomies. In the earlier years of the ridges, patients from all walks of life were accepted. Some had families, while others had none. When patients died and their families were unreachable, their bodies were buried in unmarked graves on the grounds of the asylum. These graves were simple, marked only by numbers

instead of names or dates. Today, you can still find gravestones that are nothing more than stone markers with numbers. Some sources even claim the cemetery extended over the entire area, with bodies buried wherever there was space. This point will come back later, as it plays a crucial role in the dark events that unfolded. But the real tragedy occurred when a patient named Margaret Schilling entered the picture. We don't know much about Margaret's background, her parents, her birth date, or where she was from. What we do know is that by the time of the incident, Margaret was 53 years old, married, with one son, and suffering from dementia. Her condition led to her being admitted to the ridges. Margaret was known to be a calm patient who

kept to herself and didn't cause trouble. However, in December of 1978, she disappeared without a trace. Official sources claim that for six weeks, authorities searched relentlessly for her, but unofficial accounts suggest they gave up after only two weeks. This theory seems to be backed up by an interview with the superintendent of the asylum, which was published in the post. It was revealed that when a patient went missing, their records were destroyed after just 14 days,

meaning no one would come looking for them once the period had passed. In January of 1979, however, Margaret's body was found in a locked room in the the attic of the asylum. Her body was decomposed, and she was found lying on the floor completely naked, with her clothes neatly folded on the window ledge. Some reports say her cause of death was indeterminate, while others suggested she died from exposure or freezing after somehow getting trapped in the attic. What shocked the people involved in the recovery of her body was the terrible stain left on the floor. The fluids from her decomposing body had left a mark that seemed almost impossible to remove.

Despite efforts to clean it with various products, the stain remained, and some people began to believe that it wasn't just the remains of her body, but rather evidence that her soul was trapped in the attic, unable to move on. Over the years, rumors spread that Margaret's ghost haunted the area, she was often seen in the windows, heard crying, and even whispering in the halls. After the asylum closed its doors in 1993, the rumors only intensified. Many people claimed to have seen full apparitions, heard strange noises, or even experienced physical attacks. This led the University of Ohio to purchase the building to expand its campus.

Some parts of the structure were converted into classrooms and offices, but it wasn't long before students and faculty began reporting strange occurrences. It no longer seemed like just stories or legend. One professor, whose office was located in one of the restored rooms, contacted a local paranormal group, Ohio Exploration. The professor shared his experience of seeing shadows out of the corner of his eye and hearing a sinister melody play when he was completely alone. Another time, he saw the reflection of a man in black in a bathroom mirror, only to turn around and find no one there.

As the paranormal activity continued to escalate, Ohio exploration investigated the building and recorded several EVP, electronic voice phenomena. Meanwhile, more unsettling tales began to surface, including reports from students who claimed they had experienced inexplicable events in their dorms. In 1924, the university began developing the West Green Area for student housing, and it wasn't long before rumors spread that workers had discovered a hidden cemetery underneath the land, possibly an ancient Native American burial ground. But there was no concrete evidence to support these claims, and the story was quietly swept under the rug. Yet, strange occurrences continued.

In 1965, Wilson Hall, a dormitory in the West Green area, was built. It was a beautiful and spacious building that quickly became a coveted residence. But in 1970, a student was reportedly found dead in Room 428, though no official record of this event exists. However, rumors of the incident persisted, and students began to say that something about Room 428 was cursed. Strange noises, whispers, and knocks could be heard emanating from the room, and many believed it was haunted. One student, deeply interested in the paranormal, even started experimenting with astral projection, attempting to leave leave her body while sleeping to communicate with spirits. She claimed that a ghost had told her to visit the old asylum and touch Margaret Schilling

stain. Her friends thought she was joking, but they agreed to go with her. The group visited the asylum, entered the abandoned parts of the building, and made their way to the attic. When the girl touched the stain, something changed. That night, she didn't return to her dorm. She was missing for the entire day, and later, emergency services were called to Room 428, where another tragedy occurred, the girl had taken her own life. Some say that after her death,

paranormal events escalated. The room became infamous, and students would report hearing strange noises, seeing shadows, and feeling a heavy presence. Years later, some of the university staff decided to investigate further and found that the entire West Green area, including Wilson Hall, was built on land believed to be the center of a pentagram formed by five cemeteries. This added to the eerie and mysterious reputation of the place, with rumors of a cult using the tunnels beneath the campus for rituals. Despite attempts by the university to cover up these stories, more and more students reported strange phenomena in their dorm rooms. In March 2022, a student named Stephanie Jeebeck shared a chilling account of paranormal activity in her room. She and her roommate were relaxing when their mirrors suddenly flew off the wall and shattered.

Later, a math book mysteriously flew off her desk, and then a string of lights she had placed on the wall lit up by themselves, despite having no batteries. Whether or not these experiences were the result of a haunting remains unclear, but it's certain that the eerie history of the University of Ohio and its surrounding areas continues to intrigue and terrify students to this day. So, what do you think? Is there truly something supernatural happening at the University of Ohio, or is it all just a collection of urban legends? Whatever the truth may be, the stories surrounding this historic campus remain a source of both fascination and fear. Everything seemed pretty normal at first.

Sure, there were some noises, creaky floors, walls that groaned, and weird cold drafts, but that was chalked up to the quirks of an old building. The families living there just assumed the structure was settling, until it became unbearable. Convinced it was something structural, they boarded up a room on the third floor, sealing its window, chimney, and door. And for a while. Peace. But let's backtrack, because this story is way darker than some creaky walls. The birth of Willington Mill, Willington Mill, or Kitty Mill, as some called it, was one of

England's first steam-powered flower mills. Built to impress and innovate, it quickly became a marvel of engineering. But locals? They whispered about something sinister. People feared it, branding it the most haunted building in the north. The curse, they said, went back to 1660 when the land housed a small wooden con. cottage. Inside lived Mrs. Pepper, a mysterious woman, rumored to be a witch. Some accounts describe her as a young midwife, others as an old hermit, but everyone agreed she was peculiar.

She was feared, respected, and avoided. Being a midwife gave her power, people wouldn't dare insult her, fearing that she might curse them or their babies. Stories claimed she practiced a strange mix of Catholicism and pagan rituals. She was never put on trial for witchcraft, society had already condemned her in whispers and rumors. When Mrs. Pepper fell ill, she begged for a priest to confess her sins, but was denied. It was a cruel blow in a time when a deathbed confession was everything. When she died unconfessed, the land itself was declared cursed. Fearful of her spirit, locals demolished her little home.

Years later, in 1780, William Brown bought the land. He built the first version of the mill, a grand structure where Mrs. Pepper's cottage once stood. For two decades, everything went splendidly. The Browns grew rich, hiring workers and expanding their business. But one day, without warning, they vanished. The town exploded with gossip. Some said William had fallen for a maid who rejected him. In a fit of rage, he assaulted and killed her, hiding her body in one of the mill's walls.

Overwhelmed with guilt or fear of being caught, he fled. Others whispered of ghostly apparitions, a woman trapped in the walls. Yet, no one found a thing. Time passed, and the mill found new owners. But the hauntings? They stayed. The modernization of the mill, in the early 1800s, cousins George Tanton and Joseph Proctor took over,

updating the mill into a cutting-edge steam-powered facility. Business boomed, but construction paused mysteriously for two years. The workers whispered of crimes, bodies hidden in walls, a woman crushed by the mill's will, two men fighting to the death. Again, no proof. The Proctor and Tuntan families moved into the mill's residential quarters. Both families noticed the same eerie phenomena, creaks, thuds, and bone-chilling cold. Eventually, they decided to seal off the infamous third-floor room.

Once the room was boarded up, life returned to normal, or so it seemed. Joseph Proctor Jr. takes over, years passed. George and Joseph Sr. died, leaving the mill to their children. Joseph Proctor Jr. couldn't wait to move back into the home of his childhood. His wife Elizabeth wasn't thrilled, but she followed him, along with their four kids, Joseph III, Henry, Edmund, and Little Jane. The estate wasn't just a house, it was a sprawling complex with barns, worker quarters, and lush grounds. The Proctor's hired a full staff, including a nanny to care for baby Edmund.

The nanny's routine was simple, feed the baby, change him, and rock him to sleep in his second-floor nursery. But every night, as she settled Edmund, she heard footsteps above her. They followed the same pattern, soft, deliberate steps from the door to the window, then back again. Sometimes they turned into loud stumps, almost as if the person wanted her to know they were there. The nanny, rattled, begged Joseph to stop whoever was making the noise. He calmly explained that the room above her had been sealed for years. No one could possibly be up there. The nanny insisted, saying, asterisk, I know what I heard.

Asterisk, intrigued, Joseph gathered the staff to unseal the third floor room. With great effort, they pried the door open, only to find an empty, untouched space. No furniture. No secret hiding spots. Nothing. The nanny, terrified, quit the next day. If the room was empty, she reasoned, then whatever she heard wasn't human. The staff confessed to Joseph that they'd always believed the third floor room was cursed.

Joseph's father had called it asterisk the disturbed room. Asterisk Joseph dismissed the chatter but swore the staff to secrecy when he hired a new nanny. It didn't matter. The new nanny experienced the same thing, loud, purposeful stumps shaking the walls. Terrified, she too fled. Elizabeth faces the hauntings. With no nanny, Elizabeth took over baby duties. Soon, she heard the same footsteps, always at the same time, pacing from door to window above

of the nursery. Joseph, ever the skeptic, blamed the wind, old wood, or rats. But as the nights passed, the noises spread. One night, as Joseph and Elizabeth lay in bed, they counted thirteen deafening bangs on their bedroom wall. The walls shook violently with each hit. Joseph waved it off as the house settling, but Elizabeth was done with excuses. Things escalated.

Joseph, putting Edmund to bed one evening, rested his hands on the crib's edge. Suddenly, something metallic struck the crib from below, shaking it. The baby cried as the crib moved. Joseph searched high and low but found no source of the disturbance. By now, the staff was petrified. They claimed the spirit had escaped the disturbed room and was roaming freely. Machines powered on and off at night without explanation. Workers reported seeing shadowy figures in the mill.

One neighbor swore he saw a ghostly woman in white gliding through the fields. Then there was the Mill Foreman, Thomas Mann, and his wife. Their small cottage sat on the property, and at night, they heard heavy footsteps crunching gravel outside. In the winter, Thomas' wife fetched coal one night and glanced at the Proctor House. In an upstairs window, she saw a glowing, ghostly figure dressed as a priest. It walked in circles, gesturing wildly, before vanishing. Thomas and his wife both saw it, and Thomas reported the sighting to Joseph.

For once, Joseph took action. A log of nightmares, Joseph started keeping a journal. He recorded footsteps, voices, unexplainable bangs, and whispers. One night, Elizabeth and the nanny slept in the nursery. Around midnight, Elizabeth woke, feeling watched. Slowly, she realized her bed was floating, levitating several inches off the floor. When it finally settled, she was too terrified to speak. The next morning, the nanny admitted she had dreamt she was floating, too.

The most horrifying incidents involved the children. Four-year-old Jane described seeing an old woman at the foot of her bed. The woman never spoke, just stared with hollow, dead eyes. Joseph III saw a figure with black, empty sockets for eyes sitting on his bed. Little Edmund claimed to play with a giant white cat that none of the other children could see. Staff reported seeing the same animal, large, hairy, and spectral, slipping through wall. science meets the supernatural, desperate, Joseph invited two scientists, Dr. Edward Dr.

Drury and chemist Thomas Hudson, to spend the night. The two men didn't believe in ghosts but agreed to investigate. On the night of July 3rd, 1840, they explored the third-floor room. At first, nothing happened. But as the night wore on, Edward screamed. Accounts vary, some say he saw a ghostly woman, others an eyeless figure, but whatever he saw, it left him so shaken that he lost all memory of the night. Willington Mill remained a place of mystery, fear, and ghostly legends. Whether you believe the stories or not,

one thing's for sure, something at that mill refused to rest. We begin. Many people over time have asked the following question, can art drive you insane? And the answer, from my point of view, is yes. Imagine for a moment contemplating the macabre art of Yuko-Tatsushima or the disturbing black paintings of Goya. While it is true that viewing each of the pieces in these collections for just a moment is not harmful to us. Now imagine doing it for hours on end without rest, studying every stroke, every composition, every light contrast, every story behind the painting.

Well, that's exactly what happens to students at the University of London. Before Your Eyes is an oil painting on canvas titled Man Proposes, God Disposes by H. W. Lour, But before discovering what can happen if you cross paths with it, let's learn a little about the painting. The artwork depicts an imagined arctic scene after the 1845 expedition of Sir John Franklin to explore the Northwest Passage. The 134 men of Franklin's expedition departed from Greenhithe in May 1845 aboard two ironclad icebreakers, HMS Aribus and HMS Terror. After five of them left the ships, the remaining 129 men were last seen by a whaling ship in Lancaster Sound in July 1845, but then they vanished into the ice without a trace. From there, the theories began. In 1854, the Inuit informed Captain John Ray of the Hudson's Bay Company that five years earlier, many had claimed to have seen his men near King William Island.

Indeed, after an exhaustive search of the area, some partially devoured. devoured corpses were found. It was suspected that some had died of hypothermia and that the survivors fed on their flesh, or that polar bears attacked the camp and devoured the men. So, this artwork commemorates one of those theories. In the imagined moment by the artist, we see one of the animals enthusiastically holding a human rib bone between its fangs, while the other plays with a blood-soaked piece of fabric from one of its victims. What's curious about this painting isn't that it simply depicts a dramatic scene of what supposedly happened, but rather that it delivers a powerful message about the fragility of life, that we cannot choose an honorable death, because such a thing does not

exist. The day the painting was first unveiled to high society, it caused quite a stir. In fact, William Michael Rossetti, a renowned critic and writer of the time, lamented the painting, calling it the saddest disjecta member. But he wasn't the only one who expressed disgust. John Franklin's widow fainted when she saw how her husband might have died. People couldn't understand how a painter known for depicting noble dogs had created something so macabre and distressing. Because of this, many claimed he had gone mad, transmitting his pain to anyone who gazed at the painting. And apparently, he succeeded. He created a work that, wherever it went, would gravely wound the soul of whoever looked at it, even if they didn't know the story behind it. Over time,

the University of London acquired the painting and displayed it in one of the classrooms at Royal Holloway School. This room was used exclusively for exams. However, as expected, the macabre spectacle of the Bloody Bears quickly became a distraction for students. Since its arrival at the university, rumors began to circulate. Some students claimed that while taking exams in the room, they could hear whispers, feel glacial chills, or even fear for their lives just from looking at the painting. Then came the 1970s, and from that point forward, the fear surrounding the painting became an epidemic. Everyone spoke of a girl who, during an exam in that very room, stared fixedly at the

bears as if in a trance, and while this happened, she wrote the following on her test paper, it was the bears who made me do it. After that, she was never seen again, she took her own life by jumping onto the train tracks. There's no official record of this story in the university archives, and the professors who supposedly interacted with the girl have refused countless times to give testimony. Because of this, it is now considered a simple urban legend, although the students don't think so. Following the alleged death of the girl, many students panicked in that classroom. None of them wanted to sit facing the painting. They preferred to take their exams on the floor, or not at all, risking failure.

Because of this, the Royal Holloway School Secretary was forced to cover the painting, with a large British flag. And since then, from the 1970s onward, man proposes, God disposes is covered the same way, every time the room is opened for exams. Before Your Eyes is a luxurious hotel built in 1886 by the landowner Jesse Driscoll. This man designed the hotel to be one of the most splendid and impressive of its time, and indeed, he succeeded. He ordered the construction of a grand lobby with marble floors and columns, hundreds of fully equipped rooms, and filled everything with the finest carpets. Here, the wealthiest families of Austin stayed, including the politician Lyndonby Johnson,

who once stayed here with his wife Lady Bird. However, what no one expected was that this hotel, instead of being known as the most luxurious, would become known as the most haunted in Texas. The first tragic event at the Driscoll occurred in 1887. The four-year-old daughter of a local senator, named Samantha Houston, chased a ball, tripped, and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck at the bottom. After this incident came the infamous room 525. In 1910, a bride took her life there by hanging herself. And although this death was considered an isolated case, 20 years later, the same story would repeat itself. A bride, a suicide, the same room. Upon reviewing the histories of both women, it was discovered they both died on the eve of their weddings.

The mirrors of the Driscoll Hotel are always mysteriously fogged. The room notebooks always contain strange scribbles. Guests on the fourth floor claim that every night they hear the voice of a woman weeping as she wanders the hallway. Both guests and staff claim the paint on the walls quickly peals and cracks. Cold, strange draught circulate everywhere, leaving a desolate atmosphere in their wake. Many believe that the beginning of the unexplained events didn't happen after Samantha Houston's death, but rather when a painting was hung in her honor. On screen you can see a replica of the painting in question, titled Love Letters, created by Charles Trevor. The exact date it was painted

is unknown, but far from conveying the sweetness of an innocent child, everyone who stands before it to contemplate it claims to feel terror in their skin. Guests and hotel staff say that the girl in the painting sometimes changes her expression, that her hair looks different every day, and that the painting even changes position all by itself. There are multiple reports of guests requesting the painting be removed, saying they've felt dizzy or nauseous after passing by it. Many believe the painting may be haunted by the spirit of Samantha, the little girl who once fell down the stairs. However, others say the rest of the paranormal events have nothing to do with her, that she is just an innocent child who remains near her portrait.

Still, parapsychology experts using electromagnetic field detectors and motion sensors, have determined that the painting is indeed under the influence of some kind of energy, but that it doesn't seem to be that of little Samantha. Around it, many EVP recordings have been captured, and all of them are so terrifying they seem to come from hell itself. In the mid-1990s, a painter known under the pseudonym Laura P., visited a photographer exhibition. Very little is known about the artworks displayed there. All we know for sure is that one photo caught her attention, a photograph taken by the commercial photographer James Kidd.

The image showed an old stagecoach in the foreground, and next to it, a very rusted train car. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the photo. However, upon closer inspection, she realized there was a sinister figure standing to one side. To be continued, to be continued, At first glance, nothing seemed unusual, in that photo, however, upon closer inspection, it was, noticed that on one side there was a sinister ethereal figure that appeared, to have no head. James Kate claimed that, this figure was not there when he, captured the moment, it simply appeared, once he developed the film. This mystery, pushed Laura to immortalize the image, as only she knew how. She felt, overcome by an irresistible desire, to paint the scene and created an oil painting, 16 by 20 inches. But that, emotion faded as she progressed, with the work, and Laura, reported that almost immediately after, starting the painting, she was invaded by, a palpable sensation of fear and, discomfort, to the point where she considered, abandoning the idea.

But, something forced her to keep painting, it was, as if her right hand worked, automatically, like invisible threads, guided the brush, and she, only had to hold the handle. And then, as if by magic, she finished it and titled it, the headless man's painting. Everyone liked the painting, but only one person, could keep it, and the lucky one, was a local businessman who bought it, to hang it in the offices where he worked. When he brought it there, all his co-workers were, impressed with the brushwork, the colors, and, the subject of the painting. But that admiration would soon fade. The office workers claimed that, as soon as the painting arrived, important papers and documents, began to disappear, objects, moved when the lights were, off, and the painting changed, position without anyone touching it. Every morning the painting would be crooked, they would straighten it, leave, and when they would, returned, the painting was crooked again. After, just three days, the office workers were

fed up and asked the businessman to return the painting to its artist, and so he did. When Laura moved with her, husband to a new home, the painting went with them, not knowing that it was not traveling alone. At nightfall, the entire house, filled with strange sounds, bangs, footsteps, and whispers, and all of them always, happened near the painting. At first, they blamed it on the fact that the house was old, and made entirely of wood, so the sounds must have been, normal and something they just, had to get used to. But over time, the situation only worsened. As soon as the sun set, the whole house came to life.

Decorative objects, furniture, and curtains, moved entirely on their own, doors opened and closed, without any draft, and, moisture stains began to appear. on the ceilings, moisture that no plumber, could explain. As the days, weeks, and months passed, the phenomenon grew stronger, until one day, it became unstoppable. Laura remembers sitting in front of the TV with a glass of wine in her, left hand and the remote in, her right, looking for a show to keep her entertained for ten minutes. However, just when she, put her lips to the rim of the glass, it, shattered into a thousand pieces. It was impossible that she had broken it, as she was holding it carefully.

Still, she didn't dwell on it and ran to the kitchen, for the broom and dustpan. But upon returning, Laura noticed that the largest and most jagged, piece of glass that had fallen, on the floor had disappeared, as if someone had taken advantage, of her absence to hide it. Laura became so desperate that she invited a friend to her home and told her everything, that had been happening. But she chose the wrong confidant, for this friend was very skeptical, and after touching the supposed cursed painting, she mocked it out loud, and challenged it to act, with all its strength, demanding, proof of its power. But, after a long silence, nothing happened. So the woman, assuming, it was all in Laura's mind, got ready to leave. That's when a large clock, that had hung on the wall, long before Laura and her husband moved in, fell to the floor. and shattered. Coincidence. Or maybe the painting wanted to respond. In 1995,

Laura befriended a huge fan of the paranormal. She was convinced that because of his, passion for mystery, the man wouldn't mock her when she told him about her ghostly problem. Indeed, the man was thrilled, to go to her house and investigate, the cursed painting. As soon as he entered the house, he grabbed his camera and started, photographing everything, he saw, in case he captured something anomalous. He photographed the stairs, the living room, absolutely everything was, recorded on his camera. However, at one point, the man stopped, dead in his tracks and stared, fixedly at one point. Then, with a blank stare, he muttered the following words, Laura, listen to me.

You must burn, that painting, Laura then replied, what's wrong? It looks like you've seen a ghost, and in fact, he had. While photographing the painting, her friend saw the silhouette, of a headless man slowly, approaching him. Bruno Amadio was a Venetian painter, about whom little is known. The only thing we know for sure is that, his collection titled The Crying Boys, it said that his paintings are, a gateway for pacts with the devil, and that terrible misfortunes fall, upon those who dare to hang, one of these oils on the walls of their home. Amadio was born at the start of the last century.

He was an active militant, of the Republican fascist party, a follower of Mussolini, and he also, participated in World War II. That experience changed his life. That's why he began the Crying Boys series. Through these works, the artist wanted to show the horror of war through the tears of, children orphaned by it. It said that after the war, Amadio moved to Spain, and from that moment, He vanished for a long time, until one day he resurfaced out of nowhere, like a phoenix,

and his art became immensely popular. Thus began the rumors, rumors that Amadio had made, a pact with the devil, to gain the fame and recognition, he believed he truly deserved. There are several versions of this legend. In one, it said that the first, painting Amadio made of a crying child, remained in the orphanage, where the child was from. Unfortunately, a few days later, the orphanage burned to the ground, and everyone perished in the flames, including the child in the painting. But mysteriously, the artwork was the only thing that didn't burn. Another version delves into the story of the original crying boy, who was a child Amadio met, in Madrid in 1969. His name was Don Bonillo, and he had,

run away from the orphanage, after learning that his parents had died, because of the war. The child so captivated the artist, that he decided to adopt him. However, a Catholic priest warned him that the boy was dangerous, that everyone knew him by, the nickname, the curse, because wherever he went, a mysterious fire would occur. But the painter did not listen, and his studio inexplicably burned down. After the fire, the boy disappeared, spreading the curse to his adoptive father, and to everyone who ever, owned one of his portrait. By the late 70s, the legend, spread like wildfire, and testimonies of bad luck, from those who owned a crying boy painting, multiplied rapidly. The testimony of Rose Farrington, a resident of Preston, is one, of the most shocking.

It reads, since I bought one of the paintings in 1959, my three sons and my husband have died. Now I often wonder if it's cursed, the first well-documented account, by a media outlawful. dates back to September 4, 1985, when the British newspaper The Sun published the story of a British couple who believed one of these paintings was responsible for the fire that destroyed their house in Yorkshire. The stairs and kitchen were destroyed, but the painting had not suffered, the slightest damage. After the Sun's initial publications, the UK was swept into, a frenzy of stories from people who claimed to have lost their homes, to fire, and even lives were lost. The madness surrounding the curse was followed by testimonies of people who had tried to

burn the paintings, and claimed they would not burn. Others even claimed the paintings, brought good luck if treated well. One man said that after rescuing, one of the paintings from a roadside, he won money at bingo, on a football bet, and on a slot machine. But now it's your turn, do you believe in curses, or do you think all this is nothing but superstition? The end. The enigmatic origin of humankind, a journey beyond the known. Throughout the vast stretches of human history, countless stories have been told about who we are, where we come from, and what our purpose might be. From ancient myths to cutting-edge scientific theories, humanity has always sought to uncover the truth about its origin. This quest for understanding,

both deeply personal and universally shared, has led us to explore everything from spiritual doctrines to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. Yet, despite all we've learned, a sense of of mystery still lingers, urging us to look deeper and ask even bolder questions. A glimpse into the past, the dawn of humanity, to understand our origins, we must first travel back in time, far beyond the written records of civilizations, back to an age when Homo sapiens were just one of many hominine species roaming the earth. Fossils and artifacts, unearthed from the depths of ancient soil, have provided scientists with invaluable clues about how our ancestors lived, evolved, and spread across the planet. The story begins in Africa,

often referred to as the cradle of humanity. It was here, around 300,000 years ago, that the first anatomically modern humans emerged. But what set Homo sapiens apart? Our species was not the strongest nor the fastest, but we possessed something extraordinary, the capacity for abstract thought, language, and collaboration. These abilities allowed us to create tools, share knowledge, and adapt to changing environments in ways no other species could. Over time, small bands of humans migrated out of Africa.

eventually colonizing every corner of the globe. This remarkable journey was fueled not only by necessity but by an insatiable curiosity, an urge to explore and understand the unknown. Science meets myth, bridging ancient beliefs and modern discoveries. While science offers a wealth of evidence about our physical evolution, the spiritual and mythological perspectives on human origins add layers of meaning that resonate on a deeply emotional level. Ancient cultures often explain the creation of humanity through elaborate tales involving gods,

cosmic events or sacred forces. In Greek mythology, for instance, humans were shaped from clay by the hands of Prometheus, while in many indigenous traditions, the earth itself is seen as a living entity that gave birth to all life. Modern science, with its reliance on empirical data, might seem worlds apart from these ancient stories. Yet, in many ways, the two approaches complement each other. Both seek to answer fundamental questions about existence and our place in the universe. The discovery of DNA, for example, has unveiled a code of life that feels almost poetic in its complexity and precision. Similarly, the Big Bang theory, describing the universe's origin, echoes creation myths that speak a beginnings born from chaos or nothingness. The role

of consciousness, the ultimate mystery, one of the most profound aspects of human existence is our ability to contemplate our own being. Consciousness, the very essence of what makes us us, remains an enigma that science has yet to fully unravel. Philosophers, neuroscientists, and spiritual leaders have all grappled with the question, what is consciousness, and where does it come from? Some theories suggest that consciousness is merely a byproduct of complex brain activity, while others argue it is a fundamental aspect of the universe, akin to space and time. Eastern philosophies, such as those found in Hinduism and Buddhism,

proposed that consciousness is eternal and interconnected, transcending individual minds. This idea resonates with the scientific concept of quantum entanglement, which suggests that particles can be interconnected across vast distances in ways that defy conventional understanding. Looking ahead, the future of human understanding, as we stand on the cusp of new discoveries in fields like genetics, artificial intelligence, and cosmology, our understanding of human origins continues to evolve. Technologies like CRISPR are allowing us to edit genes, potentially reshaping the course of evolution itself. Meanwhile, the search for extraterrestrial life challenges us to consider whether humanity is truly

unique in the universe. But perhaps the greatest frontier lies within us. By exploring the depths of our own consciousness, we may uncover truths that bridge the gap between science and spirituality, between the known and the unknowable. In doing so, we honor the timeless quest that has defined humanity from the very beginning, the desire to understand who we are and why we exist. It all started like any other day. It was a Wednesday morning, January 30th, 2002, to be precise.

Katrina Rolife was following her usual routine, something she'd done for as long as she could remember. At 8 a.m. sharp, she'd pick up the phone and call her mom. This wasn't just any call, it was their ritual. Her mom, Catherine, would be at home in Opelika, Alabama, while Katrina sat at her own kitchen table. Both would fix the same breakfast, coffee, juice, and toast, and chat about everything and nothing. Katrina would share her plans for the day, who she might meet up with, whether she was working or off, while her mom chimed in with her own updates. It was the same routine, day in and day out.

Comforting. Predictable. Except for this day, because this day, her mom didn't pick up. At first, Katrina thought it was a one-off. Maybe her mom was busy or had stepped out for a moment. She called again. Nothing. her call. Still nothing. Frustrated and a bit uneasy, she left a voicemail and went about

her day, hoping she'd hear back soon. Hours passed. No call. No word. That gnawing feeling in Katrina's stomach grew until it was unbearable. By afternoon, she decided she'd had enough. Grabbing her keys, she drove straight to her parents' house, her mind racing with worry the entire way. When she got there, she rang the bell, knocked, even peered through the window. windows. Silence. Something wasn't right. She circled around to the back, where she knew the kitchen door was usually unlocked.

As she pushed it open, her heart stopped. There, right in the middle of the kitchen floor, in a pool of blood, was her father's lifeless body. Panicking, Katrina screamed for her mom, running from room to room, hoping against hope that Catherine was alive. But when she reached the master bedroom, her worst fears came true. Her mom was there, lying motionless on the bed, surrounded by blood. She didn't respond.

No pulse. Nothing. Shaking with fear, Katrina grabbed the phone in the bedroom, desperate to call for help. But when she stretched the cord, it didn't budge, it had been cut. Completely hysterical, she bolted out of the house and ran to a neighbors to call 911. When the police arrived, they quickly realized this wasn't some random crime. It was brutal, personal, and left behind a scene that told its own story. The house was ransacked, drawers overturned, clothes and belongings scattered everywhere.

Yet, oddly enough, the culprits had missed the jackpot. Hidden in the toilet cistern was $87,000 in cash, a stash the elderly couple had carefully concealed. Clearly, these weren't professionals. They didn't even know where to look. Outside, muddy footprints revealed there were at least two attackers, and tire tracks confirmed they had a getaway car. Inside, the investigators pieced together a grim picture, both Catherine and her husband, Truman, had been shot three times. The final shot in each case

was an execution-style bullet to the head, cold, deliberate, merciless. To make matters worse, there were two different kinds of bullets, meaning there were likely two shooters. Whoever did this wasn't just out to rob, they were out for blood. The level of rage suggested the killers knew their victims. Maybe it was someone with a grudge. The detectives combed through Catherine and Truman's history, looking for anyone who might have had it out for them. And one name did come up, Katrina's ex-husband, Norman Herbert.

Now, Norman wasn't just your average ex-12 years earlier, Katrina had divorced him, but the drama didn't end there. Norman went full villain, stalking her, kidnapping her at one point, and even threatening her parents. It was a nightmare. and Truman had fought tooth and nail to get Norman locked up. And it worked. Norman was behind bars.

So, while he had motive, he didn't have opportunity. He was still in prison when the murders happened. With no other obvious enemies, the case went cold. Weeks passed and life in Opelika moved on, until February 18th, when another horrific crime rocked Alabama, this time near Phoenix City. February 18, 2002, began as uneventful as the day Katrina discovered her. parents' bodies. But by that evening, the quiet was shattered. The call came in at around 7.30 p.m., a house fire, raging uncontrollably. When firefighters arrived at the scene,

the small home near Phoenix City was engulfed in flames. The smoke was thick, and the heat was so intense that neighbors had to be evacuated. Once the fire was finally under control, investigators made a grim discovery inside. The charred remains of a man lay in the smoldering ruins. At first glance, it seemed like he died in the fire. But as the investigators examined the body, they found something horrifying. The man had been shot multiple times before the fire even started. This wasn't an accident. It was murder, and the fire was just a cover-up.

The victim was identified as Philip Spurlock. He was a fifty-year-old man with no known enemies. He lived alone, kept to himself, and had no significant criminal history. there was something unusual about Philip, he was friends with a young man named Derek Joyner. Derek, 24, was no stranger to the police. He had a record that included petty theft, burglary, and drug possession. While Derek's connection to Philip wasn't initially clear, investigators learned that Derek had been staying with Philip off and on for a few months. The two had a strange, transactional relationship. Phillips seemed to act as a sort of mentor or

benefactor to Derek, but whether this was out of kindness or for some darker reason remained unclear. As the investigation into Phillips' murder unfolded, Derek quickly became the prime suspect. Witnesses claimed to have seen him around Phillips' house just hours before the fire started. Even more damning, a neighbor reported hearing loud arguing and gunshots before noticing smoke billowing out of the house. The timeline was clear, Derek was involved. But Derek wasn't working alone. A deeper look into his circle revealed that he had an accomplice, a 17-year-old named Terrell Brown. Terrell was Derek's shadow, following him everywhere and taking part in his schemes. Together, they had been involved in a string of burglaries, breaking into homes and

businesses to steal cash, electronics, and whatever else they could sell quickly. When the police brought Derek in for questioning, he folded almost immediately. He confessed to Phillips' murder and admitted to setting the fire to destroy evidence. But as the interrogation continued, Derek revealed something even more shocking, Phillips' murder wasn't random. It was connected to another crime, the double murder of Catherine and Truman Life. Derek admitted that he and Terrell had been hired to kill Catherine and Truman. Someone had paid them to execute the elderly couple and make it look like a robbery.

When pressed for details, Derek named the mastermind, Katrina R. Life. The revelation was explosive. Could it really be true? Katrina, the grieving daughter who had discovered her parents' bodies, was now accused of orchestrating their murders. Investigators were skeptical at first. Derek wasn't exactly a trustworthy source, and his story seemed too wild to be true. But as they dug deeper, the pieces started to fall into place.

A twisted plot, Katrina's life wasn't as picture-perfect as it seemed. She was deeply in debt, owing thousands of dollars to creditors. On top of that, she had a strained relationship with her parents. Catherine and Truman had been supportive during her divorce from Norman Herbert, but over time, tensions grew. They disapproved of Katrina's spending habits and her inability to hold down a steady job. According to friends and family, Catherine had even considered cutting Katrina out of her will. The financial motive was clear. If her parents were out of the picture, Katrina would inherit their estate, which included a substantial amount of cash and property.

But how could she go through with such a heinous act? That's where Derek and Terrell came in. According to Derek, Katrina had approached him in Terrell months before the murders. She knew about their criminal activities and offered them a deal they couldn't refuse. For $20,000, they would break into her parents' home, kill them, and make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Derek claimed that Katrina had even provided a key to the house and detailed instructions on where to find valuables to make the seem more convincing. evidence mounts. Derek's confession wasn't enough to convict Katrina, but it gave investigators a roadmap. They began to piece together the evidence, starting with phone records. Sure enough,

Katrina had been in frequent contact with Derek in the weeks leading up to the murders. Surveillance footage from a nearby gas station also placed Derek and Terrell in Opelica on the night of the crime. The final nail in the coffin came from forensic evidence. Muddy footprints found that the crime scene matched the shoes Derek had been wearing when he was arrested. Additionally, the bullets used in the murders were traced back to a gun that Derek had stolen in a previous burglary. It was clear that Derek and Terrell were guilty. The question was whether Katrina had truly been the mastermind.

Katrina's arrest and trial, on April 12, 2002, Katrina was arrested and charged with two counts of capital murder. The case shocked the community. How could a daughter kill her own parents for money? At her trial, the prosecution painted Katrina as a cold, calculating killer who had used Derek and Terrell as pawns in her twisted plan. They presented the phone records, Derek's testimony, and the financial motive as evidence. Katrina maintained her innocence, claiming she had nothing to do with the murders. Her defense team argued that Derek was lying to save himself and that there was no direct evidence linking her to the crime.

But the jury wasn't convinced. On September 23, 2003, Katrina was found. guilty in sentence to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The aftermath, Katrina Relife's conviction sent shockwaves through her community. Friends, neighbors, and even distant relatives struggled to reconcile the image of the kind, grieving daughter with the cold-blooded killer described in court. Many had been convinced of her innocence, believing that Derek Joyner and Terrell Brown were simply pinning the blame on her to reduce their sentences.

But the jury's decision was clear, Katrina was guilty of orchestrating the murders of her parents. As for Derek and Terrell, they both accepted plea deals in exchange for their testimony against Katrina. Derek received a 40-year sentence for his role in the murders and for the arson that killed Philip Spurlock. Terrell, being a minor at the time of the crimes, was sentenced to 25 years in prison with the possibility of parole after 15. Both men were transferred to separate facilities to serve their time. Katrina's life in prison. In prison, Katrina maintained her innocence. She became an active participant in various prison programs, volunteering to tutor inmates working toward their GEDs and joining support groups for women serving life sentences.

Some of her fellow inmates viewed her as a tragic figure, someone who had been unfairly targeted by manipulative criminals. Others saw her as a master manipulator, capable of charm and deceit in equal measure. Katrina also began filing appeals almost immediately after her conviction, claiming that her trial had been marred by procedural errors and that the evidence against her was circumstantial at best. Over the years, her legal team attempted to introduce new evidence, including affidavits from witnesses who claimed to have overheard Derek and Terrell discussing plans to frame her. However, none of these efforts were successful, and Katrina remained behind bars. The families left behind, the Relife family never fully recovered from the tragedy.

Catherine and Truman's remaining relatives were torn between disbelief and heartbreak, unsure of what to believe about Katrina's involvement. Some stood by her, her regularly in prison and advocating for her release. Others severed all ties, convinced of her guilt and determined to move on with their lives. Philip Spurlock's family, meanwhile, struggled with the senselessness of his death. To them, he was an innocent bystander caught in a web of deceit and greed. They pushed for stricter sentencing laws for arson-related homicides, and their advocacy eventually led to changes in state legislation that increased penalties for such crimes. The legacy of the case, the murders of Catherine and

Truman Life, and the subsequent trial of their daughter Katrina, became the subject of numerous true-crime documentaries and podcasts over the years. Some portrayed Katrina as a diabolical mastermind, while others raised questions about the fairness of her trial and the reliability of Derek's testimony. The case even inspired a best-selling true-crime book, Inheritance of Evil, which delved into the psychological and familial dynamics that led to the tragedy. Despite the continued public fascination with the case, one thing remained certain, the lives of everyone involved had been forever changed. What began as a seemingly straightforward robbery

homicide had unraveled into a tale of betrayal, greed, and the darkest corners of the human heart. Celeste Mano was born on November 2, 1996, as the second of three children to Agud D. Marone Tony Mano. Judging by their last names, it's clear the family had Italian roots. At some point, however, the couple moved to Australia, where they built a beautiful family of five. The eldest child was Gideon, Celeste was the middle child, and Alessandro was the youngest. While we don't have many details about the family's private life, there's plenty to say about Celeste herself. People who knew her described her as incredibly positive and friendly. One of her standout traits was her ability to make everyone feel included. She couldn't

stand to see anyone feeling lonely, isolated, or excluded. Whether it was at school or later in life, she was always the one forming groups, creating teams, and making sure everyone felt like they belonged. If she saw someone sitting alone or being bullied, she'd make a point of befriending them, chatting with them, and helping them integrate. Her kindness and empathy were admired by everyone around her, and her parents were immensely proud of her. Celeste was also a hard worker. She consistently earned good grades and was always diligent in her studies. As she grew older, her passion for helping others became clear. She pursued degrees in both criminology and psychology, wanting to understand the human mind

and help people overcome their traumas. She was determined to make a difference in the world. In 2018, at just 22 years old, Celeste became a team leader at a call center for a company called Circle, headquartered in Melbourne, Australia. Her team adored her. They praised her for always being willing to listen and for supporting them through challenges.

Under her leadership, the team thrived, surpassing goals and enabling the company to expand and hire more staff. That same year, Circle hired a 34-year-old man named Lerner. Louis Seco. Louis was born in Iraq in 1984, the eldest of five siblings. In 1992, his family was granted a humanitarian visa and moved to Australia, settling in Roxburgh Park, a northern suburb of Melbourne. Louie grew up, studied, graduated, and held various jobs before joining Circle as a telesales representative in 2018. At first glance, everything seemed fine. But unfortunately, Louis didn't fit in its circle. His personality

didn't click with his coworkers. He was introverted and barely engaged in conversation. When others tried to talk to him, he made it difficult, which created a sense of discomfort among the team. On top of that, his job performance was below expectations. He failed to meet targets, and by June 2019, the company decided to let him go. Typically, when someone leaves a workplace, their colleagues offer farewells, words of encouragement, or even a hug. But when When Louie was let go, no one approached him. He packed up his desk in silence, completely alone. Celeste, witnessing this, felt terrible for him.

They weren't friends by any means, but seeing him so isolated tugged at her heartstrings. She decided to approach him, offering some kind words and helping him gather his things. She even walked him to his car, doing what she thought was the right thing. However, what Celeste saw as a simple act of kindness, Louis interpreted very differently. leaving, Luoye kissed her on the cheek. While such a gesture could have been seen as innocent, the way he acted and looked at her made Celeste feel uneasy. It felt off, and she immediately set boundaries, telling him to relax and reminding him that

they weren't that close. Instead of apologizing, Luie left without another word, leaving Celeste feeling deeply uncomfortable. That night, she recounted the incident to her family, who shared her feelings. They all agreed it was disrespectful and invasive. Thankfully, though, Luey was no longer employed at Circle, and Celeste believed she'd never have to see him again. Or so she thought. We live in an age of remarkable technological advancements.

With just a few clicks, we can find almost any information online, whether forecasts, top picnic spots, or details about someone we barely know. A few days after Luey was fired, Celeste noticed a friend request from him on Facebook. Naturally, she didn't accept it. But a week later, she received a message from him, I'm sorry, but I can't stop thinking about you. I've never felt this way about anyone in my entire life. I'm on the brink of losing control. I'm utterly in love with you, captivated and fascinated by you.

You're all I think about. Ever since I left, my productivity at work and in my personal life has been affected. This obsession is unhealthy and destructive, interfering with my daily routine. To put an end to my suffering, could you be honest with me and tell me how you feel about me? Honesty is one of the traits I value most in people. Celeste was stunned. In the entire year Louis had worked at Circle, she barely interacted with him. He never spoke to her or anyone else, despite her efforts to engage him. She couldn't understand where all of this was coming from. Politely but firmly, she responded, rejecting his advances. Hi, Louie, these are really

sweet words, and I appreciate you telling me this. I'm honestly surprised to hear all of this because it's new to me. While I appreciate your feelings, I only see you in a professional capacity. I wish you all the best in your new job and career. A reasonable response like this would usually be the end of it. At most, you'd expect a simple, thanks, in return. But Louis's reply was far from normal. I appreciate your honesty. If it were ever possible, I would give my life and the world just to be with you. I hope one day to find another Celeste for whom I can do exactly that, and that she will be my shining sun. His words were unsettling, but Celeste chose to ignore them.

She didn't accept his friend request, and his message stayed in her inbox. She continued living her life, going out with friends, seeing movies, and working. One day, she happened to check her Facebook inbox again and was shocked to find a series of unread messages from Louis. He had been messaging her every single day, and each message was worse than the last. I'm so in love with you that it's becoming unhealthy. Maybe some NLP therapy would help me. Sorry for being so intense.

Celeste, I'm just one more rival fighting for your affection. Celeste was at a loss. She didn't understand what Louis was trying to achieve, and the situation made her increasingly uncomfortable. She decided to respond again, making her boundaries crystal clear. Hi, Louis, I found your messages by chance since I don't check this inbox often, and I was frankly surprised by what I read. I'd really appreciate it if you stopped contacting me because this makes me

me very uncomfortable. Please respect my wishes and stop reaching out, but Louis wasn't ready to listen. Minutes later, he replied, my impression of you has changed. You're no different from most women. I'll remember you as this lesson for the rest of my life and dedicate every ounce of energy to proving to the world that I am someone. That's my promise to you and my final contact with you. As expected, Celeste blocked him. But Louis wasn't deterred. He created fake profiles on Twitter and Instagram, sending her follow requests and messages. Every time she blocked one account, he'd make another. The harassment was relentless.

By December 2019, Louis' messages took a darker turn. While the family hasn't shared all of them publicly, the ones they have revealed are deeply disturbing. They were graphic and suggested that he intended to possess Celeste, whether she wanted it or not. Feeling increasingly unsafe, Celeste began taking precautions. She never went to work alone, always ensuring she had her mother, friends, or one of her brothers with her. She also informed her boss about the situation. After work, her boss would accompany her to her car. One day, during this routine, they spotted Luaii sitting in his car,

watching her. They immediately contacted the police. When a patrol car arrived, Luoy fled. While that encounter seemed to deter him temporarily, it didn't stop him completely. He continued sending messages and stalking her online. Early in 2020, Celeste's mother decided to take matters into her own hands. She grabbed her daughter's laptop, opened Louise's messages, and responded, This is Celeste's mother. I'm here with her right now. In February, she asked you to stop contacting her. Since then, you've created account after account to message her, and she's been deleting and blocking them all. Do not create another account to reach out to her again. We've contacted the police, Louis's response was chilling. Celeste, there's no reason for you to feel intimidated by

me. Could you just say something? You need to think about your responses, Celeste. Think carefully, distressed, Celeste responded one final time, I want you to stop writing to me. I involve my mother because she can see how upset I am, and you're ignoring my requests. Once again, I'm asking you to stop contacting me. I'm about to block this account, the tragic story of Celeste Mano, a system that failed her. When someone stalks you, it's not just creepy, it's terrifying. But what happens when those who are supposed to protect you don't take you seriously? That's exactly what happened to Celeste Mano, a vibrant, beautiful young woman from Melbourne, Australia, whose life was tragically cut short because of the system's repeated failures to act. It all started with

Louis Saco, a man who couldn't take no for an answer. Their story wasn't one of love or even friendship, it was just a workplace connection. Celeste had worked with Louis brief. at a call center, and after he was fired, she reached out to check on him, a simple, kind gesture. She probably thought nothing of it, but for Louis, it was the start of an obsession. At first, it seemed innocent. He messaged her occasionally, thanking her for her kindness. But soon, those messages turned into essays, paragraphs and paragraphs of emotional outpourings,

confessions of love, and, eventually, relentless harassment. Celeste tried to brush it off at first. he'd stop. Maybe it was just a phase. But the messages kept coming. They became darker, more insistent. Her mother, Agi, was not one to sit idly by. She could see the danger that Celeste was in. This man was relentless, and it was clear he wasn't going to stop on his own. So, Agie and Celeste decided to go to the police. Surely, they thought, the authorities would help. But when they walked into the station, the response they got was chilling. The officer who attended to them barely looked at the evidence.

He skimmed through the messages, shrugged, and dismissed their concerns. If you're so scared, he said, just block him. Stop reading his messages. And maybe, just maybe, Celeste should get off social media altogether. Problem solved. That was the police's solution, make the victim disappear. It was infuriating. Celeste and her mother left the station feeling defeated.

the harassment didn't stop. In fact, it escalated. By July, Louis's messages were becoming increasingly erratic. Agi, determined to protect her daughter, printed every single message and returned to the police, armed with a folder of evidence. This time, they couldn't ignore her. The officers finally acknowledged that what Celeste was experiencing was, in fact, stalking and harassment. They issued a restraining order against Louis, with a hearing set for early 2021. You'd think that would have been enough to scare him off, right? Wrong.

Louis was notified about the restraining order on July 8th, and instead of backing off, he marched straight to the police station to defend himself. His excuse. It's her fault. According to him, he wasn't a threat, and he wasn't doing anything wrong. He claimed his messages were therapeutic, that they were never sexual or threatening, and that if Celeste didn't like them, she simply shouldn't read them. He even accused her of doctoring the evidence, saying the messages were photoshopped.

It was maddening. Louis painted himself as the victim, claiming he was spiraling into depression because of the way Celeste and the police were treating him. After his little performance, he walked out of the station and, get this, immediately started messaging her again. He made fake accounts, kept pushing boundaries, and even broke the restraining order in August. But then, suddenly, silence. No more messages. No more fake accounts. Celeste and her family thought he'd finally moved on.

Maybe he'd found another focus for his obsession, or maybe he'd realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with her. Whatever the reason, Celeste began to relax. She checked her social media frequently, expecting him to pop up again, but there was nothing. She started to breathe easier. It was during this quiet period that she met Chris Rensdale, a co-worker who would become her boyfriend. Their connection was instant and electric.

They couldn't get enough of each other, spending hours talking, learning about one another, and falling deeply in love. Celeste was happier than she'd been in months. But the shadow of Luey still loomed over her. Celeste was hesitant to go public with her relationship. What if Luey saw the posts? Would he lash out? Would he target Chris? Chris, ever the optimist, assured her it would be okay.

In fact, he believed showing Luey that Celeste was surrounded by people who cared about her might fight. finally make him back off. So, on November 15th, the couple posted their first photo together online. Celeste monitored her accounts obsessively after the post. She checked Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, everywhere she thought Louie might try to reach her. But again, there was nothing. Relieved, she spent the evening with Chris before heading home. She checked her accounts one last time before bed, still nothing. Feeling safer than she had in months, She climbed into bed, completely unaware that this would be the last night of her life. At 3.55 a.m., Agie was jolted awake by the sound of shattering glass.

The noise came from Celeste's bedroom. Agie ran to her daughter's room, her heart pounding, and what she found was every parent's worst nightmare. Celeste was lying lifeless on her bed, covered in blood, with a knife at her side. The window was shattered, and shards of glass littered the floor. Outside, the sound of a car engine faded into the distance. Agi called emergency services, but it was too late. Celeste had been stabbed twenty-three times, the first wound piercing her heart and ending her life almost instantly.

The killer. Louis Seiko, of course. Everyone knew it. And Louis, ever the narcissist, drove straight to the police station to turn himself in. Covered in blood, he calmly told the officers, you know what happened. It's your fault. She's dead. In the days following the murder, the horrifying details of Louis' plan came to light.

He had been stalking Celeste for months, silently gathering information. He studied her photos, her social media posts, and even the reflections in her sunglasses to figure out her exact locations. He tracked her movements, learning her routines, her favorite spots, and the people she spent time with. He even found the blueprints to her home online. When Celeste posted her photo with Chris, it sent Louis into a rage. He researched Chris obsessively, scouring LinkedIn and social media to learn everything about him.

Then, on the night of November 15, he put his plan into action. Driving 20 minutes to Celeste's house, he parked nearby, scaled the fence, and broke into her bedroom through the window. Within two minutes, he had ended her life. During his trial, Louis tried to play the insanity card. He claimed he had hallucinations and heard voices telling him to kill her. But forensic psychiatrists saw through his act. They determined he wasn't psychotic, he was a manipulative, self-centered man with severe depression

and a personality disorder. He lacked empathy and couldn't see things from anyone else's perspective. He was dangerous, and he knew exactly what he was doing. In January 2024, Louis was sentenced to 36 years in prison, with the possibility of parole after 30. For Celeste's family, it wasn't enough. They believed he should never be released, and many agreed. read with them. Even one of the psychiatrists, Dr. Ranj Darje warned that Louis was unlikely

to ever change. He described Louis as a ticking time bomb, someone who would almost certainly re-offend if given the chance. This case is a chilling reminder of the dangers of stalking and the systemic failures that allow it to escalate. Celeste did everything she could to protect herself, she went to the police, followed their advice, and tried to move on with her life. But in the end, the system failed her. It failed to take her fears seriously. and it failed to stop a man who was clearly a danger to her. So, what do you think? Was justice truly served?

Or is 36 years far too lenient for someone who so meticulously planned and carried out such a heinous crime? Celeste's story is heartbreaking, but it also serves as a call to action. We need better protections for victims of stalking, and we need to start taking their concerns seriously, before it's too late. There was once a boy, small and wiry, who discovered the boundless world of gaming in his early years. Growing up in a quaint town tucked away in a corner of Malaysia, life felt as predictable as the afternoon rain.

But for this boy, whose friends simply called him Danny, there was always something magical about his childhood days. Not the kind of magic found in fairy tales but a quieter kind, a magic born of discovering new worlds through a computer screen. It began innocuously enough. An old, second-hand desktop computer arrived at their home one summer, a gift from an uncle who didn't have much use for it anymore. It hummed like a tired old dog and took forever to start up, but Danny didn't care.

He'd sit for hours, eyes glued to the screen, tinkering with basic games and learning to navigate this strange digital universe. His favorite. A game called Warcraft 3, a sprawling strategy game with orcs, elves, and every mythical creature in between. One fateful day, a friend mentioned something about a module for Warcraft 3. It's not like the base game, he said. It's called Dota.

Defense of the ancient. Doni was intrigued. A quick internet search and a slow download later, he was staring at a game map that would change his life. Dota wasn't like anything he'd ever played. It was strategic, fast-paced, and brutally unforgiving. He played, he failed, and then he played some more. Hours turned into days, days into weeks.

His mind buzzed with strategies and hero combos. He was hooked. Soon enough, the game became more than just a pastime, it was a ritual. After school, Danny and his friends would cram into a small internet cafe that smelled of instant noodles and stale sweat. The cafe owner knew them by name, grumbling every time they overstayed their paid hours. Danny's parents disapproved, of course. His mom often complained about how he'd rather spend time with those heroes than study

for his exams. But Danny saw something in Dota that no one else seemed to understand, a sense of belonging, a spark of possibility. The game wasn't just about winning or losing, it was about the camaraderie. Every match was a story, a blend of brilliant teamwork and chaotic decision-making. Danny was no prodigy, at least not at first. He had his fair share of blunders, missing a last hit, feeding the enemy team, forgetting to buy wards. But those moments of failure pushed him harder. Each mistake was a lesson, each victory at testament to persistence. As the years passed,

Dota grew beyond the confines of internet cafes. Online forums buzzed with tips and tricks. YouTube channels showcased jaw-dropping plays. Then came tournaments, real, professional tournaments. Danny was mesmerized. He'd sit in his dimly lit room watching streams of international matches, marveling at how fluidly the pros moved. Players like Dendie and Puppie became his idols. They weren't just gamers, they were artists painting with pixels. One day, I'll be like them, Danny thought. It wasn't a wish but a quiet resolve. High school came and went, and so did the expectations to follow the well-trodden path, university, a stable job, maybe a family someday. Danny's peers were content with that, but he had other plans.

While his classmates prepped for exams, he signed up for local Dota tournaments. His parents were skeptical. You can't make a living playing games, his dad said, shaking his head. But Danny didn't see it that way. The first few tournaments were humbling. His team, hastily assembled and poorly coordinated, rarely made it past the early rounds. They faced season players who crushed them without breaking a sweat. Yet, Danny thrived on the challenge. He dissected each loss like a scientist studying a rare specimen, figuring out what went wrong

and why. Over time, his team began to improve. Their synergy sharpened, their strategies evolved, and Danny's skills as a mid-lainer grew sharper. The once meek boy for Malaysia was becoming a force to be reckoned with. They started winning local tournaments, then regional ones. It wasn't long before Danny's name began circulating in online forums. People started to notice the kid with uncanny game sense and an almost psychic ability to predict enemy movements.

But the leap from regional fame to the international stage was daunting. Dota 2, the sequel to Danny's beloved game, had taken the world by storm. The annual international tournament, known simply as TI, offered prize pools that made even seasoned professionals raise their eyebrows. Winning TI wasn't just about skill, it was about legacy. Danny and his team poured everything into qualifying. Hours turned into sleepless nights. They argued, strategized, and practiced until their eyes burned from staring at screens.

When the qualifiers finally arrived, the tension was palpable. Every game felt like a tightrope walk, with victory and defeat balance. on a razor's edge. But against all odds, they made it. The International. Just hearing the words gave Danny goosebumps. They arrived in Seattle, the host city, and it felt surreal. Bright lights, massive screens, thousands of fans chanting in unison, it was everything he'd dreamed of and more. But with the grandeur came pressure. Teams from around the world, each with their own play styles and strengths, were gunning for the same prize. Danny's team didn't storm through the tournament, but they held their own.

Match after match, they clawed their way through the brackets. The crowd loved them, cheering for the underdogs who refused to back down. Danny, now affectionately nicknamed Wisp for his ethereal plays, became a crowd favorite. Then came the semifinals, the match that would cement Danny's place in Dota history. It was against a powerhouse team, the kind that made season players sweat. The first game went disastrously. Miscommunications, poor decisions, and nerves. got the better of them. By the time the second game started, morale was low. But Danny wasn't

ready to give up. We've practiced for this, he told his teammates, his voice steady despite the chaos around them. Trust each other. Play like we've always played, and play they did. The second game was a masterpiece, a symphony of perfect coordination in daring moves. Danny's invoker plays were dazzling, leaving the commentators at a loss for words. They tied the series and forced a decisive third game. The final game was a roller coaster. Both teams pushed themselves to the limit, trading blows in an epic showdown. It lasted over an hour, with every second feeling like an eternity.

And then, in a moment of brilliance, Danny made the play of a lifetime. He baited the enemy team into a trap, creating the opening his team needed to secure victory. The crowd erupted. Danny and his team leaped from their seats, hugging and shouting. They'd done it. They'd made it to the finals. Though they didn't win the championship, their journey was the talk of the tournament. Danny returned home to a hero's welcome.

His parents, once skeptical, couldn't hide their pride. You proved us wrong, his dad said, tears brimming in his eyes. Danny's journey didn't end there. He continued to play, to inspire, and to chase that elusive TI title. But for him, it was never just about the trophies or the fame. It was about the game, the friendships, the stories, and the endless possibilities it offered. And as long as there was a battlefield to conquer, Danny knew he'd always find his place there, defending the ancients.

Lewis Webb was, for the most part, a normal 26-year-old guy. He lived alone in his suburban home, where he wrote his popular science fiction novels about a nuclear war and the survival of humanity. His father was a wealthy scientist that tinkered with chemicals and antidotes. Since Lewis was a kid, he's been fascinated by his father's work, and he wished to be just like him when he grew up. He wished to conduct experiments on animals, and inject them with serums and watching what would happen. There was something so thrilling about synthesizing chemicals that Lewis just couldn't describe. Which is why he always smiled when he thought about

the time, in high school, when he kidnapped the school's biggest bully, strapped him in a chair, and injected him with a chemical he created himself. It was the first ever time he successfully mixed dangerous compounds together and injected it into a human, and it was so thrilling and fun. He still remembered watching the bully in his cell as he coughed and wheezed and begged for mercy, and as he crumbled to the floor when the poison went to his brain. He also remembered his father's proud face when he told him about his successful experiment. For it was he who taught him to make such dangerous poisons, and it was he who taught him,

him why some people, like his high school bully, deserved to suffer. It was so unfortunate when he was arrested on account of multiple murders, and 14-year-old Lewis had to go to an orphanage. Nicholas Webb would never get out of prison, because people didn't understand that he only did it to people who deserved it. But now, Lewis continued his legacy, but he did it more carefully. He became an author to disguise his true career, and fortunately, his books instantly became popular, which gave Lewis lots of money, which would certainly help when buying ingredients for his chemicals. He was truly proud of a recent breakthrough he discovered, which he called chemical B, or bygluptor toxin. It took him days to perfect it, and he was excited to test it on his

new test subject. Lewis stood up from his office desk, and neatly stacked the chemical formulas on his desk. He exited his office and walked to the kitchen, and opened his microwave. Here, he had stored some leftover meatloaf he baked an hour ago. He took the plate, and walked back into his office and faced a bookshelf. He pushed in a magenta book, pulled a blue book, and twisted a red book, and the secret entrance opened. He felt the cold, wooden stairs on his feet, even through his woolen socks. He stepped into his bright lab.

The walls were white, and the floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks, which made his lab very pleasing to look at. All around the large rectangular room were metal desks, which had numerous different papers and vials filled with conspicuous liquids of numerous different colors. There were special machines and elaborate devices that Lewis used to create chemicals. Lewis moved past the desks and walked down a hallway that led to a small, circular room filled with cells. He walked over to the fifth cell with a smile on his face. Hello, Andy. Lewis said, I brought some food, so you wouldn't starve. I, I don't want your food.

shouted a 17-year-old while sitting on the floor of his concrete cell. His brown hair and face looked dirty from being in a cell for two days. Andy got up, and faced the thick glass separating him from Lewis. Why am I here? I don't understand. Lewis calmly grabbed the paper cup from a stack on a table next to the cell, and filled it with water from the water cooler next to it. He passed the water and meatloaf to him from a small opening at the bottom of the cell,

but Andy did not touch it. He only clenched his fists and slammed his fists onto the glass, which was nearly impossible to break. Answer me. Who are you? I don't want to be here. Lewis, who was still smiling, grabbed a syringe filled with a dark, mud-colored fluid from his back pocket and took the cap off the needle.

W. What is that? Andy said, backing away from the glass. Lewis opened the secure cell door. To answer your question, Andy, you can call me cyanide. W. What the hell? Get off of me. Andy shouted as Lewis forced the syringe into his forearm, and pushed the dark liquid into his arm. Andy tried to run away, but the paralysis instantly kicked in, and he fell on his face. Lewis dragged his paralyzed body into his testing room and strapped his body onto a medical bed. He turned and saw a small vial filled with a viscous, green liquid. Lewis took a clean syringe, stuck the needle inside the vial, and sucked all of the chemical

into the syringe. He then turned to Andy, whose eyes were darting around a room quite frantically. Don't panic, there will only be a slight sting as I inject my chemical into your body. The real pain will come later. And Lewis stuck the needle into Andy's Foron. We start, to enter today, we must travel in time to, 1918, 1919 when a man named Eric was born, Hingston about his childhood know, we have a lot of information but what is. We know that he was known for being a person absolutely delivered to. His when he turned 18 is, pilot license and joined the Royal.

Air Force as soon as the second broke out, World War played a very, important during the conflict and is that, became operations pilot, special and was in charge of sending. France agents occupied when, conflict ended in, 1945 returned home turned into a hero, war family friends known, everyone was proud of him, but Eric for this point was exhausted, both physically and, from that moment he decided that never, more would grab a gun time and meet a woman who changes her life, forever Jane, and in 1950 he married, she and have two children from here. His life changes completely opens a butcher shop the business is doing well and with. Time opens two plus each butcher shop. Here's his last name Hingston since the business was

going to be familiar. He founded him. He lifted him and his children were going to. Inherit was something very typical of the time. And Eric must tell you that I was proud. The business is happy with Jane wants her. With all your soul your children are perfect. The loves but in 1982 Jane dies and all his life is falling down is sad. He doesn't raise his head. He doesn't know what to do with. Your life so you sell the business and know. Mute a city called Plymouth. Located in Devon County in the Southwest England once there, try to start zero buying a place, in Underhill Lane a little, butcher shop and the left apartment, just above it makes it as new, home again the business returns to, starting as customary to be alone to, this new life and without

looking for it returns to, fall in love specifically of a woman of, 62 years named Audrey the story of, these two is quite curious and is that, long ago were good friends Eric, he was married to Jane Audrey with his husband but over the years, both widowing and because of this, they began to stay alone. They drink coffee they told how they felt. They shared the sadness of pain and, through this they fell in love so. Finally they decided to get married. They marry Odris moves with him and from. Of that moment according to the entire people, they are the ideal couple all day are, giving walks going the cafeteria to, restaurants being with other people, with children with grandchildren never. They were still were always four, up and down and

something very. Important is that the couple always, I was united, always walked hand in hand. They were very affectionate and Eric had a car, with which Audrey always walked, because the woman did not have a car'd her. Love story was known for everything. Plymouth and everyone found them. Adorable but when Erie turned 80, years his health chopped began, have constant pains of bones. They had to put a catheter A, pacemaker and had to operate two, times of the hip and at 85 no longer. I could move from the bed anymore. Walks together were no longer traveling and, car had to sell at life that.

They had completely different from the, from before I lived for and to take care of Avery something very sad is that Eric slept with many devices and these. They made noise some pages say that. I slept with a breathing device and, because of this, Audrey slept in another. Fourth no longer made a couple's life no longer. They could walk as soon as they interacted there. Life together was not how they had dreamed is. Just as we arrive on Friday night, August 29, 2003 when 3.45 minutes of the morning Audrey grabbed the telephone and called the poor. Woman was panic-stutter. Drew said, I did not know what to say, how to say it did not understand anything and without more. He released the following have attacked us and my husband is on the floor please

come. Fast I think a patrol is dead, and an ambulance appeared at the crime scene and what they saw left. Everyone in shock the whole house is, upleg scrambled drawers, clothes thrown on the floor thrown objects, everywhere and the focus of chaos was, Eric's room where lying in the soil was his lifeless body. Apparently, I had a stab in the middle of the chest and, according to paramedics, they could feel a, beat to take the pulsations there was a, beat but finally real that this beat was actually his, hastemakers and what surely had, quite dead time between one and two. Hours, according to Eric Autopsy was, stabbed with a knife, approximately seven inches, equivalent to 17 centimeters was a knife. Carnacero's big sharp but the weapon, of crime is not

anywhere, and another very striking thing is that what? It happened very clear the house was, revolt up legs and next to the window was a full garbage bag, of value objects we are in full, summer was hot and eric all night slept with the open window everyone looks like he was sick that could not get up that he could not do anything so someone slipped there he tried to steal and ended his life according to audrey what happened was the following her slept rested and then listened to a noise thought it was eric that he found badly and therefore rose from the bed went to his room pushed the door and two subjects were found that dead scary they ran and jumped out the window collided against all they jumped out the window they went down a folding ladder and in this flight left the garbage bag inside the, which where all the jewels go to the, street pick up the stairs flee and, meanwhile she calls emergencies, it is all very chaotic and when this counts this, this is an older woman, weak is distressed so the police, he does not presign much and think that, better what can you do is leave it, leave with their children because, poor woman has Ivedo a nightmare the next morning Audrey. Hingston is called to tell everything, who saw the police

officer arrives, history and is able to give a description of the two men who are, they put at home it is if they were strong, valiant sampled determined and the poor, woman although she is very sad she wants, speaking feels a deep breath. Below the following says, who knows the two men from view, who have killed her husband one of them, is higher that the other measures 1882 carries, white pants and also a hat, of Hunter and the other that was lower. I measured about 170 and another very, important is that it was more robust to count, that sound from the neighborhood there, close that you have seen that you are, with them often and that these men. They know her but unfortunately not. Remember their names know they know each other. Mutually

they have spoken that they have. Exchanged words but cannot. Saying their names cannot say where. They live with who they join that. Information does not have it and the one of. September the police give a wheel of. Press through which they give all this. Information talk about death theft. Eric that two men killed him and describe these men in front of. All people asking that please, someone sound to you to call, immediately to the department of. Police, but that's not all and is that. Kingston stands in front of the cameras and released the following two. Men entered my house already. My husband Eric no, deserved this as a fragile man. Any resistance that would have, offered could have been easily, surpassed by these two young Audrey. Hainon in front of the cameras was a,

far-failer elder woman was, very affected with a bent head with, very sad eyes crying your voice, broken all Pimo felt a lot. Too bad her husband was attacked. Cruely man was not. Armed had no strength could not. Raising these men only had to. Steal four things just had no. Why hurt anyone was. Unnecessary as you can imagine. The whole city was put on the part of. Audrey N. and the whole city put hands. To work dozens of neighbors were given. Realized that these men sounded. A lot of a tall man with a hat of. White Pants Hunter one more. More robust short two men who were going. Together as a team the neighbors gave themselves. Realized that these men were from. Neighborhood were known neighbors and four, they called the police so much, names, ages, locations, everyone. I knew

who they were and they themselves were, to police station and said they hadn't, done nothing saw the news read, newspapers listened to people, mutter and were aware that they were, identical to these men but wanted, make it clear that they did nothing in. Absolute, however, when going to the police station, police had to arrest them. He accused the pointed out that just for that, they were suspicious, were arrested, questioned but miraculously had, solid co-stood the night of crime war. They were even close to witnesses. They had evidence so immediately. Freedom and police were placed in. This point had one thousand questions all. Plymouth knew that Eric couldn't move. That was prostrated in bed that. I slept in that room with the window, open if they wanted to

steal there. They just had to enter. I would defend, could barely shout. I could do anything at all to kill him. It was unnecessary that cruelty did not have. No meaning and another thing that had no, sense was to steal and not take. Nothing that could be scared they saw. Audrey ran, bag, but went there to steel and four. So much made sense to leave everything there. And another striking thing is that the money the spoil and take the gun that, nor did the scene of the crime is completely reviewed and they discover that there are no criminals. They could wear gloves but another thing that, neither do they are fibers of the t-shirt pants of what. They will take place there is not even fibers so the police reconstruct the crime with two agent, with physical characteristics identical to,

the two men who saw Audrey one of 1880 another of 170 more robust do the step by step take stairs get out of. The window are very careful with. Gloves try not to leave DNA and also they try not to leave any fiber, but the latter is impossible to leave. Fibers everywhere what gives. Understand that this crime has not committed someone from outside the house, but rather someone inside but that. It's not all and the police are looking for. Witnesses talk to neighbors with people from the area and ask everyone, if that night they heard or saw something. Strange and then a footman takes a step in front of this person in his greengrocer, has a special service and is that by the knights made home you called a reservation an order and at night i left you a basket of

fruits at the home door this can seem very rare but in that town it was quite common the delivery of milk from newspapers for older people went from pearls and that night casually the frittero passed this street to both left boxes on that same street and when he went there heard a strange groan it was like a lament like a cry and it came directly from eric's room i knew eric i knew what i was passing immediately thought that He found badly looked towards the window, set and in that place there was no one, staircase so the police with this. History had it very clear according to the, autopsy Eric died between one and two, hours before being found so, approximately stabbed at two the, same time when the footman passed like this, that suspicions pointed to Audrey. Hingston, the police at this

point spoke, with Audrey's family and realized that everyone suspected her, according to the family, not even, cried did not look sad affected, distressed the woman who spoke to the, cameras was not the same as they saw that afflicted woman depressed crest they saw her walking to the cafeteria staying with friends laughing were not the same person seems that the death of eric has come from pearls and slowly police put it between the strings press the question and on september 11th this case gives a full turn because the woman is emergency admitted when trying take your life after taking a handful of analgesics but that's not all and is that before doing it he left the following note please catch the terrible people who ruined my life could not live without Eric at this time, though. Police discover that Audrey has a long depression history, especially since Eric began to, find badly when he started getting sick, when I couldn't move when no longer.

They could travel when all that gave. Audrey started falling apart so the, police had it very clearly ended with his, life because I wanted freedom I didn't want, take care of it, wanted to travel well to laugh, with Eric sick I couldn't do anything and, if he died it would be free, so what? They did was return home,

register everything again and in a drawer, of the kitchen by Incredible That Seems They found the crime weapon A Butcher knife that at the tip He had a very clear Eric blood the Theft was mounted and Audrey was the Guilty when they discharged the Woman is questioned and again denies it

Everything repeats the theme of theft that there are two Guilty who have killed her husband who They have gone through the window and when They mention the knife the woman changes the Version of the facts and tells the Police that Eric took his life and that She has undercover Eric was a hero Of war respected by all and

Ending like this was nothing heroic was something very very cowardly sad for her part so what she did it was honoring his memory that was a theft that she killed her by eric for love of him but the police knew that i was lying again although unfortunately they had to prove it and that is why what they did was call the children of this marriage to the first what they called was james eric's son hingston james was now the owner of the butcher's shop under his house call him ask him what he knows and the knife in question and in how much james has it in front hail and is that according to him a week before the Audrey crime he went down to the butcher shop and asked him to please. You sharpened that knife the knife that the August 29th was going to use to kill his. Father and the next to arrive was the son of Audrey Hingston Peter which, I must tell you that it was a Peter policeman. He was convinced that his mother killed. Eric did not kill him unknown him. Life did not take off her mother was the guilty of everything and volunteer. To question her right therein, police station in the room sits with. She asks questions between the ropes and then the woman releases what. Next is okay,

I was already. Harda could no longer bear her. Illness and have to take care of it on. October 2003 Audrey was arrested and, formally accused of murder and, the entire town did not give credit the police, spent an absolute money throughout the. Investigation the police search cost, 160,000 pounds, 800 statements and 480. Hours of investigations was something. Impressive and in the end it turned out that Audrey was lying but the worst of. It was not this is that the sentence was, a complete mockery of the murder position. He was changed to involuntary homicide for alleged reasons for responsibility, decreased the judge considered that it was a older person who was tired then. He was sad that his mind failed him for, complete and that Audrey was really

not. Dangerous so March 12th, 2004, he was sentenced to two years in prison from, which only turned one year as it is. Logical Eric's family appealed but the, justice did not want to listen to them and James. Kinston upon learning of this declared what. Next is sad, We think that sentence should have been longer, because it would give us more time to. Overcome it now we just have to continue. With our lives I never want to see it. More I just want to stay away. Of us, Audrey was released on October 5th, 2004 and had a life.

Quiet until the day of his death in, 2016, but now is your turn what? You think about the case and you think the sentence. It was fair, but these girls did everything they could to go to South Africa together, begging their parents to let them go, to let them leave, to become writers and fulfill their dreams. But Nora Parker was very clear about it and strictly forbade the girls from speaking to each other again. Pauline would no longer write letters and obviously would never see her best friend again. That is when the girls began to plot a chilling crime. In 1994, director Peter Jackson brought to the big screen a film that left many completely shocked,

and that film was heavenly creatures. This story talks about the relationship of two teenagers, two girls from different backgrounds whose connection led them to create a magical world. At a certain point, for one reason or another, the girls had to go their separate ways, but unfortunately, they refused. They completely refused to be apart from each other. So, to prevent that,

they decided to kill one of their mothers. Many people thought this film was fiction, but the truth is that this story was completely real and marked a before and after in a small town in New Zealand. And now, I will tell you the full case. This story begins on October 28, 1938, in Blackheath, United Kingdom, with the birth of a girl named Juliet Marion Hume. Juliet was born into a family whose economic position was enviable. Her father was the renowned Dr. Henry Rainsford Hume, and her mother, marriage counselor Hilda Hume.

So, as one might expect, the girl had practically everything in her childhood, good education, good upbringing, good social relations, everything. she asked for, she had instantly. She liked music, movies, reading, writing, and was a girl with a privileged mind, capable of imagining parallel worlds and getting lost in them. However, at a certain point, Juliet began to have respiratory problems, so her father sent her to the Caribbean and then to South Africa, hoping that a warmer climate would improve her health. During her stay there, everything improved notably, so the doctors eventually decided she was ready to return to her family. In 1948, she and her family moved to Christchurch, New Zealand, where Henry Hume took on the role of rector at Canterbury College. In a new environment, the girl had to go to a new

school, so her parents enrolled her at Christchurch Girls High School. And from the first day, she made a new friend there, a girl named Pauline Yvonne Parker. Pauline was a girl the same age as her, and apparently, they had a lot in common. They liked movies, music, literature, and in just one week, they became inseparable. At age five, Pauline had suffered an infection in her bone marrow and since then walked with a limp. She couldn't play tennis, she couldn't run, she could hardly do anything, and the pain she felt was what most connected her to Juliet. Looking back, let's remember that Juliet had also been ill for many years. Both knew what it was like to feel lonely, isolated, and useless, so they decided they would

never separate. Unfortunately, even though they had so much in common, they came from very different backgrounds. While Juliet had a lot of money, Pauline had almost nothing. Pauline Yvonne Parker was the daughter of Herbert Riper, who owned a fish shop, and Anora Parker, who owned a boarding house where the whole family lived. Apparently, these people were a normal, honest, working class couple. But what the town didn't know was that they were not actually married. Herbert had left his wife and children to move to Christchurch with Onora, where they started a business and had Pauline. Nobody in Christchurch knew this, and those who suspected didn't say anything, because back then, such a scandal could easily cost people their jobs. But to the girls, none of this mattered.

The most important thing in their lives was their friendship, a friendship that at least at the beginning seemed idyllic. As mentioned earlier, Pauline had a permanent limp and couldn't run or play sports. So Juliet came up with the perfect idea to make her friend feel normal. Apparently, the Hume family had a pony, so one day Juliet taught Pauline how to ride it, and the girl loved it. Having a limp didn't matter for riding a pony, as the animal would move on simple commands. She could sit in the saddle for hours and not even remember she couldn't walk properly. She liked this new hobby so much that when she got home, she asked her parents to buy her a pony.

But they flatly refused, which caused a serious conflict between them. Pauline didn't understand why her friend could have a pony and she couldn't. She wasn't aware that her family didn't have as much money as the homays, or maybe she was, but didn't care. So she fought with her parents for hours until she finally decided not to speak to them. According to her father, she spent an entire week not even looking them in the face, and later spoke to them again only out of pure interest. The girls, united, created a fantasy universe, a world they called the fourth world.

Whenever they wanted to escape their everyday lives, they would hold hands and imagine they were somewhere completely different, a place with lakes, rainbows, butterflies. And even they themselves were different in that world. They were no longer Juliet and Pauline but their alter egos, Juliet became Deborah, and Pauline became Gina. In that world, the girls began to plan on becoming writers. Both were very good at writing, and they believed that together they could achieve great things. They wrote some of the most twisted and striking stories ever.

So, at a certain point, they decided to raise money to travel to New York. Their idea was to bake cakes and sell them at school, and with all the money they earned, travel to New York and knock on the door of every publisher until one agreed to publish their stories. At first, everything went perfectly. They made cakes, sold them, and earned quite a bit of money. But when they counted it all, they realized they were still a bit short. So they decided to ask their parents for the rest, and that's when they hit their first obstacle. Juliet's parents saw it as nonsense, a teenage whim they would forget over time.

But Pauline's parents saw it as something much more serious, especially her mother, Anora Parker. Nora considered her daughter's friendship very dangerous. Pauline was spending too much time with Juliet, and it was starting to border on the inappropriate. In the 1950s, homosexuality was considered a mental illness, and all people showing signs of it were immediately sent to mental institutions to be treated. So Anora warned her daughter that she needed to redirect her mind toward healthier habits, or else she would send her to a psychiatric hospital. Obviously, Pauline didn't even want to listen and continued with the friendship. At this point, many sources say that Pauline was indeed a lesbian, that she was obsessed with Juliet, madly in love. But there's one point many people overlook, her parents had done exactly the same thing before with a boy named Nicholas.

Pauline had previously been in love with this boy, and her parents did everything possible to keep them apart, and eventually succeeded. So this time, Pauline wasn't going to give up so easily. She had found what she considered her soulmate, a loyal friend who always did everything for her. So no matter what her mother said, no matter the obstacles, no matter how much the world was against them, Pauline wasn't going to give up. She and Juliet were convinced of their talent and imagined together what it would be like to publish their stories. They saw themselves as best-selling authors and even imagined their works would someday be turned

into films. But unfortunately, at a certain point, their lives took a dark turn. Juliet was diagnosed with tuberculosis and had to spend three months in a sanatorium. Once again, she was isolated, alone, far from her parents, friends, and the world. And in the sanatorium, while she was asleep, doctors injected her with experimental drugs, tested different cures, took her out for walks. Slowly, she began to fall into depression. But in that darkness, there was a ray of light, and that light was her friend Pauline's letters. Pauline wrote to her every day from the moment she entered the sanatorium. Every day she asked how she was, what she was doing, how she felt, and from a distance, she was by her side the whole time. So Juliet had enough strength

to keep going. However, those letters also contained something very dark. something Juliet would not discover until much later. When she was discharged, Juliet thought she would return to school. But her parents thought she needed to wait a bit longer. Her lungs were still very weak, and if she caught a cold, she could easily end up back in the sanatorium. So they forced her to stay at home for several more weeks. To be continued.

But her parents thought she had to wait a little longer. Her lungs were still very weak, and if she caught a cold, she would quickly end up back in the sanatorium. So they forced her to stay home for several more weeks. That's when Pauline decided to spend every day by her side. They drew, wrote, went on walks together, and didn't separate for a single moment. That's when her mother, Anora Parker, decided to intervene. One thing was to send her friend letters every day, and another was to be with her 24-7.

So one day, Mrs. Parker decided to meet with Dr. Hume. She told him that she was convinced the girls were together, that they were hiding something, that they were in a relationship, and asked the doctor to put an end to it. The man, being a doctor, had contacts in different areas of medicine. So he recommended a psychiatrist to Anora to treat her daughter without the need for institutionalization. That's when the nightmare began for those girls. Their parents, as time passed, kept adding more and more obstacles to their relationship. They couldn't be alone.

They had no time for each other. And at a certain moment, Juliet's parents divorced. As I said at the beginning of the story, Juliet's mother, Hilda Hume, was a marriage counselor, and in those sessions, she met a man who became her lover. When Henry Hume found out, he obviously asked for a divorce and decided to pack his bags and leave for England. He quit his job, left everything behind, and when he was about to go, he decided it was the perfect time to end his dear Juliet's friendship. He grabbed his daughter and said that very soon they would go to England together, but once there, they would separate.

He would stay in England, and Juliet would take a flight and go directly to South Africa. As you can see, this excuse was perfect to separate them. Juliet would go for sure, and Pauline, having no money, wouldn't be able to follow. But the girls did everything they could to go to South Africa together, begging their parents to let them go, to let them leave, to become writers, to fulfill their dreams. But Nora Parker was very clear and strictly forbade the girls from speaking to each other again. Pauline would no longer write letters and obviously would never see her best friend again. That's when the girls began to plot a chilling crime. To understand their thoughts, we have some excerpts from Pauline Parker's Diary. The excerpts read as follows,

February 13th, why couldn't Mother die? Dozens of people, thousands of people die every day. So why not Mother? And Father 2. April 28th, the anger towards Mother boils inside me. She is one of the main obstacles in my path. Suddenly a way to get rid of the obstacle occurs to me. April 29th, I haven't told Deborah my plans to eliminate Mother. The last destination I want to know is one in Borstall. I'm trying to think of a way. I want it to seem like a natural or accidental death. June 19th, today we practically finished our books and our main delight for the day was

mocking Mother. The idea isn't new, but this time it's a definitive plan that we intend to carry out. We've resolved it carefully and were both delighted with it. the idea. Naturally, we feel a bit nervous, but the thrill of anticipation is great. June 20th, Deborah and I talked for a while and later discussed our plans to kill mother and made everything clear. Curiously, I have no conscience about it. June 21st, Bora called and we decided to use a brick in a stocking instead of a sandbag. My mother has wonderfully fallen for the plans. I feel quite nervous.

June 22nd, the day of the happy event. I felt very excited last night, something like before Christmas, but I didn't have pleasant dreams. I'm about to get up. The girls' plans seemed simple. They pretended to make everyone believe they had given up, that they had accepted being separated. So for months, they organized a picnic to which they invited on Nora Parker. The day dawned sunny. It seemed like the perfect day for a picnic in Victoria Park in Christchurch.

So Anora, Pauline, and Juliet slowly walked along a path toward a tea kiosk owned by Agnes Ritchie. Once there, they ate, talked, and recalled one by one the best moments of their friendship. They talked about their gifts, their secrets, their dreams, and at one point they tried to convince Anora to let Pauline travel to South Africa. But the woman once again flatly refused. So the girls decided to go ahead. After eating, around 3 p.m., the women walked again along the path, and at a certain point, Juliet pulled out a pink stone and threw it on the ground right in front of Onora Parker.

The woman, seeing the stone, bent down to grab it. That's when Pauline opened her bag, took out half a brick, put it in a stocking, and struck her mother again and again. The girls had planned to hit her a couple of times, thinking it would be enough. But they hit her over and over again, and the woman was still alive. So they ended up delivering 45 blows, 45 blows to the head and hands. After committing the crime, the girls threw the brick into the bushes, and the same with the old stocking. Then they ran back to the tea kiosk they had left minutes earlier. Please help us, Mom is badly hurt.

She's bleeding, said Pauline Parker to Agnes Ritchie. The girls told Agnes that Onora had had an accident, that she had tripped and rolled down the path until hitting some rocks. They said she was seriously injured and that both were terrified to go back. We returned along the trail. Mom tripped on a plank and hit her head when she landed. She kept falling, and her head kept hitting and hitting as she rolled, they said. Mrs. Richie was horrified to hear this, even more so because the girls were covered in blood

and very hysterical. So she calmed them a bit and invited them to go clean up in the bathroom while she called her husband. The girls accepted the invitation and went hand in hand to the bathroom. Then the woman picked up the phone and dialed the number, but just as she was about to press the last digit, she heard the girls laughing from inside the bathroom. When the police arrived at the crime scene, they couldn't believe what they saw. For starters, the plants weren't disturbed and there were no rocks with traces of blood, so it made no sense that the woman had rolled and died that way. Secondly, when someone rolls, they get wounds all over their body, scratches, bruises, marks everywhere.

Not just on the head and hands. And this woman had up to 45 blows in both those areas. Most of the blows were concentrated on the skull and hands, in defensive positions. She had marks indicating she had covered her head while someone was attacking her. And third, near the body, they found the supposed weapon used in a murder, half a brick covered in blood hidden in the bushes, and nearby, a torn stocking with blood and human hair. Clearly, this wasn't an accident, it was murder. The only two suspects were two teenage girls who were clearly pretending.

That same June 22, 1954, the two girls were interrogated. at Juliet Hume's house. Of course, the interrogation was done separately, first Pauline, then Juliet. And it's worth noting, they both told exactly the same story, that the woman simply tripped and died. The police were sure the girls had memorized this speech, which indicated the whole thing had been planned. Now they needed to know the motive.

Why would girls like them kill someone? The answer was right in front of them. They had to separate the girls and interrogate them again, not in separate rooms, but in separate houses. So the police took Pauline to the station and questioned her again. That's when she broke down and confessed everything. Meanwhile, police searched her house and found her diary, a diary in which Pauline herself stated that Juliet was also involved. On June 23rd, Juliet Hume confessed and said that the brick used to hit on Nora came from the construction work at her house. She said she took the brick herself and gave it to Pauline and that together

they planned everything. But she added that she didn't hate on Nora, only that Pauline told her if her mother didn't die, she would take her own life. Juliet felt like she owed something to Pauline, she was the only one who wrote to her in the sanatorium, the only one who was there, who supported her. So she felt that if she didn't help kill her mother, she would be letting her down. So, on August 29th of that same year, the two girls met the same fate. They were found guilty of first-degree murder. Had they been adults at the time of the crime, they would have been sentenced to death. But being minors, they were sentenced to five years in prison. But prison wouldn't be the only thing these girls had to face. Each was sent to a different prison,

and they would never speak again. They couldn't see each other, write letters, or meet a again after serving their time. I was guilty, and prison was the right place for me. During the day we did hard labor, but I collapsed after two weeks. Then I began sewing uniforms. I memorized the few books I had, scraps of things. In prison, we had little time alone, except at night. The nights were a great blessing. I didn't have to share a room, and when the light goes out and there's nothing, then the light turns on inside your head. After five years, the girls were finally released, and from there, they began their new lives. They would no longer go by their old names. Juliet Hume became in Perry, and Pauline Parker became

Hillary Nathan. Hillary moved to Kent, England, and once there, became a strict Roman Catholic. Later, she became the director of a center for people with special needs. The last thing we know about her comes from a 2011 book called So Brilliantly Clever, which revealed that Hillary was then in Australia teaching horseback riding. As for Anne Perry, we know she did fulfill her lifelong dream, to become a writer. A crime and mystery writer. She became a flight attendant, lived in Scotland, San Francisco, and New York, where she worked as a nanny. But the most The most interesting part is that in 1979 she published her first book, The Cater Street Hangman, and from their Never Stop succeeding. According to her website, and Perry has sold over 20 million copies of her books worldwide.

In 2000, she won an Edgar Award for her short story heroes and a Herodotivus Lifetime Achievement Award. She was also nominated for a Maccavity Award. Another very interesting point is that not only did she fulfill her dream of writing novels, but some of them them were adapted into films. But it's also worth saying that when Peter Jackson interviewed her to make his movie, the woman was very reluctant, because the death of Onora Parker is the only crime and Perry never wants to talk about. But now it's your turn, what do you think of the case? Do you believe the girls deserved a harsher sentence? The end. This wild and chilling tale begins in early 1984 in the United States. It's the kind of story that could make your hair stand on

end, a mix of mystery, tragedy, and the horrifying depths of human depravity. It all starts with a young woman, Rosario Gonzalez, who vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind. Rosario wasn't especially close with her family. She was sweet, hardworking, and had recently gotten engaged. But she was young and full of dreams, so when she disappeared, the police didn't think much of it. Maybe she'd eloped with a lover or gone off on an adventure. You know, young people do unpredictable things sometimes. However, only days later, another woman, Elizabeth, Beth, Kenyon, also went missing. This time, the story was different. Beth came from a loving family who wasn't about to sit back and let the cops brush it off. They demanded action,

and through their persistence, detectives realized something eerie, the two disappearances were connected. Unfortunately, by the time they pieced it together, it was too late. The perpetrator was already on the move, leaving a trail of victims across the U.S. And that's where Christopher Bernard Wilder comes in. Born on March 13, 1945, in Sydney, Australia, Wilder's early life was a far cry from his later infamy. His father was an American naval officer, and his mother was Australian. Wilder's birth was complicated, he came into this world with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, a traumatic entrance that some say marked him for a troubled life. Twice as a toddler, he narrowly escaped death, once from a cord around his neck and again when he nearly drowned

in a swimming pool. Despite these brushes with mortality, Wilder's early years seemed unremarkable. He was polite, curious, and even studious. But lurking beneath this ordinary exterior was a darker side. As a teenager, he developed a creepy habit of spying on neighbors, peeking through windows, and watching women undress. People dismissed it as harmless mischief, just a curious kid being a kid. But at 17, things escalated. Rumors swirled about him harassing girls, pushing boundaries, and treating them with blatant disrespect. The situation hit a breaking point when Wilder, along with two friends, committed an unspeakable crime, the group assault of a 13-year-old girl. There was enough evidence to press charges, but since they were minors, none of them saw the inside of a prison cell.

Instead, Wilder was sentenced to probation and underwent electroshock therapy, which was supposed to curb his impulses. Spoiler, it didn't work. Life went on, and people figured Wilder would never settle down. But against all odds, he got engaged. However, the relationship barely lasted a week before his fiancé called it quits. Heartbroken and seemingly aimless, Wilder decided to leave Australia and start fresh in the U.S. Once in America, Wilder found his footing in business. Accounts vary, some say he started a construction company, others claim he dealt in real estate.

Either way, he made bank. With his newfound wealth, he bought a sprawling mansion in Boynton Beach, Florida. This wasn't just any house, it had a jacuzzi, multiple rooms, and a backyard big enough to host a small concert. Life was good, and Wilder indulged in two passions, fast cars and photography. He splurged on high-end vehicles, including a Porsche 9-11, which he raced in Miami's Grand Prix. As for photography, Wilder set up a studio in his mansion, but his interests weren't as innocent as they seemed. He wasn't capturing sunsets or wildlife, he wanted women, preferably undressed,

in front of his lens. In March 1971, Wilder got arrested for the first time in the U.S. for allegedly causing a scene at Pompano Beach. The reason? Approaching women and asking them to pose in skimpy outfits, some of whom were underage. He didn't go to jail, though, he just paid a fine. Fast forward to October 1977, and Wilder's behavior took a darker turn. He allegedly forced a high schooler into unwanted sexual acts under threat. The girl was underage, but it was her word against his, and there wasn't any solid evidence to convict him. Even when Wilder confessed to his therapist, confidentiality laws meant the court couldn't

use it against him. He walked free. By 1980, Wilder had fine-tuned his sinister MO. He would hang out at malls, scout for attractive young women, and charm them with promises of fame. Claiming to be a professional photographer, he'd flatter them, tell them they could be stars, and lure them to his car. One victim fell for the act, and once inside his vehicle, Wilder turned violent, assaulting her in a secluded area. Again, he avoided

serious punishment, this time, with a slap on the wrist, a fine and probation. In 1982, Wilder briefly returned to Australia, but trouble followed him. He was accused of luring two 15-year-old girls by promising to make them stars, only to force them into posing naked. The police arrested him, but his dad bailed him out, and Wilder returned to the U.S. before the case went to trial. This trip marked a turning point. Wilder's crimes escalated from manipulation and coercion to outright abduction, assault, and murder. Back in the States, February 26, 1984, marked the start of his killing spree. Rosario Gonzalez, 20, vanished while working at the Miami Grand Prix. She was handing out refreshments to racers, including Wilder, who was competing that year. A week later,

Beth Kenyon, 23, disappeared. Beth had once dated Wilder, but after a handful of dates, she'd turned down his proposal of marriage. Despite the connection, Wilder denied involvement when private investigators questioned him. By March 15th, authorities had enough suspicion to visit Wilder's home, but he was already gone. They found a photo of him posing with his Portia at the Grand Prix, confirming he'd been in close proximity to both women before their disappearances.

The FBI issued a press release, but instead of of providing Wilder's full identity, they described him vaguely, an Australian real estate agent, race car driver, and photographer. Without his photo or name in the public eye, Wilder had the freedom to keep moving, and killing. On March 18, Wilder kidnapped Teresa Ferguson, 21, in Merritt Island, Florida. He traveled stealthily, avoiding credit card transactions that might alert law enforcement. Just two days later, he struck again in Tallahassee, abducting Linda Grover, a 19-year-old college student. Using his now-familiar ruse, he convinced Linda to approach his car, then overpowered her. He held her captive in a motel room, where he subjected her to

unspeakable torment. But Linda fought back. Seizing an opportunity, she locked herself in the bathroom and screamed until Wilder fled. From there, Wilder's crimes became even more relentless. He traveled to Beaumont, Texas, where on March 23, he abducted Terry Walden, 23. Unlike previous victims, Terry's disappearance also included a stolen car, a Mercury Cougar. Meanwhile, police found the body of Teresa Ferguson, discarded in a remote area. By the end of March, Wilder had killed again, this time in Newton, Kansas, where he left the body of Susan Logan, 21. Shortly afterward, in Durango, Colorado, he kidnapped Cheryl Bonaventura, 18, pretending they were on route to Las Vegas to marry. Days later, her body was discovered

near the Four Corners monument. In Las Vegas, Wilder attended a modeling contest at a mall, praying on young participants. He set his sights on Michelle Corfman, 17, who disappeared soon after. A photo later surfaced showing Wilder observing Michelle intently at the event, providing investigators with a critical lead. The spree culminated in early April when Wilder kidnapped Tina Marie Risico, 16, in Torrance, California. Unlike his other victims, he spared her life, coercing her into aiding him in luring another teenager, Dennett Wilt, 16. Donette survived her ordeal, becoming a vital witness against Wilder. Finally, on April 13th, Wilder's reign of terror ended in Colbrook, New Hampshire.

In a struggle with law enforcement, he was fatally shot. Though Wilder's death closed his case, the scars he left behind remain a haunting reminder of his horrific legacy. Apparently, someone had stabbed her to death and then kidnapped her poor daughter. Who could have killed such a wonderful woman like Didi and then kidnapped a sick girl? We will find out next. Let's begin. The story begins with a 48-year-old woman named Didi Blanchard, who lived in Springfield, Missouri.

According to everyone who knew her, she was truly a wonderful person, sweet, charming, she loved to wear bright colors and lived for and because of her daughter, Gypsy. As you can see from the images, Gypsy was a very special girl. At 18 years old, she had suffered the unimaginable. She was born with a mental delay, defective chromosomes, severe asthma, muscular dystrophy, her salivary glands had to be removed, she had to be fed through a tube, and often had to use an oxygen tank due to the treatments she was undergoing. Gypsy had to wear wigs because her hair wouldn't grow,

but that didn't bother her as she used to match them with princess dresses. These two women were completely alone in the world, which made the people who knew them fully support their cause. Dede's family had disappeared, and Gypsy's father had apparently treated them very badly. He was an alcoholic, violent, and didn't even pay child support. To top it off, in August 2005, this pair lost their home due to Hurricane Katrina. They had lost everything, their home, their belongings, even Gypsy's medical records. So it was not surprising that many foundations decided.

to help them. Habitat for humanity, upon learning they had lost their home to Katrina, built them a new one in Springfield, fully adapted for Gypsy with ramps for her wheelchair and a jacuzzi to treat her muscular dystrophy. The Make-A-Wish Foundation sent Didi and Gypsy on many occasions to Disney World and gave them backstage passes to meet her favorite singer, Miranda Lambert. All the neighbors raised money and built a movie room in the Blanchard's garden so that children in the neighborhood could pay a small fee to watch old movies, and of course, all the proceeds always went to gypsy's treatments. As you can see, these women's lives have been hell, but now everything was going well.

Everyone loved them. Everyone supported them. And then came June 14, 2015, the day the following Facebook post appeared on the account shared by mother and daughter. Upon reading it, everyone thought it was a tasteless joke or that their people were. page have been hacked. But at 7.39 the next morning, the supposed hacker commented again on the same post. Everyone rushed to the Blanchard house and realized that Didi's Nissan cube was parked out front. Without that vehicle, neither of them could have left, since on one hand, Gypsy

needed special transportation for her wheelchair, and on the other, Didi never went anywhere without Gypsy. So someone gathered the courage and entered the house before the police arrived and discovered Didi's lifeless body lying on the floor of her bedroom. Apparently, someone had stabbed her to death and then kidnapped her poor daughter. Who could have killed such a wonderful woman like Didi and kidnapped a sick girl? We will find out next. With Didi's death and gypsy's disappearance, the town came together. A GoFundMe page was created to pay for Didi's funeral, and possibly gypsies, as everyone feared the worst. Even if Gypsy hadn't been harmed, they believed she was helpless without her wheelchair

and medication. However, among the crowd was the daughter of some of the Blanchard's neighbors, a girl named Alea W. This girl approached the police and told them she had a slight idea of Gypsy's whereabouts. For years, the girls had been friends behind Didi's back. Didi didn't allow Gypsy to have friends, she controlled her 24-8-4-7. hours a day, told her what shows to watch, what wigs to wear, and of course didn't allow her to have social media accounts aside from the one shared with her mother. So the young girl managed

to create a secret Facebook account called Nicholas Bell Rose. Through this page, she frequently spoke to Alea and told her really chilling things. Allaya felt that she wasn't talking to a girl with a mental delay at all, but to a teenager who wanted to get out into the world, a girl of 18 who wanted a boyfriend, to go to school, and to go shopping with friends, friends she obviously didn't have. Then one day in 2012, Gypsy logged on and told Alea she had met what she believed was the love of her life, Nicholas Gojohn, a 24-year-old man who lived in Wisconsin. Gypsy said her mother would never allow her to have a boyfriend, so they began planning

to run away together. With all this information, the police asked Facebook to trace the IP address from which the post have been made, and it turned out both posts have been written from Wisconsin. The next day, officers from Waukesha County raided Nicholas Gojohn's house, and both he and Gypsy were taken to jail and charged with murder. The news that Gypsy was safe brought great relief to Springfield, but then Green County Sheriff Jim Arnett announced that things were not as they seemed. And that's when it was revealed that Gypsy was not the fragile, sick girl everyone thought, and that Didi was not such a kind soul.

Nadine Blanchard, better known as Didy, and by many other nicknames, was born into a large family in 1967 in Chakbay, Louisiana. Her sibling said that as a child she was very spoiled, and if she didn't get what she wanted, she would get involved in petty thefts. These problems continued in her teens, although she completed a nursing assistant course and worked in several hospitals. So at that point, everyone thought she had settled down. But in 1991, she surprised everyone with a truly unexpected announcement.

At 24 years old, she became pregnant by a 17-year-old boy named Rod Blanchard. Due to their religious beliefs, the couple got married and started living together. They didn't even know each other, but now they were expecting a child, so they had to do everything possible to make the relationship work. At first, everything went quite well. But when Didy gave birth, strange things began to happen. Instead of giving the baby the name they had agreed upon, she named her Gypsy in honor of guns and roses.

And after that came the illnesses. According to Rod, when Gypsy Rose was three months old, her mother became convinced that she had sleep apnea. So she began taking her to multiple hospitals, where no doctor could find anything wrong. However, Didi became obsessed with the idea and kept insisting. When she realized that this was a dead end, she claimed her daughter actually had an unspecified chromosomal disorder. Her behavior was so strange that Rod divorced her. But he never

abandoned Gypsy and never stopped supporting her. On the contrary, he paid good child support every month and visited the little girl every day. After the divorce, Didi went to live with her maternal family, and quickly they all realized something very strange was going on. Bob Petra, her nephew, claimed that when Gypsy was seven or eight years old, she got on a motorbike with her grandfather and had a minor accident, a small scrape on her knee. However, Didi said it was a clear sign of injuries requiring many surgeries, and from that moment on, Gypsy was forced to use a wheelchair. The girl could obviously walk, but her mother forbade her to. After second grade, Didi took Gypsy out of school and began homeschooling her, although according to her family,

that's not entirely true. Apparently, Didi cared more about her daughter's illnesses than her education, and a girl could barely read or write. Rod Blanchard rebuilt his life with another woman, married her, and had several more children. Didi, however, did not. According to several sources, she was filled with resentment. She was so upset that she broke off all contact with him. She wouldn't allow him to see his daughter and barely let him speak to her on the phone.

But of course, he had to pay support on time, or else there would be trouble. As you can see, from this point on, Didi went completely off the rails. Then came the year 1997, and with it, the strange death of her mother. Didi's maternal family accused her of having killed her, and instead of defending herself, she packed her things and moved in with her father and stepmother, where once again she was accused of trying to poison them. To be continued. and she went to live at her father and stepmother's house, where once again she was accused

of trying to poison them. During that time, Dee Dee continued committing crimes, she stole, wrote bad checks, and even though her family yelled at her and called her a thief or a fraud, she didn't care. But when they questioned her role as a mother, things got complicated. So one of those times they told her that her daughter wasn't sick and that she was the one with the problem, she packed her things and left with Gypsy to Slidell. Once there, mother and daughter cut off communication with the entire family, thus beginning the darkest chapter of their lives. Didi asked the government for help, claiming to have a daughter with severe health issues, and this help came in the form of public housing and benefits to pay for her daughter's

expensive treatments. On top of that, Rob continued to pay monthly child support. So we could say the Blanchards lacked nothing. With all that money, Didi didn't need to work, so she devoted herself entirely to caring for her sick little girl, a little girl she paraded through hospitals in search of a cure. They visited the Toulin Medical Center and the New Orleans Children's Hospital, and in none of them did they find anything wrong with gypsy, no defective chromosomes, no apnea, no muscular dystrophy, absolutely nothing. Still, the woman insisted, and incredibly, many doctors believed her. When she said her daughter had seizures every few months, someone prescribed anti-convulsants. When she said her daughter was in terrible pain, she was given painkillers.

When she claimed her daughter had bone problems, someone performed multiple surgeries she didn't actually need. Gypsy couldn't do or say anything during this whole process because her mother wouldn't allow it. If she complained, Didi hit her. If she tried to act her age, Didi threatened her. So if she had to act like a baby, she just did it. If she had to wear a princess dress, she did so without question, because after all, this woman had made her believe that she had no one else in the world but her. After Hurricane Katrina devastated the area in 2005, Didi and Gypsy left their heavily

damaged apartment and went to a shelter in Covington. That was when their story became known. Didi contacted several foundations and sold them her tragic story, the story of a girl who had survived leukemia and now had many different illnesses, each worse than the last. She talked about a girl without a father who had lost everything after Hurricane Katrina. And in that everything, there wasn't just a house but also her birth certificate and medical records. If we recall, D.D. Blanchard had been a nurse's aide, which gave her a strong medical vocabulary, she knew all about medications, diseases, treatments. So at this point, when they went to

asked doctors for help, it was much easier for her to convince them that her daughter was gravely ill. But not all doctors believed her stories. One who doubted her words was Bernardo Flasterstein, a pediatric neurologist who, after discovering that Gypsy didn't have muscular dystrophy, began to suspect Didi might be suffering from what's called Munchausen syndrome by proxy, a disorder in which the mother invents false symptoms or induces real ones to make it seem like her child is truly sick. Flasterstein genuinely wanted to alert social services, but Blanchard wasn't stupid, she knew something was up with that doctor, suspected he doubted that Gypsy was really sick.

So overnight, she stopped going to his office and moved to Springfield, where in 2008 the Habitat for Humanity Foundation built her daughter a beautiful, fully equipped house, a pink house with ramps so Gypsy could access it in a wheelchair and a jacuzzi to help treat her muscular dystrophy. Their story became so famous that they received free flights to visit doctors in Kansas City. They also got free trips to Walt Disney World and backstage passes to every Miranda Lambert concert. And through all of this, Rob Blanchard kept paying child support, but it was no longer just basic support, Didi had asked him for much more money to cover her poor daughter's expensive treatments. So this man was giving her $1,200 a month.

But there were details that Rob didn't like at all. The first was that when he called his daughter for her 18th birthday, Didi took the phone and told him not to mention she was 18, but rather 14, because due to her mental condition, Gypsy believed that was her age. The second point was that every time he wanted to visit Gypsy in Springfield, Didi made excuses, said they weren't home, had a doctor's appointment, were traveling to see a specialist, always something, and Rob never got to see his daughter. By 2009, the police started receiving strange reports.

Early in the year, a woman called to say she had seen Gypsy walking through the windows without any help, but no officer responded because that was supposedly impossible. The years went by and police kept receiving similar reports, people claiming Gypsy could walk and sometimes spoke like an adult instead of a seven-year-old. And while people complained, you can imagine that Gypsy was getting fed up. She was forced to wear a feeding tube that had to be changed every six months, forced to shave her head daily, and wasn't allowed to have friends. So in 2011, she tried to run away from home with a man she met online.

When Didi found out, she grabbed a hammer, smashed the computer, and threatened to do the same to her fingers if she ever tried to run away again. After that, the woman went straight to the police and made it very clear that her daughter had mental problems. That way, if Gypsy ever tried to ask for help, no one would believe her. But Gypsy was determined to escape her control, and in 2012 she created a secret Facebook profile where she spoke with her friend and neighbor Alea Woodmancy. If you search online, you'll find many disturbing photos Gypsy Rose Blanchard posted to that

profile, wearing different wigs, posing in a very provocative way, which obviously someone with the mind of a seven-year-old wouldn't do. In 2014, Gypsy joined a Facebook group for young Christians, where she met Nicholas Gojohn, a 24-year-old man with autism. Shortly after meeting, the young couple changed their relationship status on Facebook and began planning their wedding and talking about baby names. They were really sure they wanted to be together. So they started making a number of plans, the most prominent of which was to pretend they met by chance at a movie theater in front of Didi, so she would think their love story had been accidental. And if that plan failed for whatever reason,

Gypsy could always get pregnant and force her mother to accept the relationship. You'd think all of this was just fantasy, silly dreams, never would they go through with any of it. But the couple kept talking online and soon realized that the only way they could be together was if Didi died. So they decided to carry out their plan in June 2015. The plan was this, in early June. June 2015, Gypsy and her mother had a doctor's appointment.

When they returned, Didi went to sleep, and then Gypsy grabbed her phone and texted Nicholas to come over and commit the crime. And that's exactly what happened. As soon as he arrived, Gypsy gave him duct tape, gloves, and a knife. Then she went into the bathroom and covered her ears while he stabbed her mother. Afterward, the couple had sex in Gypsy's room, packed their bags, stole $4,000 from Dede's safe, and fled to a motel on the outskirts of Springfield. Once there, to avoid being caught with the murder weapon, they mailed it to Nicholas House.

Then they went there too. Everything would have gone perfectly, they would have gotten married, had kids, been very happy, but Gypsy couldn't resist turning on the computer and posting a status update. A post that led the police to track the IP and take her and her boyfriend straight to prison. Once Gypsy's nightmare became public, the whole world was shocked. People went from seeing the Blanchards as an example of perseverance to realizing it was a story about a monstrous mother and her victim. Gypsy had lived her entire life under the control of a woman with Munchausen syndrome by proxy. And not only that, after Hurricane Katrina, this woman took the opportunity to get a new birth certificate for Gypsy with a completely different birth date.

Gypsy wasn't born in 1995, but in 1991. Remember the day Rob called Gypsy to wish her a happy 18th birthday? Of course, he couldn't say she was 18, because Didi had changed her documents without authorization. If Gypsy was legally a minor, they could continue receiving a ton of assistance. So we could say that Hurricane Katrina was a perfect opportunity for Didi. This is a really complicated case because on one, hand, we have Nicholas Gojohn, who has autism, and on the other hand, we have Gypsy, who was the victim of continuous abuse. So the justice system had to be very careful with their

sentences. In December 2017, the judge set Nicholas trial for November 2018, and after hours of deliberation, he was found guilty of first-degree murder. However, his sentence wouldn't be made public until this very month. Gypsy Rose Blanchard, for her part. was sentenced to ten years at the Chillicothe Correctional Center in Missouri. But this news didn't really affect her, because despite being behind bars, she says she feels truly free. I feel more free in prison than I ever did living with my mother, because now I'm allowed to just live like a normal woman. But now it's your turn, what do you think of this case? Was it right for Gypsy and her boyfriend to kill Didi? Or do you think they could have done things

differently. The end. They claimed that an old woman with red eyes crept into their room every night, hiding behind the door and setting the room on fire. Of course, after calming the child down, Alan and Debbie told her it was just a nightmare. But the girl was adamant, this wasn't a dream, asterisk, asterisk, hello, everyone, and welcome back to my chilling library of horrors. Today, we're diving into a story from 1987, a tale that left the small city of Horicon, Wisconsin, buzzing and earned a family a permanent spot in the archives of the paranormal. The Tollman family, who had recently moved into what seemed like an idyllic home, abandoned it less than two years later, claiming the house was haunted. No one knows the full details of what

happened in that house. The family refused interviews and kept their names off TV, determined to protect their privacy. But the fragments of their story that leaked to the public? Well, there enough to make anyone think twice about buying secondhand furniture. Hashtag hashtag hashtag hashtag a fresh start in a quiet town. In April 1986, Debbie and Alan Tolman, along with their three kids, Chris, aged seven, and their two daughters, aged two and four, moved to Horicon, Wisconsin. They were drawn by its small town charm. Horicon wasn't just quiet, it was tiny, the 2018 census recorded only about 3,500 residents, and back in the 80s, it was probably even smaller. Everyone knew everyone, or, at the very least, knew of everyone.

The Tolemans moved into one of ten homes on Larrabee Street. Their new place was a modest, single-story house with three bedrooms, a basement, and a garage big enough for their car and a few extra items. They thought it was perfect. The layout was simple, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and enough bedrooms to give each child their own space. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Within weeks, they started painting, rearranging furniture, and settling in.

But that's also when things began to shift, subtly, at first, then unmistakably. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the bunk bed. One of the earliest changes the Tollman's maid was upgrading their daughter's sleeping arrangement. Their youngest daughter was outgrowing her crib, and their small bedroom couldn't fit two separate beds. So, Alan and Debbie decided to buy a bunk bed. They found one at a thrift shop, an old but sturdy wooden bunk bed for $100. It was a steal, really.

They brought it home and left it in the basement while they finished fixing. up the kid's room. The bed sat there for weeks, collecting dust, while the family adjusted to their new home. But during that time, the kids started getting sick. All three of them, high fevers, constant coughs, dizziness. It didn't make sense. Before the move, they had been perfectly healthy. The doctor said it was probably just stress from the transition, but no amount of medicine seemed to help. The kids just kept getting worse. By the end of May 1987, the girl's room was finally ready. Alan brought the bunk bed upstairs, set it up, and tucked his daughters into their new sleeping arrangement. They were thrilled. It was a big moment for the family, a sign that they

were finally settled. But that night, the first of many strange occurrences took place. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the radio incident. While the girls were sound asleep in their new bunk bed, Alan tucked Chris into his room across the hall. Chris had a habit of falling asleep with the radio on. He liked the low hum of music or voices as background noise. Alan turned it on, kissed Chris goodnight, and headed to bed. A few minutes later, Chris appeared in their doorway, looking spooked. He said the radio wasn't working properly. It kept making weird noises, switching stations on its own. Alan sighed, got up, and went to check. The radio seemed fine. He adjusted the station, told Chris to stop imagining things, and went back to bed.

But half an hour later, Chris was back, this time in tears. He said the radio was possessed, and it wouldn't stop changing stations by itself. Annoyed, Alan yanked the plug from the wall and took the radio with him. He figured that would put an end to Chris's ghost story. And for a while, it did. The radio incident was forgotten. But it wasn't the last time the Tolmans would be forced to confront the unexplained. Hashtag hashtag laughter in the dark.

Over the next few weeks, strange things began happening around the house. It started with the girls. Almost every night, they woke up screaming from nightmares. At first, Debbie and Alan thought it was normal, they were just kids, after all. But the nightmares kept getting worse. Debbie noticed something odd. Before the screams, she'd often hear laughter coming from their room. It wasn't playful giggling, though.

It sounded, wrong. One night, curious and slightly unnerved, she crept down the hall to check on them. As she reached their door, she could still hear the laughter, soft, eerie, like someone was whispering jokes only they could hear. But when she opened the door, the girls were fast asleep, tucked snugly into their bunk bed. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the witch, the nightmares escalated. The girls began talking about an old woman, a witch with glowing red eyes, who came into their room at night. She hid behind the door, they said, and tried to set the room on fire. Alan still didn't believe it. He chalked it up to shared stories, a case of

overactive imaginations feeding off each other. But Debbie wasn't so sure. She started noticing odd things around the house, objects moving, strange noises, whispers that seemed to come from nowhere. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a desperate plea, by December 1987, the family was at their wits end. No one wanted to sleep alone. The kids were terrified of their own rooms, and Debbie and Allen were running on empty, taking turns comforting them night after night. Chris begged to sleep on the couch, saying he felt safer in the living room with the Christmas tree lights glowing. Alan finally gave in. But even the couch wasn't safe. Chris woke up screaming, claiming the witch had followed him there. She stood by the tree, watching him, and told him

once again that their family would die. Hashtag hashtag Alan's challenge. One night, Alan snapped. Exhausted and angry, he stormed into the living room and shouted at the air. He dared the witch to show herself, to come after him instead of his kids. He demanded she prove she was real. That same night, the family experienced their most terrifying encounter yet. Alan came home late from work, and as he approached the house, he saw a strange light coming from the garage. It looked like a fire, flames flickering, smoke curling out.

Panicked, he ran to the garage, but when he opened the door, there was nothing there. No fire. No smoke. Just darkness. As he turned back toward the house, an invisible force yanked the lunchbox from his hands and hurled it against the wall, shattering a lamp. That was it. Alan couldn't deny it anymore. Something was in their house, and it wasn't leaving. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the breaking point, the family invited a pastor from a nearby Lutheran church to bless their home. He confirmed what they already feared, there was an evil presence in the house, and it was targeting the children. He performed a blessing, and for a short time, the activity seemed to stop.

But it didn't last. By January, the nightmares returned. Shadows moved in the corners of their vision, and strange noises echoed through the halls. Finally, Debbie and Allen made a desperate decision. They traced the disturbances back to one key event, the arrival of the bunk bed. Convinced it was cursed, they dismantled it, took it outside, and set it on foot. fire. After that, the house went quiet. But the damage was done. The Tolmans couldn't shake the feeling that something still lingered. In April 1988, they packed their belongings and left

Larrabee Street for good. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the aftermath. The Tolman's story spread like wildfire. Locals swarmed their old house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous ghost. Some tried breaking in, others claimed to hear whispers through the windows. The police were called multiple times to keep the curious crowds away. Despite the media frenzy, the Tolmans refused to speak publicly about their experience. They only agreed to share their story under strict conditions, their faces wouldn't appear on camera, their kids' identities would be protected, and the details of their ordeal would remain vague. Their story aired on unsolved mysteries in October 1988, sparking even more speculation. Hashtag hashtag hashtag was it real? To this day, opinions are

divided. Some believe the Tolmans were victims of a genuine haunting. Others think they fabricated the story for attention or misinterpreted natural phenomena. Blogs and forums still debate the details, dissecting every piece of evidence, or lack thereof. Real or not, one thing is certain, the Tolman's story has become one of the most infamous haunted house tales in American history. Whether it was the bunk bed, the house, or the Tolmans themselves that attracted the entity, no one can say for sure. But whatever it was, it left a mark. on the family, on Horicon, and on anyone brave enough to hear their story. So, what do you think?

Was this just an elaborate hoax, or did the Tolman stumble into something truly supernatural? Let me know in the comments below. And as always, stay safe out there. You never know what might be lurking in the shadows.