Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Fear Unbound: Horror & True Crime Collection

Episode Date: January 19, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy#truecrimehorror #fearunbound #darktales #chillingstories This collection blends fictional horror with real-world crime horrors, offering tales that unsettle, terrify, and provoke deep suspense. From haunted locations and unexplained phenomena to unsolved murders and sinister human behavior, each story builds tension and psychological dread. Fear Unbound invites readers into a world where horror and reality collide, leaving a lingering sense of unease horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, psychologicalhorror, darkmystery, unsolvedcases, hauntedstories, terrifyingtales, suspensehorror, chillingnarratives, crimehorror, sinisterstories, fearanthology, horrorcompilation, darkrevelations, unsettlingstoriesThis episode includes AI-generated content.

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or septic system, solar and propane for power, etc. They were not conspiracy theorists, as most people who live like them are, although they did have many friends who were like that. They were living in a very old house that relied on propane for heating. Unfortunately, there was a breakdown with the water heater, and they succumbed to CO poisoning in their sleep. It's been a very difficult time for me. I am technically the one who figured out they had passed. My mother messages me every single day, when I didn't get one last week I knew something was wrong and called for a welfare check. My boyfriend, while great when he can be there, has not been available much since the day I discovered their passing. So it's been a lot of dealing with this on my own. I feel like everything

is happening so quickly that I haven't had even a minute to process what's happened. I made the trip to West Virginia this past weekend. After dealing with the aspects of their cremation, I headed to the house. I stayed at a nearby hotel, and by nearby I mean a 45-minute drive away, but during the day I was getting the house in order, it was just a little too much to stay in the house overnight by myself. My mother had saved a lot of mementos and photos. It was kind of nice going through it. I should probably give some more background on my life at this point. My parents moved back here to West Virginia when I was 20. My grandfather, who I would see one or two times a year, took care of the place for 20 years while we traveled around the country for my father's work.

My father would travel back here to visit my grandpa at the beginning of December every year, but my mom and I never came with him. When I did see my grandpa, he always came to us. My father made money doing doomsday prep work. He wasn't a prep or himself, but we would travel to various places like Montana, Utah, a lot in the Rocky Mountain areas actually, and he would do construction work on bunkers, security fences, outposts. My dad knew how to do all of this stuff, he had a few other guys he could call in and help him where necessary. He always told me he got these jobs because he would do the job for cash, no paper trail, and be discreet about everything. It was not cheap for these people. We were always moving though my childhood and I was homeschooled.

I was never denied access to the internet or taught crazy things. My parents actually heavily emphasized self-reliance, I later realized they believed this to an extreme degree, you'd be surprised how fast I can fix car problems or how well I can throw knives. With that said they did prioritize my health. I went to the doctor when necessary and was vaccinated. I'm only saying this because in my teen and adult life, whenever I tell people about my parents, and I only tell people I'm close to, they always jump to thinking they are crazy anti-vax. blow up the government-type people. And they were not. As I got older I began to ask, beg really, that I get to go to real high school.

My parents caved, and we moved to Burlington, Colorado. It was a bit of an adjustment, but I loved being around people for longer than a few months at a time. I did all the things a typical teen would do in high school, I made friends, had boyfriends, went to dances, played sports, and so on. After high school I went to the University of Colorado on a Pole Vault scholarship. After college I got a job near Boulder and met my now boyfriend. To get back to the point of this post, I noticed something rather alarming going through old pictures.

My mother had a habit of backing up photos on zip drives. I was looking at photos labeled Michelle's first Thanksgiving. This didn't set off any alarms though until I started looking through Michelle's first Christmas. I was noticeably smaller. I know pictures can look different because of angles or whatever. No, I am smaller, every angle, every picture in comparison. I also have way more hair. Yes, it had been a month, but there was no way I grew that much hair in 30 days.

All the picks before Christmas are in or around this very house. Starting that Christmas, they are of my parents' camper, and the various rentals and campsites we lived in until I got to high school going forward. Now obviously I don't remember this house at all, coming here for the first time when I was 20. But the picks make it seem like they just moved out overnight right around Christmas and never came back. On top of that, this one folder has me pulling my hair out.

Of the literally hundreds of folders on the two dozen or so zip drives. There is one password protected locked folder. I am not tech-savvy enough to get into it, and it appears to date from the month of December 2013. I need to know what's in this folder. I've decided I'm going to overnight the zip drive to my boyfriend back in CO. He has some friends that think they may be able to, hack into it. I guess the last thing I was to ask you all is, do I seem paranoid? Is this just grief?

I feel bad questioning this, as I loved my parents very much. It just feels like something is off. I'll update in a few days if I get any news on the zip drive or if I find anything else. Two days ago my boyfriend Aaron sent me an email with everything that was in the protected folder. His friend was able to get into it. I am beyond disturbed. There were only three photos. One of the little girl in the Thanksgiving photos.

She was dressed up in the prettiest little dress and shoes. stuffed unicorn next to her. She appears to be asleep, although my mind is telling me it's a sadder reality than that. The second photo is of my mother holding the child in the dress. There are tears in her eyes. The last photo was of a wooden box. It had very ornate details on the front and sides.

The picture, however, is kind of far away. When it came to making out the wording on the front, I couldn't at all, but I had my suspicions. I spent the whole night looking at these photos and many others. I think this was my parents' actual biological child. I think she died, and I'm starting to worry that they took me from somewhere. At first I mulled over the possibility that I was a twin, but there are no photos with two babies. This new revelation has me constantly wondering if this child is buried in The Spot. The Spot, is what I call this odd place on my phone. family's land. It's kind of offset from the main house, where this old tree has grown.

I never came here until I was 20. My father came back every year in early December. My mother was always somber during the time he was gone, and they would be oddly affectionate to each other when he returned, not that my parents weren't affectionate with each other, it just always seemed more upon his return for a few days. Once they moved back here, I began to noticed that the spot always seemed to have flowers on it. It would have a wreath at Christmas. I asked about it two or three years ago and they both just said it was just a reminder of the family members, yes plural, that have passed. I always just accepted that as their way of remembering their ancestors. I did something yesterday that I really struggled with internally.

I dug up the spot. I feel bad, especially because of what I found. I found that the box. I didn't open it, I know what was inside. On the front M.Y name was carved into it. Michelle Kimberly Nolan, May 19, 2013 to December 5th, 2013. This is the body of my parents' biological daughter. I realized I was adopted, or kidnapped, or bought. I went back to digging through my parents' house during the day, and looking at photos at night. I hadn't paid much attention to the other people in a lot of the photos. Then I took a closer look at my father's only photo from his time in the Marines. He never liked to talk about it and I never pushed. This photo is of him and one other man. I looked through the photos of 2013 and this man is in a few from that year, including Thanksgiving.

He first appears in my mother's photos in 2012. In all he only appears in 10 or so pictures. Today, I made the decision to visit my grandfather. He lives in a nursing home, and has Alzheimer's. I wasn't expecting much. He apparently has some moments of being lucid, but those are very few and fat between. The nurses did tell me he will occasionally speak of things that happened decades earlier. I went there hopeful to find out anything about this man. My grandfather wasn't able to say much of anything, he just kind of sat there as I talked to him.

However, when I put the picture in front of him and pointed at the man he began to nod a little. Eventually, he started to mumble and finally get more clear, Chris. He just kept saying it over and over, Chris, Chris, Chris. I was a little shaken honestly, and I wondered if this man still lives around here. As I passed by the nurse's station on my way out, one asked me, how was Mr. Nolan today? I said, oh, as good as expected. Can I ask if you have ever seen this man, my grandpa said his name is Chris? The first nurse said no, but the second nurse who came over to look grew bright-eyed,

Oh my God, I have to look, I swear that's him. She pulled her phone out and began looking something up, oh my God, oh my God, I was right, that is Christopher Curry, I'm a huge true crime fan, I would recognize him anywhere. I was startled by that, who is he? She was more than ready to tell me everything, Christopher Curry, from the Merry Christmas Massacre, he burned his whole family alive on Christmas Eve, shot his sister a bunch of times, she actually survived if you can believe it. Kidnapped her baby, whose body they never found.

Then turned himself in. Oh my God, it's like my favorite case, he only lived like three towns from here, he should watch the Netflix documentary on him, it's called Burning Lies. I thanked her and cut the conversation short. When I got back to my hotel room I got on Netflix and searched up the documentary. I just finished watching it. It is literally the most horrible thing I've ever seen. I cried through most of it.

When they showed the picture of his sister Alicia holding her baby, I paused it. That is the same baby for my first Christmas photo in the camper. I am Ivy Rose West, I am the baby he took that night. How were my parents okay with this? They had to have known what he was going to do to those people. I get grief over the loss of their baby, but to go along with that. I feel sick, I can't even breathe. They were so great and yet they let him do that.

How? I don't know what I am going to do next, I'm retrieving their ashes tomorrow, and I am supposed to spread them on the spot. That's where they always said they wanted to be put. Now I know why. It's all so fucked up, I really wish I hadn't gone looking. I returned to Colorado and told my boyfriend about everything I figured out. We watched the documentary together.

He remarked on how much I looked like Alicia. I hadn't even really thought about that the first time as I was so preoccupied on the baby girl. We had a few long discussions about what my next move would be. There were two things I wanted to do. Alicia West, who changed her name after the documentary 15 years ago to Alicia Curry West, now makes her living as a public speaker. She mostly travels to high schools giving speeches on honesty and adversity. I know that sounds ironic considering how this whole thing started. I was looking on her website and she tells a very similar tale to the documentary.

Her personal statement talks about how she owns her past lies and gives inspirational speeches about being. honest and the potential consequences of deceit seems appropriate. Their tagline is, from self-centered to selfless. There is also a lot about overcoming adversity. How she overcame the loss of her child and family. About recovery from her gun shot wounds, and how she faced Chris Curry in court. It looks like she takes donations and is big on supporting victims of domestic violence. She has a whole foundation dedicated to ending family violence. She has a whole foundation dedicated to ending family violence and the public speaking appears to be the main fundraiser. It's all very over the top, but I guess when you go through all of that and come out other

side it's hard not to be. There is a full section dedicated to finding her daughter, finding me, with a reward offer, old pictures, and aged pictures, it's kind of what I look like. I took the contact information for the Finding Ivy section and sent an email to it. I included some of the photos from my parents with Chris, and photos of me from Christmas that year. I wanted her to know I was serious. That I wanted to meet and would be happy to get a DNA test. I included my phone number in the email. About six hours later I got a call and it was a Alicia herself on the other end. She was crying. Then I began to cry. My boyfriend was listening but stayed quiet. We talked and talked. She asked me all about my life. I could tell in her tone

she had a vile opinion of my parents. I can't blame her, they allowed this to happen. We agreed to do a paternity test, she said she would happily pay for it. When our call ended her assistant came on and gave me all the details I would need. I just had to submit my sample to a local lab, give them Alicia's code, and we would have immediate results. The next day I did just that and Lab Tech told me it was a perfect match. Alicia was my mother. I guess she had a notification set up because I got a call immediately. She sounded almost hysterical and wanted to fly me out to Chicago as soon as possible.

I was already on day nine of my ten-day bereavement. I called my boss. He listened to my entire fantastical story, and told me he couldn't give me any more bereavement but would approve PTO for as much as I had earned. I decided to take it. I had about a month's worth. I called Alicia back and said I'd be glad to come to Chicago, but I wanted to make a stop first. She asked where and I told her it may be triggering. She just said back to me, Fort Madison. I said yes, I want to confront my uncle. She asked me to wait. She wanted to talk to me about something important first.

She booked me two tickets for the next day, first class to Chicago. Aaron came with me, and Alicia had a car pick us up at the airport. Her office was amazing. When Aaron and I arrived, we did all the usual pleasantries. Alicia hugged me and seemed like she didn't want to let go. She looked incredible for someone who was 51 years old. After the introductions she asked Aaron for some girl time. We talked for hours about everything.

Pole vaulting, high school, my upbringing, her family, my real father, her job, my job, and so on. It was really great to get to know her. She did have a bit of an arrogant vibe, but being a successful philanthropist I guess comes with a little bit of that. Alicia insisted that we stay at her house. It was huge. I couldn't believe she was making this much. I asked her about it and she said it was Netflix money. The next day I awoke early and she was happy to see that I was up.

She asked me to come into the office with her. She gave me a bit of tour of her operation, I met some of the people. They didn't seem as friendly slash happy as I would have expected people doing the selfless work they do. Although I guess they work with a lot of victims of domestic violence and I'm sure that takes its toll on them. After the tour, Alicia sat me down and told me she had a business proposition for me. I was a bit surprised. She began talking about how Burning Lies had been one of the most popular documentaries in Netflix history, and that when she contacted them, letting them know we had been reunited, they were eager to do a follow-up.

It would be a lot of money for both us. I think she could see the uncertainty in my eyes, because her whole tone changed. She started talking softer, I could tell she was trying empathize with me. I asked her what this would entail. She said they'd definitely want to do an interview with the two of us together, and they'd like to film your confrontation with Chris. I was really apprehensive about this. I had no idea how I would react when I actually saw him in person.

She assured me that I would be safe in every way, Aaron could be there, she would be there, whatever I needed. She also told me it was unlikely I would get my chance any other way. Chris had denied Alicia in numerous times over the years, even during the documentary. If Netflix was involved the higher-ups at the prison would make Chris do it, but without that it was unlikely I'd get an audience with him. I told her I needed to think about it. She said that was expected and to take my time. Aaron and I are both here in Alicia's house now.

He's relaxing while I type this out. He's been no help. He just tells me do what I think is best and he backs me 100%. While I appreciate that, I really just want somebody to tell me what to do right now. I am so conflicted, this is so much all at once. Two weeks ago I was Michelle Nolan and had just lost my parents in a tragic accident, now I'm Ivy West and I've got a major studio wanting to watch while I confront my mass murderer uncle. I don't know what to do, I need to know if this is.

is the right thing to do. A big part of me wants to do this, but I'm also terrified. My life is so far from where it was just a few months ago. I'm about to head to the airport and board a private plane to Fort Madison, where I will come face to face with a mass murderer. They keep assuring me I'm in no danger. There are guards, he will be chained, and he has been a model prisoner for 25 years now. Like all that is supposed to make me feel better. So much has happened since my last post. The pressure kept up the very next morning after Alicia proposed doing the Netflix update. Alicia had a million reasons why this would be good for us, and when she told me the estimate

pay out for it, I was mind-blown. This could really set me up. I didn't last long and agreed to be part of the project. There were lawyers on the doorstep that very week and we were locked. in. That's when things took a swift-nose dive. You know when you should trust your gut, but don't, because what you're being sold or shown or promised is just too good to pass up. Well, if that was a person, it would be Alicia Curry West. Shortly after inking the Netflix deal, she came to me with a job offer. She wanted me to go on the road with her. Doing the public

speaking engagements and raising funds for the foundation. She sold it to me in many ways. We could make up for lost time, we could really make a difference in kids' lives, we could honor my birth father, we could possibly get other TV deals, she would start me out at 100k a year, and much more. I didn't know what to say, I had been at my job for three years at this point, but that would be a huge raise. I ended up accepting, and told my boss that I wouldn't be returning. After I accepted, Alicia asked if I'd start calling her mom, and I agreed. I still had this sneaking feeling that something was off, but I ignored it. I mean I had my real mom, she was rich, and she wanted me to have the same life she had. I began going to work with her

the very same day. Over the last month we have mostly been planning speaking engagements and talking about that angle we would take. The thing that bothered me was she wanted to play up my life as really negative. It's like she wasn't lying about how I grew up, but wanted it to seem like I was abused, neglected, and mistreated. Always focusing on moving around, living in campers, denied access to society, she even wrote statements that implied physical abuse. I don't know what to think of Val and Kim anymore, but they were not evil. They treated me great and raised me the best they could. I don't want them slandered. It was after the first week of working with her that I really started to take notice that she was very self-centered.

Her assistant seemed like she was always on the verge of tears and trying to anticipate Alicia's next move. She wasn't very nice to any of the other staff members either. I tried to be friendly with them, but they all seemed to get really nervous around me. After overhearing someone talking about how the bitch denied my raise, but brought her new little pet in at three times my salary. I began to wonder how much of her company slash foundation was really dedicated to helping victims. I have a financial slash accounting background. I went to Alicia about two weeks in and asked to look at the company finances, under the guise of trying to maximize our intake, which is weird because this is supposed to be a non-profit.

She agreed, which I was surprised. She had only known me a few weeks, and I could get the vibe she was trying to be a mom, but to just let me get into anything I want it seemed naively generous. Going through the books, I felt sick, it was all just a front really. Her whole marketing was that she was out in the schools, out in the neighborhoods, preaching doing the right thing. The reality was, speaking engagements were rarely done at all. In fact, from what I can tell the dozen or so events she does at high schools and shelters

a year appear to just be a marketing ploy. She makes most of her money from donation. doing do-gooder, events and dinners for rich people who want tax write-offs. I thought, okay, if this gets people more resources, more help, then I guess that's still worthwhile. I know the real world isn't all rainbows and butterflies, maybe she backed off on the speaking and did more foundation event stuff because it gets more for the victims. No, not true. As I started doing the math on the disbursements, it seems only about 9% of every dollar collected goes to actual victims. This is a foundation that brings in close to $2.5 million annually.

And last year only $210,000 went to any victim's organization. I started looking deeper, the people who work here aren't getting paid anything. She offers a pretty good starting salary, but looking through the employee records, raises are few, far between, and slim at best. The operating costs were high, with most of that being in the form of fancy events to impress her rich donors. The largest piece of the pie appeared to go to Alicia. She listed as having a salary the same as the employees. But, she lives in a company home, has three luxury company vehicles, gives herself a ridiculously high per DM for any time she's out of the office. In the past few years she has traveled for conferences, speaking engagements, and company retreats to

San Francisco, Paris, Tokyo, and a number of other places. When I asked about it, she didn't get defensive, she didn't angry, she didn't try to lie. She was proud, she bragged. She started laying it all out. Going out and taking a few for the team at a high school always meant bigger donations at the dinners and socials. She went on and on about how to max out donations. I think she was under the impression she was teaching me something.

When we talked salaries, she explained, never pay someone the minimum, they'll always leave, because they can and not lose anything. You want to get them in with a good offer, then keep them through their own necessity. You've got to give them just enough to live a little, just enough to make them reconsider leaving. Then you've got them for good. Her unethical business practices aside, I asked her how she felt about the people she was supposed to be helping.

She didn't even comprehend what I meant. She truly believed she is doing everything she can for the victims, and that her foundation does everything it can for them. I asked about all the amenities she gives herself and she said, it's just her pay, she dedicates her life to helping others, she's earned all this. This woman is a total narcissist. Over the next couple weeks I did my best to contribute and be her little protege. I was so appalled by what I had learned, I knew I had to do something. I didn't really know what but something. That has meant weeks of playing along with Alicia.

Here's a recap of things I've learned. She has had just about every form of plastic surgery, all medically necessary and covered by her company, of course. She also offered to get me new boobs, saying, you're young now, but a little enhancement never hurt. She planned a four-day company, retreat to Aspen, because I'm from Colorado, and when I asked, why would we go there in the summer? She just said to consider it a birthday present. I said my birthday was in May, she said, no, it's not, it's July 9th. I hadn't really thought about that. Her plan was Aaron could join us. I said we should invite some staff as a thank you, and she laughed. Saying she never brings any of them. I pointed out that I had noticed others on previous retreats in the records.

That's when she explained that she will often hire a guy she wants to fuck, her words exactly, a few days before then take him on these company retreats, then let him go when they get back. I got dealt a huge loss though on the trip. I was sleeping in this way to extravagant Airbnb. When I hear a huge commotion from the bathroom. Aaron is there in a towel, Alicia is topless holding her big fake boobs trying to cover her nipples. Aaron is telling me she came in there like that, the shower is clear glass. He says she was asking him if he needed any help and to show her what he's got.

Alicia is denying everything saying she was getting herself ready and came in Topless by accident, and that's when Aaron came on to her, asking her to join him. I know he wasn't lying. He was so upset. It came down to an ultimatum. Him or her, I wanted so much more with him. but I couldn't let her keep doing this. I had to say goodbye to Aaron.

I still didn't know what I was going to do, but I couldn't just let her keep taking advantage of people. He left the trip, I tried to reach out, but I'm blocked. Goodbye Aaron. This ended up being a blessing, though. She now trusted me completely. I told her that we should do a PR campaign on our reunion. She loved the idea.

We did this whole work up. called I am Ivy West. I also suggested we make it legally official that I am her daughter. She was happy to do this, her lawyers made quick work of the process. We finally got to our first filming. It was going to be three filmed parts, an interview with the both of us. Then one with us and Chris. Last a follow-up interview with us on our thoughts about facing Chris in person. The first interview was horrible. It was so much bashing of my parents, Val and Kim, painting them as monsters. Alicia kept speaking for me when they would come up.

The narrative she was pushing was she was saving me from my past. It was sick. Yes, they did something horrible, but they weren't horrible to me. But yet again, I had to go along with it. I keep telling myself if I want to make it all right, I have to keep going, but it's getting hard. The car is waiting for me. The next test is here. Wish me luck, and I'll update when it's over.

I know you all want to know what happened, so I'll get right to it. Alicia was in the car sent to take us to the airport. She tried to make upbeat conversation. I could tell she was excited. I, however, was not. This eventually got her attention and she asked me what was wrong. I played it off, said, I'm just thinking about Aaron.

She replied, of sweetie, you're better off without him, he's not strong enough for women like us. That stung, but I pressed on, was my dad strong enough? She released a short laugh, not at all, although he had more backbone than I thought, he made me confess to Chris. Which ultimately got him killed. No, he was just a means to an end, honestly between just us, I'm not a 100% sure he was your father. You were having an affair. I know I didn't hide my look of disgust.

No, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy some extra fun, he traveled a lot for work, I'd treat myself to weekend getaways, sometimes things happened. I mean he's probably your father. She looked at me and noticed my expression. What did I hit a nerve? You'll learn at some point, one person isn't enough for anybody, not long term, everyone does it. I just learned the truth early. Besides, it runs in the family.

Chris wasn't my father's kid and everyone knew it, except Chris, why do you think I was everyone's favorite? I looked at her again even more shocked, she kept going, oh don't feel bad, my dad, he was having affairs too, it was funny because he liked the Femboys, God he was such a freaky old man. He would donate to an anti-gay cause one day, then turn around and by some 19-year-old guy the next. He was the first one to back up my aunt when she disowned Robert too. She laughed at that point. In disbelief I continued, who's Robert? She went on, my cousin, he was like 17 at the time of the fire, he came out to my aunt just before the holidays, she disowned him on the spot, so did my grandparents. If they hadn't, I guess he would been roasted the same as the others. It actually worked out for me, because not only did I get the life in my.

for Billy, but also all my parents' assets, my aunt's assets, and my grandparents. It was nearly three million. Robert, came to see me at the hospital, but I had him thrown out. I didn't need that kind of image on top of all my other problems at the time. I looked at her and couldn't help it anymore, you were all awful. She frowned, Ivy, pull the stick out of your ass and grow up, we all did what we had to for the family. I just looked at her and said, Michelle.

She said, what? I responded, my name, is Michelle. That pissed her off, and I'm not going to lie I got a sense of satisfaction. At very least I bought myself the silent treatment for the flight. We arrived and spent the night at a nearby hotel. I got to listen to Alicia bitch about it, guess it wasn't up to the standard she was accustomed to. The next day she was done with the silent. treatment, and let me know she forgave me being rude the day before. We got to the prison

and they took us into the interview room. They prepped us on some of the questions, and let us know how this was going to go. I told everyone I had a request. I wanted to shake his hand. Everyone seemed confused, but the producer loved the idea. It took a little convincing, but the security team agreed to loosen his restraints enough to let him shake, under the condition he would have a guard over each shoulder. I agreed. When we got into the room and were situated they brought him in. He was so unassuming. If you put him in a lineup of a 100 random men and asked someone to pick out the multi-murderer he would be one of the last picked. They chained him to his seat, leaving just enough slack in the chain for him to raise his

hands up enough to shake. I walked over to him and looked him in the eye. Our hands met and it was a surreal moment. He forever altered my life, for the better. How would I have been raised by those people? I saw his eyes react, and though we said nothing, I think he sensed I had learned about who she really was. The interview began, Chris was across from us maybe 15 to 20 feet away. The guards moved to the walls. Alicia immediately started with some very theatrical monologue about staring into the face of evil. I tired of it, quote, quickly. The producers asked so many questions of us. I was playing along, giving everyone what they wanted, when I finally noticed the tapping. Chris was tapping his leg the whole

time. He was signaling me, he expected my father, my real father, would have taught me Morse code. He was right. It took me a minute, but I realized what he was saying. Push, I was finally asked, Ivy, is there anything you want to say to Chris? I looked at my uncle and said, for the murder of Billy West, you deserve to be in here, but I want to thank you. If not for you I would have been raised by this awful person who sits beside me. Instead of the great parents I had. At that point I pushed the button on my watch and the recording of everything Alicia

has said over the months began to play. I had it organized so that the worst confessions played first, as I assumed she would quickly interrupt. She rose to her feet and squared up to me. me screaming, you ungrateful bitch. I stayed seated and yelled up to her, don't talk to me, you cruel, psychotic, manipulative whore. This enraged her and she grabbed me by the neck. This was exactly what I wanted her to do, I jumped to my feet and forward with a hard shove. She didn't expect that and went tumbling backwards, right into the lap of my uncle Chris.

I swear I heard him say, gotcha. It was quick, I have no idea how he was. I have no idea how he he hid it on himself. The sharp metal shard entered Alicia's throat, and he yanked hard backwards towards himself. The entire right side of her throat seemed to tear out. It was one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. There was no saving her. She bled so much and so fast. Chris just laughed, and laughed as the guards pounced on him. I was rushed into another room. I'm back in my hotel room now. Trying to make sense of everything. Wondering why I don't feel guilty.

I'm sure at some point all of this will catch up with me. But for now I'll take solace in the fact I'm not like her. I'm not anything like her. I am Michelle Kimberly Nolan, daughter of Val and Kim Nolan. I know it's been years, but after my last update, I finally broke down. In a span of five months I had lost my parents, learned I was kidnapped, that my uncle massacred all my biological relatives, reconnected with me birth mother, moved cities,

started a new job, discovered she was a psychopath, lost my boyfriend, discovered all of my biological relatives were awful people, watched my birth mother get her throat ripped out by said uncle, and then I still had to do that damn documentary. Which got changed from one 90-minute update, to a two-part dive so they could go into bio-family's history and malicious foundation.

Not much more there beyond what Alicia confessed in the car and over our time together. I started therapy immediately and continued even four years later, although it's now mostly to help me handle the pressure of running a large foundation. I inherited everything from Alicia. I decided to take it over completely. I was definitely not ready but managed to fake it till I made it. The staff helped tremendously, I think they appreciated the huge raises. My assistant no longer looks like she's trying to diffuse a bomb every day.

Overall things are going very well. I sold the company house, two of the cars, and cut back on per diem and trips. We restructured quite a bit. I mostly do speaking visits to high schools, shelters, etc. This is now the main focus of the company, although I did keep up with the gala's and dinner for the elites, their donations just go so far, even if I hate these events. We're up to 47% of all proceeds now going to help victims of domestic abuse. We also founded the Billy West Memorial Scholarship for kids in the foster care system.

I never met him, but I think he would be proud of me. I also have no intention of ever looking deeper into my parentage. Billy and Val are my real fathers, Kim is my real mother, that is good enough for me. I know you all want to know, sadly Aaron and I never reconnected. A couple months after the prison incident, I did manage to get in touch with him. I apologized for what happened and he let me explain myself. He was very sympathetic, but also told me how much it hurt. I cried a little while we talked, but I think we got a level of closure for both of us.

He wasn't interested in restarting anything. He had begun dating someone else about six weeks earlier. We remain friends on social media. He ended up marrying that girl and she is mega-pregnant right now with their first child. He posts how excited he is almost every day. I'm happy for him, he deserves it. I tracked down Robert, my great-aunt son, an only known biological relative who isn't in prison, dead, or just a total POS. He has had a hard life being on his own since 17, but made the most of it.

He's not rich, but has a good life. He lives in California, runs his own wellness business, and has been married to his husband Orlando for ten years. I sent them a very late wedding gift. When he said he couldn't accept so much from someone he just met, I told him to think of it as his long overdue inheritance. We still message and last year I got to meet him face to face for the first time. As for me, I enjoy the city life and have been dating dating day.

David, 38M, for the last year. He is a professor in the Department of Human Genetics at the University of Chicago. He always jokes that he never thought anyone would top his crazy family, but then he met his best friend in college, Tim 36M, and thought no one would ever top Tim's crazy family, now he's met me, and says he is going to avoid all new people for the rest of his life because he doesn't want to meet the person who can top my story, loll. We are talking about moving in together within the next year. Anyway, that's my update.

Almost forgot, Chris got another life sentence tacked on for killing Alicia, but when you're already serving eight life sentences who really cares. He went back to not allowing visitors. I may try to write him soon, I just can't figure out how to thank someone for murder. If I figure that out I'll let you all know, I'm just your average guy, or at least that's what I always believed. Nothing extraordinary about me, wake up, go to work. come home, repeat. Same old routine, day in and day out. But that all changed in an instant

when they found a body buried in my backyard. I was in the middle of my usual evening routine, TV on, reheating some leftovers, scrolling through my phone, when I heard the loud knock at the door. Not the kind of knock you'd expect from a friendly neighbor or a package delivery. No, this was the kind of knock that made your stomach drop, the kind that meant troughed trouble was on the other side. When I opened the door, there they were, two cops, serious expressions, hands resting on their belts like they were expecting me to run. Sir, we need to ask you a few questions, one of them said, his voice firm but not aggressive. Confused, I nodded and stepped aside. Sure, what's this about? The next few moments felt like a blur. Questions. Accusations. And then,

The bombshell, we found a body buried in your backyard. I laughed. Not because I thought it was funny, but because it sounded so ridiculous. A body? In my backyard? That was impossible. But their faces told me they weren't joking. The laugh died in my throat as the weight of their words settled on me like a ton of bricks. We also found blood on your clothes, the other cop added, holding up a plastic evidence bag and a shovel in your garage. The dirt on it matches the scene. My heart pounded. This had to be a mistake.

A mix-up. Some horrible prank. That's not possible, I stammered. I didn't, I wouldn't, but what could I do? The evidence was stacking up against me, and I had no explanation. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. The only thing I could think to do was confess. Maybe if I cooperated, if I owned up to it, they'd go easy on me.

Maybe it was some kind of misunderstanding, and if I played along, we could straighten it out later. So I confessed. Yeah, I mumbled. I did it. The words felt foreign on my tongue, like they didn't belong to me. The cops wasted no time slapping the cuffs on my wrists and hauling me away. As they led me to the squad car, a chill ran down my spine. A deep, gut-wrenching feeling that I couldn't shake.

Because I knew I hadn't done it. I may not be perfect, but I'm no killer. Hours of interrogation followed. The same questions over and over, trying to trip me up, to make me contradict myself. But the problem was, I had no real story to tell. I didn't remember burying a body. I didn't remember getting blood on my clothes. Hell, I didn't even remember using that shovel.

The officers exchanged glances every time I hesitated, every time I said, I don't know. But what else could I say? Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they let me go. Not because they believed me, but because they didn't have enough to hold me, yet. Walking back into my house, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt different, heavier. Call it paranoia or instinct, but I felt like I was being watched. My skin prickled with unease as I moved through the house, checking the locks, glancing out the windows.

Then, a thought hit me. The basement. I rarely went down there. It was mostly storage, old junk I never got around to sorting. But something told me to check. Maybe it was some desperate need to prove to myself that I was. wasn't crazy. Maybe I just needed to make sure I was alone. I crept down the steps, my breath hitching in my throat. The basement was dim, the single bulb casting long shadows across the walls.

My heart pounded as I scanned the space, eyes darting from one corner to another. And then I saw him. A man, huddled in the farthest corner, his clothes dirty, his eyes wild with fear. He was shaking, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. My blood ran cold. Who the hell are you? I demanded. He flinched, but didn't answer. His eyes darted to the stairs, to the door, calculating his chances. I took a cautious step closer. You, you did this, didn't you? Still, he didn't speak. But his expression said it all. He was the killer. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but stand there frozen. But my mind was a mess, torn between fear and confusion.

Then, he finally spoke. A whisper, barely audible. Please, don't turn me in. I didn't mean to do it. Didn't mean to. Like that made it any better. Like that would undo what had been done. I swallowed hard.

Why? Why my mind? backyard. His gaze flickered downward. I. I didn't have anywhere else to go. I panicked. I, he looked pathetic, broken. But I wasn't about to let his sob story sway me. I had been accused of murder. Dragged through hell. My life was ruined. And all because of him. My hands clenched into fists. I could feel the anger bubbling beneath my skin, hot and searing. But I forced myself to stay calm. I needed to think. If I turned him in, would they believe me? Or would they think I was just trying to shift the blame? But I couldn't let him go. That wasn't an option. So I did the only

thing I could think of. I pulled out my phone and dialed the cops. You need to come back, I said. I found something. Minutes felt like hours as I waited. The man in the corner didn't try to run. Maybe he was too exhausted. Maybe he knew it was over. When the cops arrived, they stormed in, guns drawn. The man didn't resist. He let them take him, his head hanging low, shoulders slumped in defeat. I watched as they hauled him away, but even as the squad cars disappeared into the night, I couldn't shake the feeling in my gut. Something still wasn't right. Maybe it was the way he looked at me before they took him,

like he knew something I didn't. Maybe it was the creeping suspicion that this wasn't over. That this was only the beginning. So this happened yesterday, and I'm still cringing. I work in a decently sized company, and my boss is one of those guys who's ultra-professional. He's always super polite, but he's also the kind of person who double-checks everything

and expects you to be on top of your game 100% of the time. Yesterday, I was supposed to send him an important project update. I had two word docs open on my computer, the actual project report and this. Um, let's call it a creative writing piece that I've been working on. By creative writing, I mean it was essentially a cringy fanfic that I never intended anyone to see. Like, ever. I wanted to die. So I rushed to correct it.

I went back to my computer, attached the right file, or so I thought, and fired it off. Relief. I now have an email sitting in my inbox from him that says, Are you sure this is the correct file this time? Take your time, I think I'm going to resign and live in the woods now. TLDR, sent my boss a fanfic instead of a project report. Twice. The mix of professional embarrassment, the hilarity of the situation, and the idea that it could happen to anyone is exactly what makes stories like this shareable. What do you think? I fucked up tonight by suggesting to my long-distance boyfriend fake name and that we postpone our plans by a week. There's a lot of context I could include here, but for brevity and privacy sakes I'll try to keep it simple.

I first met my, now, ex-boyfriend in 2021. We were on our university's LGBTQ plus Discord, and were the only ones on there who liked football, soccer, if you're unfortunately American. So we began to meng each other every now and again. Nothing too serious, both of us were struggling to meet people, and were going through different things too. For me, I had been broken up with by a FWB slash crush the night before going to uni. And to make matters worse, the day I had to move into halls was also my birthday. So suffice to say, I don't remember a lot after all the drinking.

Alcohol became a near daily requirement for me in first year, to cope with my long-term but then undiagnosed depression, anxiety disorder, and insomnia. First year sucked, and all of this led to me forgetting a bit about the guy I spoke to on Discord. In second year, I drank less but still a lot. And while I wasn't quite as volatile as first year, and was now living with a friend in a house, I was at least as sad as first year, and had developed many bad habits, canceling on commitments, skipping even more classes than in first year, withdrawing from friends and Discord servers, spending all day in bed.

My depression and anxieties only continued to worsen, and I had very few people. people who I felt comfortable confiding in. My housemate ran an up-and-coming society at the university, and regularly hosted events at our house. One day out of the blue, the guy from the LGBTQ-plus Discord messaged me, asking to catch up after so long. He asked if I was living with housemate, and said that housemate invited him to a social and was wondering if we could finally meet there. This pleasantly surprised me, as I'd kind of forgotten about him. But it sounded like a nice opportunity to meet. I think I was out in the day for some reason, or maybe I just don't remember anything, but I do remember the house being busy with this social event, around 15 people probably.

I didn't know about half of them. I remember stepping outside, where housemate was doing a barbecue and some chairs had been arranged in a circle. Sitting on one of them was my now ex. He was dressed nicely, and was playing an acoustic guitar for people. He looked at me, and I remember watching him play. I thought his voice was really nice and soft. He played the guitar with a lot of care, his only distraction being the odd minor mistake that he'd quickly cover over or fix. I was very mesmerized. I don't remember a lot of that night, but I remembered meeting him, and enjoying his company.

Sometime a week later or so, my housemate asked about how I met him, how well we knew each other, etc. He said he wanted to ask out Ant because he was cute. I was a bit disappointed because I liked Ant and had been wondering about doing the same thing, but I didn't really say much. Only that I thought he was nice. Housemate said something about making it a competition. I didn't like that, and felt it would have been disrespectful to Ant.

Well, Housemate tried asking him out, and one night Housemate came to me all sad saying Aunt said he wasn't interested. Somehow, I think Aunt had said something like, your roommate is more of my type. Me and Aunt had been talking in the days leading up to this, and planned on doing something in the days following. But now with a free night, I think Aunt had reached out to me talking about housemate. Explaining the situation from his side, saying something about meeting to talk or talk about the date with housemate.

I can't really remember. Eventually, when I woke up late and missed my train to him, he told me, it's okay, but I think we should take a break from each other for a little bit. I agreed. But I realized it was for the best, least until I could sort out my tablets and get more help. FFW another year and a half. He contacted me out of nowhere at the end of last year.

We caught up on text. He asked about how I am now, and I told him that I'd been in therapy for a year and felt a lot better. I even had a job interview coming up, and no longer had daily anxiety attacks, if ever. He was glad. He hadn't done much, outside of his degree, of course. We asked if I was coming down to Swansea any time soon. I told him that my friends, who I introduced him to when we started dating, and they integrated

him into the group a bit, wanted to do a dinner, but I wasn't going. He convinced me to come down, see everyone before Christmas because I hadn't for a while, and said that I could stay at his. I was initially unsure. But I did miss him. I missed hugging him, listening to him, doing anything with him. He was funny, had lots of interests and hobbies, and we enjoyed football and trying new foods, watching things together. Suffice to say, against all prior judgment, I went. We got back

together. It was once again during that night that we thought we'd come far enough to give it another shot. After the weekend, I went home. I went a day earlier than he'd expected, to get a haircut for my interview. He understood, but was sad. We agreed to text every day, and we effectively did until last weekend. But to me, things got more tense. I felt that I was repeatedly not understanding his feelings or once over text, became shit at keeping to things like calling or one time forgetting to say good night. Every tiny fuck up, even things like not knowing what to say to keep a conversation going or not remembering some specific memories, felt like another weight on my back. I hated being a dumbass, but I really liked him. I knew I was letting

him down though. Last weekend, he had a particularly shit day. He'd lost a match, and he was the goalkeeper. He said about having to play the team again soon, and I said, something really dumb like, aren't you worried about getting thrashed again? That really upset him. I clarified that I meant it like, aren't you worried about losing again so soon after. Not much better, though, really. I also kept asking about upcoming matches or whatever to try to keep his mind off it. He didn't like being asked all this stuff and felt stressed. I was so dumb. I'd like to blame my sleeping tablets, but that's no excuse. I didn't gauge his feelings, and he asked for space. I didn't text him at

all the next day, because I thought that was space. But turns out he said I should have told him that was my plan, and again, I agree. I should have. Why didn't I think of that? Well, we made up the day after that, but to me things still felt colder. He usually liked texting me quite a bit, but suddenly I was the one starting most of the conversations. He wasn't asking about calls, probably because I sucked at agreeing to them.

Sometimes he'd go hours without responding, this hadn't happened before. all led to tonight. I realized that my longest and probably best friend's birthday was coming up, and I'd completely forgotten about that. They'd also invited some mutual friends who I hadn't seen in years. The problem? That was the weekend I'd planned to go see my BF. I kept thinking about what I was going to do, for the next few days. I felt that I could talk to my BF about the problem, about whether we could move the plan to next weekend, saying I'd buy the ticket now and even come down earlier so we could do more. I wasn't saying, said I'm going to the birthday thing, but if I could I would have wanted to avoid missing either.

This did not go down well. He became very upset with me, and we had honestly the worst argument we ever had. In the end, he said don't bother, and said I should take time to think if long distance was right. He gave me so much leeway. He wasn't judging my every action like I thought. That was my head blaming me for being shitty, which led to me fucking up more. I genuinely love him, and so I don't want to hurt him anymore. I'm not planning on pursuing this, outside of writing my thoughts down and giving him an answer to his question. I had my chance and I blew it, and he deserves someone who can appreciate his love, who he feels he can connect with more and who his partner feels should be their priority, always. I'm not looking for

validation. I know this is my fault. I don't know, I guess I'm looking for advice, or reactions, or anything really. I told him no matter what happens, I won't be going to the birthday, thing. TLDR I cancelled going to see my long distance BF, which ended up being the final mistake of a series of continued mistakes on my part, and I have no idea where to start with addressing my now obvious problems. Edit 1, change the TLDR because people said it was wrong. Additionally, no, I don't want validation. I needed to write this somewhere to work through my feelings and experience. I guess I'm putting this here to see how bad it is, whether anyone's experience and similar, as victim or perpetrator. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not intent on spreading evil,

I think I just suck at communication, organization, and probably common sense or proper relationship experience. And yes, I know it's long. Continuing with the threat of, I'm a congealed fuck-up in human form, I thought of another one to share today. Back in 2021, I was on chatting with my then-girlfriend slash now wife, and we were talking about how cringy the 2000s were, ourselves included. I shared my 100% original novel that I started writing in seventh grade about a group of teens taking over the evil school masters that tried to make people depressed, and she shared some of her fanfix written about vampires. You know, standard middle school embarrassment, right? Some of this deep diving involved accessing an email that I had

long since forgotten about, but fortuitously had saved the password on my home desktop computer. I had made a couple folders in this email, Uncle's Wedding Coordination, cool stuff from Mom, and then a folder named Friends. My excitement at peeking into both the inbound and outbound communication I had with friends in that span of time made me over the moon with excitement. I forgot that I always used to sign off with C-Y-A, see ya, and there were a lot of exchanged links to albino black sheep and new grounds. Oh, the absolute memories.

Weble, if you're out there, you got me through some S-H-I-T, man. However, there was one thing that I didn't recognize. It was an email with the subject line, please read, sent from someone I hadn't been good friends with since 2005. I opened it and read what was attributed at the end as a love letter, but for the duration of reading it, made my cringy heart swell with delight. You know how dramatically people declare their love at the age of 13? Well, this was.

This was a lot, even for that. I remembered this person, though. We were F.B. friends, and had last talked in 2016. She married a mutual friend that we had for middle school, and her claimed occupation was for a company called Dutera. She wasn't a stranger, but we weren't exactly BFFs anymore. I thought I knew her well enough to think that she might find a bit of humor in the letter.

I saved the letter to my desktop computer, and shut it down. Impulsively later that week, I sent her a thing on Facebook Messenger. All I said was, going through my old email from 2006. found something you sent. You might get a kick out of it. Unsure. Let me know. She replied, sure why not?

I asked for her email address, and she delivered. This is where the foo begins. See, I went on vacation immediately thereafter. I was out of town for almost a week. I forgot to send it, and didn't have access to this email on my phone. Nor did I think this matter was that time sensitive. Apparently to her, it was very time sensitive. A few days later, she messages me, gonna send me something or not.

I replied, shit, sorry, forgot. It's on my home computer. A couple days later, while I was still gone, she messages me again, did you send it? I didn't reply to that message, because I was driving at the time. I, naturally, being an idiot, also forgot to reply to it later that night. The next morning, she messages me, so this is why I understand. unfriend it. Why, I don't really take anything you say beyond face value and why I don't talk to you. Now you claim you may have some of my copywriters work, and you take your sweet time to get it to me.

Well, guess what? If it is among the many that are now copyrighted, you best know what I'm about to say next. Get it over with. How about you stop wasting time, huh? And send it already? I reply. I've been on vacation and forgot about it, you, uh, you all right? Her, I'm good. Just don't steal but stuff or my attorney will sue you on behalf of myself. Enjoy your vacation. Me. It was a love letter you sent 15 years ago.

I thought it'd be a kick to see something you wrote that long ago, because we were kids. But, good to know who I'm dealing with. Disregard, have a good one. I really didn't like the tone, and especially when the lawyer card is dropped. I figured the best thing to do at this point was to make my exit and hope. hope it died down. I also was fairly certain there was no case even slightly possible to make out of this legally. Her, I still want it, because guess what I wrote it? And guess what? This is just business, so get over it. How else can I control my copyrighted works a published

author? Get over yourself and just send me the shit I wrote. Me, so you honestly think you can get your attorney to sue me for an email you wrote a decade and a half ago? Just curious to see if that's where we're at. Her, Tim says I can. You sound like a narcissist. Says the person claiming a cringy love letter sent as a teen is a, copyrighted work. Me, uh, huh. Interesting. Her, I have enough power and money now to get back everything I've ever wrote because I have copies of everything. So send me what I wrote so we can be done here. I have no intention of being your friend. me, if you have copies of everything, why would you need this? And what, exactly, would the lawsuit be about?

Her, okay narcissist. What part of I wrote it and don't know what you're talking about so it could be anything or this is a shakedown for info either way you can do the right then on go my list. This is a direct transcription, I'm including typos and everything. Not everything is going to make sense. Me, shake down for what? Her, money dumbass. Send me my shit.

Me, at this point, I think I'm going to be safe and just not do that. I'll just delete it, that way everyone can walk away. In this exact moment, I was feeling 20% fearful that this could actually be trouble, and 80% just over it. Her, okay, I am sending Tim your past apartment address this Facebook and your number. I knew you were a waste and white trash. I am an author now I don't put up with this shit. You will be blocked and Tim will take I if from here.

I'm. Me, give him my email too, I look forward to speaking with Tim. Her, he's a really nice guy. Why can't T you send me my property? Why bring it up? You manipulator. Why use it against me now? It's mine.

I just don't understand why everyone is like this when it comes to having a piece of my writing. Everyone gets sued 5K, 9K because they couldn't do the right thing. Some time passes. Wow, you suck dick. Me, because you're being a total dick about it, if you must know. I was going to send something to someone who was a friend, but didn't have access to it by the time you replied. Her, this is my life work, you idiot. God, you're sick.

I am glad I haven't talked to you in ages. You're incredibly unworthy of friendship. Get fucked. Enjoy the love letter and regret this moment for the rest of your life. Me, you don't want to talk this out, I'm assuming. her, thanks for being another person to steal M in writing. My writing. I don't need to talk it about I have a attorney who handles my affairs.

I'm busy. I hope you know what you get done. It goes on. The summary goes, I try to disengage, she keeps messaging. She calls me more names, asks if I want money, keeps threatening to sue. She then ends a message with, Be careful, which is all sorts of ominous and threatening. She tells a friend about what's going on, and that the friend tells her that I'm still in love with her, and that I'm bathing in the words.

I told her, I'm thinking of getting it tattooed on me, because I'm done being offstandish. I'd rather be snarky. She threatens to send screenshots of our chat to my girlfriend, who is reading with me the entire time and laughing, and sends a particularly long super disconnected message about me being obsessed with her and referencing the tattoo thinking I was serious. She ends with, fuck the paper, I don't care you weird fucking loser. I just reply, sounds good, hoping it was over. Nope. Hours pass, and she messages me again, you still have two days to make your choice.

It spirals again from there, she goes on more rants, I keep asking to speak with the lawyer to get this handled faster. Instead, she keeps insulting me, threatening me, and referencing her lawyer. That all happened in a day. The next day, she starts a group chat with me, her, and her husband, who I knew briefly in high school. She doubles down on the insults, and asks her husband to make me give her the letter. She pops off in the chat and neither hubby or I reply. This happens for several hours, I've decided I'm done with the ordeal, and choose to ignore it. She keeps saying, you have one more day, and also making vague threats that sounded like this

could escalate to something physical. That night, husband messages me, hey dude. She's really laying into me to do something. I don't even really care, I just want her to stop. I replied to him, man, I'm really sorry this is happening. I just thought she'd find it funny. I didn't mean for anything to come of it. I mean, the only reason I'm not sending the letter is because if there is some sort of room for legal shit, I want to make sure I'm protected.

She seems pretty hell-bent on doing something. Husband, yeah, I don't blame you. No worries, I can tell her that I asked, maybe that'll help. The next day came, and I thought I'd check my email to see if Tim had sent me anything, not a peep. Waited for the better part of the day before I wondered if I had just missed something. I opened up Messenger. Blocked. Group chat deleted. Everything gone. Thankfully, I saved as much as I could, just in case it ever came back to bite me. Then, a full year and three months later pass, and I get a message from the husband

letting me know that she's still thinking about doing something. Immediately thereafter, he blocks me again. I appreciated the heads up. It's been two years since then. It's been two years since then, and I'm still waiting for Tim to reach out to me. TLDR attempted to share nostalgia with an old friend, accidentally stepped on a landmine and made someone threaten me with legal action and berate me for the better part of two days with some pretty personal stuff. This happened in January of last year, but it was a crazy 45 minutes, so why not share it, right? It was the last shift I worked in my second stint as a security guard. In my second stint, I was the on-site, worked in a mall, dispatcher, logging in patrol calls from other guards, watching cameras,

sending guys to go detained shoplifters slash breakup fights, and work with police slash EMS whenever there was an emergency beyond our pay grade. IIRC I dealt with four overdoses during my tenure there, and all of the stories are pretty funny, relax. They lived. Anyway, we are slash were all certified, in use of cuffs, pepper spray, first aid, CPR, and administering Narcan if necessary, as well as identifying signs of overdose via opioids. Our daily shifts are divided into first, second and third shift, with two in between shifts to cover the floor during shift change, a 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. and a 6 p.m. to midnight. It was during shift change, and second shift was clearing out, I was second shift dispatch, but dispatch has to stay until the outgoing supervisor, A, accounts for the transfer of all keys,

and at least the third shift dispatcher shows up. Third shift typically showed up late, and usually call the office to have us clock in when they're right down the road, and that's what happened on this day as well. While I was taking care of it, our six to twelve frantically calls in for a request to call the fire department for an overdose in the movie theater. I get on the phone, call me up, make sure the loading dock is unlocked for them to get in, they take the elevators up to wherever from there, and I call the guard on the phone for more details. She lets me know that there's a girl passed out in a theater who doesn't seem to be breathing, and she's used up the dose of Narcan she had on her. We carried them in orange pouches on our utility belts. So I start

freaking the fuck out, because the third shift dispatcher just pulled in and needed to be briefed on everything, one of the third shift supervisors showed up and was still getting dressed, and the third shift LT, who also happened to be a firefighter on the side, was yet to arrive. And to add insult to injury. All of the remaining Narcan pouches were in the dispatch office, six floors down from the movie theaters. And the escalators were already turned. And the escalators were already off. So, grabbing a handful of pouches, I told the third shift dispatcher to take over until the fat fuck, third shift LT, arrived, and I took off running up all, those, fucking, stares. Now, most people assume automatically about me that because I'm a young black dude, I'm great runner. But that

educated guess is only half correct. I am built for speed, not distance. Frequent changes in elevation even less so. So needless to say, the ascent was not fun. Not to mention having to snatch an AED kit from one of the scattered stations in the way up. The secondary third shift supervisor, having finally gotten dressed was right behind me, as we took off, both of us beginning to dam near Dryheathed three quarters of the way there. So I get there and the officer who called in is doing chest compressions, after having administered the dose of Narcan she had on her. I take over and administer another dose of Narcan, and start doing chest compressions.

Now, for those of you that are unaware of how Narcan works, Essentially when you deploy it into an unconscious person's nostril, if they overdosed on an opioid, which is what Narcan is for, they start to snore violently as they come to. One to two doses usually does the trick. This woman was not doing any of that. If she was briefig, I couldn't tell. She was Hispanic, and her skin was already turning pale, and she was sweating, a lot. Her hands were twitching somewhat.

She was lying down on the aisle between an upper and lower row of seats, and it was a cramped space, so as I was trying to put an ear closer to her mouth to figure out if she was breathing or not as crass as this description may sound eye was at her head, and essentially 69 I and G her, for lack of a better description. The fire department slash paramedics arrive with a stretcher and their tools while I'm locked and praying to God that I wouldn't have to go back downstairs and do a report on a fatality that management and corporate would grill my ass about the following morning. One of the paramedics walks up behind me and starts asking general questions, I answer as best as I can to fill him in whilst maintain chest compressions, still unable to tell if this woman is breathing and debating whether or not I wanted the dishonor of performing mouth to mouth on someone who OD on a mysterious substance. Meanwhile, in the background, the third shift L.T. showed up and is asking some schmuck who identified himself as her boyfriend, and the guy is tweaken, babbling like courage the cowardly dog,

and in the midst of me performing chest compressions and panicking inwardly, I overheard, N.YL pills. For whatever reason, the room went quiet, suddenly I feel a firm grip on my shoulder as the paramedic yanks me up and puts a finger in my face, signaling me to wait as he levied a biblical death stare at the boyfriend. I noticed that everyone else was looking at the guy in shock too. With veins popping out of his neck, the paramedic calmly asks, can you repeat that for me, buddy? The BF says something to the effect of, I I don't know, it's her birthday I wanted to take her out for a movie and she said she had to take her fentanyl pills and sure. At this point the only thought passing through my head was, wait, they make pills for that shit? Who the fuck thought that

was a good idea? Firefighter slash paramedic quickly tells me good job, move me out of the way and gets in there to do his thing along with another paramedic. It what they did is I didn't have a good enough look at them, but the chick eventually starts coughing, they roll her over and she vomits a lot. So, I'm heading downstairs to clock out, and I noticed I'm starting to feel dizzy as shit. As to whether or not that was from springing upstairs from six floors down in hindsight, likely and was what I considered at first, but then I remembered that video of a sheriff's partner just standing two feet away from some fent he found in a dude's trunk before he hit the ground and started convulsing. Shit. So I finally get downstairs, third shift takes over, and I

clock out, still feeling dizzier than I've ever felt, with my chest burning up, and breathing getting a tad difficult. My ride home shows up, and as I tell them to drive me to the ER, I figured calling ahead would help so I could ask if it was worth coming in. Of course, I forgot how long wait times were at the ER, even on the phone, so I hung up and called the local state police barracks instead. Desk trooper picks up, I give him a quick rundown, and when I mentioned that apparently fentanyl was involved and described my symptoms, it was momentarily quiet, before I heard a whispered. Shit!

On the other line, I hear the dude yell to someone in the background, essentially repeating what I told him, and asking if I should go to the ER. In the background I hear, how long has it been? Trooper asks me and by then it was nearing 35-ish minutes since I left work. He relays it to the guy in the background. Guy in the background say, nah, it would have fucked him up already. He's good. And tell him to stop trying to kiss bitches who OD, that's FD's job.

I heard enough and hung up, waiting to just get home and knock T.F out. TLDR, I got a little too close to an unconscious person who supposedly OD'd on fentanyl pills. had a minor subsequent health scare. Also learned fentanyl pills were a thing. Please note that I put this under to label fiction. It's a fictional story that I created. Anyway, it starts with my brother, John. He is, too but it bluntly, a scum bag.

He's always dating, then cheating, on his girlfriend. They break up, he gets another girlfriend, the cycle repeats. I think he might legit be a sex addict. What money he doesn't spend on sex workers he spends on gambling and drugs. I haven't gotten along with him, ever, and neither has anyone in my family. So, I got thinking, by now he has to have gotten at least one of them pregnant, right? And they may come looking for him one day. So this is where the fuck up happens. I decided to screw him over and do one of those DNA tests which allow you to reach out to distant family members. I thought one

day a kid would be searching for him, and I wanted him to be forced to pay child support for his God only knows how many kids. I check back a friend. few days later, and there is already a match. Only, not from a niece or nephew, but from Heather, 18, a cousin. After a lot of crying and shouting from everyone involved, the truth came out, so it turns out my uncle, William, had an affair with his friend, Wendy, right before he got married to his wife and my aunt, Janet. Wendy was deeply in love, but knew if she came forward it would ruin their marriage. So she kept quiet about the pregnancy, and they lost touch with each other shortly after he married. My aunt and uncle had

always wanted to have kids, but they never could conceive. Janet passed away last year from cancer, leaving him lonely and broken. Now Heather was in his life, and they quickly connected. He decides that he should make up for all those years of being absent, and pays for her privy college schooling and rewrites the will to include her in it. See, there are very few members of our family, so my chunk of inheritance was quite large, plus he wasn't going to leave a dime for John, who would have blown it away on gambling. So now my inheritance has been whittled down to about how much.

half its original size. Not to mention that this also took a big chunk out of everybody else's inheritance in my family. T. LDR, I bought a DNA test to screw over my brother, ended up finding a long lost cousin, which cut my inheritance in half, pissed off all my family members except for my uncle and cousin. The context is that Carlos Sanchez, the provisional name of the villain, had a brother, and he died at the hands of police during the previous administration of the leader of the party for national security. Well, with so much power, army and police officers were able to greatly reduce crime. The problem is that there were also false positives and, therefore, innocent people died. Although these cases were minimal, Carlos's brother was one of them.

The president's supporters said, he who has nothing to hide, has nothing to fear. But that only made Carlos angrier, since he knew his brother was innocent and still ended up paying the price. Carlos blames the president, his party, and his supporters for his brother's death. After his term, six years passed and the president was elected again. Obviously, there was a presidency not held by him during those six transitional years. Carlos was a military technician. He had developed prosthetic technologies for soldiers. But secretly, he wove a web of corruption.

among the country's police and soldiers. Through this, he was able to contact all the major drug lords in Mexico. Secretly, Carlos created secret factories where he developed robotics technologies, building robots as part of a personal army. He also developed magnetic technology that gave him and his robots' powers over metal. Carlos wove a conspiracy. He managed to convince the majority of corrupt police and army officers to ally with him. At the same time, from the shadows, he convinced most criminal organizations to ally with him.

Ally for what? For the grand plan. When Carlos had enough resources and allies, he launched a great attack. The corrupt soldiers and police across the country proceeded to assassinate multiple politicians. And those in the capital assaulted the National Palace and the Legislative Palace. That's where Carlos appears. The major mafia bosses took control of Mexico City, eliminating the non-corrupt police and soldiers. Carlos appears with his army of flying robots to execute the president, ministers, and other party members. After that, Carlos, the corrupt police and military, and the criminal gangs proceeded to hide. The country was left in chaos, and taking advantage of that, Carlos' forces proceeded to steal money from the state through city halls, as well as steal police.

and military technology. In addition, they raided police and armed forces bases, stations, and ports. Carlos's plan is basically to have the greatest possible gains to the point of replacing the government in all its functions. Basically, he wants to turn Mexico into the nightmare of the president's followers. My questions are, how would the government and law enforcement stop Carlos? Remember that he has corrupt agents and the majority of criminal organizations in the country, plus an army of robots with magnetic powers. What would be the international response? Considering that Carlos killed the president and multiple Congress members. Would the United States invade Mexico? Is there any plan from politicians for a situation like this?

What would be the response of the citizens? Would they form militias? Would Mexico have any chance to stop this League of Evil? Thank you for your attention. The end. I love you too. Of all the things I could have and should have said, this was probably the worst option. I should have told her right then that I wasn't really a shredded 23-year-old bouncer from New York. I should have told her I was a pimply-faced, greasy-haired, fat little 15-year-old kid from Maryland. Maybe that would have saved us both a lot of heartache and put our lives on a different trajectory. But I chose the opposite and doubled down instead.

I'm not sure if that decision was born of selfishness, fear of hurting and losing her, unwillingness to let our fantasy die, or some mix of all of the above, but that was the decision I made. And just like that, our relationship leveled up with our characters and turned into something new, something I'd never experienced. I remember her sending me a photo of herself and my heart-dropping, filled with disappointment. Part of me just assumed she would look like what you imagine a M-M-R-P-G nerd in the early days of the internet, something similar in shape and darkness to myself. I was not expecting a stunningly gorgeous woman with a face strikingly similar to Anna Kornikova and a body many women pay a lot of money for. In short, she was way out of my league,

and despite my youthful naivety this fact was not lost on me. At this point you may be wondering, like many who read pieces of this story in the past, how I could conceivably fool a woman in her mid-20s into thinking I was an adult for about a year at this point. The answer is relatively simple, the internet was much more primitive at the time in the age before social media and camera phones, and I was fairly intelligent and well-spoken as a child. I knew that. I knew that how to twist the stories I would tell in a way to hide my identity, and I made a conscious effort to use proper grammar and punctuation, which immediately gave the illusion of maturity in a virtual space where poor grammar and abbreviations were commonplace. Requests for photos were met

with excuses on why I didn't have a webcam, and when I did finally send some photos, they were of my tattoo and a very blurry image of myself from the shoulders up, which both only served to further the illusion. After a few weeks, though, the little voice of my conscience I'd been ignoring had started to drone louder and things came apart. I knew I had to tell her the truth, I knew what I was doing was wrong, and even though it meant losing the only good thing I had in my life, I had to come clean. I hit a terrible depression and spent three days in bed without eating, only making the occasional trip to the bathroom.

At the end, I came out with a plan, I would just tell her I was really 18. That way she'd be able to just dump me without ever knowing she had really fallen in love with an actual kid. I finally worked up the nerve to tell her, and to my surprise, and chagrin, she was shocked and upset, but she told me it didn't change the way she felt. Again, I had an out here where I could have told her I was actually 15, but I didn't take it, and I figured I was turning 16 soon and that was close enough, right? So our relationship continued as it was, and I fell deeper.

Meanwhile, everything else in my life was falling apart. I was failing all my classes, skipping school constantly, and the tension with my dad was always bubbling. My attitude had slowly changed since that night with George and Mandy, and the change was dark. I was already a few steps down the road to fuck up, though, but that incident and everything that came after gave me a good hearty push and I was running like a track star. I rarely hung out with anyone my age or from my area, mostly choosing to surround myself with 18 to 22-year-old scumbags who could buy alcohol or find drugs.

I had some genuine friends from that group, but none of U.S. were living right. By the time I was 16 I was already smoking a pack a day, binge drinking, smoking weed daily, and on the weekends would do coke slash hallucinogens slash ecstasy slash crack or pretty much whatever we could get our hands on. The only healthy support system I had was a woman 2,000 miles away that I lied to about my age and fooled into loving a kid. But she kept me grounded, and was the only good influence I had. She made it clear she wasn't cool with the hard drugs, and gave me good advice that kept me

out of trouble. She was also about the only person on the planet I would listen to. We would talk for hours every day, sometimes all day, once for 20 hours straight. I managed to keep my job at Burger King, and Christmas was coming up. So I took my meager minimum wage, part-time paycheck and went shopping for Helena. I wanted to buy her jewelry, and some ladies at the jeweler helped me find something in my price range, a small, diamond-heart-shaped necklace with a thin gold chain. By this time I had bought a webcam, so when she got my package and I received hers, we hopped on and opened them. I remember opening hers, and it was a stuffed build-a-bear dog fitted with baggy jeans and the thug apparel that was all the rage when 50-sense,

in the club, was still topping the charts. It smelled of vanilla and citrus, her favorite perfume that she had spritzer it with before shipping it. When you squeezed its heart, her voice would play over a short recording that started with a giggle and ended with, Jimothy, I love you. Her turn was next, and when she opened the small box and saw the necklace she gasped and teared up. No one's ever bought me jewelry before, she explained. Then, the day after New Year's, the storm that had building outside the little bubble I had put around her and I in my life came to a head and it all fell apart.

My dad and I got into an argument, he shoved me against a wall and pinned me there by neck, threatening to, bite my nose off. And for the first time, I bit back. I shoved him off me into the wall behind him and screamed, Don't you fucking touch me. He was shocked, but there was also a tinge of sadness in his eyes. Looking back at it, I think it was the first time he realized I wasn't afraid of him anymore, and I think he was a little saddened and scared of what I'd become.

At this point I'd been in half a dozen serious fights, I'd seen guns pulled, I'd seen people dying from overdoses, and I wasn't afraid of much anymore. My dad's father was an abusive monster, and looking back at it, I know a lot of what he did was to try and give us a better life than he had. In his mind, his dad used to beat him with a belt, so he was doing me a kindness when he'd snap one in my face and threaten me instead of using it. If he chewed with his mouth open at the dinner table he'd get beaten, so a slap across the face instead was a mercy.

But I think in that moment when I remember him staring at me, it was the first time he'd seen himself looking back and knew he'd failed. He ran upstairs and called the police. He told them what happened while conveniently leaving out that he'd started it. I knew they were coming and punched a hole in my wall. When the cops got there, they put me in cuffs and hauled me off to the courthouse. A few hours later I saw a judge and was sent to a Baltimore juvenile center until my trial. My mom did us a major solid during my time there and would call Helena and put her on three-way before setting the phone down every night.

It was the only part of my day to look forward to, breaking the monotony of forced high school classes, community service, and watching old shitty DVDs with the other kids. She sent me a letter with some photos of her, and I vividly remember one of the female staff opening the letter to search it, finding her photos, looking up at me and down at the photos with the most puzzled expression before blurting out, Dom Jimothy, you've done well for yourself, before handing me the envelope with the letter and photos. I ended up spending 30 days in juvie before my trial date, where they were released. released me to 60 days of house arrest and two years of supervised probation. The choice to send me

home where the crime occurred and locked me and there was odd, but it beat Jovey so I decided to go home. A couple days after I got home Friday night hit, and it was time to party. My friends dubbed it a welcome home affair, but at that point I was already disillusioned with my circle and knew that was just this week's excuse to get fucked up. Only one of them had been to visit me or called while I was gone, the rest just carried on as normal. I had two phones. back then because you could only fit 150 contacts on my old kiosera, and I realized most of them were just using my sister and I for a place to party. The night went on as usual, until I broke away to call Helena. When she answered I could tell something was off, so I pressed her.

She told me her friend Alex had a long talk with her and told her point blank, if you have sex with him I will lose all respect for you. I was of course annoyed by that, but in hindsight I appreciate her for being the only person who spoke up for what was right. At this stage Helena knew I was actually 16, turning 17, after I had come clean a couple months prior to going to Jovey. My family knew about her, my friends knew about her, the people at the jail knew, but Alex was the only sane voice in the room to speak up and point out that a 25-year-old dating a 16-year-old was objectively wrong. And that's when Helena broke it off with me. She was devastated, crying so hard I could barely understand her. I, of course, was trying to

come up with anything to change her mind, but failed. When we finally hung up, after the sun had risen, I threw my phone across the room, buried myself under my blankets and cried. I was quiet, but my best friend Kevin and his girlfriend knew what was going on and tried to check on me. I didn't want to talk to anyone though and drifted off to sleep. Part of me hoped she would reconsider, but she stayed firm. We could be friends but nothing more. I was happier with that than the alternative of never talking to her again, but always held out hope she'd change her mind. We went on like that for a couple months, until one day she told me she'd found someone. Some dude from Canada she'd met online and was head over heels for. I just couldn't

let go though, and after pressing the issue one too many times, she logged off and I didn't hear from her again. I tried to reach out any way I could, to apologize and tell her I was happy being friends, but it was too late. Every attempt to reach her was ignored, and I started to spiral. She was the only good thing I had, and just like that she was gone, and in my mind it was my fault. The light she shone that kept the demons away was gone, and I had no desire to try to keep them out anymore. I embraced them, falling further into addiction, selling drugs to survive and feed my new habits. Drugs weren't just for the weekend anymore, they were an everyday part of my life, the only way to numb myself and sleep through the night. I had nothing good to hold onto anymore and just wanted it to be over, but didn't want to end it myself

because I didn't want to put that on my family regardless of how I felt about them. Not long after, the nightmares intensified. Every night I would wake up from the same nightmare, where it was as if someone flicked the gravity switch on planet Earth off and I would fall into the sky, desperately trying to hold on to whatever I could. Sometimes I'd manage to hold on until I woke up, other times I'd lose my grip and fall away through the clouds and into space, waking up with the feeling of falling.

And not long after that, the metaphorical demons turned to real ones that would unfailingly visit me every time I tried to sleep, when I'd wake up seconds after drifting off to find my body paralyzed and only able to move my eyes. Edit, I'll pick this back up and finish the next two parts tomorrow morning. So I've been mulling over telling this story for a while. I've been resistant to putting it out there since last time I shared a snippet of it on Reddit, it set off a chain of events that flipped my life upside down, and a lot of other people's with it. But it's been nearly five years now, though, since I made that post on our slash confession

that changed everything, the dust has settled, and I've been prodded by friends and family to start writing about all this, so this is the first step in that direction. I'm about to tell you a fucking wild story, but I assure you every word of it is true. Much of it I have receipts for. I'll have to break it in parts, because this saga spans over 20 years and there's a lot of moving pieces. I promise the bizarre shit you're about to read will be worth the time, though, because I'd be surprised if you've heard a story quite like this before. I also want to stress, I am in no way encouraging anyone to participate in anything I'm going to describe here. You're going to read about some crazy shit that should have landed me in a cell or a casket

at worst, and a much less desirable station in life at best. Relationships like the one I'm going to describe over the course of this story are not okay, and I am in no way encouraging you to take part in anything similar regardless of which side you're on. While the relationship I am going to tell you about ended up different for me, these situations in 999-999-190-0-0-0-0-0-0 cases do not end well, and I am begging you not to assume your results will be the same based on this one-in-a-million scenario I am going to describe. Even despite this ending well for me, what happened also caused a lot of damage I wasn't cognizant

of or able to link to what happened until nearly two decades later. Please do not take home the wrong message from this story. Part 1TW, Child Sexual Assault, Alcohol slash Drugs, Just a Little White Lie, My Life was Pretty chaotic from the start. I'll spare you the minutiae, but I was the second youngest of nine kids, although only my little sister was biologically a full sibling, both parents had remarried and divorced. My dad was career army up until he broke his back in Desert Storm and was forced into early retirement. He was left with chronic pain in his back after a couple botched surgeries, which didn't improve the temperament of an already angry and authoritative man. We moved around a lot

throughout my early years, never staying anywhere for more than a few years. By the time we settled in Maryland when I was 12, it was the fifth time we'd moved, but we ended up staying put when we got there. I was homeschooled through elementary and middle school, through somewhat untraditional methods. Basically, my mom would leave for work in the morning and I'd stay home alone, steal the answer key for my assignments from under her bed and knock them out in 15 to 30 minutes, then spend the rest of my day playing video games online on the family computer. When I recall my youth, there is one prevailing theme summed up in a single word, loneliness. My siblings, save my younger sister, all had grown up and moved out, most of them in a hurry

to get away from my father. Looking back at things now with more experienced adult eyes, the state of affairs and how I grew up make a lot more sense. My mom told me a few years back that she nearly left my dad during that period due to the abuse he put us through, but she stayed and instead of abusing us, he just largely pretended we didn't exist. I was by myself most of the day every day, but the one way I could interact with other people was through the Internet. I started gaming online in the infancy of the Internet, around the time we used to go outside and play Frisbee with the AOL trial CDs.

Back then it was a lot easier to mask your identity on the Internet too, so no one had to know they were really talking to a child, and I learned early not to share that little secret after a friend I played an old M.RPG called The Realm with Ghosted Me when she found out I was 11. While I played all sorts of games, I was immediately hooked on MMRP's when they hit the scene. I played just about all of them, sinking heavy time into EverQuest and Ultima Online before my all-time favorite dark age of Camelot came out in October 2001 when I was 14. I became obsessed with that game, spending every free minute I had playing it. One night, long after my bedtime, I snuck out to the family computer to play and wound up in a dungeon. I was getting my ass thoroughly kicked when a pair of other players came through and, and offered to let me join them. It was a husband and wife duo, and with their help I finished the dungeon. We had hit it off pretty well so before sneaking back to bed, we added each other

to our friends' lists and said good night. The woman I'd grouped with, who will call Helena, ended up messaging me the next day. And the day after that, and the one after that, and quickly we started talking every day. When she asked me more about myself, I told her I was 23 in a bouncer at a bar in New York, the only job I knew I could bullshit enough about to not draw suspicion. She excitedly told me she was also 23, and our friendship continued on from there. I was just happy to finally have a friend, and didn't think much more of our relationship at the time. I had other friends, don't get me wrong, but very few and I was never super close with any of them. Most were from my Catholic homeschooling group, and their parents made it abundantly clear

they didn't want their kids hanging out with me. Our family was trashed as far as they were concerned, and they didn't want me corrupting their innocent little angels. And in hindsight, looking back at where life took me from this point on, their instincts were probably right. We grew closer and closer each day, until I started feeling sad when I'd log in and she was offline. We talked about everything, our goals in life, our daily routines, our bad times and good,

and we would have deep conversations about our faith and our purpose here. It wasn't too long after this that she confided that she was starting to catch feelings for me. Her marriage was born of necessity after a teen pregnancy, and it was rapidly falling apart. Were I smarter or had more integrity, I would have come clean about my age right then, but if I did then there wouldn't be much of a story here. Instead, I continued the ruse, with no idea the damage I to would cause. A few days after this, my sister and I had a small party at my parents' house. Just me and my best friend since kindergarten Jared, my other best friend George,

and my sister and her friend Mandy. I'd been smoking wheat occasionally for a few months at this point after being introduced to it at the Burger King I got a job at when I turned 14, and George had stolen a bottle of cheap $7 a handle vodka from his older brother. We proceeded to indulge in both, and had a great time. None of us but George had any experience drinking, and we'd certainly never drank and got high before, so needless to say there was a lot of giggling and general shenanigans. Around 11 p.m., my sister went off to bed in the room right across the hall from mine, but Mandy wanted to do. to hang out a little longer. She was 12, maybe 13, and I didn't know her well or much about her other than she had an identical twin sister I hadn't met yet. Mandy was a tiny girl, maybe 80 to 90 pound soaking wet, and she was clearly getting wasted fast. No big deal, we're

all staying here overnight, what's the worst that could happen, right? After about an hour or so, Jared was asleep and George and Mandy had started making out. I was getting tired fast too, and was increasingly uncomfortable with the couple making out on my bedroom floor. The lights were out and I was sitting on my bed, which was really just a mattress on the floor, staring at the blue plasma lamp illuminating the room, transfixed by the tiny bolts of lightning licking the sides of the glass and working their way up the twisting spiral of the lamp bulb. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed seconds later by George whispering to Mandy trying to wake her up.

I was relieved, because I did not initially plan to spend my night wasted listening to my friend make out with some chick I'd never met before. But then, I heard another unmistakable sound that made my body turn numb, the only feeling a hot burning in my face and a shutter down my spine, a zipper. I remember in the moment, it seemed like time slowed to a crawl. The tiny bolts of blue lightning in my lamp seemed to wander across its surface in slow motion. A million thoughts seemed to run through my head all at once. I knew what was about to happen, but I had no idea what to do.

Was I just hearing things? Is she awake and I'm just imagining things? If I try to intervene, is George going to fight me and wake my parents up? How much trouble am I going to be in? But then an image flashed across my vision, as clear as if someone had cut the lights on and put a photo six inches from my face. It was a poem, scrawled in a teenager's handwriting on a loose sheet of notebook paper, titled Sorrows End. Just a few weeks before that night, Helena had sent me a photo of the poem and told me the story behind it. How she was assaulted under nearly identical circumstances at a party when she was 16.

She's written the poem as a coping mechanism, and later read it in front of the class. She told me in detail about how that night changed her life and robbed her of her carefree youth. I can't remember thinking anything particular, but I remember feeling something heavy in my chest, my mind finally wrapping itself around the severity of what was happening. I didn't think anything else after that, I just remember blurting out, I can't let you do that. replied with a confused, huh. She's a sleep man, I replied while standing up and started walking towards them. George was hunched over her with the ratty old my little mermaid comforter I inherited from one of my sisters draped over his shoulders. I walked over and looked down at her,

blonde hair splayed across the carpet, arms limp above her head, eyes closed and mouth ajar, pants unbuttoned and unzipped, but still on. I bent over and picked her up in my arms. I was a big boy at six feet one inch 240 pounds, and I remember being shocked at how hard it was to lift all of her dead weight. She was completely limp and unresponsive, so I carried her into my sister's bedroom and laid her in the spare bed. Then I took the short walk to the bathroom a few feet down the hallway to collect myself, sober up, and try to figure out what the fuck just happened. After two to three minutes, I convinced myself George was just drunk and got carried away. Maybe he didn't realize she fell asleep. I left the bath, and my heart dropped again when I saw my sister's door wide open with

George standing just inside. I corralled him back into my room, where we talked for a brief time before he got up to go to the bathroom. When he left, I heard Jared quietly whisper, you did the right thing, man, and I was simultaneously more angry and disappointed than I'd ever been in my short life at that time. I said nothing, but in my head I was screaming, you were awake this whole fucking time and you did nothing. Once my anger faded, I noticed George had been gone longer than he should have been. I left to go look for him, and was angry but not surprised to see him in my sister's room again.

This time I told him to leave much more forcefully, but I didn't follow him out. Instead, I closed the door behind him, locked it, and sat in front of it. I was so tired, but it was becoming abundantly clear George was not going to stop trying to get to her, and I didn't want to risk falling asleep. Turns out I was right. The last time I heard the material. metallic grinding of the door knob against the lock was around 5 a.m. I didn't sleep at all that night, and snuck out of my sister's room around 8 a.m. after the sun rose and the girls sounded like they were starting to wake. I made sure George had a ride home, and when he was gone I finally slept. I woke up around 4 p.m., and went down to my basement to smoke a cigarette. I was

mentally and physically exhausted and still trying to process what happened the night before. I was confused, scared, angry, and a whole lot of other feelings I couldn't put a word to at the time. My sister was already down there smoking, and we started chatting about the night before, while I avoided talking about what happened after she fell asleep. Right up until she said something that felt like it made my blood turn cold, Mandy has a huge crush on George. She must have read whatever was written all over my face at that moment, because she immediately asked me what was wrong with that. And so I told her what happened. She was, rightfully, disgusted.

She handed me the house phone, looked at me and said, you have to tell her. So she dialed Mandy's house number, her mom answered and I asked to speak with her. Mandy answered so bubbly and cheerful, hey, Jimothy. What's up? I asked her if she remembered anything from last night, and the line went quiet for a moment before she responded, no, not really. Why? What's going on?

My body went numb again and my face ran hot, just like the night. night before, and I let out a deep sigh before spitting out last night when you fell asleep, George tried to have sex with you. Nothing happened, I stopped him, but I thought you should know. I don't remember much of the conversation after that. Only the sobbing, her mom coming in to find out what was wrong, before having to tell her what happened too. More sobbing, more confusion, more questions.

Then her boyfriend got on the phone. Same reaction. I sat there numbly taking it all in. Her boyfriend thanked me before hanging up, and I remember hearing the dial tone before handing the phone back to my sister and going to bed. That night, I had terrible nightmares. Back in the same room, staring at that stupid lamp, the horrid sound of Mandy and her mom, sobbing in the background.

George was there again, draped in that same little mermaid blanket. But this time no matter how hard I tried I couldn't move, or speak, or do anything but sit there. George's head spun around 180 degrees on his shoulders, and he stared right at me with big red glowing eyes before I woke up crying. I had that same nightmare, sometimes with slight variations like Helena taking Mandy's place, for months, maybe years afterwards. Many years later, while going through therapy and reflecting on my youth for the first time as an adult, I was able to pinpoint that moment as when things went horribly off course for me. I was only

14, had no idea what PTSD was or what I was experiencing. Even as an adult I sometimes wonder why that night stuck with me like it did. The best answer I can come up with is that in that one instance, I learned you can't trust anyone, even your friends, and the weight of what happened was a type of heavy I just wasn't equipped to deal with then. It didn't help that I was trying to process it entirely alone, after that day in the basement my sister and I never spoke of it again and I never told a soul what happened. Except, of course, for Helena. I left out some details, like her poem and the similarities to her event, and changed some details to fit the narrative of the 23-year-old bouncer she was supposedly talking to.

But I was able to convey what I was feeling, and she gave me comfort. And from that moment on, I felt connected to her in a way I'd never felt with a person before. We started talking more and more frequently, and she became my escape from an increasingly darkening reality. The nightmares kept getting worse until I started to be afraid to go to sleep, and at 14, nearly 15, I'd already learned to numb them by drinking and getting high. My family's situation was worsening too, with my dad and I often nearly coming to blows on a regular basis as I got bigger and became more familiar with violence.

But she was always in the background, a candle in the dark keeping the demons at bay. I had feelings for her, but above anything else, she was my best friend. And then one day, she told me she had something to tell me. It took me a few minutes to proceed and respond, because I'd never heard anyone say this to me before, including my parents. I was excited, scared, and full of shame knowing the jig was up after just the few words she said next, Jimothy, I love you. Driving lay that night on the freeway, the road stretching out endlessly in front of me. The hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound,

broken occasionally by the faint rush of passing cars. The highway was empty, save for the occasional vehicle, and the night felt eerily still. My eyelids grew heavy, the fatigue of the long drive weighing on me, but just as I began to zone out, everything changed in an instant. Bright lights flashed in my peripheral vision. I squinted, trying to make sense of what was happening ahead. A police chase. Sirens blared, and blue and red lights pulsed through the night, illuminating the freeway in a chaotic burst.

A sedan, barely in control, was speeding across the lanes, being pursued by several cop cars. The driver of the sedan swerved erratically, narrowly missing cars as it veered dangerously from side to side. My heart raced, and I instinctively slowed down, trying to keep a safe distance. But then, in the blink of an eye, the sedan lost control. It careened across the median, smashing into the barrier before crossing over into the opposite lanes of traffic.

My mind went into overdrive, my body frozen with fear, and before I could react, the sedan slammed into my car. Everything happened too quickly, metal crunched, glass shattered, and I felt the violent force of the impact throw me from my seat. The world twisted and spun around me as I was flung into the air, weightless for a split second. Then, nothing. The world went black. I opened my eyes again, gasping for breath, disoriented. My head was foggy, my body aching. I was lying flat on my back, but something felt off. The sensation of wearing something tight on my head jolted my mind awake. I reached up, my hand grazing the smooth surface of a helmet. Panic surged through me as I tried

to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge. The room, or whatever this place was, felt different. I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The walls weren't cold or sterile like a hospital room, and there was no sense of claustrophobia. No, this was something else entirely. I stood up, my legs shaky, and looked around. I was standing in the middle of a massive, brightly lit mall. The floors were shiny, and the air was filled with the sound of footsteps and chatter. People walked by in a hurry, some chatting, others absorbed in their own worlds. The mall stretched out in all directions, with bright signs flashing overhead,

advertising all sorts of things. There were tables scattered around, people eating, laughing, and browsing stores. It was vibrant, alive, a real, bustling place. But something caught my eye. Everywhere I looked, there were rows of gaming stations. Some of them were empty, but others were occupied by people sitting in high-tech chairs, their faces obscured by helmets, their bodies stiff and unmoving. It was as if they were in their own worlds, just like I had been.

I noticed screens attached to each station, displaying the scenes of virtual. worlds I could only guess at. There were people flying through alien landscapes, some battling monsters in a medieval kingdom, others racing through futuristic cityscapes. I walked closer to one of the screens, my curiosity peaked. On it, a man was running through a dense jungle, weaving between trees, the environment so real it almost made my head spin. The graphics were so detailed, the sound so immersive, I couldn't tell if it was reality or just another simulation. I moved to another station and glanced at the screen. This time, a woman was standing in a bustling city, the lights and sounds of the streets around her almost overwhelming.

She was walking alongside virtual pedestrians, but something about the way she moved felt off. Her motions were mechanical, as if she were trapped in a game, unable to break free. I looked around, my mind spinning. What was this place? How had I ended up here? Was I still trapped in some kind of game, or was this real? I couldn't be sure. There were so many people here, all plugged into their own virtual experiences.

A boy was sitting with his helmet on, playing a game where he was fighting in a grand arena, sword raised high. Another person was interacting with a digital pet, feeding it in a world that looked like a peaceful countryside. A group of teenagers laughed as they played a virtual racing game, their movements jerky, as they steered their cars through a neon-lit racetrack. It was like a massive arcade, but far more advanced than anything I had ever seen before. Virtual reality was no longer just a game, it was a place where people could lose themselves, escape reality. But why was I here?

Had everything that happened, the crash, the confusion, been a part of this simulation? I reached up to touch my helmet again, feeling the cool surface, the tight grip around my head. I needed answers, but I had no idea where to start. My heart pounded in my chest as I realized the horrifying truth. I wasn't in the real world anymore. I was in a simulation within a simulation, and I didn't know how to escape. Then, a screen above one of the stations caught my attention. The words, Game Over, flashed across it in bold letters, followed by a prompt, virtual reality.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Was this, the game? Had everything been part of it? The crash, the sudden shift from the highway to this strange place, it all felt too real. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe none of it was real. I reached for the helmet again, my hands trembling, and in one swift motion, I pulled it off, yanking it away from my head. Everything went black again.

When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air, and the soft beeping of machines surrounded me. My body ached and my head felt heavy, but this time, the sense of reality was undeniable. I wasn't in a simulation anymore. I was back. The sensation of the helmet in my hands was gone. The vibrant mall, the chaotic virtual world, had faded away like a bad dream. For a moment, I lay there, trying to piece it all together.

Had it been a game? A simulation within a simulation? Or had I just imagined it all? The answer didn't matter. I was back in the world that I remember, better or worse. The doctor stood at the foot of my bed, a smile on his face. His eyes met mine, and he said simply, welcome back to the land of the living. To add some context to my title slash story.

I have been married for 12 years to M.G. Wife. We have a best friend relationship where we have always been really close. We also have been through a lot together. We have three kids. A little context is she was sexually abused by her stepdad. About seven years ago she started to go to counseling for that and started to give me more details about it. She's also had a struggle with watching P asterisk RN since she was really young. Her counselor has talked to her about this is how she coped with what happened to her. Long story short, for the past five years or so she has been trying to stop watching it.

Once she got over, the porn she got into erotica literature. And then about a year ago she told me she felt consumed by it and asked me to put parental controls on her phone so she doesn't. I did not enforce this, I'm trying to be supportive of her journey. If she didn't feel bad, I wouldn't think much about it, but she said it sends her into a shame slash depression spiral and so she doesn't like it. About two years ago I went to counseling with her because she felt like she was. wanted more from our sex life. I'm fairly routine slash quick, and have really tried to be better.

But this is basically a reoccurring theme where she feels like she has a higher sex drive than me. I don't think it's a higher sex drive, to be honest. I think it's actually that I'm fine doing the same thing every time. Anyways, all this is the backdrop. Last week we got a letter in the mail about our dental insurance needing renewed, it was in her email and she asked me to renew it. I opened her email in the computer, we share one and use separate Chrome profiles. I saw a bunch of stuff in her email that was pretty shocking. I didn't want to make her feel bad, she has also been in a depression slump so I realized that once again there was a correlation. The next day while kids were at school we went on a walk and I tried to bring up the topic of how she was doing with it all and if that played a role in her mood.

She was very resistant to talking so I didn't push. A few days later we were going to have sex while the kids were in school, I was waiting for a break in work meetings and she went upstairs, when I went up I realized she was listening to something sexual. Basically she was trying to get herself ready. It kind of blew up because I felt disrespected we argued a bit. I asked if there was anything else I needed to know about and she said no. I then asked if I could see her phone and she immediately opened it and started deleting something. I asked what it was and figured out she had subscribed to some Patreon accounts that were mails moaning and doing stuff for subscribers. We decided I should

join her at her next counseling appointment, tomorrow, and get a perspective on this. The more we talked she was saying her needs weren't being met by me and then she said she's been uncomfortable having sex with me for six months, but she doesn't know why. Well, today I was home sick and she was out of the house. I had a suspicion there was more she wasn't sharing. So I logged into her TikTok account, she used to spend hours on it. Her profile was basically discreet slash not revealing her true identity and she was only following strangers, no actual people we know. I went into messages and there were only a few, assumed the rest were deleted, and she had reached out to several guys to, sexed, one was while she was on a girl's trip in February

and she said, I would have used a hook-up app but that seems like too much effort so trying to find someone here who's in the same mood as me. I stude on what to do for three hours. I know it was an invasion of privacy, but I also just feel like there's a pattern here and I'm not sure how far it goes. To me texting slash messaging a real person is cheating. P-R-N I can say I've never felt it was, just her own struggle. Now I am freaked out about how far this goes. She asked me later today if I logged into her TikTok, my login sent her an email. I told her what I found and she basically shut down.

She let me look at her phone and I didn't find anything else but I feel like she could have deleted it. She started to get defensive and say it's partly my fault because our sex life hasn't been good enough for her. How can I trust her again? How do we move beyond this? T-LDR caught wife texting other guys sexually, What do I do now? It's hard to wrap my head around it. How could they not get out of the car? Were they all unconscious or something?

My brother was a diver, and they were all strong guys. It's shocking that none of them managed to escape. These are the words of Paul Rankin, the brother of Scott Rankin, one of the victims in a mysterious incident. But before diving into that chilling tale, let's rewind a little. Let's talk about a dream, a dream that started with Walt Disney himself. Walt Disney, the man whose imagination brought Mickey Mouse to life and whose vision created entire worlds within amusement parks, had an idea that went beyond theme parks. He envisioned a perfect city, a utopia that would reflect the values of his company. Picture it, neat little houses, identical gardens, spotless streets, and a vibrant community of neighbors who gathered for Christmas parties, Halloween celebrations, and everything in between.

Disney's dream city wasn't just about aesthetics. He wanted it to be a showcase of innovation, a place where new technologies and ideas could thrive, a place that symbolized the best of American industry and ingenuity. Sounds utopian, right? Almost too good to be true. And while Disney was clear about his vision, he didn't live to see it. Walt Disney passed away in 1966, leaving his dream unrealized. The company's focus shifted to the parks, which were deemed a safer and more profitable investment.

After all, who would actually want to live in a place like that? Disney doubted that a city would attract anyone beyond diehard fans, and the houses certainly wouldn't come cheap. Then came the 1980s, and Disney realized they were sitting on a goldmine of an used land. They owned about 27,000 acres near their parks, an almost ridiculous amount of space. They decided to allocate 4,900 acres to revive Disney's dream, albeit with some changes. Instead of building a fully-fledged city from scratch, a logistical nightmare with endless permits and paperwork, they opted for something simpler, a planned community. Thus, the idea of celebration was born. Now, here's where things get interesting.

Even before the first brick was laid, Disney started marketing the concept. In 1994, news about the project leaked, very conveniently, to the press. Soon, rumors of the perfect city were circulating everywhere, and people were eating it up. Disney finally went public with their plans, proclaiming that they were building a direct escape to paradise. Picture pastel colored houses, impeccably designed streets, local shops, artificial lakes, and everything with a dash of Disney magic. The announcement sent people into a frenzy. Everyone wanted a piece of celebration, but not everyone could afford it. There were rules, of course.

To live in celebration, you needed to be a devout Christian, have a family, and, oh yeah, a substantial bank account. These homes were anything but cheap. But despite the steep price tag, people lined up in droves, many willing to refinance their homes just for a chance to live there. Disney even sold the houses by lottery. The town was officially established in 1996, and on June 18th, the first family moved in. Now, let's talk about the vibe Disney was going for. As I mentioned earlier, they had strict criteria for the kind of people they wanted in celebration. families with money and strong Christian values were at the top of their list.

But that wasn't all. Every home had to maintain a certain aesthetic. The paint couldn't be changed, lawns had to be perfectly manicured, and every single house was required to have white curtains. Sounds a bit controlling, doesn't it? The rules didn't stop there. Grass couldn't grow past a certain height, or you'd get fined. If you had two cars, both couldn't be parked in front of your house.

Fast food chains like McDonald's and Burger King were outright banned, replaced by local, traditional shops. Celebration even had artificial seasons to maintain its perfect image. During autumn, the streets were decorated with fake leaves. In October, pumpkins, ghosts, and other Halloween-themed decorations, all Disney-inspired, of course, covered the town. Christmas brought fake snow, holiday music, and caroling neighbors. The whole place was a picture-perfect postcard. At first, Disney's plan seemed to work. But crack started to show pretty quickly.

The company's obsession with aesthetics overshadowed the practicalities of running a functioning community. For example, Celebration had a school with just one teacher for 80 kids. The lack of personalized attention led to chaos, and teachers couldn't handle the stress, often quitting after just a few months. Then there was the medical center, beautiful on the outside, but severely lacking on the inside. It was under-equipped and understaffed, resulting in long waits and frustrated residents.

And that's not even the worst part. Celebrations picture-perfect charm made it a magnet for tourists, and unfortunately, for thieves too. The community itself started to feel stifling. The population was overwhelmingly white, and some residents began to report a culture of intolerance, with tensions and disrespectful comments becoming more common. As problems piled up, many residents lost their enthusiasm. When neglected their lawns, others parked multiple cars outside their homes, and cliques of

rule-following neighbors began to emerge. These self-appointed enforcers reported violations, sparking conflicts. The sense of community started to crumble, and disillusioned families packed up and left. But leaving celebration came at a cost. If you moved out, you were ostracized, treated as an outsider, cut off from the friends you'd made in the community. Then came the first tragedy. In late 1998, three friends from Massachusetts, Roger Desfinez, 31, Scott Rankin, 35, and

Daniel Nelson, 32, set off on a road trip through Florida. Their ultimate destination was Disney World, but along the way, they decided to visit Celebration. That's where the trail went cold. After entering the town, they vanished. For nine months, their families searched tirelessly, but no one in celebration seemed to know anything. In June 1999, a shocking discovery made headlines. The police decided, almost on a whim, to drain one of Celebrations' artificial ponds. What they found was horrifying, a van submerged underwater, with three bodies inside.

The windshield was shattered, the right side of the vehicle was heavily damaged, and the three men hadn't even attempted to escape. The back windows were down, but the passengers remained inside, unmoving. Theories swirled. Was it an accident? Something more sinister. The police ultimately labeled it a single-car accident. There was no evidence of foul play or another vehicle's involvement.

None of the victims had been wearing seatbelts, and the driver had suffered a fatal head injury from the impact. But the unanswered question lingered, why hadn't they tried to escape? These were strong men, capable of swimming, one was even a diver. Their families couldn't make sense of it. Paul Rankin, Scott's brother, voiced his doubts, it's hard to believe they couldn't get out. Were they all unconscious or something? My brother was a diver. They were strong guys. It's shocking they didn't try to escape. Even more unsettling was the fact that

this wasn't the first time a car had been found in that pond. In 1998, a teenager's vehicle had been discovered there under eerily similar circumstances. No signs of struggle, no evidence of foul play. The police's explanation. Driver error. Apparently, the pond was located at the end of of a road where drivers often missed a stop sign, going too fast and accidentally veering left instead of right. From the road, the pond was practically invisible, and there were no barriers to prevent cars from plunging in. Disney promised to address the issue, announcing plans to add signage and build a wall around the pond. But as time passed, the story faded from public memory. Years went by, and problems in celebration persisted. By 2004, Disney had had enough. They sold the town

to another company, officially cutting ties with the community. The new owners made improvements, better roads, a more functional medical center, and enhanced community services. But the school remained a mess, plagued by a lack of teachers and overwhelming stress. Then, another tragedy struck. This time, it involved a beloved resident, Matthew Patrick Gio Vandito. Matthew, 58, was a retired teacher with 40 years of experience. He started his career in the 1970s at the Nautafonte, Villa Oasis Boarding School in Eloy, Arizona. In 1981, he moved to Florida and began teaching social studies to seventh and eighth graders at Lemon Day School. From there, he became the principal of Crossroad School in Davy, Florida, before eventually settling in celebration. In celebration,

Matthew became a cherished member of the community. His students adored him, describing him as passionate and dedicated. His classroom was always filled with stuffed animals, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. He even offered free tutoring sessions at his home for struggling students, much to the delight of their parents. But Matthew didn't stop there. He organized weekend trips, taking kids on adventures to Disney World or hiking in the mountains. Parents trusted him completely, often letting their children join him on these outings. Matthew's generosity extended beyond teaching. He hired kids to help with chores like mowing the lawn and cleaning his house, always paying them fairly. He genuinely cared,

about the children in his community, and they loved him for it. But even in a place like celebration, where everything seemed perfect on the surface, darkness lurked beneath. There once was a guy who absolutely loved kids. He was the type of person you'd see volunteering for school events, helping out with after-school programs, and just being a kind and generous presence. But in 2010, everything took a dark turn. Someone brutally murdered him in his own home.

People were shocked. How could this happen? Mateo, as he was called, was known as a wonderful, brilliant man. But his death uncovered a much darker side to his story. It all began with a traveler named David Israel Xenon. David was 30 years old and was passing through a community called Celebration, looking for odd jobs to keep himself afloat. That's how he crossed paths with Mateo.

Mateo, always seemingly helpful and friendly, invited David into his home. He offered him a place to stay for the night in exchange for some work. The task was simple, clean out Mateo's garage and wash his sleek black corvette. David, grateful for the offer, got right to work. Once David finished his tasks, Mateo handed him a cold beer as a reward. Everything seemed normal, even kind. But as soon as David drank the beer, he started feeling strange. The room spun, his body felt heavy, and before he knew it, he collapsed.

When David came to, he was lying face down on the floor, with Mateo on top of him, doing things that left David in a state of shock and horror. Disoriented but fueled by panic and rage, David managed to push Mateo off, grab him, and strangle him. But it didn't end there. Still consumed by anger, David searched the house, found an axe, and used it to finish Mateo off. David didn't even try to hide what he'd done. The police arrested him just hours later, and in custody, David confessed everything. He claimed Mateo was a predator, and that what he had done was in self-defense and retaliation for what had just happened to him. As the case gained attention, something even more disturbing came to light. The internet blew up with stories

from people who had known Mateo. Former students, now adults, came forward, accusing him of things no one wanted to believe about the seemingly caring man. Parents had trusted him, but it turned out he was using that trust to get close to their kids. The revelations were chilling, and they painted a picture of a man who had hidden his true nature behind a facade of kindness. While all this was unfolding, something else bizarre happened in the same neighborhood. Police started knocking on the doors of Mateo's neighbors, trying to gather information about him and pieced together his story. One of those neighbors was a man named Sig Fuji, a 52-year-old who'd been living quietly

in celebration. When the police showed up at Sig's door, they just wanted to ask him a few questions. But Sig panicked. Believing the police were there to evict him due to his financial troubles, Sig barricaded himself in his house and opened fire on the officers. What followed was a 14-hour standoff. The whole neighborhood was on edge as Sig fired at police, refusing to come out. Eventually, the situation ended tragically when Sig took his own life.

At first, people wondered if the two cases, Mateo's murder and Sig standoff, were connected. But as it turned out, Sig had never even met Mateo. His actions were driven by his personal struggles and fears of losing everything, not by any link to the dark secret surrounding Mateo. Despite these events, Celebration remained a popular place to live. In fact, some people saw these incidents as proof of how safe the community was. One murder in 14 years. That's a record, said one person, who even called a real estate agent to inquire about moving there after hearing about the case.

The notoriety of the crimes only seemed to draw more attention to Celebration, with people flocking to the area, believing it to be an idyllic place to live. Among those who moved to celebration was the Tote family. Megan and Anthony Tote seemed like the perfect couple. Both were physical therapists who ran two successful businesses together. They had three children, Alec, 13, Tyler, 11, and Zoe, just four years old. Rounding out the family was their dog, Breezy, who was treated like another child. On social media, the Tots looked like they had it all. Their posts were filled with pictures of family bike rides, weekend getaways,

and their picturesque home in Connecticut. They seemed to be living the dream. In 2019, the family decided to take things to the next level and moved to celebration. It was a fresh start, and everyone was excited for them. Their friends and family, though a bit envious of their seemingly perfect life, wished them well. But then, in December 2019, the totes social media accounts went silent. No more happy family photos, no updates, nothing. As days turned into weeks, people began to worry. Relatives and friends tried calling them,

but the calls went unanswered. Neighbors in celebration knocked on their door, but there was no response. Christmas came and went, and the Toad House remained dark and undecorated, a stark contrast to the neighborhood's festive lights and decorations. By late December, Anthony's sister, Chrissy, grew increasingly concerned. She called the police and told them she was worried about her brother and his family. She mentioned that Anthony and Megan had recently become obsessed with doomsday theories, talking about the end of the world and catastrophic events. Chrissy feared something terrible had happened. The police began investigating more seriously. They visited the Tooth House multiple times, but there was still no sign of the family.

They searched other properties owned by the Toats but came up empty. Then, on January 6, 2020, Chrissy received a strange text from Anthony. she contacted the authorities again. Finally, on January 13th, two officers went back to the Toad House. This time, they saw Anthony entering through the front door. They rushed in after him, and what they found was horrifying. The house reeked of decay, and Anthony himself looked disoriented. Standing at the top of the stairs, he seemed dazed and unwell. He told the officers he'd taken antihistamines and wasn't feeling well. When asked about his wife, he claimed she was upstairs sleeping. As for the kids, he said they were staying with friends.

The officers didn't believe him. Following the unbearable smell, they made their way to the master bedroom. What they found was a nightmare. Under piles of clothes, they discovered the bodies of Megan, Alec, Tyler, Zoe, and even breezy. They had been dead for weeks. Anthony was arrested on the spot. At first, he confessed to killing his family, but his story would later change.

He claimed Megan was the one responsible. According to him, she had struggled with depression, Lyme disease, and other personal issues for years. He said she had become involved in a cult that believed in reincarnation and had talked about them all dying together to be reborn. He claimed that on December 15th, while he was out, Megan poisoned the kids and the dog with a pie laced with antihistamines. Then, she supposedly smothered and stabbed them before taking her own life.

said he only moved the bodies and confessed initially to protect her. But the evidence told a different story. Investigators discovered that Anthony was drowning in debt. He had been embezzling money through his businesses and was facing serious legal trouble. The family's celebration home was on the verge of foreclosure. It seemed Anthony's perfect life was crumbling, and he couldn't bear for anyone to find out. In reality, Anthony had drugged his family with Benadrylaced desserts. After they fell unconscious, he killed them one by one. Four weeks, he lived in the house with their bodies, attempting to take his own life multiple times, but failing. When the police finally caught up with him, his lies couldn't cover the truth.

Anthony Tote was convicted in 2022 and sentenced to life in prison for the murders of his wife, children, and dog. He maintained his innocence, blaming Megan for the tragedy, but the evidence left little doubt about his guilt. Despite its dark moments, celebrate Remains a sought-after community. People still view it as a charming, safe place to live. According to the most recent census, the town has a population of about 11,000. Videos, interviews, and articles online continue to paint it as an idyllic location, perfect for families and retirees alike.

So, what do you think? Does celebration deserve its reputation as a safe haven, or do its dark stories cast a shadow over its charm? Is there really such a thing as a perfect community, or is it all just a good? just an illusion waiting to be shattered by the next shocking event. Rain and I sprint, are breaths ragged, dodging between stacks of crates and abandoned machinery. The vast, shadowy expanse of the warehouse seems to stretch on indefinitely, a labyrinth of dangers. Chantria's monstrous silhouette cuts through the darkness, an avenging spirit too swift,

too enraged to evade. Behind us, Chantria's wings flap ominously, the air hissing as she slices through it. I glance back just in time to see her launching herself into the air. As we run, I reach into my coat pocket, fingers wrapping around one of the homemade IED side-packed. There is simple concoction, a mix of garlic powder and sage stuffed into a small canister. Without slowing down, I yank the pin and lob the makeshift granade back over my shoulder. It arcs through the air, trailing a faint white smoke. It lands near her chantrown. It lands near her chantrown. Chantria, exploding in a cloud of pungent garlic and burning sage. The burst isn't lethal, but the payload stun her, her sensitive sense is overwhelmed by the

intensity of the smells. The cloud of smoke provides a temporary screen, obscuring her vision in giving us precious seconds. The sounds of Chantria's rage-filled roars fill the warehouse. As the winged wraith launches into the air, her head detaches with a surreal fluidity, soaring ahead of her body like a macab scout. Her body, still terrifying in its headless state, propels forward, fueled by dark energy and rage. The detached head flies directly towards us with its eyes glowing a sinister red, a beacon of malice in the dim warehouse. As Chantria's head zooms

toward us like some twisted missile, I pivot on my heel, our 15-shouldered in one smooth motion. I squeeze the trigger, sending a volley of bullet stitching through the air, toward the disembodied head. But Chantria is unnaturally agile. She dodges with a nightmarish grace, my bullets slicing only through the stale warehouse air. Rain, beside me, has her glock drawn, firing several shots. The head veers off at the last second, avoiding the shots with a mocking ease that sends a chill down my spine. God damn it! I curse under my breath, ducking behind a rusted foreclift as Chantria's body follows the path of her flying head, moving with a speed that feels like a blur.

We're almost at the door of the warehouse when I hear it, a scream that cuts through the chaos with chilling clarity. It's rain. My heart slams against my chest as I whip around, my worst fears materializing before my eyes. Chantria's monstrous head has its elongated tongue wrapped tightly around Rain's ankle. She lifts her effortlessly into the air, dangling her like a puppy. her body swaying with every unnerving twitch of Chantrius tongue. Rain.

I shout, my voice cracking. My mind races, adrenaline surging through my veins like wildfire. I can't lose her, not like this, not to this nightmare. Ash. Watch out. Rain shouts, her eyes wide in terror. Before I can react, Chantria's headless body closes the gap between us with horrifying speed. My weapon is knocked aside with a swipe of her telomike hand, and I'm thrust against the wall, her ungodly strength pinning me effortlessly.

The cold, hard concrete presses into my back as her talons dig into the wall beside my head. Chantria, wait. I choke out. Her talons pause, inches from my face, her headless body tilting as if puzzled. Why I wait? Her voice comes from the disembodied head, floating nearby. You sister sent us. I shout, hoping the mention of her sister would pierce through her rage.

She asked us to find you, to help you. The effect is immediate. The air around us shifts as if charged with a sudden current. Chantria's body stiffens, and her head, floating eerily beside her, regards me with a newfound wariness. Siria send you. Her distorted voice carries a clear note of surprise. Yes, Saria, I confirm, my breath heaving.

She's worried about you, Chantria's head floats closer, her eyes, glowing less fiercely now, examine me with an intensity that feels like it could peel back my soul. She really say that. Yes, she told us everything, I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline pulsing through me. About the terrible things Inthavon did to you, she told us about the rituals you performed. She loves you, Chantria. She doesn't want you to lose yourself to this. I have to do, she declares.

They hurt us. Hurt many girls. Rain, still dangling from Chantria's grasp, adds her voice, her tone strained yet soothing. Chantria, listen. We're not here to stop you from making those fuckers pay. We're here to make sure you don't lose yourself in the process. Chantria's head floats there, the glow in her eyes softening, the supernatural aura around her wavering as if caught in a dilemma.

The talons near my face retracts slightly, loosening their grip on the wall. Her headless body turns slightly, the posture less aggressive now. Why I trust you? Her voice, disembodied and echoing, sounds less menacing, more curious. You can trust us because we understand the pain and the betrayal you've been through. We work to protect people, to help them, I explain, trying to bridge the things. gap of distrust. You cops, Shia S-K-S, her voice a bizarre blend of ethereal and guttural sounds.

No, we're private investigators, I explain, my tone calm and direct. Astrid Everly hired us. She was worried about her husband. Zane. I carefully watch her, trying to gauge her reaction. I can tell she's taken aback by this revelation. I know want hurt him. really. Just scare him, she explains. Feel bad for wife, kids. Chantria's talons withdraw

completely from the wall, letting me slide to the ground. She gently sets rain down, who rushes over to me, her hands immediately checking for injuries. Her head, still detached, moves with a purposeful glide through the air, swooping down to where Jimmy and Thavon had pointed out the safe. With surprising gentleness, her head picks up the head. heavy metal box as if it weighs nothing, floating back to where her body stands near us, dropping it as her feet. With a deft maneuver, the head reattaches itself to her neck, the seams knitting together seamlessly as though they were never parted. Chantria stands upright, her posture regal and terrifying as her talons curl around the edges of the safe.

In one swift, fluid motion, she tears the door off its hinges, revealing stacks of crisp $100 bills piled neatly inside. She looks down at the exposed wealth. This blood money, she states flatly. They sell our bodies, our lives, for this. Rain, who's recovering from her ordeal, steadies herself and steps forward. Chantria, it's not too late to change the path you're on, she says gently. You can still make things right, in other ways.

Don't let this darkness consume you completely. I do things, dark things. She gestures to the carnage around us. Soria, she no can see me like this. Too much. Her eyes meet mine, and in them, I see a plea for understanding, a deep sorrow for roads taken and those forever closed off. You take share, she instructs, nodding toward the safe.

Split rest, give to my sister, and to Mrs. Everly. They deserve, better than what life give. Looking at the money, I feel a few. chilled despite the sticky heat of the warehouse. The weight of Chantria's gaze, those glowing eyes, makes it clear that her request is more of a command, one that I'm in no position to refuse, not with the power she wields. Rain and I glance at each other, a silent agreement passing between us. We'll make sure it gets to them, I finally say, my voice steady but my mind racing. Chantria nods, her eyes shifting away, as if looking back on the havoc she wrought

is too much even for her. Good. This, right thing to do. Her voice cracks slightly, the edges frayed. Where will you go? Rain asks, her voice soft, careful. Chantria looks toward the gaping warehouse doors, to the dark beyond. Somewhere far. Hide. He'll maybe. Not come back. She turns back to us, a shadow of regret passing over her features. Tell Saria, I sorry. Tell her, be strong. Better life here for her. We will, I promise, my heart heavy.

Enchantria, take care of yourself. She gives a short, curt nod, then, with those powerful, dark wings, thrusts herself up into the air, and through the door of the warehouse. The breeze from her departure flutters through the space, sending loose papers and debris swirling in her wake. Then, she's gone, disappearing into the night sky, leaving us alone with the silence and the dead. Rain and I work quickly to gather the money from the safe. Once the money is secured in our sturdy duffel bag, we move on to the more grim task of wiping down a crime scene for the second time that night. By the time we're done, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten, first hints of dawn casting a pale blue over the city. We're tired, emotionally and physically.

As we drive back to our office, the city of New Orleans is waking up. The streets are still mostly empty, the quiet of the early morning hanging over the French quarter like a delicate veil. We don't speak much, there's a mutual understanding that what we've experienced tonight is too vast, too raw to be distilled into words just yet. Back at the office, Abby greets us with a puzzled look, taking in our weary faces and the dirt and grime that coat our clothes. Rough night, she asks, her laced with concern. Something like that, Rain replies, managing a tired smile. We'll fill you in later, I add.

We assure her everything is handled, then retreat to our private office to decompress. Rain sits across from me, her fingers drumming on the desk. What are we going to tell Astrid? about her husband and the money. We tell her the truth about Zane. As for the money. I pause, weighing the words. We tell her it's a restitution of sorts.

It doesn't replace her husband, but it's something to help her rebuild. And Saria? Rain asks, her gaze steady. We set her up with her share, make sure she's safe and can start anew. I lean back, feeling the exhaustion of the night-watching. washing over me. Rain nods, her hand reaching across the desk to squeeze mine. We did good tonight, Ash. Yeah, I agree, squeezing back. We did what we could. I make my way to Siria's apartment in Gretna, carrying the black duffel bag weighed down with the responsibility

of Chantria's last request. It's a modest building in a part of town that's seen better days, but there's a quiet dignity about the place, a testament to the lives within making the best out of hard circumstances. I knock on the door, each tap echoing slightly in the narrow, dimly lit hallway. After a moment, the door creaks open, and Saria's face appears. Hey, Sunny, she greets me with a tentative smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her look is one of cautious optimism, worn by too many hard days. Hey, Saria, I say, offering a small smile of my own. Can I come in? She nods, stepping back to allow me space to enter.

Yeah, please come. Her apartment is clean but sparse, the furnishings minimal, a few personal items dotting the space to make it feel lived in. She gestures to a small table with a couple of chairs. You want sit, I nod and place the duffel bag on the table, its contents shifting with a soft rustle. She sits opposite me, her posture upright, and anxious energy about her. You find Chantria? Her voice holds a mix of hope and fear, the balance precarious. I take a deep breath, the weight of the news I bring pressing down on me. Yeah, I found her.

I pause, choosing my words carefully. She was, she is very brave, Saria. She did what she thought was necessary. Suria's eyes search mine, looking for the unsaid words. She okay, I let out a sigh. She's safe, but she won't be coming back. She asked me to give you this. I gesture towards the duffel bag, unzipping it to reveal stacks of bills, neatly bundled.

This is your share of. It's money she wanted you to have. To help you, to maybe make things a little easier, Siria's eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the money, her hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the crisp bills as if to confirm they're real. This, this real, she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Yeah, it's real, I assure her gently. And don't worry about where it came from. We've taken care of everything.

It's laundered, clean money, Saria pulls her hand back, her eyes still locked on the money. But, why she do this? Why not come see me? Her voice breaks a little with emotion, the struggle between gratitude and loss evident in her tone. She wanted to, I reply, trying to provide comfort. But she's, she's changed, Saria. What she went through, what she became, it's complicated. She didn't want to put you at risk.

She loves you a lot, and this was her way of trying to make sure you're taken care of. Saria nods slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. I always tell her, no matter what, we together. But now, she choose this way. She wipes a tear from her cheek, her gaze hardening a bit as she processes the reality. She always protect me. Since we were little. Always.

She's still trying to protect you, in her own way, I say, offering a reassuring smile. Suria looks down, fingers tracing the edge of the table before she meets my eyes again. And what about you? I don't know how repay you. Just take care of yourself, and use this money to make a good life here. That's good enough for me, I say, standing up to leave. And if you ever need anything, you have my number. I hand her my card.

Saria's fingers lightly grasped my arm as I turn to leave, her touch gentle yet firm enough to pause my steps. She leans close and looks up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. There's a brief moment where her lips hover near mine, the space charged with unspoken words. Then, with a graceful pivot of her head, her lips press a soft, grateful kiss against my cheek instead. She steps back, giving me a small, sincere smile. Thank you, Sonny. I never forget this. I nod, return to my heart. the smile. Take good care of yourself, Saria. As I walk down the dimly lit hallway, the echo of my footsteps blends with the murmur of the city beyond. Life has a way of rolling on, even after the

shadows creep in and show you things that can't be unseen. Rain and I, well, we're still doing our thing, chasing leads, cracking cases, and trying to keep it all together. I still keep a casual eye out for any news on Chantria. You could say it's part professional habit, part genuine concern for what became of her. Every so often, stories pop up on true crime forms that catch our attention, unsavory characters found dismembered in the darker corners of the city, always accompanied by hushed rumors of a flying demon woman with a detachable head. Whatever Chantria became, whatever darkness she embraced or was thrust upon her, it's still out there. The end.

It's a crisp Thursday morning, the kind that hints at the edge of summer with just enough warmth to make you forget about the winter past. Our private investigation office, a modest second-floor space above a bustling cafe on Magazine Street in New Orleans, is alive with the usual morning chaos. My wife Rain and I are in the midst of showing Abby, our new secretary, the ins and outs of our, let's call it, unique filing system. Abby, a young woman with bright blue eyes and an infectious enthusiasm for detective work, nods vigorously, taking notes on her pad. So, you see, I start, holding up a file, each case has its own color code. Red for ongoing cases, blue for salt, and green for, well, let's just call it active investigations. Abby nods, her eyes scanning the rainbow of folders on the desk.

And the glitter stickers, she asks, pointing to a file adorned with sparkling unicorns. I glance at Rain, who's trying to hide her smirk behind a cup of coffee. That's... Rain's system. You'll have to ask her about that. Rain leans over, her voice laced with mock seriousness. The glitter is crucial, Abby. It represents the mystery of the case. The more glitter, the deeper the intrigue.

Abby looks between us, a flicker of confusion passing through her eyes before she catches onto our jest. Got it. Glitter equals mystery. I'll remember that. And remember, Rain says, pointing to a large, overly complex calendar on the wall, if someone asks for an urgent meeting and the calendar looks full, just tell them we're consulting on a case in Baton Rouge. It buys us some time. Abby nods vigorously, taking notes on her path. Got it, Baton Rouge. And if they ask for details. I glance at rain with a mischievous grin.

Then you say we're undercover, and it's a matter of national security. They rarely ask after that. Just as we're wrapping up our impromptu tutorial with Abby, there's a sudden, sharp knock at the door, cutting through the relaxed atmosphere of the morning like a knife. I stride over and pull it open to reveal a woman in her early 40s, her poise teetering on the edge of despair. She introduces herself in a voice that carries a weight far beyond her years.

Hello, detectives Asher and Rain Tran. I'm Astrid Everley. I believe I have an appointment for a consultation. I nod, remembering a conversation over the phone last week, though the specifics allude me. Of course, Mrs. Everley, please come in. Abby, could you pull up the Everley file on the desktop, please? these should be under eht dot. Before Abby can even turn to the computer, Astrid interjects, there's no need for that. I'm here because I suspect my husband, Zane, of, infidelity.

Her voice falters for a moment, the facade of calmness cracking. Rain sets her coffee down with a soft clink, her expression shifting into one of professional empathy. We understand how difficult this must be for you, Mrs. Everley, she says gently. I motion for Astrid to take a seat. You've come to the right place, I begin. We handle matters discreetly and efficiently. Cheating spouse investigations might not be glamorous, but they are the bread and butter of our business. And in our experience, the truth, however painful, is what our clients need most.

As I gesture towards the worn but comfortable chairs, Rain busies herself with a small coffee maker in the corner of our office. Cream and sugar, Mrs. Everly. Rain calls out. Astrid nods, a grateful smile briefly crossing her face. Just cream, thank you. Her composure, momentarily lifted by the gesture, seems to falter as the gravity of her situation resettles around her. I sit across from Astrid, my posture open, inviting her to share her story. Abby, sensing the shift in atmosphere, quietly retreats to her desk, giving us space. Mrs. Everly, can you tell us why you suspect your husband might be unfaithful? I ask, my tone gentle yet earnest, signaling that this is a safe space for her to vent her concerns.

Astrodex hails a shaky breath, her dark brown eyes glistening with unshed tears as she starts to unravel the threat of her story. It's the little things, really, she begins. her voice a whisper of despair. Zane has always been a loving husband and father, but lately, he's been distant. He comes home late, if he comes home at all, and when he does, it's like his mind is elsewhere. She pauses, collecting her thoughts before continuing. Then there's his phone. It used to be just another gadget, but now, now it's like an extension of himself.

He guards it jealously, never leaves it unattended. And if I so much as glance in its direction, he snaps at me, saying I'm invading his privacy. Astrid's hands clenched tighter, the knuckles whitening. But what really convinced me was the perfume, she adds, a note of betrayal creeping into her voice. I found a scarf in his car, one that definitely wasn't mine. It was drenched in a perfume I've never worn, a scent that now seems to linger on him constantly. The room falls silent, the weight of her pain palpable in the air. Rain hands Astrid her coffee with cream, offering a small, comforting smile. I confronted him

about it, Astrid continues, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hands. He denied everything, of course. Said the scarf must belong to a co-worker he'd given a ride to, and that the perfume was probably from a client he'd met with. He said I was being. Her voice breaks. a lone tear escaping down her cheek. He said I was being a paranoid bitch. Rain and I are both shocked at Astrid's raw emotion, the harshness of the words used against her clearly wounding deep. I reach for a box of tissues, sliding it across the desk towards her,

while Rain's comforting hand finds its way to Astrid's shoulder, a silent gesture of support in this moment of vulnerability. There's no excuse for anyone to speak to you like that, I say firmly, my distaste made clear. Astrid accepts the tissue, dabbing at her eyes, a shaky breath indicating her struggle to maintain composure. We've been married for fifteen years, she whispers, her voice gaining a semblance of strength. We have two beautiful children.

I just. I can't believe it's come to this. Rain leans forward. Mrs. Everley, you're doing the right thing by seeking the truth. No matter how painful it may be, knowing will give you the power to make informed. decisions about your future. There's something else, she hesitates, as if weighing the risk of sharing more. It might sound odd, but there have been occurrences. Things I can't explain. At night, I felt a presence, something unsettling, watching over us. The mention of a presence

catches both rain and me off guard. It's a departure from the infidelity case we thought we were dealing with, hinting at something deeper, perhaps even darker. You mean, like a stalker. I asked. Astrid nods, unable to produce the words. Stalking is a very serious matter, Rain says, the detective in her surfacing with a palpable intensity. Are you sure about what you felt? Have there been any signs, any tangible evidence of someone physically stalking you or your family? Astrid looks uncertain for a moment, then nods, her resolve firming. At first, I thought it was stress, but then, she pauses, her hands trembling as she fishes her phone out of her purse. A few nights ago, she starts.

The kids were at my sisters, and Zane. Zane was out, as usual. She navigates through her phone with deliberate taps, opening an app connected to her home security system. I installed a ring cam last month, just to feel a bit safer, you know. With a few more swipes, she turns the phone towards us, displaying a video. video captured by her ring cam. The footage is grainy, typical of night mode recordings, but what it reveals sends a chill down my spine. It shows Astrid's front porch bathed in the eerie glow of the security light. Then, without warning, something darts across the screen,

a blur of motion too rapid to decipher. It's there and gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind an unsettling after image that seems to hover in the night air. The motion is too swift, too large for any common animal, and there's an odd, almost deliberate evasion in the way it avoids the light, slipping into the shadows with an ease that suggests intelligence, or perhaps something more sinister. I thought it was just a stray animal at first, Astrid says. Astrid's fingers shake slightly as she swipes to the next item on her phone. I found this the next morning, she said, handing the phone over for us to see. The image that greets us is deeply unsettling, a tangled mess of what appears to be intense,

and long, straight black hair, left in a sickening pile on her doorstep. I've seen enough in Iraq to recognize the unmistakable look of human intestines. I. I didn't know what to do, Astrid continues, her voice shaking. Of course, Zane dismissed it. Said it was just something the cat dragged in, Astrid's face is pale. I had hoped it was some sick joke, maybe kids playing a twisted prank, but. Her voice trails off.

My kids, she whispers, her voice fraught with fear. What if whatever did this comes back? What if they're not safe? Rain and I exchange a glance, both of us understanding the gravity of the situation. This isn't just a case of potential infidelity or even stalking, we're potentially looking at something far more dangerous. This is the kind of case we live for. We'll take your case, Mrs. Everley, I say,

my tone conveying not just our acceptance but our commitment to seeing this through. We'll do everything in our power to get to the bottom of this, Rain says, echoing my resolve. Astrid's shoulders seem to drop ever so slightly at our words. It's clear she's been carrying this weight alone for too long. Thank you, detectives, she murmurs, her gratitude palpable. The sun is already high in the sky, when we begin preparing to set up additional security measures around Astrid Everly. house. It's imperative that we work discreetly, ensuring that neither Zane Everly nor the stalker notice our presence. With Astrid's kids safely away at school and Zane presumably engrossed in his daily

routine, we have a narrow window to operate under the radar. Rain and I arrive in our nondescript SUV, our trunk filled with the latest in surveillance technology. We have compact cameras that can be concealed easily, motion sensors that are no bigger than a pack of gum, and a couple of high-definition night vision cameras to cover the darker corners of the property. While I focus on finding the optimal spots to place the cameras, Rain meticulously checks for any blind spots in our coverage. We communicate in low tones, a silent dance of efficiency honed by years of working together. Once the equipment is in place, camouflaged amidst the every day, we retreat to our makeshift command center, the back of our SUV,

screens a glow with feeds from the newly installed cameras. Everything appears serene. But we know better than to trust appearances, the true nature of the threat still eludes us, hidden in the shadows of uncertainty. Our next move is to keep a close eye on Zane. Tailing someone without drawing attention requires a blend of patience and subtlety. We follow him as he moves through the streets of New Orleans, our steps shadowing his with careful precision.

He seems to be following a routine, visiting places that one would expect a man of his standing to frequent, the office, a local cafe, and a series of meetings that appear mundane on the surface. Yet, our focus isn't just on Zane's whereabouts. We are equally attentive to his interactions, the pauses in his day, the way his gaze lingers a touch too long on certain individuals. It's a delicate balance, observing without engaging, collecting pieces of a puzzle were still trying to be. trying to understand. As the day wears on, the mundane nature of Zane's activities begin to paint a picture of a man ensnared in the trappings of a double life. The evidence is subtle, hidden in the nuances of his behavior, yet unmistakable to the trained eye. He's cautious, perhaps too cautious, with his movements and communications, suggesting an awareness of being watched or, at least, the possibility of it. Zane's path leads him into a quaint flower shop nestled between a book's

store and a bakery. During a momentary lull in our surveillance, I pull out a container of Chinese takeout, cold sesame noodles and spicy orange chicken, our steakout meal. As we eat, Rain turned to me, a mischievous glint in her gray eyes. Hey, she said, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness, you'd never cheat on me, right? I mean, with all this infidelity we see, you haven't gotten any ideas, have you? I can't. help but chuckle at her question, the absurdity of the thought mingling with the gravity of our current case. Cheat on you, M.

I start, leaning closer to her, our knees touching in the cramped space, and miss out on Friday night's takeouts and takeout with my incredibly sexy and talented partner. Rain giggles, the tension easing between us as she nodded in agreement. Good answer, she said, her gaze softening. Your turn, I say, nudging her gently with my elbow. You wouldn't cheat on me, would you, bond you, non. Rain utters, feigning indignance. I would never consider such a thing, really?

I ask with a grin. Not even if Brad Pitt decided he was in need of a private eye with your, extensive expertise. Well, she draws the corner of her mouth ticking upward in a smirk, if we're bringing Brad Pitt into the fantasy, I suppose I'd have to at least, consider the consultation fee. As long as it's just a consultation, I quip, winking at her, I guess I can live with that. But just so we're clear, if Scarlett Johansson comes knocking, I expect the same courtesy from you. Do you expect us to work that case together, she says, her voice dripping with innuendo? Two heads are better than one, right?

I ask with a grin, especially when it comes to, thorough investigations. Right, it's all about the team effort. Rain laughs, shaking her head. Our light-hearted banter is cut short as the screens flicker with movement. Suddenly, the flower shop door swings open, and Zane steps out, cradling a bouquet of roses that seems almost too delicate for his broad hands. The sight snaps us back to the task at hand. We start the car and follow him at a discreet distance.

Our route takes us through the heart of the city, past the colorful facades of the French Quarter, eventually into Marigny, a neighborhood known for its bohemian atmosphere and tightly knit streets. Zane pulls into the parking lot of Latoil-Due Nord, a boutique hotel, a place that prides itself on discretion and privacy. Perched in our vehicle across the street, we watch Zane through binoculars, the lens bringing him into sharp relief against the backdrop of the hotel's understated elegance. He waits by the entrance, the bouquet of roses in hand, the casual stance of a man comfortable in his surroundings. Moments later, a woman approaches.

She's strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones and a delicate, structured jawline. Her eyes, a deep brown, are alert yet hold a hint of mystery. Most distinguishing is her straight black hair that cascades down her back, hair unmistakably similar to the tangle left on Astrid's doorstep. The air between them is charged, their reunion marked by an intimacy that leaves little doubt of their relationship. They embrace, a greeting that quickly deepens into a kiss, a confirmation of suspicions we didn't want to validate.

Rain, with a camera in hand, captures this exchange, the shutter clicks a silent witness to the betrayal unfolding before us. Zane and the woman make their way to their room on the third floor. We watch in silence through the balcony window as they undress each other, their movements fluid and intimate. I'm left with a deep sense of discomfort, feel. the urge to look away. But as I'm about to pull away and give them their privacy, I catch a glimpse of something unsettling. As Zane and the woman are locked in a passionate embrace, her head

detaches from her body with a surreal ease that defies all logic. Her body slumps to the floor, but her head, her head remains suspended in mid-air. Internal organs dangle grotesquely from her neck, swaying slightly as if caught in a gentle breeze that does not exist. Before Zane, can even begin to process the nightmarish turn of events, the woman's floating head lunges at him, teeth bared. She's not just biting his face, it's more vicious, more savage. It's as if she's trying to consume him, her teeth tearing into his flesh with a ferocity that's both shocking and horrifying. Rain and I exchange a glance that carries the weight of a thousand words. It's a look that says, did you just see what I saw, and we need to move, now. Without a

a word, we leap into action. I grab my Beretta from the glove compartment, checking the clip in one fluid motion, while rain does the same. Our footsteps are a rapid, synchronized rhythm against the pavement as we sprint towards the hotel's entrance, bypassing the startled doorman who shouts after us, questions hanging in the air, unanswered. The lobby blurs past us, a mixture of luxury and confusion as the receptionist begins to protest, but the urgency in our stride silences any further inquiry. We take the stairs, two at a time, the sound of our boots echoing off the walls. Reaching the designated floor, we move down the hallway, guided by the cacophony of a struggle that grows louder with each step. The numbers on the doors blur past until we find the one that

matches our frantic search. We come to a skidding halt outside the door where a cleaning lady stands, paralyzed by fear. The sounds emanating from within the room are nothing short of chilling, cacophony of snarls and screams that seem to seep into the very marrow of your bones. Her eyes, wide with terror, dart between the door and us, as if she's caught in a nightmare she can't wake up from. Open the door, now. Rain commands. For a moment, she hesitates, her hand trembling so violently it seems she might drop the key card. I lock eyes with her, my gaze imploring her to trust us. We're here to help. Please. With a shaky nod, she swipes the card, the soft click of the locked disengaging sounding

almost deafening in the charged silence that follows. Get somewhere safe and call 911. Tell them we have an, emergency, I instruct her. She nods, her face drained of color, and scurries away. I cautiously push the door open. The scene that unfolds before us is one ripped straight from the darkest corners of the unimaginable. The headless nude body of the woman lies crumpled on the floor. The room is drenched in the overpowering scent of an exotic perfume, the same one Astrid had described, a fragrance

that now seems to cling to every surface, saturating the air with its cloying sweetness. But it's saying that captures our immediate attention. His back is turned to us, and from the neck down, he looks entirely normal, if one can consider any part of this situation to be so. But where his head should be, there's nothing recognizable as human. Instead, an undulating mass has taken its place, pulsing and writhing as if it's burrowing into his body, consuming him from the inside out. Rain and I edge forward, are weapons drawn and aimed squarely at what remains of him. Zane Everly, turn around slowly with your hands up, I call out. The words feel surreal, as if spoken by someone else. He responds, but not in the way we expect.

The movement is unnatural, a series of jerks and spasms that suggest the thing wearing zane like a suit is unfamiliar with the body it's inhabiting. The parasitic mass where his head once was pulsates with a sickening rhythm, tendrils flailing, seeking, as if searching for a new host to infect. Eyes, if they can be called that, shimmer with a malevolent intelligence. Jesus Christ, Rain mutters under her breath. My stomach turns, the scene defying logic and sanity. But it's not just the horror of Zane's condition that heightens the tension, it's the realization that the body of the woman, the one we had just seen, is not where it should be. The room, though chaotic, lacks her presence.

Rain, where's the, my question cuts short as a cold grip tightens around my wrist. I whirl around, my heart pounding, to face the headless, nude body of the woman. Her grip is ironclad, her strength unnatural. In disbelief, I see the sinew and muscle of her neck twitch and pulse where her head should be. I try to level my pistol at the headless torso, aiming to neutralize the threat. But she's too fast, too strong. With an unexpected force, she twists my wrist painfully, causing my shot to go wide. The bullet, meant to stop her, punches a hole into the plush carpeting of the hotel room.

Rain, quick as ever, tries to make a move to help me, but before she, she can get close, the amorphous head attached to Zane's body detaches itself and launches in her direction. It's like something out of a nightmare, a living mass with tendrils that act almost with a mind of their own. As it flies through the air, the tendrils extend, reaching for rain. It wraps its tendrils around her with a precision that betrays a malicious intent, disarming her in a single, fluid movement. The gun clatters to the floor, a sound harsh against the eerie silence that envelopes the room. Rain struggles against the creature's grip, but the tendrils tighten, constricting like boa

constrictors. They wind around her neck, her torso, squeezing with a strength that is both terrifying and otherworldly. Rain's face contorts with pain, her eyes meeting mine, a silent plea for help written in her gaze. Rain. I shout, desperation lacing my voice. My partner, my wife, the person I've faced countless dangers with, is a

now inches away from death by this unimaginable foe. I yell at the creature. Let her go, for a fleeting second, the tension in the room ripples with the uncertainty of the thing's response. Then, in a voice that is eerily calm and chillingly clear despite its formless source, the creature responds. Stay out of my way. I won't warn you again.

Then, abruptly, the entity's grip loosens around rain and drops her. gasps for air, her face flushed from the constriction. As the headless woman releases her vice-like grip on my forearm, I rush towards rain as she stumbles back into my arms. I catch her, my relief palpable. We both regain our footing, keeping wary eyes on the creature. As we watch, stunned, the head slowly drifts back towards the woman's body, reattaching itself to her neck. The seams where flesh meets flesh knit together in a spectacle that's both horrifying and mesmerizing. Within moments, the transformation is complete, and the woman stands before us, her appearance as flawless and composed as when Zane first greeted her outside the hotel.

In the chaos of the moment, the entity undergoes yet another grotesque transformation. A pair of dark, leathery wings unfurl from her back with a sinister grace. They're massive, spanning the width of the room, knocking over furniture as if they're mere obstacles in its path. With a powerful flap, the woman launches herself towards the balcony, shattering the glass doors in her haste to escape. The night air rushes in, mixing with the stench of decay and the iron tang of blood, creating a maelstrom of senses that leaves us momentarily disoriented. We rush to the balcony, just in time to see the woman disappearing into the dark sky. Her flight is erratic, a sign of its newfound form, but she quickly gains altitude and vanishes into the night, leaving behind a trail of questions and a palpable sense of dread. To be continued, we stare at the gaping hole where the balcony doors once were, the shattered glass glittering like ice under the moonlight.

Mondieu, what was that? Rain whispers, her voice a mix of fear and awe. I shake my head, unable to formulate a rational explanation. I don't know, but we need to move. Now, there's no time to waste, we need to act fast before the police arrive and questions start being asked, questions we can't afford to answer, at least not yet. First, Rain slips on gloves and wipe down every surface we've touched, erasing our fingerprints from the glossy expanse of the door handle, the jagged edges of broken glass, and the sleek

metal of the railing. As rain does that, I focus on retrieving the casing and the bullet lodged in the floorboard. Using a pair of pliers, I carefully extract the still warm, deformed slugs. Next, we gather every shred of forensic evidence we can, working with the precision of surgeons. Every second counts, and as we hear the distant wail of police sirens drawing near, the urgency ratchets up. We collect the fragments of what was left behind by the creature, using tweezers to place each macab piece into small, sealable bags. Rain quickly snaps photos of the crime scene, ensuring we have visual evidence of everything we've witnessed.

I spot Zane's phone discarded on a chair, the screen cracked but still glowing faintly. I snatch it up, knowing it could hold the key to understanding not just his infidelity, but possibly even the origins of the creature we just encountered. Flipping through the service entrance, we make our escape just as the first police cruisers turn into the hotel driveway. The night swallows us whole, just another pair of shadows among many. The drive back to the office is a silent one, both of us lost in our thoughts, trying to process the night's events. The moment we step through the door of our office, Abby looks up from her desk, her face lighting up. But her smile fades when she sees the grim expressions on our faces.

Everything okay. Y'all look like you've both seen a ghost, Abby says, her concern evident as she takes in our disheveled appearances. Rain lets out a weary sigh. Clear our schedule for the next few days, she tells her. We've got a lot to sort through. I head to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial Astrid's number. She answers on the second ring, her voice tinged with apprehension.

Mrs. Everly, it's ass. I. We need you to listen carefully, I begin, my words measured. Zane. Something happened to Zane. I explain, in broad strokes, the events at the hotel, carefully omitting the more horrifying details. Though I make it clear that Zane won't be coming home and that law enforcement will soon be in touch to provide her with more information. Astrid's reaction comes as a mixture of shock and a strange, resigned calmness. The line is silent for a moment after I finish speaking, the only sound is her steady breathing. I. I don't know what to say. Is he? Her voice trails off, unable to finish the question. He's gone. I'm very

sorry, I replied gently. There's a heaviness in my own voice. Astrid takes a deep breath, a faint tremble detectable in her sigh. Okay. What do we do next? First things first, Mrs. Everly, I say, leaning back in my chair, my eyes tracing the grain of the wood on my desk as I gather my thoughts. We're going to make sure you and the kids are safe. I recommend staying with someone you trust for the next few days, somewhere you feel secure. We'll handle everything from our end. I can hear the hesitation in her voice. But, what about you? What will you do? We're working on gathering as much evidence as we can, piecing together what happened, I assure her. We're going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.

Her breath hitches slightly, and I can almost see her nodding on the other end of the line. Okay, Detective Tran. I trust you. Please, just, find out what happened. And stay safe. After the call with Astrid, we dive into the investigation's next phase. The key, we hope, lies with Zane's phone. cracked screen and all, it's potentially a window into the motives and means behind the horror we witnessed.

The first hurdle, though, is gaining access to the device. With Zanes, status, asking him for the passcode or facial recognition is a non-starter for obvious reasons. That leaves us with the fingerprint sensor. It's a long shot, but it's all we have. We've lifted prints before, mostly from scenes less grisly than this, but the principle remains the same. With a bit of forensic delicacy, we managed to lift a clear thumbprint from the back of the phone, Zanes, no doubt, considering the placement and the repeated pattern of smudges. Using a technique that's equal parts art and science, we transfer the print onto a thin layer of

silicone. It's a bit of a McGiver move, but desperation breeds innovation. Holding our breath, we press the silicone against the sensor. There's a tense moment, a heartbeat where nothing seems to happen, and then the phone unlocks, granting us access. The phone's home screen greets us, a clutter of apps and notifications that hint at the double life Zane Everley had been living. As we sift through his messages and call logs, we stumble upon a series of texts between Zane and a woman named Chantria. The exchanges are a damning chronicle of their affair, sprinkled with explicit photos that leave nothing to the imagination. The intimacy and frequency of their communication suggests this wasn't just a fleeting encounter,

it was an ongoing, sorted affair. Their texts suggest meetings that were carefully planned and executed with a level of secrecy you'd expect from someone with a lot to lose. They mention rendezvous at a place called Serenity Touch, a massage parlor that, based on the reviews on Google Maps, offered services far beyond the typical spa menu. Delving deeper into the exchanges between Zane and Hexonelving and Chantria, we begin to notice a pattern of coded language peppered throughout their conversations. Phrases like extended session and, private therapy recur, suggesting that their meetings

involve more illicit activities. It became clear that Chantria was likely a sex worker at Serenity Touch, the massage parlor doubling as a front for a brothel. Chantria's messages to Zane were laced with a mix of professional detachment and genuine emotion. It was evident she had developed feelings for him beyond their transactional relationship. She frequently inquired about his day, his thoughts, and, more pointedly, his family. Zane, for his part, navigated these questions with a calculated vagueness, sharing just enough to keep her engaged but always stopping short of revealing too much. Among the flurry of texts, one conversation, in particular, catches our eye, a discussion that

paints a clear picture of Zane's reckless pursuit of thrill at the expense of others' feelings. In this exchange, Zane suggests introducing another worker from the parlor, Suria, into their liaisons. His message is cavalier, treating the proposition as nothing more than a novel adventure to spice up their encounters. However, Chantria's response is anything but enthusiastic. She reacts with a mix of hurt and indignation to a menage-a-trua. She accuses Zane and of diminishing what they had. Her threat to end their relationship over this is clear and unmistakable, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The revelation of this discord adds another layer to the already complex narrative. Zane, in an attempt to mend fences and perhaps soothe his guilt,

resorts to a classic, albeit cliched, gesture, a bouquet of roses. His subsequent visit to the quaint flower shop, as captured by our surveillance, now takes on a new significance. It was an attempt at reconciliation, a plea for forgiveness wrapped in the delicate petals of flowers. The key to unraveling this tangled web, we decide, is Saria. She's the missing link, a potential treasure trove of information on Chantria, and possibly even insights into the otherworldly horror we encountered. But how do you approach a sex worker in a brothel-fronting massage parlor without alerting the entire operation or, worse, scaring her off? Badges and warrants aren't tools in our kit.

We need finesse, subtlety, and a bit of creativity. The neon sign of serenity touch flickers in the early evening dusk, casting an ethereal glow on the otherwise nondescript storefront nestled between a nail salon and a 24-hour diner. Its windows are darkly tinted, offering no glimpse of the activities within, a deliberate choice designed to preserve the anonymity of its clientele. As I enter the establishment, the interior unfolds like a scene from a classic noir film, dimly lit, with soft, ambient music floating through the air. The decor leans heavily into Asian aesthetics, with bamboo plants strategically placed around the room, water features bubbling quietly in the background, and delicate paintings of serene landscapes adorning the walls. The air is scented with a blend of jasmine and sandalwood, a calming aroma that seems designed to suit the senses and disarm any.

initial hesitations. The camera, cleverly disguised as a button on my shirt, transmits live footage to rain, who's stationed in our vehicle parked across the street. The receptionist, a woman with a calm demeanor and a welcoming smile, greets me. Welcome to Serenity Touch. My name is my. How can I help you? I clear my throat, the word slightly catching as I try to adopt the persona we'd concocted on the drive-over. My nervousness must be palpable, but just then, Rain's voice crackles softly in my earpiece, a steady whisper of encouragement. Stick to the script. You've got this, Mon Amour. Taking a deep breath, I meet my's gaze. Hi, my. I'm, uh, sort of new to this kind of thing, I start, feigning embarrassment.

A friend recommended. He says y'all give great massages. Of course, we offer many types of massage, Swedish, deep tissue, aromatherapy, all very relaxing and good for stress, she lists off. You look tired, maybe you try hot stone. Very popular and good for sore muscles. Actually, I was thinking of something perhaps more along the lines of a private therapy session, I venture, using the coded language Chantria and Zane had employed in their texts. You know, something more, personal. My's expression shifts suddenly, her welcoming smile temporary into something more guarded, but still polite. Her eyes scrutinize me for any hint of duplicity.

You say your friend tell you about us, she asks. Who your friend, Mai's question catches me slightly off guard. I figure that Zane, with his double life, would likely have used a pseudonym during his visits here. I think back to Zane's texts with Chantria, remembering seeing him occasionally refer to himself as, Mr. Zen, in their conversations. Yeah, Mr. Zen, I reply, maintaining my feigned casual tone but watching my closely for any sign of recognition. You know, white dude, a bit taller than me, with light brown hair, always looks like he's headed to a business meeting.

You know, Mr. Zen? My hesitates, her eyes scanning me more intently now, as if trying to peel back the layers of my facade. She leans back slightly, arms crossing as she assesses the truth in my words. She's not buying it, Rain murmurs through the earpiece. You have to sound more convincing. Feeling the pressure, I push a bit harder, the story pouring out more desperately now. Look, my, I start, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. I'm going to be honest with you.

My marriage, it's, it's on the rocks. My wife has been my fucking case a lot lately. And to make matters worse, we haven't been, connected, you know, intimately, four months. I'm just looking for something to feel again, to bring back some. Spark. My looks at me, her face showing a hint of curiosity. Oh, I see.

You have big stress, huh? You have no idea, I say, sighing heavily. My glances around the softly lit lobby, ensuring no one else is within earshot. Okay, listen carefully, she said. her voice low and urgent. I can maybe help you, but we have to be very careful, okay. If police come here, I get in big trouble with my boss. She locks onto me with an intensity that lets me know she's more afraid of her boss than being

raided by the police. Look, I'm not a cop or anything, I assure her, my tone earnest. I'm just a guy at the end of his rope, looking for some relief. Okay, I understand, my relents. She takes a deep breath, before reaching under the counter and pulling out a glossy brochure that she hands over to me with a flourish. We offer very special session. Make you feel new love. Guarantee very happy ending.

You interested? Yes, very much, I reply, genuinely relieved. Thank you. I follow my to a waiting room that is small and tastefully decorated, with a single plush chair and a small table adorned with a small table adorned with a magazines and a vase of fresh flowers. She gestures to the chair. You take time. No rush, she tells me. Each girl very skilled. You choose, then tell me. I make special arrangement for you. Opening the brochure, I find myself looking at a series of suggestive yet tasteful photos of masseuses, each accompanied by a name and a brief description of their specialties. They all appear to be

of Southeast Asian descent. As we flip through, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that some of these women might not be here by choice. As I continue flipping through the brochure, Rain's voice comes through the earpiece, her tone sharp. Wait, go back a page. I think I saw her. I thumb back to the previous page and my eyes immediately lock onto the photo of the woman.

Her resemblance to the woman from the hotel is undeniable, the same high cheekbones, the same piercing gaze. Even her hair, neatly styled in the photo, matches the long, straight black hair we saw. Under her photo, the blurb reads, Saria, a touch of mystique with every session. Trained in the ancient tantric arts, she will guide you to new realms of relaxation. My leads me down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that twists and turns more than I'd expected, passing several closed doors where the muffled sounds of clients having sex can be heard. Finally, we stop at a door that's slightly ajar.

My pushes it open, revealing a small room lit by soft, golden light that casts long shadows across the sparse furnishings. The room is dominated by a large massage bed, draped in crisp white linens, and surrounded by candles that emit a soothing lavender scent. The air is warmer here, heavy with the scent of essential oils that mingle with the faint aroma of incense. My gestures towards the massage bed with a small bow of her head. You undress, please. Seria, she join you soon, okay. You relax first. As I nod in understanding, my pulls a thick curtain across the doorway, enhancing the room's privacy before she exits. The sound of her footsteps fades quickly, leaving behind a silence that feels both serene and charged

with anticipation. After a short wait that felt longer due to the anticipation, the door curtain rustles slightly and Saria enters the room. Her presence commands immediate attention. She wears a silk robe that clings delicately to her form, leaving very little to the imagination, a sheer, flowing garment that accentuates her slender figure. Hey, handsome, she greets me, her eyes scanning over me. My name's Saria. What's your name? I give her one of the aliases I often use in these situations. Hey, Saria. My name's Sunny.

It's nice to meet you. Sunny, why your clothes still on, she asks, her expression one of playful admonishment as she pout seductively. Massage cannot start until you take off. Hey, actually, I was hoping we could just talk for a bit, I say uncomfortably. She tilts her head slightly, a look of confusion briefly crudely. crossing her face before her professional smile returns. Talk. Okay, we can talk later, but first, you shower.

Make you feel more relax, yes. Saria's hand is gentle yet firm as she takes my arm, guiding me towards a glass-enclosed shower at the corner of the room. You very tense, she observes, her fingers pressing expertly along my shoulders. I help you relax first, then we talk. She's graceful, almost. cat-like as she leads me by the arm toward the shower area at the back of the room. Her touch is gentle, yet firm, a professional maneuver designed to ease clients into relaxation. Her hands

moved to the buttons of my shirt, intending to help me undress. I gently grasp her wrists, stopping her. I'd really prefer it if we could start with a chat, I insist, trying to keep the situation under control. You look strong, like athlete maybe. You work Look out, yes. She taps my arm lightly, her touch light and teasing. Very big muscle, not just fat. Good. I chuckle awkwardly, not used to being the focus of such comments.

Thanks. Yeah, I try to keep fit. Keeping fit good for stress, she nods. Siria's gaze lingers on me, her eyes sparkling flirtation. You so handsome. Your wife, she crazy to not see what she have. Why she make you so sad? Her accent is thick, her words laced with a playful yet sincere tone.

Yeah, it's been tough, I respond, giving a half-smile as I ease into the role we've constructed for this undercover interaction. I resist the pull slightly, halting her progress. Actually, Saria, I really need to talk now. It's important. She looks at me, a hint of her progress. impatience flickering across her face before being quickly masked by her professional demeanor. Okay, we talk. But why you so serious? You come here to relax, no. She pauses, a flicker of

surprise in her eyes, but then nods, stepping back. I understand. You nervous, I see. It okay, she says, her voice softening. Saria takes a step back and starts to loosen the sash of her robe. I show you first, so you more comfortable, she explains, her tone casual yet observing my reaction carefully. The silk robe slips from her shoulders, falling gracefully to the floor, revealing her lithe figure, causing me to falter for a moment. How I look. Sunny, you like what you see. I'm left there mesmerized with my jaw hanging open. But Raines' voice crackling through the earpiece snaps me back. Stay focused, Ash, Saria, I know about Chantria, I start firmly.

The mention of the name causes her demeanor to shift, a visible jolt of shock passing through her. Chantria? What you know about my sister? She asks nervously, pulling her robe back over herself. Chantria's your sister. I ask, surprise evident in my voice. The pieces begin to click into place, but there's still so much. don't understand. Yes, she my sister. What you do to her? Saria's voice is tight, her body tensed as if

ready to bolt at any moment. I didn't do anything to her, I clarify quickly, but something, happened. I explain what we saw back at the hotel, keeping my tone even to avoid alarming her further. Suria's eyes widen, her body tensing. You show me proof. You have pictures, I nod. I do, but they're disturbing. I don't care. I need to see, she insists, her voice firm despite her obvious anxiety. I pull out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the gallery. I show her the gruesome scene we stumbled upon. Saria takes the device, her hands slightly shaking as she views the photos of Zanes' mangled,

headless body. She gasps, her face going pale at the sight of the chaos and carnage. This. Chantria do this? It looks like it, I reply, watching her closely. There was something unnatural about her, something I've never seen before. She, she wasn't normal. Saria looks up from the phone, her eyes haunted. She promised she not do this. I lean forward, keeping my voice low and steady. What did she promise you? She hesitates, then sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. Okay, I tell you. But not easy story.

I nod encouragingly, showing her it's okay to continue. We from poor village in Cambodia, Saria starts, her eyes downcast. Life very hard there. Our dad's sick, need medicine, but medicine too expensive. Then, one day, men come. They say they have work for us in America. Say we make good money, send home for family. Her voice falters, and it's clear the memories are painful.

Our mom, she not want us to go. She's scared. But we need money for our dad. We think we do right thing. What happened when you arrived in America? I prompt gently. Not like they say. They lie to us.

They, they take us to place, lock us in room with many other girls. Beat us. The words come out of. out in a rush, her face flush with the shame of recounting the ordeal. They, they sell us. Sell first time to high bitter. After, force us work in sex work. The story is all too familiar, a tragic narrative of exploitation that I've heard in different

versions too many times. Siria wipes a tear from her cheek. It hard, but we try to make life better here. Chantria, she always strong one. She say she make them pay for what they do to us. I nod, my expression solemn as I urge Saria to continue, recognizing the courage it takes to reveal such personal pain. Her eyes darken with a fear.

She don't tell me how. I think she just say to make me feel better. But then I find out. What did you find out? I ask, encouraging her to disclose more. One night, I wake up, hear noise for, from next room. I look, see Chantria with candles, strange symbols on floor. She chant, not sound like herself. Saria's hands clench as she recalls the memory. And did she tell you

what she was doing? I pressed gently, trying to piece together the events leading to the horror at the hotel. Saria nods, her eyes wide. She says she do dark magic from old village legend. She says she won't become something strong enough to take revenge. She want become camhowing slab. Canhoing slab? I query, struggling with the unfamiliar term. Saria struggles for a moment, trying to find the right words in English. She looks frustrated, then grabs my phone, quickly types something on it.

I take the phone back and see that she has entered camhoing slab into Google Translate. The translation pops up as, Winged Wraith. Winged wraith, I read aloud, trying to grasp the significance. Is that what she wanted to become? Saria nods again, her eyes filled with fear. Yeah. She believe only way to be strong enough to fight back. To protect us.

I scared. I ask her stop. I make her promise to stop. I pause, taking it all in. This was no ordinary case of trafficking or revenge, it was something far darker and more complex. I need you to trust me, I tell Soria, keeping my tone gentle. I just want to help you in Chantria. Saria bites her lip, her eyes darting around the dimly lit room, fear evident in her gaze.

I. I can't. I don't let you hurt her. Her voice cracks, the strain of loyalty and fear mixing palpably. in the air. I just want to make sure no one else gets hurt, including Chantria. Anything you tell us will be used to help her, not harm her, I assure her, hoping to ease her worries. What you want to know, she asks. I need to know where she might go next. Who is she targeting? Saria hesitates. My sister, she, she says she find the big boss,

the one who make us come here. She pauses, her voice barely a whisper. She think to make him pay hardest. Make him example. The big boss. I probe, my mind racing with the implications. Do you know who he is? She nods reluctantly, her eyes darting towards the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. His name Jimmy Inthavon. She say he, he worst one. Jimmy in Thavon, I repeat, recognizing the name immediately. He's the head of the Blue Lotus, a mid-tier criminal organization that's been on the radar for everything from illegal gambling rings to murders for hire. On the streets, he's known as the Shrike, because much like the bird, he has a pension for impaling those who cross him on sharp objects as a warning to others. Do you know where she might find him?

Saria shakes her head, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair nervously. No, no exact. But she talked about place, a warehouse. Where they keep us when first come. A warehouse could mean any number of locations in the city. Do you know where this warehouse is? I ask, hoping for a lead. Saria shrugs.

Somewhere north end of city. Near river. No sure. I only go there one time, too many bad memories. Thank you, Saria. This has been very helpful, I tell her. Her eyes meet mine. You really try to help us.

Not just catch Chantria. Yes, I want to help both of you. I'll handle your sister's situation carefully. I don't want to hurt her, we just want to stop her before things get worse, I reassure her, hoping to ease the burden she's been carrying. She nods, giving a small, uncertain smile. Okay, I trust you. Help Chantria, please. No want her become monster.

I will, I say, feeling the weight of that promise. Rain and I spend the next several hours piecing together the clues Suria provided, cross-referencing everything from old case files to city planning records. We work well into the night, our office bathed in the soft glow of computer screens and the occasional flicker of streetlights from the window. We start by pulling up all known addresses connected to Jimmy and The Blue Lotus. We sift through heaps of digital breadcrumbs, ranging from property records to anonymous tips that had come in over the years. Each piece adds to the mosaic of the Shrike's operations but fails to pinpoint the current location.

Feeling a bit stumped, we decide to revisit the basics. We review hours of CCTV footage from cameras around suspected Lotus properties, looking for any unusual activity that might indicate the location of the warehouse Saria mentioned. It's tedious work, but it pays off. Around 2 a.m., rain catches a break. She notices a pattern of vehicles that seem to frequent a large, nondescript warehouse on the northern edge of the city, near the industrial canal. The area is mostly abandoned, filled with rundown buildings that scream perfect hideout. It's a place we've checked before but not deeply enough. That's got to be it, Rain says, pointing at the screen.

Look at the traffic there. It's subtle, but consistent. And always at odd hours. We cross-referenced the property with recent purchases and leases, finally finding a match through a shell company known to be a front for Intavon. It's not concrete proof, but it's enough to go on. With a location pinned down, we prepare what might be the most dangerous part of our investigation. Rain calls in a few favors from contacts who can keep the police off our trail for a while,

We don't need the added complication of explaining why we're there or what we're dealing with. Secrecy and speed are paramount. We load up on equipment, more than the usual. We're not taking any chances. The arsenal in our trunk would make a small militia envious. We've got AR-15th tactical vests studded with extra magazines, and a couple of Glock 19s with suppressors. Everything's laid out in the back of our SUV like a dealer's display. at a gun show. We meticulously rig improvised explosive devices, packing them into little sacks

filled with sage and garlic. Rain says they're good for warding off evil spirits according to Cajun myth. I'm skeptical, but I've seen enough tonight to entertain many possibilities. The drive to the warehouse is tense. We go over the plan repeatedly. Infiltrate quietly and get to Chantria before something regrettable happens. When we arrive, the place is more eerily quiet than expected. The moon casts long shadows over the cracked pavement, and the warehouse looms like a dormant beast. Using a set of bolt cutters,

we cut through a chain-link gate and slip onto the grounds of the compound. Every shadow seems to twitch with the possibility of danger, a reminder that we're walking into the lair of a monster. Just before reaching the main entrance, Rain stops short, her hand shooting out to halt me. She points to something in the shadows. My eyes follow her gesture, and my stomach tightens as I discern what's there. A body lies crumpled against the wall.

Tattoos snake up the arms and across the exposed torso, clear gang identifiers that match the blue lotus as known symbols. It's one of Ithavon stugs. I approach slowly, my flashlight cutting a beam through the darkness to reveal the man's neck ending in a bloody stump. I scan the area and find his head a few feet away, eyes wide open in a silent scream, the terror of his last moments etched permanently into his features. More bodies appear as we advance, each more gruesome than the last, heads, limbs, and other parts scattered haphazardly. We press on, guided by body parts like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs.

The ground beneath our feet crunches with the occasional bone fragment as we move towards the warehouse, its large doors torn off their hinges. As we close in on the warehouse, the atmosphere is punctuated by the sound of screams and sporadic gunfire. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder, and ground streaked in blood. As we cautiously step through the threshold, the interior unfolds into a scene from a nightmare. Chantria, fully transformed, moves through the shadows with a terrifying grace. Her form is grotesque and magnificent. Her form is grotesque and magnificent, a malevolent blend of her human self and something far darker. Long, leathery wings protrude from her back, and her limbs have elongated, ending in talons

that rend through flesh and bone with ease. Her eyes glow with a feral, otherworldly light. Inthavong's men lie scattered in disarray, some still twitching in their final moments. Chantria cuts through them with deadly precision, her movements neither hurried nor slow, but inevitable. Their screams are in. interrupted by the wet sounds of tearing flesh and chantria's haunting whales. At the far end of the warehouse, cowering behind a makeshift barricade of crates and barrels, is the shrike. The gang leader's usual composure has dissolved into panic. He shouts orders that go unheeded, his men too scattered and frightened to mount any

effective defense. We're powerless to do anything except find shelter behind an overturned table and bear witness to the unfolding carnage. As Chantria advances towards him, Inthavong pulls out his desert eagle, his hands shaking as he fires desperately. The bullets cut through the air, but Chantria dodges them effortlessly. She weaves through the air, her wings beating with a heavy, ominous thud that resonates through the property. As the last of his pistol rounds click empty, Shrikes' false bravado crumbles into raw desperation. Wait, please. Look, I got a quarter mill in that safe right there, he pleads, his voice breaking as he points

frantically towards a heavy, iron safe in the corner. It's all yours, girl, just let me go, all right. Chantria pauses for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if amused by Intavong's pathetic attempt at bargaining for his life. There's a mocking glint in her glowing eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile curls the corner of her mouth. It's a sinister, unsettling gesture that chills the air between them. With a swift, horrifying grace, she lunges forward, her arms wrapping around in Thavong in a grotesque embrace. A sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoes through my ears.

Shrike's body torn in half, right down the center, his body splitting with sickening ease as if made of clay rather than bone and sinew. Blood splatters in an arc, painting a gruesome picture on the concrete floor. As Chantria's rage finds its terrifying crescendo, she tosses the two halves of his body in opposite directions with the indifference of a capricious child discarding a broken toy. The right half flies through the air, trailing a ribbon of entrails and blood, before slamming into a large shelving unit near us. The impact is thunderous, reverberating through the vast warehouse. It sends the heavy shelving teetering dangerously. We barely have time to react. The shelving unit, overloaded with crates and metal tools, groans ominously, threatening

to collapse. Rain grabs my arm, pulling me back just as the structure gives way, crashing down where we were crouched moments ago. Dust and debris fill the air, the crash masking our frantic movements as we scramble for new cover. Our sudden, desperate dash does not go unnoticed. The disturbance catches Chantry's attention, her head swiveling towards us, with unnerving speed. As the dust settles, we find ourselves barely a dozen yards from her, our position dangerously exposed. Chantria's eyes, glowing fiercely in the dim warehouse light, fixate on us with a predatory intensity. Realizing the futility of standing our ground, I grab Rain's hand, squeezing it tightly. Run! I shout. To be continued, let me take

you on a trip down memory lane, where the love for animals ran wild in my family, well, except for my dad. He has his quirks, one of which was letting a fish die behind the furniture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. My maternal grandparents lived out in the countryside, surrounded by a whole farm's worth of animals, and let me tell you, it was a world of lush nature and the occasional desert heat. On the flip side, my paternal grandparents resided in a cramped little apartment smack in the middle of the city. However, they were also huge animal lovers. Now, picture this, every time my aunts encountered a pet they couldn't keep or one that terrified them to their core, it somehow ended up in the hands of my

grandparents. They took in everything from rambunctious hamsters to wild dogs and even some bizarre birds. I mean, these were the kinds of birds that friends of my aunts thought would make great gifts for their kids, probably just to terrify the family. I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating, like I'm adding some dramatic flare, but trust me when I say the animals that ended up at my grandparents' house were something else. Let me focus on one specific creature, a chicken. Yes, a chicken. Not just any chicken, but a classic countryside hen that laid eggs, clucked like there was no tomorrow, and managed to be a source of endless chaos. One day, a friend of my aunt gifted her a charming little chick, adorable and fluffy. The kids decided to name it

either Lala or Titi, or something equally as silly. I'm not entirely sure what name they settled on since it was the two young boys who came up with it. I mean, they weren't exactly brainstorming names for a Nobel Prize-winning chicken. At first, everyone was smitten with this little chick. It would run around the house, following people like a little feathered shadow, hardly making a sound and leaving tiny droppings that barely registered on the mess scale. But, of course, as time went on, the chick grew up. And boy, did it turn into a nightmare. That innocent little fluffball became the embodiment of mischief. It started pecking at everything, squawking like it was auditioning for a horror movie,

and it figured out how to climb. Yes, it climbed, on tables, on furniture, and it started to eat things you wouldn't expect a chicken to munch on. Imagine a chicken with cannibalistic tendencies. To top it off, the droppings. Let's just say they became a serious hazard, more like chicken landmines scattered all over the house. That's when my aunt had a light bulb moment.

What are grandparents for if not to take on the messes of their children and grandchildren? So, one day, she showed up at my grandparents' place with a sizable car, cardboard box that contained the creature causing all this chaos. Surprise! Early birthday gift, she exclaimed. My grandfather, initially resistant, wanted nothing to do with whatever was hiding in that box. He was adamant, nope, I don't want to know. But after a couple of cups of coffee, and let's be honest, some charming coaxing from my

aunt, he found himself stuck with that box on his table. When he opened it, something magical happened. The stars aligned, the moon shone brightly, and he fell head over heels for that chicken. I'm telling you, this was no ordinary love, it was a full-blown obsession. The chick, who eventually grew into a plump, loud hen, transformed into his pride and joy, much to the chagrin of my grandmother. I've never seen a happier chicken in my life. My grandfather doted on her, feeding her like she was royalty and even grooming her feathers

until they shone. He treated that chicken like a pet dog. She would perch on his shoulder, sleep on his lap, and even lounge on the sofa. But here's the kicker, she ruled the roost. Capanada, as he affectionately named her, had the final say in everything. She dictated when she ate, when she slept, and, most disturbingly, when and where she did her business. My grandfather defended her to the death, if anyone complained about Capanada's antics,

he'd staunchly argue that she had every right to roam free. Her reign of terror reached new heights. There was one Saturday morning when I decided to drop by my grandparents' house. Everything seemed normal until I heard my grandfather yelling. I turned to see Caponada strutting along the balcony railing as if she owned the place. I swear he looked like he was about to lose it. Caponada, please don't jump. I love you.

I know your grandma doesn't like you, but I do, it was like watching a soap opera unfold. He was practically pleading with her, promising more food and shiny feathers. I kid you not, he was ready to burst into tears over a chicken. After his dramatic attempt to coax her down, he stormed into the kitchen and unleashed a rant on my grandmother about how Caponada was trying to commit chicken suicide because she felt unloved. At that point, my grandmother was fed up. Kapanada had pecked at everything, from my homework to my napping face. She was like a feathered little monster. My grandfather, however, had gone completely overboard in his attachment to that chicken.

So, my grandmother hatched a plan. Without informing any one of her intentions regarding caponata, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. The following Saturday, she invited all her children and grandchildren over for a big paella feast. It was a glorious, sunny day, perfect for a family gathering. We all gathered around the table, feasting on a delicious dish, laughing and chatting. But my grandfather remained oblivious to the culinary secret hidden within the paella.

It wasn't until he bit into something he recognized that my grandmother chimed in for across the table, how do you like the kidneys of your beloved Caponada? The shock on his face was priceless. All of us erupted into laughter, while he tried to process what just happened. My grandmother, triumphant, had won the battle against Caponada, and my grandfather was left with the realization that his feathered friend had met a rather unfortunate end. Now, let's rewind a bit. I mentioned my other grandparents, the ones in the countryside. They were animal lovers, too, especially my maternal grandmother. She had an extraordinary affection for all creatures great and small. However, she was also a bit of an oddball, very

religious and rather strict, yet her love for animals was undeniable. She was known for having a total of 30 cats at one point. Yes, 30. Her story with the cats is like something out of a Disney movie. It all began when my mother was still a young girl living with her parents. One day, my mother stumbled upon an abandoned kitten, a little female that she named Star. My grandmother took in Star, and soon, Star grew up and became quite the neighborhood flirt. Just when it was time to spay her, Star decided to run off and returned a month later with a litter of five kittens. Every time my grandmother thought she had Star under control, the cat would disappear again,

only to come back with another set of kittens. It was a never-ending cycle until they finally secured the house to catch Star during one of her returns. However, by that time, the damage was done, my grandmother had more cats than she could keep track of. She loved them all dearly, and each had its unique quirks and personalities. Eventually, my grandparents moved to the countryside so she could accommodate all the furry friends without limits. Life was good for a while, until she found herself in a situation where she had too many cats and not enough patience. The love-hate relationship with those cats

began to take a toll. My grandmother was constantly spending money on spaying and neutering, while managing the chaotic feline household. The moment the female cats went into heat, she would lock them away in a room until their mood passed, while the males roamed free. As a kid, I found the countryside dull. I was desperate for entertainment. One of my favorite ways to annoy my grandmother was to sneak into that room where the female cats were kept. I devised a plan to climb up to the window to let myself in and stir up chaos. You can imagine a six-year-old me, decked out in a bike helmet, knee pads, and elbow pads,

dragging a picnic table to create a makeshift ladder to reach that window. I climbed, pulling off this ridiculous stunt while all the neighborhood cats watched, probably thinking I was some sort of weird circus performer. At one point, my grandmother could hardly remember the names of all the cats she had. But I did recall quite a few names. For instance, Star was the matriarch of the feline crew, and then there were her kittens, each with names that were variations of hers. There was a cat named Spark, another named Little Spark, and then there was a baby named Sparklet.

It was a family of Sparkly names. Among my grandmother's cats, I had two favorites, identical orange tabby twins. One was called Pucci, a normal-sized cat with a sleek build, and the other was Puccinen. Puchanan was the round one, the chubby version who moved like a sloth. He was slow, but every time I walked in, he'd come over and curl up on my lap, completely ignoring Pucci, who was a tad more cautious. It was as if he knew he could get away with anything. And then there was the very first one she adopted, a black cat named Chisper. You see, my grandmother was a strong believer in the idea that black cats brought bad luck,

so, naturally, she had to adopt one. Chispa had this quirky habit of sleeping on my grandmother's face, blocking her nose and mouth. So, in the middle of the night, she'd wake up to find this cat smothering her, leaving her gasping for air. My grandfather would often laugh about how the cat would sneak in when she least expected it and take over the bed. However, it wasn't all sunshine and daisies with the cats. grandmother's obsession with animal rescue turned into a somewhat crazy cat lady saga. The cats would have family meetings in the living room, where they would all stare at her, demanding food and

attention as if they were royalty and she was their loyal subject. Then there was the dog situation. My grandparents, never content with just one animal, ended up adopting a shaggy dog they named Tico. Tico had this wild side that came out whenever the doorbell rang. He would dash out, thinking he was invincible. And if you've ever tried to catch a runaway dog, you know it's like chasing a tornado. Tico was smart, and he loved the thrill of escaping. One time, he dashed out the front door, and my grandfather, determined to save the day, ran after him. But instead of being a noble hero, he tripped over a garden hose and went sprawling onto the lawn, arms flailing. It was an epic fail. We were all outside, watching the chaos unfold, and my grandmother was in the kitchen,

blissfully unaware until she heard the commotion. She rushed out to find my grandfather sprawled on the ground, Tico still dashing about like he was auditioning for the next great canine film. After a series of hilarious attempts to corral Tico, my grandfather finally succeeded, returning to the house with the proudest expression on his face, despite the grass stains on his pants. The family became a circus of chaos, animals everywhere, laughter filling the air, and endless tales of love, mishaps, and memories.

While my grandfather may have been a little too a little too. attached to his chickens, my grandmother embraced her quirky collection of cats and a stubborn dog. Every gathering was a celebration of the love we shared, not just for each other but for the furry and feathered friends that made our lives more colorful. So here's to the animals that brought chaos, joy, and a sprinkle of madness into our family's history. They taught us lessons of patience, laughter, and the understanding that love knows no bounds, even if it sometimes comes in the form of a feathery menace or a furry cuddle buddy. And with that, I raise my glass to the wild ride that is family life, forever filled with laughter, love, and maybe just a few too many

chickens. Seldom, if ever has a man ever found themselves in a unique circumstance I find myself in. My name is Tab Monroe, and I recently found out my, darling, wife of three years Cassandra has been cheating on me for the better part of seven months with her ex-boyfriend Jared Eamon. They have no idea I know they are sleeping with each other. But that's not the unique circumstance. The fact that I'm scheduled to fight him in a month and a half is. You see, I'm an aspiring mixed martial artist looking to break into the big leagues. I'm 26 years old with a record of 14-0-1. The one-no contest was when, accidentally, I gouged a guy who had kicked me in the groin three

times in a fight, but the ref didn't call a foul. If you ask me, that fight was fixed, but I digress. I fight on the local circuit here in NYC, but at this upcoming Pro-Am event, some of the heavy hitters of the combat sports world will be their scouting out talent to potentially give contracts to. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start from the beginning. I met Cass four years ago when I was just starting out in the sport at an athletics convention

at the job, that's the Jacob Javitt Center for you non-New York folk. I was there helping promote my MMA gym, and Cass was there doing the same for her fitness gym, where she works as a personal trainer. To say that Cass is flawless would be an understatement. She's got the body of an Olympic swimmer while still having all of the curves a man would appreciate. Long, jet black hair down to the small of her back and these slanted, deep blue eyes. She's a spell-binding woman who turns heads at any chance, and here she was in the both across from my gyms, decked out in full gym we're

literally using sexuality. Clearly not intended, but with a body like hers it comes with the territory. She's got it, and she knows how to flaunt it. So, the convention lasts two weeks, and it wasn't until the start of the second that I muster the courage to start small talk with her. I mean, our booths were so close you could literally hear the conversations being had from both groups regardless. So in between trying to convince passers-by to sign up, we chit-chat and found out we had a lot in common. As the week progressed, we'd end up going on lunch together a couple days, and a couple of the boys started egging me on to ask her out. It was pretty clear she was interested, so by that Thursday, I asked her on a date. She graciously said yes, or more specifically said, it's about time, slow poke.

So, that Saturday, we went out for dinner and dancing, and it pretty much followed the formula from there. After ten months of dating, I popped the question, and she again said yes. Two months later she was my wife. And for three years we lived in what I thought was a happy marriage. I'd learn over the course of being with her that she was a huge MMA fan. And not a casual fan, either. The moment she named Dan Henderson v.

Wonderlay Silva's fight in Pride FC as one of her top five, I knew I had a keeper. Again, or so I thought. So, what do I know about Jared Eamon? Well, I know he's the guy who came before me. Like myself, he's an aspiring fighter. Unlike me, he's a smug, pompous asshole. Think Connor McGregor and Colby Covington

after doing the Dragon Ball Z-Fusion dance, that's the level of asshole this guy is. They were apparently college sweethearts, both attending St. John's University, I went to NYU. From the info I gathered, he broke up with her once he thought his fight career was going to take off, which was roughly five months before Cass and I started dating. So, how does this asshole interject himself into my marriage?

Turns out he reached out to her eight months ago looking to get back into her good graces. She informed him she was now married, to which he said, and I shit you not, so what? You're still my girl until I say otherwise. The part that stung the most reading that initial text chain was that she didn't even push back from It didn't take long for things to escalate between the two of them. Within a month of him contacting her, they were shacking up at his place. And I was completely oblivious to this as I trusted Cass implicitly. She never gave me reason to suspect she was cheating.

She never denied me affection. She never hit her phone. She never showed any of the telltale signs of cheating. So how did I find out she was cheating on me? Complete and total chance. Jared trains at what I guess you could call our rival gym. Since we're in the same area, only eight miles apart, oftentimes fighters from his gym and my gym will compete against each other in local tournaments.

One of the guys I trained with came to me one day and asked was the fitness gym cast worked at doing some kind of cross-promotion with Jared's gym, because he always saw her car in their parking lot and oftentimes would see her exiting the gym alongside of Jared. This guy lives only a few blocks from Jared's gym, but travels the eight miles to our gym because, be honest, our gym is just better, but I digress. I thanked him, and decided to do my own investigative work the next day. That morning before she headed out to work, I asked her if she had plans after and she said she was just going hang with some of the girls, have a few drinks and maybe come home. Sounds simple enough. When she left, seeing as I was off for my day job

that day, I decided to tail her just to quell my curiosity. She went to her gym and worked with about four clients. Around the time she had and the other trainers she works with left, she didn't go with them. Nope, she got in her car and drove five miles the other direction, to Jared's gym. By this time, my stomach was in knots, but I still held out hope. Maybe there was a logical explanation for her being there. Well, I found out the explanation 23 minutes later, as she walked out of the gym side by side with Jared. The proceeded to get in her car, and the moment they were situated, that did a bit of tongue wrestling before driving away. I was in too much shot to take my phone out and record or take picks of what I was seeing,

but I managed to catch myself enough to start my car and tail them to their next destination, which, happened to be Jared's apartment building. It was an old brownstone, and I parked a block down and watched he broken heart as my, lovely wife followed Jared into the building. Maybe it's the martial artist in me, but at that moment I switched from sadness to complete indifference. It wasn't one of those scenarios where they'd guy laments and wonders, what did I do wrong? I knew I did nothing wrong. I knew this was all her. And I knew at that moment, I wanted to get even. I drove back to our apartment and

began my plan, to collect enough necessary evidence to nail Cass to the wall, divorce her and leave her reeling. Enter my uncle Louis, former NYPD of 30 years now moonlighting as a private investigator. The dude is a modern-day Colombo. He's the first person I called when I returned home, and I laid everything on the table. He gave me his apologies for witnessing the death of my marriage, but commended me for holding it together and not doing something stupid. I didn't even have to ask him, as he said he'd stop by tomorrow and give me the rundown on a surveillance plan to get as much dirt as possible.

And get dirt he did. I don't know what kind of magic Uncle Louis does or what kind of strings he can pull to get the type of access he can get, but within a month of D-Day, he provided me with mountains of evidence, including the texts I mentioned before. I pretty much had all of the evidence needed to file for divorce under the grounds of adultery, which would disqualify Cass from any spousal support. But then, a different opportunity arose. The owner of my gym brought all of us in and announced he'd signed up to have the gym represented

in a major pro-am event, and he needed three fighters willing to take on fighter from Jared's gym. I jumped at the chance, and naturally when he showed us who from the other gym was willing to compete, I chose Jared as my opponent. Now I, of course, had to keep my reasoning under wraps, because if anyone found out they'd never let me fight him, but this coincided with my plan nicely. The next day, I met with a divorce lawyer my uncle highly recommended. I provided all of the necessary evidence, and my lawyer Mr. Greenlee said, this is going to be a

cut and dry case. The only question is where and when do you want her served? I gave him the date and the place, the day of the event, at the venue it was taking place, in a month and a half. He instructed me over the next month to get my ducks in a row, separate any joint accounts and decide what shared assets if any I'd want. He also said to be prepared for if she decided to fight the divorce, to which I told him I could guarantee she wouldn't.

So cue the night of the fight. I'd spent the last five weeks training, and when I wasn't training or working my day job, I was doing as Mr. Greenlee said. The night of the fight, I knew Cass would be in attendance. She always attended my fights. I didn't, however, tell her who my opponent was. And I'd learn through texts and call logs that though she told Jared she was married, she never told him who she was married to, so he had no idea he was about to step in the cage with her STBXH.

You'd figure the hour leading up to the fight I'd be a ball of nerves, but it was actually the calmest I'd ever been before a fight. This chilling sense of purpose washed over me to the point where even my team were taken aback at how calm I was. Normally I like to get myself amped up, but not tonight. I knew I was taking a huge risk, but it was a risk I was willing to take. When the knock on the door happened that I was up, I stood up without uttering a word and followed my coach and trainers out of the locker room. Jared was announced first and he did his walkout to the cage. From the guerrilla position I had a good view of where Cass was sitting,

and what she did pretty much sealed the deal, blowing the asshole a kiss as he did the gun signs, her direction. So he's in the cage doing his warm-ups, and they announce my name as his opponent. What happened next is one of the most priceless moments I'll ever remember. Cass went completely pale, the look of pure dread on her face evident. As I followed my team out to the cage, she held her hands to her mouth in shock having had no idea I'd be Jared's opponent. As we walked with her proximity in the stands, I just glanced her direction with what could best be described as a death stare. I think it was at that moment, that one look I gave her told her everything about how this night was going to end.

The bell rings and the fight starts. As I expected, Jared comes out guns blazing. I knew from studying film on him he's a fast starter and likes to overwhelm his opponents with lots of strikes. Physically, Jared and I were almost identical in stats. About the same height, same weight and I had a two-inch reach advantage. What differed between us is skill sets. Jared was a brawler who relied on shock and awe, whereas I'm what you'd call a classic

point fighter, measuring distance and timing to land a strike at the perfect moment. Also differing between us was our grappling. Jared had some wrestling skill from his days at SJU, as did I from NYU, but I was also a BBJ purple belt. To my knowledge, Jared had no formal BJJ rank. So after a good two minutes of Jared trying to overwhelm me, I key on to the fact that he likes to load his left foot on the backside before throwing his hook. I waited for him to set it up again, and stepped through with my right foot to get ahead of his punch, before his shoulder

even turned, bang. I hit him flush with a shot to the rib. There's two types of sounds a shot like that makes, the load, slapping sound that gets the crowd amped because it sounds brutal, or the thunk sound that's only heard by the three people in the ring, but felt by the guy getting hit. The later is what you want, because that means the impact went deep into the muscle tissue. Those shots hurt, and sure enough Jared jumped back like he'd been stabbed and did his best to act as if it didn't hurt, but the grimace on his face, and on the ref's face, told me another story. So for the rest of the first round, we have a couple exchanges of flurries, but the initial

title wave Jared tried to crash on me got stopped with that body shot. The round ends and I glance over cast direction. Surprisingly, she's still in the stands with a look for fear and concern on her face. I wasn't sure what it was about, me getting hurt, Jared getting hurt, me knowing about her affair with him, all I knew is was she was glued to her seat, which is just what I wanted. In my corner, my coach praises me for the body shot and tells me he wants more of the same in the next round. As I look across the cage at Jared I could see him trying to figure me out, wondering why he

couldn't get a beat on my emotions. It was like he was staring at some sort of specter. The bell sounds and round two begins. This time, Jared's not as aggressive, but it did. didn't matter. He comes at me trying to set something up with his jab, pawing at me with his right, then plants that back left foot again for his right hook. He clearly didn't learn his lesson the first time, as I time step back on MI left so his hook hits nothing but air. Before he can reset his stand I step forward on my right foot again, swing my left hip and

crack him with a left body kick on the same side I hit him in the ribs in round one. Again, the shot sunk deep into the sinew, leaving a bright red welt on his side. This time, The crowd let out a collective Yu Yuwu, as the shot left Jared up on his tiptoes before he retreated back a few steps. Under normal circumstances I'd pounce when my opponent is hurt. Not this time, I wanted to savor this. It was after this shot that I figured Jared realized this wasn't a normal fight. I could see the confusion in his eyes as if to say, who the fuck is this guy? I just stood in my stance, taking a slight moment to glance over in Cass direction.

When her eyes met mine I could see genuine fear in them. Jared glanced over slightly to see the same thing, and I think that's the moment it dawned on him who I was, and what he was locked in this cage for two more rounds with. His demeanor completely changed. Whereas in round one he came out guns blazing looking for the kill, he suddenly realized he was the gazel, and I was the tiger toying with its meal. Jared stepped in to try and score a two-two-one combo, but I stepped to the side of the third shot and delivered a three, that's a right hook by the way, that wobbled him. The only thing that kept him standing was the cage. Even the ref realized at this point I wasn't trying to win, I was trying to make an example of him, as again, I didn't follow up.

I just stood in my stance and waited for Jared's next advance. The ref took a moment to allow Jared to reset and gave me a reprimand to keep the action going. I simply nodded, got my guard back up and waited for the ref to tell us to Enage. When he did, I guess it was either pride or embarrassment that spurned Jared's next move. He threw a one to two to close distance, and initiated an over, under clinch when he got close. As we jostled for position he said to me, dude, what's your problem? I didn't answer back, I simply pummeled out from his over, under into a body lock,

popped my hips and delivered a suplex that would have made my old wrestling coach bust a nut. All I saw was elbows and feet go sailing over my head before hearing the sound of Jared's body hit the mat with a thud. Thankfully for him, the bell sounded and round two came to an end. Jared scrambled back to his corner, and I could see him talking to his trainers and coach with a look of dread on his face. Meanwhile in my corner, my coach is in my grill screaming about not showing off. Next time you get him reeling, finish the fucking fight. What are you doing, Tab?

I look my coach in the eye and simple utter the words to him, that asshole is fucking my wife. There was a lot of dread in that arena, because my coached to a step back and said, oh, shit. Are you fucking serious? I just look forward in Jared's direction with a look of stone-cold stoicism in my face. Devoid of emotion. This time I didn't even bother looking toward Cass. This was going to be where I sent my message. The bell for round three sounds, and we both take the center of the cage.

Bruce Lee is widely considered the godfather of M.M.A., on the account that the style he pioneered Jit Kuhin-Doo, the way of the intercepting fist, uses the same principles of M.M.A. Take what works for you, discard what doesn't, make it uniquely your own. It gets its name from using offense as defense. When a punch is thrown at you, instinct tells you to defend. To block. In JKD, you're trained to do the opposite. You literally beat their punch, to the punch, with a punch.

Or a kick. Or an I gouch. Or anything that's going to stop them in their tracks. If this was a street fight, I could have been creative. But this was a sanctioned fight, so I had to keep it legal. Jared started off trying to land a leg kick, but I checked it and returned fire with on of my own towards the leg he chambered from. Hit him on the inside on the leg right on the tendon.

Those shits hurt like a bitch. He immediately stepped back and switched stance to protect that leg. He tried to step forward with jab slash straight combo, but I parried the jab like it was leaf falling from a tree that met his left straight with my right elbow. It's an unorthodox way of blocking a strike perfected in the U.S. penitentiary system in a fighting style called 52 blocks. It can break the hand of the guy throwing the punch. Jared let out an audible yelp when his knuckles met the point of my right elbow.

There's a moment in a fight when you witness the will of your opponent fade. They emotionally concede defeat before the physical defeat happens. After that parry, that's what I saw in Jared's eyes. It was time to end our dance. Heard loaded off his back right foot this time, and chambered his left leg for a high kick. He was trying to swing for the fences as he clearly realized he was losing on points, and I clearly outclassed him in skill. I ducked his high kick while shifting to my left foot upon standing up.

I transfer that shift to my hips and whipped back around with a picture-perfect right hook gut that landed with a thud. I could feel the impact reverberate to through my forearms it landed so hard. crumbled like stale cookie to his knee as he backed into the cage. I'd already got a warning from the ref about not following up, so this time as Jared reeled to try and catch his breath, I charged in with a full body tackle, pinning him to the cage. Getting a good body look on him again, pinning his elbows to his ribs in my grip, I scoop him off of his knee and with every ounces of strength in me, lift him clean off of his feet and body slam him into the mat. Not a moment

after, I moved to side control and sink a dars choke in on him. The dars choke is one of the most brutal submission holds in the sport. It's called up blood choke, as it reaches its effect from cutting off blood flow to the brain. It held to long, it can kill a man. It also happens to be my favorite submission move. Within five seconds, Jared was out like a light, and the ref scrambled to get me to release it. It took all of the fortitude in my soul not to choke the life out of this man, but I'd done what I set out to do. I reclaimed my manhood by making an example of this pompous ass hat. As the ring announcer announced me as the victor, and the ref raised my hand, my team entered the cage and celebrated. But I wasn't in a celebratory mood. Cass had made her

way to the cage at this point. Under normal circumstances she'd be all over me, showering me with kisses. But this time, she entered with a somber, timid and unsure look on her face. She first looked over to Jared as the medics tended to him, then to me with the most sorrowful look I've ever seen on a human being. It looked as if she was going to walk towards me, but before she could get close I motioned for for someone else to enter the cage, good, old Uncle Louis. In his hand was a Manila folder. He stood between Cass and I, look her dead in the eyes and said in a clear and bold voice, Cassandra Monroe, you've been served this petition for divorce on the grounds of adultery. He handed my now dumbfounded as TBXW,

the folder, pulled out his phone to take a pick denoting she'd been served, turned to me and said, good fight, kid. Call me when you get home. With that he left the cage. Cass was left stunned, looking at the folder in her hand, then back up at me. It looked as if she wanted to say something, but her bottom lip was quivering and she couldn't utter a word. I didn't even bother to look and see what happened next, I just walked past her and out

of the cage. My team followed me not soon after. As I said, seldom does a man get the opportunity to legally put hands on the man his wife is cheating on him with. It's a chance I couldn't resist. Unexpected to me was how much better a fighter I was compared to him, but I was still left with the lingering feeling of why Cass chose to ruin whatever future we had for this guy. Little did I know that night, the fight was far from over. To be continued.

Back in the locker room, I had to come clean with my team about what had happened. For so many months I kept it secret the motivations of agreeing to fight the Disha bag, and when I finally revealed it, the reaction was a mixed bag. My training partners and Cutman were all elated, but my coaches, they weren't pleased. Especially my head coach, an owner of the gym I train at, Gagard. He chewed me out over what this could potentially do to the gym should it come to light. How this was basically sanctioned assault and battery and had the city athletic board got wind of it, he could lose his license for allowing me to fight this guy and I could end up in jail. I honestly didn't think that far ahead.

After almost an hour of pleading with him, I convinced him that I'd handle it, and it did have no blowback on the gym. He reluctantly told me okay but mandated that I'd not be taking another fight until after all of the shitstorm of my divorce was settled. This came as a bit of a blow, as sure enough a lot of the scouts in the crowd were in awe of my performance, and I'd learn just days later from Begarde's brother Ansar, who manages the books of the gym, told me I had four contract offers on the table, two of them from the big boys of the MMA industry.

He did his due diligence to let them know I was going through personal matters, but we'd speak with them as soon as thing had settled. But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. The ride home is where it really hit me. The adrenaline of the fight faded, and my entire body felt thousands of pounds heavier. The creeping dread of what was to become the next chapter of my life crabbed me by the throat. I had to pull over to the side of the road, to a spot dark enough that no one would see me and let it all out. And I did. All of the months of festering rage. Everything that I couldn't unleash on Jared or Cass skulls. I roared.

I cursed. I cried. I think it was a full-on emotional breakdown. I wouldn't know, because I'd never had one before. But it all sank in. The reality was that my marriage was over. The Cass, who had meant so much to me, that had served as my motivation and drive to better myself as a man, and as a fighter,

had betrayed me in the worst way a woman can betray a man. I remember what Uncle Louis said before he left the cage, and I needed to hear a reassuring voice, so I called him. He picked up on the first ring and immediately asked, Where are you, Tab? You all right? I swung by your complex an hour ago and you weren't there. Called Gagard and he said you left the event center by yourself. I hadn't even realized three hours had passed since I left. I reassured him I was okay.

Pulled over on a side street three miles from my apartment lamenting the destruction of my marriage. Uncle Louis gave me sage advice as only he could, and all warned me that when he passed by, he saw Cass Carr in her parking spot, which meant she was home. I thanked him for all of his help and his words of wisdom, and told him I'd text him when I was home. Sure enough, when I pulled into my parking space, Cass Carr was sitting in hers. Did she come straight home after the fight? Did she spend time with Jared before doing so?

Those are just some of the thoughts boiling in my head as I made my way to the apartment. As I reached the door, I could hear two voices behind the door, both females. One was unmistakably Cass, the other I could only assume was her best friend and co-work, Josephina, Josie, for short. Part of me wanted to turn around and just go, but that part lost as badly as Jared did earlier. This was in Y apartment. It had been mine since before Cass and I even started dating. If anyone was getting out, it was her.

The voices on the other side of the door hushed as my keys jingled opening the door. When I stepped in, a chill shot down my spine as Cass and Josie were sitting on the couch. Cass couldn't even bring herself to look me in the eye, but Josie did. In a voice that almost sounded like a whispered Josie spoke, breaking the silence. Tab, please. Cass fucked up. She knows she did. There's no excuse for it, but, divorce.

So suddenly. Without even giving her a chance to explain. I cut her attempt at asking more questions with one of my own. One that broke down whatever potential defenses she may have had, did you know? She stammered in her response saying, Huh, coining a phrase my dear O'L, grandpa would say when I feigned ignorance with that reply I retorted sternly, If you can, huh, you can hear, did you know? Cass light sobs grew louder as I raised my voice, which pretty much gave me the answer.

Cass and Josie have been friends long before I was in the picture, most like since back when Cass was dating Jared. So, of course, she'd be complicit in Cass infidelity. I stared daggers into Josie, and not long after she too couldn't meet my gaze. I do know, I guess she sensed things slipping further out of her control, because it would be cast to speak up next. Tab, please. I made a horrible mistake.

I let my emotions get the better of me, and old feelings for Jared that I never dealt with from how we broke up came back when he reached out to me, and, I cut her off immediately by saying, a mistake. A mistake is accidentally picking up a coffee mug on the side and not by the handle when got hot liquid in it. A mistake is going to the market to buy food, getting to check out and realizing you left your wallet at home. Want to know what's not a mistake? Going behind your husband's back and fucking your ex-boyfriend, who if I recall broke up with you when he thought he was about to hit the big time, for eight fucking months. By the end of my statement, she not only

realized the gravity of the situation, but exactly how much I knew. If she had intent to try the, it only happened once, play, it got knocked out worse than Jared did. This time her sobs were inconsolable. The type of ugly cry you make when your impending doom is set in stone. Josie tried to chime in saying, Tab, you know she loves you and only you. Please, you can get through this. Just give her a chance. She'll make it up to you.

We'll make it up to you. I know it was wrong, but she's like a sister to me, and I know what Jared did to her first hand. She needed to get him out of her system. Cass added, you were never supposed to know. I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to give Jared a taste of what he walked away from, then flaunt you in front of him to make him regret breaking my heart. I cut her off again. So what? You're still my girl until I say otherwise, the deer in headlights look in her eyes revealed even deeper how far in the hole she dug herself she was. I continued. So, you had an eight-month affair with the guy who broke your heart and dumped you because thought he was going

to move to greener pastures, lying to me in the process, out of sick need for revenge. Sweetie, you need mental help. No human being in their right sense of mind does that unless they are out of their damned mind. I thought I knew you, Cass. Clearly, I was dead wrong. As dead wrong as you are thinking there is any way we can get through this, or that I'll ever forgive you. By this point, both women had tears in their eyes. If their plan was to tag team, me into slowing down or canceling the divorce, it failed categorically. Baby, please. I don't want a divorce.

I love you. Please. Don't do this. Don't end what we have because of my stupidity. I'll go get counseling. I'll delete my social media. I'll give you access to everything. I'll wear one of those GPS ankle bracelets inmates do so you always know where I am.

Please, baby, don't throw me away. Cass was on her knees now, grovelling for forgiveness. Hours ago, this sight would have broken me. But indifference is all I felt for her. They say the true opposite of love is indifference, and every iota of love I had for her vanished. I replied, Cassandra, you threw us away the moment you entertained the attention of another man, let alone that man.

You had an eight-month affair with him thanks to your own vanity and sickening need for validation and revenge. We have nothing more to say without lawyers present. So get off your knees, go into M.Y bedroom, pack up whatever shit you need and get out. Those words made Josie jump out of her chair and shout, you can't just kick her out. She lives here too. I look to her and retorted, this apartment is in my name. It's been mine since before I met your traitorous friend.

And she's now unwelcome here. So she can either leave on her own or I can get NYPD involved. Normally this kind of tactic ends disastrously for men, but it's literally my apartment. Cass' name wasn't even on the lease. I'd convinced her it wasn't necessary since by the time the lease was up, we'd be in the process of moving into a bigger place, since starting a family was at point on the cards. Obviously, things have changed. Sobing, Cass and Josie stood up and headed towards my bedroom.

I followed soon after and stood in the doorway as they both loaded her suitcases with as much as they could fit, which wasn't nearly enough. I'd say almost 70% of our collective closet and draw space was Cass stuff. She'd clearly need multiple trips to get all of her shit. When I saw they were nearing completion of the task, I headed back into the kitchen, grabbed me a bottle of water and sat at the island. Sniffling and sobbing still, I watched as they dragged three large suitcases behind them as they headed for the door.

As she passed me, in a meek and timid voice, Cass muttered the words, I'm sorry, tab. I'll make this up to you. I simply responded with one word, lawyer, and took another sip of my water. She burst into tears again and they hurried out of the door. I got up, closed and locked the door behind them. I let out a deep sigh as I text Uncle Louis a short message, I'm home. She's gone, he immediately responded texting back, get some rest, tab. No alcohol.

I'll swing by in the morning. I crashed on the couch that night. I know they'd never made it to the point where they'd attempt fucking in my bed, but the energy of the room still radiated Cassandra. There were barely aspects in this apartment I'd called home the last six years that didn't have her signature on it. Married guys know how it is. Your girl moves in and the space that was once your bachelor pad becomes her canvas.

She does everything and everything to erase the fact that you were once single from it. And we men let it happen. It's like a rite of passage for young married couples. It's kind of symbolic that the couch was one of the last vestiges of my life before Cass that remained. It belonged to my dearly departed father, who died when I was four. He, like Uncle Louis, was NYPD. He was gunned down in a robbery attempt in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Saved the lives of eight people. My dad wasn't a high-profile detective, he was a simple beat cop. But that night he took out four gangbangers trying to rob a bodega. There were five of them. He never saw the last one from what I'm told. The couch holds significance to me because, well, I was born on this couch. My mom never got rid of it, especially after his passing. And when I moved out on my own, she gave it to me, as it's one of the last existing mementos of him.

I slept like a baby. Whatever anxiety, pain and anger existed in me it seemed got let out in my outburst on the side of the road. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day indeed. The day I officially begin the process of erasing Cass for my life. But there was still an issue I knew was going to need clearing up. The fallout of the fight with Jared Eamon. And yes, it ended up being exactly the kind of shit show you would have expected. Child Protective Services workers, the worst cases they've seen, working in Child Protective Services,

CPS, can expose you to situations that range from heartbreaking to utterly harrowing. Here are some of the worst cases workers have encountered, shared through their experiences, rewritten in a unique and informal style, and expanded for a broader audience. The case that broke my spirit, it was my very first case as a trainee. I walked into a low-income household and was immediately bombarded by a large, hostile woman, the mother. She was yelling at me from the get-go, accusing me of everything under the sun. The accusations against her.

Neglecting her kids by failing to provide basic hygiene and food. When I asked to speak to the children privately, she flat-out refused, looming nearby as I tried to question them. Every time I asked something, she interrupted or yelled over me. My supervisor, sensing how things were spiraling, called the police for backup. Once they arrived, the mother reluctantly settled down enough for us to finally talk to the kids. The older teenager wasn't much help, glaring at us and clamming up entirely. The younger siblings, two girls around eight and eleven, said little, but their appearance

spoke volumes. Their hair was a matted disaster, infested with so many lice that their scalps were raw and bald in spots. It was a heartbreaking sight, made even worse when the mother screamed at them to run away. Abediently, they bolted. It took us hours to find them. They were huddled in a neighbor's yard, shivering in a corner. We managed to take them to a temporary foster care office, but there was no family available to take them in. That's when things really hit me. The workers sat the girls on a plastic sheet and began combing out the lice. The process was agonizing, the infestation had been neglected for so long that it must have been excruciatingly painful.

I had to leave the room to collect myself. That image has stayed with me ever since. Later, we learned the mother suffered from severe, untreated mental health issues and had been estranged from her family for years. The school claimed not to notice any signs of neglect, though we suspected the children hadn't been attending regularly. That case was my baptism by fire into the world of CPS. A 12-year-old on the offender list.

This next case left an indelible mark on me. A family had just moved into our state, and we received a call from a CPS worker in their previous location. It was about their twelve-year-old daughter, who was shockingly on the offender list. At just twelve years old, she had allegedly been caught abusing her younger siblings. The back story was tragic. The mother suspected the girl's biological father had exposed her to explicit and inappropriate content. One night, one of the younger children confided that the girl had touched them inappropriately.

The parents, horrified, spoke to all the kids, and every single one admitted she had done the same to them. Completely overwhelmed, the parents called CPS, and the girl was put on the registry by a judge. For reasons that were never entirely clear to me, the state decided on punishment rather than therapy. When the family moved, we had to check on them to ensure they followed the guidelines. The girl wasn't allowed to be alone with her siblings, swim in the pool with them, or attend school or birthday parties. She was labeled a predator. Despite everything, she was one of the sweetest kids I'd ever met. She told me about her dreams of becoming a fashion designer and her love of playing Xbox with her brothers.

The whole family was in therapy and seemed to genuinely care for one another, but the situation was bleak. I still wonder how they're doing today. When the military and CPS collide, not a CPS worker myself, I was in criminal investigations for the military, working alongside CPS in abuse and neglect cases. One case, in particular, still haunts me. We got a call around 5 p.m. from CPS, reporting a tip from a soldier's unit. The soldier's wife had made an emergency call about medical issues, but when someone checked on her, they found a horrifying scene. She was in the kitchen, covered in blood from the waist down, with a trail of blood leading from a back room. The house was a disaster, animal waste and garbage everywhere, with two small children crying in the back.

When CPS arrived, the worker vomited from the stench before even stepping inside. We donned hazmat suits to enter. The wife explained she'd suffered a miscarriage and, not knowing what to do, used a spatula to collect the remains and store them in the freezer. Beyond that, the house was utterly unlivable. Trash covered every surface, the fridge was full of expired, moldy food, and the children's mattresses were on the floor, surrounded by filth. CPS gave the parents three weeks to clean up or lose custody.

During that time, both parents got into legal trouble involving drugs and solicitation. The house was eventually deemed beyond repair, and the kids were removed. To this day, that house remains the most revolting place I've ever seen, and I sincerely hope those children found a better life elsewhere. A child's last hours, this case involved the tragic death of a two-year-old girl. The mother brought her to the ER, cold and blue, claiming she'd fallen off the bed while playing with her sister. The story didn't add up, and preliminary reports showed no head injuries consistent with the fall. The truth came out later. CPS had previously investigated the

family after reports of abuse by the mother's boyfriend, but the case was closed when the mother ended the relationship. However, she secretly allowed him back into their lives. One night, the toddler had an accident while the boyfriend was watching a game. Enraged, he beat her so severely that her liver was nearly split in two. She vomited and suffered through the night, and by the time the mother brought her to the hospital, it was too late. The mother delayed seeking help to give the boyfriend time to flee. He was eventually caught in Mexico and extradited. Both he and the mother are now in prison. The girl's older sister was reunited with her biological father, who had spent years trying to find his daughters. The devastation in his eyes when he learned

what happened still breaks my heart. Neglect at its worst. Another unforgettable case involved a 10-year-old girl in the care of her drug-addicted father. Despite his obvious impairment during interviews, he managed to evade CPS by frequently moving. He even sent threatening messages, claiming he'd rather die than let us take her. After days of searching, we found the girl hidden under a bed in a friend's house. Her drug test revealed alarmingly high levels of substances in her system, indicating ingestion. Thankfully, she was placed with an aunt and is now safe. She thought the whole ordeal was just an adventure with her dad.

It's cases like this that make you question everything. A heartbreaking failure, I once worked on a case involving an 11-year-old girl who had threatened to harm herself. Despite repeated calls to crisis intervention, no immediate help was available. I stayed with her for 14 hours until a bed finally opened up. In another case, a father with a history of abuse returned to the home after prison. Instead of barring him, the state implemented safety plans for the children. Unconvinced the abuse resumed. Watching these failures unfold is gut-wrenching.

Final thoughts, CPS work is not for the faint of heart. The stories above barely scratched the surface of what these workers encounter daily. Each case leaves a mark, a lingering question about whether enough was done. For those in the field, the emotional toll is immense, but the hope of making a difference keeps them going. Let these stories serve as a reminder of the importance of vigilance and compassion for society's most vulnerable members. Hey everyone. Welcome back to my House of Horrors. As you can tell from the title, today I'm diving into a paranormal case.

Just kidding. Can you imagine if I tried to fool you like that? Nope, today I'm finally going to share some of my childhood anecdotes, and I promise these stories might just ruin my reputation, if it wasn't already tarnished, that is. So if you're interested in my embedding. past, make sure to turn off all the lights, lock the doors, and get comfy, because here come my terrifying nightmares. So, let's get right into it. One thing you've all been curious about is my crazy obsession with chocolate.

Seriously, every time I faced a heartbreak or a rejection, my mom would take me out for churros with chocolate. This became a weekly ritual because, let's be honest, I fell for a different guy almost every week. And when I say, guy, I mean I fell for every clueless boy, like the ones who might as well have been boulders or dun beetles. I was relentless, nothing could stop me from falling head over heels. Then came my teenage years, where I got a bit more selective. I'd develop crushes that felt like full-blown romances. Oh, he's so cute. He's amazing. Wait,

did he just look at me? But after class, I'd find myself in these awkward situations. A boy would approach and say something like, Hey, I noticed you staring at me a lot. Want to go grab a milkshake. And I'd be like, um, I was all over the place. The truth is, if a guy made it too easy for me, I lost interest. Meanwhile, my friends were busy dating boys, and there I was at home, lighting candles and staring into a mirror while reheating a pizza for a date with myself. Not because I was vain or anything, but because I was practicing for the real thing, something that finally happened but went terribly wrong. Picture this, my first date was in a cemetery. Yep, you heard that right.

I swear, I didn't plan it that way. It was my friends who organized it. I was just going along with the flow, but that's how my life goes sometimes. Anyway, let's not linger on that because I can save those stories for a few more videos down the line. So, let's rewind to my childhood. I was a hopeless romantic, practically a professional at crushing on boys. To give you an idea, I'll share a photo from back then. I must have been around six or seven years old, completely obsessed with a cartoon series whose

name I can't recall, but it was all about love. In this class photo, I'm sneaking glances at a boy who also happened to be looking at me, but not really. He was looking past me like I was a ghost. Why? Because I meant nothing to him. That week, I went out for churros with chocolate again because, honestly, my heart was broken. Mom, he doesn't love me.

I'd cry. After the Churros, I decided to set my sights on a new target. In that class photo, there were about 11 kids, and believe it or not, I had crushes on five of them. I clearly had a problem. The next victim of my crush frenzy was at the top of the photo. I won't say his name, but let's call him Pablo for now. Pablo was an innocent bystander in all of this. I made his life a living hell without even realizing it.

I'd wait until the others left the playground, then sneak over to his back back. and stuff it with chocolates, love notes, and even my mom's perfume. I was like a tiny Romeo on a mission. The poor kid was actually thrilled about my gifts, he adored the chocolates and the drawings. But here's the catch, he had a crush on another girl in our class, this tall blonde with big blue eyes and fluttery eyelashes. Whenever he'd see her, he'd light up, and I was just a ghost trailing behind. Thanks for the chocolates, they're really good, he'd say, while I sulked in the background,

secretly plotting my next move. I just couldn't accept defeat. I had to do something grand to get his attention. So, I took things up a notch and went full on crazy. I collected a huge bunch of flowers, like, a mountain of them, and not a single one was left standing. I marched into class and stuffed them into his backpack, his pencil case, everywhere. When the bell rang and everyone rushed back to class, Pablo opened his bag to find a floral

explosion. The poor kid freaked out. He started screaming and flailing his arms around like a bird caught in a windstorm. Calm down, Pablo. It's just flowers. I thought. But I didn't realize he was actually allergic to pollen, which explained his freak out. The poor guy thought I was trying to kill him with flowers. I felt so bad that I raised my hand and confessed, Pablo, it was me. I'm so sorry. But instead of gratitude, he accused me of trying to murder him. From that day on, I became the Black Widow of the playground. No one wanted to go near me. They thought I was some sort of serial killer.

But did I give up? Of course not. Each week brought a new crush, and I was determined to win someone's heart. I can do this, I thought, I just need to put my heart into it. My mom always encouraged me. Honey, you're so sweet and caring. Someone will appreciate your kindness and attention. Little did she know, her words fueled my obsession.

My next target was a boy I'll call Ignacio. Ignacio was adorable, dark hair, bright eyes, he looked like a little vampire. I was about eight or nine at the time, and I pulled out all the stops with him too. Chocolate's in his bag, drawings, you name it. But this time, I wanted him to know who I really was. I didn't want him to confuse me with that blonde girl. So, for Valentine's Day, after weeks of secretly showering him with gifts, I decided to confront him. I stood there with a box of chocolates and said, Hey, Ignacio, I'm your secret admirer.

To my dismay, he gently rejected me, saying, thanks, but I think you're just kidding. And just like that, the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. As I left, my heart shattered. I followed him across the bridge and down the busy street, trying to hold back tears. But then, out of nowhere, disaster struck. He was bouncing this little ball, and I'm not kidding, it rolled right into the street. Thank goodness he wasn't hit by a car, but that was it. Everyone thought I was cursed or something.

Necane is a danger to us all, they yelled. It was like being labeled a criminal for a crime I didn't commit. I was a heartbroken kid who didn't mean any harm. Every week after that, it was churros and chocolate to mend my wounded pride. My mom would console me, saying, sweetheart, you're too precious for them. They don't know what they're missing, but let me tell you, every chocolate binge reminded me of my epic fails. Then, my next crush came along, and I'll spare you the names this time, but he was quite

the character. I would do my usual routine, chocolates, notes, the whole shebang. But my mother had this crazy belief that I could charm anyone with enough sweetness. So, on Valentine's Day, I went all out. I stood before this boy with my heart racing and gave him my best shot. And what did I get? A polite rejection. You'd think I'd learn for my mistakes, right?

But no, I didn't. I followed him home that day, and as I crossed the busy street, I felt like I was a scene from a movie, like everything was going to turn out okay. But just like before, a close call happened, and that only made matters worse. I was branded a villain yet again, and my self-esteem took a nosedive. And my mom, bless her heart, kept saying, you're special, you'll find someone who sees that. But let's be honest, she was kind of the culprit behind my chocolate-filled antics. She encouraged my hopeless romantic side, making it hard to give up.

Around the holidays, the chaos ramped up. You know that magical time of year when your parents take the opportunity to traumatize you? There's that infamous story of Santa falling through the skylight, and then there was that year when the Three Kings forgot my presence and delivered them late. I'll share what happened that year because it was a classic case of parental deception. The reason for their delay? I still don't know. I hope my mom remembers that traumatic moment when I learned the truth about the three kings.

I was told that from that year forward, I could only ask for three gifts, because we were, in a crisis. It was like a family betrayal. Asking for three gifts became a miracle, and asking for more than that. Forget it. So that year, I asked for a Barbie doll, which I can't remember. remember the exact name of, a puppy puzzle, and the infamous Furby. Who didn't want a Furby back then? This toy was all the rage. It could talk, sing, and dance. The morning of King's Day, I was beyond excited. I dashed to the tree to unwrap my presence, and you guessed it, no Furby.

Instead, I received a limited edition troll doll, which wasn't what I wanted at all. And on top of that, the puppy puzzle was one piece short. I think it's safe to say my childhood was really, with crushing disappointments. To make matters worse, my mom thought it would be a good idea to take me to a neighborhood where kids were holding their furbies in the air, showing them off while I sulked behind my limited edition troll. It was torture. All this led me to conclude, I could never accept rejection. I was destined to chase boys and beg for chocolate until I found love. And that's a wrap for today. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. If you did, don't forget to hit that like button and subscribe. I'm already

planning more of these stories, so stay tuned. Thanks for watching, and see you next time. You know, sometimes it hits you hard how little you were truly loved, right? I mean, I thought that at least my aunts and uncles would have my back during Christmas. I thought they would show some genuine affection. But let me tell you, my uncle David was the only one who really came through. He proved he cared. He surprised me with the haunted mansion playset and those crazy little moles from the cartoon. I'm telling you, it was Endless love from Uncle David, seriously, Uncle David, thank you. But then there was my Aunt Piley.

I had asked her for the Furbic cat from Fur Real Friends. And what did she get me? A cheap knock-off version of that cat. I'm talking about the kind of cat with a lazy eye, the one that jumps if you touch it. Honestly, I wouldn't even touch that thing with a stick. I was convinced that cat was straight up possessed, it needed an exorcism, no doubt about it. So, there I was, sobbing at the end of the day, genuinely believing my family didn't care about me at all.

I was like, is this really necessary? Do I really have to go through this? I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my pajamas. And from there, I overheard my mom talking to my dad in the living room, and the conversation was unreal. Where's the money I gave you for the girls' gifts? What's this Furby? What is this fuzzy potato?

Where are the actual gifts, she was saying? My dad was fumbling, trying to explain, what do you want me to do? I went to the store, and everything was gone. They cleared the shelves. What do you want me to do? I can't work miracles. Then, a few days later, my mom walked in with a real Furby. It was a genuine one, and she named it Venus.

I had no idea of Furbies were that terrifying. On TV, they looked cute, but in real life. I was freaked out. This was something else, it danced, talked, and even when you turned away for a second, it would start screaming about being hungry. My mom was terrified of it. My dad was like, turn that thing off. I don't want to look at it.

He was ready to toss it out the window. After a few months, I tried to trade Venus with my friends. I'll trade you Venus for an action man or a Barbie, anything, please. But no one wanted it. begging everyone, I finally had to admit that I just wanted to get rid of it. I felt terrible because I knew my mom had gone through a lot to find that Furby. But here's the thing, one day, when it was all too much, I grabbed Venus and handed it to my dog, Shummy. It was either me or Venus, and let's be real, Venus had to go. When my mom found out it was

broken, she was surprised but also relieved. Oh, what a shame, but good riddance, she said with a smile. You know, you'd think my family would have been more upset, but everyone was kind of happy that it was gone. And I was like, how did this happen? How did I end up being the one responsible for wanting a stupid toy? My mom just smiled and said, well, at least you were allowed to have pets growing up, right? Pets were a huge deal for me. They filled that void and provided companionship when I needed it. But let me tell you about one particular pet that came into my life purely by accident, my duck, flash. This story goes back to when I was a bit older, around 17. I've always had this crazy obsession with ducks. I mean, I love ducks. I've got duck-themed

shirts, shoes, you name it. Ever since I was a kid, I begged my parents for a pet duck. Come on, just one. There are so many ducks out there. Let's adopt one, but my parents were like, no way. Ducks are messy, they quack too much, and we don't want one in our house, and I was relentless. Please, Mom. Just one duck. I would beg her, but she wouldn't budge. Then, as time went by, I finished school, started university, and my desire for a duck never faded. It only got stronger. One day, my friends and I decided to hit the city, walking around Los Ramblas, doing typical girl things, shopping and eating ice cream. Back then, there were street vendors selling all sorts of animals, hamsters, rabbits,

guinea pigs, and guess what? Baby ducks for just five bucks. When I saw that, my heart skipped a beat. If only my mom would let me have one. But if I bring a duck home, she will freak out, I thought. Then one of my friends suggested, let's pool our money and buy a duck for you. I was like, are you kidding me? If I walk in with a duck, my mom.

mom is going to lose it. But my friend kept pushing, trying to convince me. Come on, we can share it. One day at your place, another at mine, she said. I couldn't let myself be tempted, though. As much as I loved ducks, I cherished my life more. Eventually, they opened their wallets and chipped in. Before I knew it, I was walking out of that market with a little yellow duckling in a box. We took the metro back, and I kept thinking, what am I doing? As soon as we reached my stop, friend handed me the box and said, you take it. I was like, no way. I didn't pay for it. I can't take it home. But she insisted. I felt so much pressure. We got off the train, and I watched my friend scatter. I was left standing there with a freaking duck in my hands. The doors of the

train started closing, and my friend shoved the box into my hands, saying, here, take it. I was overwhelmed. I felt like I was in a scene from a movie, holding a duck, and I couldn't help but think about how my mom would react. I stepped into the elevator, praying she wouldn't be home. When I unlocked the door, I realized it was still too early for her to be back. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was so relieved. I went to my room, opened the box, and let the little guy waddle around. But, out of nowhere, I heard the door creak open. My heart dropped. My mom was home. Panic set in.

I quickly grabbed the duck, hiding it under my shirt, thinking, what now? I opened the door to find my mom standing there, looking confused. She raised her eyebrows and asked, what's that? I tried to act casual, but I knew I was in trouble. It's nothing, Mom. But before I could say anything else, she reached for the box and took it from me. Her eyes widened as she saw the duck. What is this?

Where did this come from? I tried to explain, but it didn't help that I had a history of ignoring her advice. I mean, she knew me well enough to think I was just trying to pull a fast one. You brought a duck into this house. You've got to be kidding me. I tried to reason with her, explaining how my friends were the ones who bought it, not me. But she wasn't having it. What were you thinking?

She yelled, her face turning red. I was convinced I was about to be grounded for life. Eventually, my stepdad came home and heard the commotion. He walked in just in time to see my mom and I arguing about the duck. What's going on, he asked. She explained, and he just laughed. Relax. It's just a duck.

Let's see how it goes, but my mom was not pleased. She declared, no way is this duck staying. You need to find it a new home. I felt crushed. I loved that duck, and I didn't want to give him up. My mom had a soft spot for animals, and deep down, I think she didn't want to part with Flash either. So, she put her foot down. You need to find someone to take him. I can't handle this. My plan was to take Flash to my dad's house. I figured he'd be a great addition there.

So, on the day I was set to visit him, I bundled Flash up and headed out. I was so excited to introduce him to my dad. When I walked through the door, I acted cool, but my dad's face dropped as soon as he saw the box. What on earth is that, he asked. I grinned and oh my opened the box, happy early birthday, Dad. Meet Flash, you should have seen my dad's face. It was a mixture of shock and amusement. You brought a duck home. What have you done?

He laughed. This is madness. I explained my situation to him, and he chuckled, knowing how much I adored animals. Well, it sounds like you've got yourself in quite the predicament, he said. But you know what? I think we can make it work, and that's how Flash became part of our family.

My dad and I would take him to the park where he'd waddle around, quacking happily. I felt so proud. We became the Duck family. Every Sunday, we'd have family outings with Flash, and it was a blast. My mom would roll her eyes, but even she couldn't resist that little guy. Eventually, she came around. In the end, Flash wasn't just a pet, he was my buddy, and he brought us all together in a way I never expected.

Before I dive into sharing my life story, let me provide you. you with a couple of pieces of evidence to prove that what I'm about to share is completely true, no fabrications here. Many of you often comment that it's impossible for a little girl to have speed issues unless she's experienced some sort of trauma, some mental flip that makes her brain go haywire. Well, take a look at this picture on the screen now, yep, that's me, perched on a seesaw with a crazed look on my face. And guess what? It's just a seesaw, albeit one shaped like a motorcycle, but I was already spinning my own tails even then. Now, let's talk about my mom and her rather harsh approach to things like costumes during

holidays. The thought of a mother being so cruel seems absurd to many, but trust me, she had her moments. Just check out this photo where I'm dressed up as an orange bunny. Seriously, I look absolutely ecstatic, right? Just the epitome of joy in my ridiculously fluffy, orange outfit. Please, can we talk about how adorable that costume is? I digress, let's jump right into my childhood anecdotes, starting with a protection. particularly heartwarming one featuring my dad, that enlightened soul. When I was barely a baby,

he had me strapped into my high chair with a belt to prevent me from throwing up on myself. Yes, that was my father's idea of parenting. The same genius tied a string to the neck of my purple swan flow a tie when I was still a baby and would toss me into the campground pool, leaving me to paddle around until I figured out how to swim on my own. If nothing else, I can say that my dad was dedicated to the holidays, especially Christmas. He absolutely adored decorating, hanging up lights, and putting garlands on our front door. The nativity scene, however. That was a hard no.

It was as if putting it up would summon some sort of curse upon our household. One time, when I tried to set up the nativity, the figures mysteriously broke overnight. I mean, I swear I didn't touch them. Anyway, while my mom was the real-life Grinch, unable to tolerate the holiday spirit, my dad went all out. He delighted in making Christmas a magical experience, even though. if it meant slightly torturing my mom in the process. So picture this, one Christmas when I was just four years old, we still lived in our apartment in Premia de March. My dad decided it would be a

great idea to gather the entire maternal side of the family for a festive dinner. Now, this was no ordinary Christmas dinner, it was destined to be traumatizing for me because my parents took twisted joy in seeing me squirm. As if conjuring up a horrifying plot twist, my dad thought it would be hilarious to pretend that Santa had broken into the house and was hiding in my room. Naturally, no one thought to turn on the hallway lights or say, hey, hold my hand, let's light up the path to your room. No, not my family. They were more like, let's make her wander in darkness like a lost lamb. So, I clung to my chair as if my life depended on it. Realizing that his prank was backfiring, my dad decided to up the ante by pretending that

Santa had fallen through the skylight and was now dangling upside down. He slipped into the kitchen, feigning that he was holding Santa's foot to prevent him from escaping. Can you imagine? A four-year-old being told to walk into a dark room to face a strange old man dressed in red? This was beyond surreal. And then I was supposed to think it was all fun and games while my dad was hanging onto, Santa, for dear life. This trend of Christmas pranks continued for years, everything from Santa trying to make a run for it out the window to forgetting the presents and claiming they'd arrive on the 26th instead of Christmas Eve. But the most bizarre Christmas story happened on the night of January 5th, though it's probably best understood from my dad's perspective. He was the master

of holiday antics, the one who would dress up as Santa to drink the milk and eat the cookies, all while trying to place the gifts under our gigantic Christmas tree. One fateful night, he forgot to turn on the lights in the living room while setting everything up. He tiptoed down the hallway, crept into the living room, and as fate would have it, his foot got tangled in the Christmas tree lights. He tried to yank himself free, but instead, the whole tree came crashing down, smashing into the glass coffee table and creating a ruckus loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. My mom and I jolted awake, thinking we were being robbed. My dad had to think fast to keep me from discovering the chaos, so he started making a strange noise that he claimed

was the magic of the three kings. But let's be real, it sounded more like a dying bird. My mom quickly jumped in to reassure me that the sound was just the king's magic wand malfunctioning and that everything would be fine. I was tempted to sneak a peek, but she promised me a glass of chocolate milk and all the cookies I could eat if I stayed in bed. Let me tell you, that was a solid deal. So, I went back to sleep without realizing that the sound oddly resembled my dad's voice, who was likely choking on the Christmas tree lights. You might wonder why I didn't connect the dots and think,

hmm, this sounds an awful lot like my dad, well, I genuinely wanted to believe in the magic of Christmas. My parents couldn't be lying to me, if they said Santa and the kings were real, then they must be. But kids can be cruel. At school, my classmates started telling me the kings weren't real, and for a while, I brushed them off. I'd sit in my corner with my bucket and shovel, completely indifferent to their taunts.

Then one day, a group of three little girls, the ones you'd see and think, oh, how cute. I want to be a mom someday. Or maybe not, depending on your perspective, approached me. They asked what the kings had brought me for Christmas. innocently, I shared my list, mentioning a Casper Mansion and a few other goodies. They erupted in laughter, declaring the kings were a total scam. I gave them my best, whatever, look and went back to my sandcastle building. But these girls, rather than taking the hint, decided to escalate things.

One of them, the ringleader, taunted me, saying, your parents are the kings, and they're just making fun of you. At that moment, I slowly emptied my bucket of sand, refilling it with stones instead. One by one, I launched the rocks at them, and trust me, I didn't hold back. About an hour later, my parents showed up at school, ready to have a meeting with my teacher, who insisted I needed to see the school psychologist because I'd had a psychotic episode for attacking my classmates for no reason. One girl ended up with a patch on her eye for a while after I accidentally hit her with a rock. Can you believe that?

I was the one being labeled as aggressive, while they were the ones poking fun at me. I wasn't allowed to play with my bucket and shovel for a while after that, and my mom was furious with me. But once she calmed down, she sat me down to have a heart to heart. She told me it was great that I stood up for myself, but that I needed to know the truth, those holiday figures weren't real. That revelation hit me hard. Finding out Santa and the Kings weren't real was painful.

I had to face the reality that my family wasn't exactly conventional either. Yet, deep down, I held on to the belief that somehow the unity. wouldn't forget about me during the holidays. So I learned to forgive the kings, but a tiny part of me held onto a grudge against my parents forever. Oh, and that relentless dog barking outside? That's just my life reminding me of how absurd everything can be. Now, onto a more somber note, let's shift gears a bit. I want to share a story that's a bit sadder and more serious. I'll set the tone with some nostalgic background music and imagine the scene in black and white for extra drama. This story revolves around loss, particularly a significant one for me during

Christmas. It's about attending a funeral for a beloved pet, my friend's hamster, Cookie. Now, it may sound trivial to some, but to my friend, it was a big deal. Cookie was a rotund little guy, with big, round eyes and a comically funny mustache. My friend Rossio adored her hamsters and went all out to pamper them. They lived in a spacious cage filled with tubes and toys, but unfortunately, Cookie had a tragic end. You see, Cookie had an appetite for more than just his usual hamster food. One day, after gorging himself, he decided to feast on his own offspring and his wife. Yes, you heard me right, Cookie turned cannibal.

After that dark deed, he managed to escape and lived off the grid for over a month. Racio never gave up searching for him until she finally found him, dead under a wardrobe, surrounded by cookie crumbs. Yup, Cookie had a rather ironic ending, snacking on his last meal. before he checked out of this world. Racio was devastated. She insisted that Cookie deserved a proper burial, and that's where I came in,

invited to her house for a snack with a side of mourning. When I arrived, she presented a list of potential burial sites, options ranged from a potted plant on her balcony. I had no clue what my friend was talking about when she casually mentioned a Viking burial. So, I thought, hey, that sounds cool. Little did I know that she wasn't talking about some epic nor ceremony, but rather a rather bizarre way of dealing with her pet hamster.

You see, she meant tossing it into a body of water after a snack break. One day, Racio decided it was time to give her dearly departed pet a proper send-off. She pulled out a gigantic matchbox, like, seriously, who even has matchboxes that big? She emptied it out and attempted to squeeze in her half-preserved, plump hamster named Kuky. I couldn't believe my eyes as she bent Kukui's limbs in the most theatrical way to make him fit. I mean, the poor little guy was already a bit of a mess, and now he looked even more so, squished into that matchbox. It was hilarious and tragic all at once.

Once she finally managed to close the box, it looked like it had been through a war. The shape was all wrong, and you could see this enormous bulge sticking out. With that lovely sight in tow, she insisted I come with her to the bathroom for the the ceremony. We snuck in, locked the door behind us, and there we were, two teenagers in the bathroom, ready for a hamster-beckon. She lifted the toilet seat and placed the matchbox in the water. Yep, you heard it right, in the toilet water. We knelt around the toilet like it was some sacred altar, and Rossio clasped her hands, resting her elbows on the toilet rim, and began to recite an emotional speech.

She poured her heart out, talking about all the beautiful moments she had with Kyuki. She went on about how loyal he was, how affectionate he had been with her and his wife, Mrs. Hamster, and how much he adored human food. I endured this heartfelt monologue for a couple of minutes, probably three tops, before I couldn't take it anymore. I snapped. Are you out of your mind? You're burying a killer. You're saying this fat little demon was the best pet ever.

He's a murderer. He killed his girlfriend, ate his children, and devoured your cookies. This guy doesn't even deserve a burial. Racio was not pleased. She got super offended, tears welling up in her eyes, and told me I was heartless, that it had been a mistake to involve. bite me, and that I just didn't understand what it was like to love an animal. At that moment, I was just done with her nonsense. I stood up, and before leaving her there, I turned around and flushed the toilet.

Yeah, I flushed the toilet. Obviously, the matchbox didn't fit, and it started tumbling around, banging against the sides of the toilet bowl until, with a final splash, it disappeared into the depths of the toilet. Those five seconds felt like a lifetime, and I just stood there, staring at the toilet, hoping for the best. But, hey, it was gone. The toilet had swallowed that matchbox, and I could finally leave. But then disaster struck. As the toilet began to fill with water again, it overflowed, turning into a nasty, disgusting mess. My friend started screaming, and I panicked, trying to open

the door but fumbling with the lock. There was Rossio pounding on the door behind me, and I was just a bundle of nerves. Her parents were on the other side, trying to get in, and it was utter chaos. Eventually, we managed to escape the bathroom, and I sprinted home without a word to anyone. I didn't feel the need to explain myself because, as soon as I walked through the door, my mom already knew everything.

The moment I stepped in, she yanked me by the hair and dished out the biggest punishment of my life. That's just how it goes sometimes. Hi, Mom. Hey there, kiddo. I'm looking at old photos to make a video of my childhood, and 90% of them show you eating something. Well, I guess that's because it was the only time you ever stayed still, I shrugged.

And that was that. So, here's the deal, my childhood had a major food addiction issue. I think it might have stemmed from the acid reflux that gave me constant heartburn, and I ended up confusing that burning sensation with hunger. Even to this day, I still mix the two up and find myself munching on something, cookies, chips, anything, almost 24-7 because I feel like I'm starving. But believe it or not, it's not as intense as it used to. to be. Back then, I had a ton of anxiety around food, and I'd beg for anything, just a tiny

spoonful of Nutella, a sliver of sandwich, anything to curb that hunger pang. The evidence of my obsession lies in the 3,000 photos my mother has of me stuffing my face like a starved animal. Birthday parties were my absolute favorite. Sure, I didn't have many friends, but I went to a ton of birthday parties, mainly the kids of my mom's friends. There's this one picture for my very first birthday party where I'm scowling, probably because it was a surprise party and I was scared of surprises. But if you take a closer look, you can see the other kids too close to my cake, and let me tell you, I was pretty possessive about my food. Even as a little kid, I couldn't stand it when someone touched my plate. I remember vividly how my mom would get ice cream for

herself, always coconut, and chocolate for me. But every time I took a bite of her coconut ice cream, I thought it was way better than my chocolate. You might wonder why I didn't just get the coconut flavor if I liked it better. Well, it was simple, I wanted to eat more. The more I ate, the happier I was. This habit stuck around until I was about six years old when I started obsessively claiming, your food is yours, and my food is mine. This was mainly because my mom had enough of me always wanting her ice cream, and one day she snapped. After I asked to try her coconut ice cream yet again, she grabbed my chocolate cone, threw it in the trash, and said, Now you can eat air.

That was a major wake-up call for me. From that day on, I decided I would never share food again. Fast forward to my seventh birthday. I shared my party with this kid named Eric. He was born right around Christmas, and we thought it would be cool to combine our parties at this really sketchy venue our parents rented. Food was the only thing that mattered, so I went in with high expectations for an awesome superhero-themed birthday bash.

Spoiler alert, it was not. The decor was a sad attempt at a party, there were a few balloons and a lame poster of a cake with the number seven on it. Now, the only thing that mattered was the cake because who goes to a birthday party for anything else? Not me. The presents were nice and all, but give me that cake. My mom, as usual, prepared a plate with a tiny amount of food and said,

This is all you're having until the cake comes. Of course, I nodded, promising not. not to eat anything else. But within five seconds, I had scarfed down the sandwich she had given me and was begging the kid next to me for his leftovers. This poor kid was getting pestered left and right, and I was relentless, hunting for crumbs on every plate at that party. I was so desperate that my mom snapped a picture of me trying to sneak a bite from another kid sandwich. By the end of the day, I think I managed to eat about six or seven sandwiches and two or three slices of cake. I mean, who could resist that?

But, of course, my gluttony led to some serious stomach issues later. My obsession with food was so intense that I actually ran away from home over it. Now, my relationship with my dad was, complicated. To outsiders, we were the perfect father-daughter duo, always joking around and seemingly having a blast. But in reality, we fought all the time. One memorable moment stands out. I loved taking long, relaxing baths, soaking up the warm.

warmth and tranquility. One day while I was enjoying my bath, my dad barged in with a measuring tape in hand. At that moment, I couldn't care less about why he had that tape, I was just irritated that he was ruining my Zen time. So I blurted out, this is the best moment of my day, Dad. He then proceeded to measure the tub, claiming he was going to tear it out and replace it with a shower to save water. Seriously? Could he not just let me enjoy my bath? He had a knack for ruining happy moments and the joys of life. I loved him nonetheless, even when he decided to mess everything up. Things escalated when he broke a promise.

I had been eagerly anticipating a trip to McDonald's all week, and when I asked him about it, he flat out denied ever promising me that. Frustrated, I packed my little bag, told both my parents I was leaving forever, and that they wouldn't see my face again. I was probably about five at the time, but I was dead serious. Just as I was about to make my escape, my dad challenged me, let's see if you really have the guts to leave. This whole thing went down back in April 2018, and honestly, it still messes with my head sometimes. I live in a big city in Texas, not going to name which, but it's one of the major ones.

My apartment complex is in what most people would call a nice neighborhood. It's gated and all that, but let's be real, just because there's a gate doesn't mean you're 100% safe. The security's kind of half-assed. The gate is supposed to require a code, but people are always tailgating behind someone else to get in, so anyone can slip through if they're slick about it. Over the past three years, our management has put out notices about stuff being stolen, cars broken into, packages snatched, even patio furniture disappearing. They act surprised every time like it's not a recurring theme.

Oh, and the solicitors. They're out here like it's a thing. Halloween every weekend, even though signs are clearly posted saying, no soliciting. Nobody cares. So on this one particular Friday night, I was up late, like, 2.30 in the morning late. I couldn't sleep for some reason. You ever get that weird jittery energy, like your brain won't shut off. Yeah, that. I figured I'd put on a podcast to help low me into sleep. Nothing spooky, just some mindless chatter. It kind of worked.

I started dozing off, that in-between state where you're not quite asleep but not fully awake either. Then I hear this clicking sound. At first, I thought it was just the neighbors upstairs. They tend to stay up late on weekends, sometimes dragging chairs or whatever across the floor. So I'm half ignoring it, but then I realize something, the noise isn't random. It's repetitive. Like, really repetitive. Click, click, click, click.

And it's getting louder. Suddenly, my brain locks in, and I realize it's not coming from above me, it's coming from the front of my apartment. I leap out of bed and tiptoe toward the foyer, still groggy but now very alert. That clicking sound. It's the damn lock on my front door. Someone is fiddling with it. Not going to lie, my address.

adrenaline shot through the roof. I bolted back to my bedroom, went straight to my bedside safe, punched in the combination, and pulled out my point three five seven pistol. It was already loaded, but I slapped in a fresh magazine with 14 hollow point rounds just to be sure. Chambered one. My hands were shaking, but I kept it together. I crept back to the front door. Just as I stepped out of my bedroom, I saw the lop twist, like it actually turned. Someone was really out there trying to get in. I raised the gun, aimed directly at the door, and mentally prepared myself to make a life or death decision.

I wasn't going to shoot blindly. My plan was, if they made it inside, I'd give them one shot to back the hell out. But if they did anything stupid, anything aggressive, I was pulling that trigger. Thankfully, the latch lock was engaged. You know, the one you flip over from the inside? That little piece of metal ended up being the only thing between me and whoever was trying to come in. When I first moved in, I made it a habit to always lock that latch when I'm home. I remember thinking it was kind of flimsy, but hey, that thing saved my life.

I carefully walked up to the people and looked out. What I saw still gives me chills. Two men and a woman, all wearing hoodies with their faces kind of shadowed. It was hard to make out what they looked like. Both guys were holding something, couldn't tell what exactly. They were muttering to each other, looking confused. Like they were trying to figure out why the door wouldn't open. One of them even tried the knob again.

And the woman? She was talking loudly in a language I didn't understand. The only thing I caught was, Apartment 250, repeated over and over again like she was on a loop. The thing is, there is no apartment 250 in this complex. My complex goes up to maybe 150-something. That number doesn't exist here. For a split second, I wondered if they were drunk or lost. But now, you don't get access to my lock without either a duplicate key or some lock-picking gear.

Nobody has my key. I haven't even made a spare. It was clear they weren't lost, they were trying to break in. I grabbed a broomstick from my closet and jabbed it hard against the inside of the door. Thud. That got their attention. They froze, then bolted.

I could hear their footsteps fading as they ran off. I debated calling the cops, but I figured they'd be long gone before anyone showed up. And honestly, I didn't want to deal with the hassle unless they came back. I filed a report the next day and gave the apartment manager a heads up. They said it was weird but promised to alert the property's resource officer. Nothing ever came of it. No follow-up, no arrests. Not surprising. After that night, I upgraded my lock to a smart lock that can be locked remotely. Better safe than sorry. But man, it's wild to think that if that latch hadn't been engaged, I might have had to

shoot someone. They say you never know what you'll do until you're in that moment. I can't say I'm proud of wanting to shoot someone, but I'm proud that I didn't freeze. I stayed calm, and I was ready. So, that was part one. Let me tell you what happened about a month and a half later. I live in this small, quiet neighborhood where nothing really happens. Like, ever. You rarely see a car go by after 10 p.m. I'm a 21-year-old guy, and I usually spend my nights gaming or reading. My apartment is technically under my parents' house. It's a two-bedroom spot I share with my sister and her kid. My sister's barely ever home at night, and my dad works two hours away,

so from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m., it's just me. Our street gets dark. I mean pitch black. We live at the very end of the street, and the nearest intersection is about a football field away. It's quiet. Too quiet. The first time I saw what I now call the flashlight guy, I was out for a smoke. It was a little past ten, and the street was dead.

Then I see this dude in all black, hoodie up, just walking down the road. He wasn't doing anything sketchy, just walking. But it felt off. I shrugged it off and went back inside. About 15 minutes later, while I was chilling in bed reading, I noticed a beam of light flash across my bedroom windows. I should mention that one wall in my bedroom is all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows. So, yeah, hard to miss a flashlight sweeping across it.

At first, I figured maybe a car turned around or something. But the light moved too slowly. Then it happened again. Now I was freaked out. I crept over to the window and peeked through the blinds. There he was. The same guy from earlier, standing about 15 feet of, from my house, flashlight in hand, just, standing.

Not moving. Just holding the light steady. I stood there watching him, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. Then he started sweeping the light across the downstairs windows, like he was scanning the inside of my place. No one was home but me. At this point, my heart was racing. I didn't want to overreact, but I couldn't ignore it either.

I went upstairs to the main house, unlocked the door to my dad's part of the house, and grabbed the shotgun he keeps in his room. I came back down, but by then the guy was gone. That wasn't the end of it. Two more times over the next few weeks, he came back. Always the same mo, walking quietly, dressed in black, flashlight scanning the house, then standing still for what felt like forever. I never saw his face.

heard him speak. He never knocked or tried to open a door. Just silently watched. I started sleeping with the shotgun beside my bed. My dad told me to call the cops next time, but I was torn. What if he left before they arrived? What if I was overreacting? But deep down, I knew I wasn't. Something wasn't right. And if he ever decided to do more than just watch from the shadows, I had to be ready. To be continued. All right, let me tell you about one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, something that still messes with me to this day.

This isn't some made-up campfire tale. This really happened, and every time I think about it, I get chills down my spine. So first off, there's this guy. A total creep. He keeps showing up around my place with a flashlight, always lurking, like he's scoping things. out. And anyone who does that sort of thing? Yeah, they're not coming around for a friendly chat.

Every time I see that flashlight bobbing around, my stomach knots up, and I can feel my pulse jump. You just know that kind of guy isn't out looking for lost kittens. Now, fast forward to just two days ago. I was home alone again, which honestly, is when most of the weird stuff tends to happen. My microwave had crapped out, so I'd made it a routine to head upstairs and use the kitchen whenever I needed to make a meal. Oh, and an important detail I forgot to mention, the only way out of my apartment besides the garage is through my bedroom door. That's going to matter in a minute. Anyway, I went upstairs, cooked up something simple, and then made my way back downstairs. I walked into my bedroom and instantly noticed something was off.

It was freezing. I live in Vermont, and winter here is no joke. My room is like the Arctic compared to the rest of the house, so I always keep the heat blasting, door shut tight, towel tucked underneath it to trap the warmth. The garage is my go-to-entrance and exit because once that door opens, poof, all the heat's gone. So when I walked into a room that felt like a meat locker, I knew something wasn't right. I looked over at the thermostat and saw it had been turned off.

Off. Off. That freaked me out because I had literally just turned it on about an hour earlier. I never shut it off, especially not during this time of year. Then, I felt this breeze on my back. I spun around, and there it was, my bedroom door, slightly ajar. Now, I always lock that door. Always.

Heart pounding, I darted over and locked it, but not before peeking out. And guess what I saw? That same flashlight guy, walking away at the end of the street. His light blinked off as he turned the corner. I told one of my neighbors the next day, and they hit me with a story that chilled me even more. Just a few weeks ago, a woman in our neighborhood had been alone with her daughter watching TV. Someone broke into their house.

She heard the door opening, grabbed her kid, locked themselves in the bathroom, and called the cops. By the time they got there, the intruder was gone, back door wide open. Same neighborhood. Same kind of break-in. That's when I realized this guy was up to something serious, and it wasn't just me he was messing with. Since then, nothing else has happened, yet. But now I keep several lights on at night, outside and inside.

I'm making it look like the place is always occupied. I'm not giving that guy another easy chance. But here's where things get even more messed up. A few years ago, I was renting a house in northern California. The place was a bit outside the suburbs, nice balance of space and community. Quiet, no streetlights, which made it pitch black at night, especially when clouds rolled in. One winter evening, I got home from work after pulling a few extra hours. It was already dark and the sky was completely overcast.

The only light I had was for my headlights and the porch light. As I got out of my car, I caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Odd, but I didn't see anyone. I figured maybe a neighbor was having a smoke outside or something and didn't think too much about it. I was beat and ready to crash. I took a quick shower and decided to hit the sack early. I must have been out cold because the next thing I remember is waking up to a sound, a distinct noise coming from inside the house.

I wasn't too concerned right away. Sometimes my friend would stop by to use the shower after work. I had even given him a spare key. But he always texted me first, and I hadn't heard a thing. I reached for my phone, and the screen blasted light right into my eyes. Back then, phones didn't dim automatically in the dark, so I was instantly blinded. After a bit of squinting, I saw it was. just after 9 a.m. Still groggy, I couldn't tell if I had a new message, but something in my gut

felt off. I called out my friend's name. Silence. Then, boom, heavy footsteps downstairs. Someone was definitely inside my house. I jumped out of bed and ran to the closet. I wasn't about to wait around and find out who it was. The footsteps were coming up the stairs. Fast. There were three rooms upstairs, my bedroom, a spare room, and a bathroom at the end of the hall. The doors to the bedrooms were closed, but the bathroom door was slightly open. I heard the intruder bolt down the hallway, straight into the bathroom. That gave me just enough time to open the attic hatch in my closet and pull myself up. I had barely gotten my feet inside when I heard the bedroom door slam open.

The guy walked in, didn't see me, and then charged in. into the spare room. I held my breath, crouched in the attic, watching through the gap. From where I was, I could only see from about the knees down. He was wearing filthy, frayed jeans and beat-up work boots. After poking around the other room, he must have thought I was in the closet, because next thing I knew, he was back in my room. He flipped on the light, and a second later, he yanked the closet door open. I stayed still, heart pounding, praying, he wouldn't look up. Thankfully, he didn't. He stomped off again, and then I heard a loud crash and a scream of pure rage. That scream, it was the worst part. It reminded me of my stepdad

when he used to lose control. The same kind of raw, angry scream. That sound brought back memories I didn't want. He stormed back downstairs, smashing stuff, throwing furniture, flipping over chairs. I stayed hidden, clutching the attic beams like my life depended on it. I realized I had left my phone on the bedside table, and I wasn't sure if I could climb down without him hearing me. Eventually, the noise stopped. I started counting. One, two, all the way to a thousand. Only then did I feel like it might be safe. I climbed down slowly and looked around. My bed was flipped. Stuff was everywhere. I couldn't find my cell phone, so I grabbed the landline and called the cops.

I waited upstairs until they showed up. When they cleared the house, they told me what they found. The side door had been pried open with a crowbar. Outside, they found a line of cigarette butts along the fence, some aluminum foil, and a hollowed-out pen tube, a makeshift meth pipe. Turns out, the guy had probably been casing me. the place, watching me for days. That smell of cigarette smoke when I got home. That was him. Hiding. Waiting. They said I should stay somewhere else for the night, but I couldn't sleep anyway.

I dragged a bookshelf over to the busted door and stayed up cleaning. Every now and then, I'd shine a flashlight out toward the fence, just in case. But I never saw anything. The next morning, I got the door replaced and had motion-activated lights installed around the house. I also ran a phone line up to the attic. If I ever had to hide again, I wasn't going to be stuck without a way to call for help. I lived there another three years without any more incidents. Still, I took precautions. I practiced getting out of bed, running to the closet, and pulling myself into the attic

as fast and quietly as I could. When I moved, I did the same thing in the new room. place. Except now, I use the crawl space behind my closet. I try not to think about what could have happened if I had been just a few seconds slower, or if he hadn't gone to the bathroom first. Maybe he would have caught me mid-clim. Maybe worse. So yeah. That was my close call. A nightmare that walked right through my front door. And if you ever think you hear something downstairs in the middle of the night, don't ignore it. gut. Stay alert. Until then, stay safe. The end. It was a chilly Christmas Eve in 2008,

and the Ortega family was gathering in Covina, California, filled with the warmth of laughter, love, and holiday cheer. They were in the middle of toasts and holiday songs when, at around 11.30 p.m., the doorbell rang unexpectedly. No one anticipated any more guests, but the night was young, and they welcomed the idea of more company. As the family paused, an eight-year-old girl, Katrina, jumped up, eyes wide. She claimed she could see Santa Claus himself through the curtains, gifts in hand, eager to surprise everyone in person. Without waiting for permission, the excited little girl rushed to the door to welcome him, unknowingly opening the gateway to tragedy. The man in the Santa suit wasn't carrying joy or gifts, he held a gun, and without

hesitation, he shot Katrina in the face as soon as she opened the door. What followed was a nightmarish scene of chaos and destruction. Bruce Jeffrey Pardo, dressed as Santa, unleashed a brutal assault on the Ortega family. He fired on everyone he saw, pets and people alike, taking out his rage on all in his path, even blasting the festive decorations and the holiday feast. Hashtag hashtag backstory of Bruce Pardo, from success to seething resentment. So, who was Bruce Jeffrey Pardo, and what drove him to turn? turn a Christmas gathering into a tragedy. Born in 1963, Bruce grew up in a Catholic family in San Fernando Valley, California. He seemed to be the quintessential nice guy,

excelling in school and later studying electrical engineering. He worked prestigious jobs, including one at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. Financially, he was doing very well. Bruce even owned a house valued at half a million dollars in Woodland Hills, California. At one point, he met and started dating a woman named Elena Lucano, with whom he had a son named Matthew. But in 2001, his seemingly perfect life took a dark turn. While he was watching Matthew, the child suffered a severe accident that left him with brain damage, and Bruce distanced himself from both his son and Elena. Fast forward a few years, Bruce was starting fresh and seemed to have moved on. He bought a new home in Montrose, 13 miles from Los Angeles, and even got a dog,

Saki, to keep him company. He regularly attended a nearby church, where everyone saw him as friendly, independentable. Soon enough, Bruce met Sylvia Ortega, who had three children from a previous marriage, but Bruce didn't mind, he fell deeply in love and married her in 2006. Hashtag hashtag-h-h-h-tag the marital breakdown and financial troubles. Their honeymoon phase was short-lived. Bruce refused to share a bank account with Sylvia, which raised her suspicions. To add fuel to the fire, he didn't want to.

take on financial responsibility for Sylvia's kids, arguing that they weren't his biological children. This led to frequent arguments, but the final straw came when Sylvia discovered that Bruce had a son with serious health issues, a fact he had kept hidden from her. Their marriage quickly deteriorated, and Sylvia filed for divorce. This triggered a series of events that would lead Bruce down a dangerous path. Elena Lucano sued Bruce for child support for Matthew, whose medical bills were massive. Meanwhile, Sylvia demanded financial financial support as part of the divorce, requesting $10,000 in legal fees and a monthly alimony of nearly $1,800. To add insult to injury, she kept Saki, his beloved dog, as part of the

settlement. Bruce's mother, who had initially sided with Sylvia, only added to his feelings of betrayal. Around the same time, Bruce lost his job at ITT electronic systems due to falsified overtime, leaving him financially strapped and emotionally shattered. Alone, jobless, and betrayed, Bruce spiraled into depression, gaining weight and neglecting his once pristine appearance. But something shifted in Bruce. Outwardly, he started acting friendly and cheerful, reassuring everyone that he was doing just fine. But in reality, he was plotting. He began stockpiling guns and ammunition, pouring all his resources into his twisted plan of revenge.

Hashtag hashtag hashtag the chilling Christmas Eve plot. By December 18, 2008, Bruce's divorce was finalized. Bruce might have held on to a faint hope that Sylvia would relent and come back to him, but when she didn't, he pushed forward with his dark plans. He bought a custom Santa suit, modified to fit his newly gained weight, and made a last-minute purchase, a Dodge caliber for his getaway. He even booked a flight to Illinois, possibly as part of his escape plan after the attack. On Christmas Eve, he went to a local bakery for dinner, shared a few kind words with the owner, and then set off toward Sylvia's parents' home in Covina.

He arrived at the house dressed as Santa and rang the bell, armed and prepared for devastation. The moment the door opened, he unleashed hell on the Ortega family. With a gun in one hand and homemade explosives in the other, Bruce left no one in the house and scathed. During the massacre, nine members of the Ortega family, including Sylvia and her parents, lost their lives. Bruce fired relentlessly, sparing no one, not even the family's pets. The violence was so extreme that he eventually turned to a homemade flame-throat. setting the entire house ablaze. He suffered severe burns as a result, yet managed to flee in his rented Dodge caliber. Hashtag hashtag a grisly discovery and Bruce's final stand. Police arrived to

find a horrific scene. 80 firefighters worked tirelessly to put out the inferno that had consumed the Ortega home. The house was nearly destroyed, making it difficult to identify the victims, but dental records helped bring closure to the tragedy-stricken community. Meanwhile, Bruce, injured and unable to follow through with his escape plan, retreated to his brother's house in Silmar, about 31 miles from Covina. In his final moments, he left a homemade bomb in his car,

hoping to take down anyone who tried to investigate further. Then, in an act of desperation, he took his own life. When authorities discovered his body, they found nearly $20,000 strapped to his legs, suggesting that he might have intended to escape and start a new life in Illinois if he'd succeeded in his escape. Chillingly, it turned out that Bruce,

Bruce's mother had been invited to the Ortega family's Christmas dinner but had declined due to illness. She had unknowingly avoided becoming another casualty in her son's horrific plot. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the aftermath, a community in mourning. The horrific event left the Covina community reeling. The Ortega family's survivors and friends organized a public memorial to honor their loved ones, an event attended by friends, neighbors, and strangers alike. The tragedy scarred everyone in the community, especially children who had seen Santa Claus as a symbol of joy and generosity. In the wake of the tragedy, one unsettling question lingered in the

minds of many children in Covina, is Santa Claus always so scary? Hashtag hashtag, hashtag final thoughts. It's hard to imagine the pain that the Ortega family in Covina community endured, and even harder to understand how someone could unleash such rage on people he once called family. When I was in high school, I had two really close friends, Jason and Brian. We were practically inseparable, always doing stuff together. But when it came time to to graduate, things changed. Jason's dad got a job that required the whole family to move to Lexington, South Carolina. It sucked to see him go, but life happens, right? After Jason and his family finished moving, Brian and I got an invite to check out his new house

and hang out for the weekend. Of course, we jumped at the chance. That weekend, after spending some time catching up, the three of us decided to explore the woods and fields near Jason's house. It was a beautiful area, there was even a river running through it. peaceful, quiet, the kind of place you see in postcards. We were just wandering around, soaking it all in, when things took a turn, we got lost. At first, it wasn't too bad. We figured we just follow the river, but none of us could remember which direction was upstream or downstream. It's funny how quickly, exploring, turns into, oh, we're in trouble.

There were no sounds of civilization anywhere. No cars, no houses, no nothing. Just the woods and the river. We were starting to freak out, mostly because none of us had a clue how to get back. After walking for what felt like forever, we stumbled upon this old building that looked like a church. It was made of red bricks, weathered and worn, with vines and bushes creeping all over it. There was a dirt parking lot in front, and a rough path leading up to the entrance.

Despite its overgrown appearance, it didn't seem abandoned. We decided to check it out and see if anyone inside could help us. parking lot, we noticed a row of old cars, like, really old. They looked like they were from the 70s or 80s, maybe old novas, covered in rust and grime with flat tires. It was kind of eerie. But then we heard gospel music and singing coming from inside the church, and that gave us a bit of hope. If there were people in there, maybe we could ask to use their phone. So we walked in. The inside of the church matched the outside, old, kind of rundown, and definitely weird. As we peaked through the main doors, we saw about two dozen people dressed in their Sunday best, singing hymns and looking deeply absorbed in the music.

At the front, an elderly woman with white hair and glasses was playing a piano. As soon as we stepped inside, the music stopped. The pianist turned to look at us with an expression so blanket gave me chills. Then, one by one, every single person in that church slowly turned their heads to stare at us. Their faces were. I don't even know how to describe it. Empty. Cold. Not welcoming at all.

Jason tried to explain, saying something like, Sorry to interrupt, we're just lost in need to use a phone. But nobody responded. It was dead silent except for the sound of the old wooden pews creaking under the weight of the people sitting in them. The silence was so intense it made the air feel heavier. We didn't stick around. We backed out of there as fast as we could,

letting the doors close behind us. As soon as we were outside, we just stood there, staring at each other, scared out of our minds. Then we started walking down the dirt path, trying to shake off the creepy vibes. A few minutes later, Brian pointed out something that made it even worse, there hadn't been any crosses or anything remotely Christian inside that church. That realization sent a chill down my spine. We looked back, and that's when we saw them, about a dozen people, all men, standing outside the church, just watching us.

They didn't say a word. They didn't move. They just stood there, staring. We quickened our pace and eventually came across an old, rundown gas station. It looked like something out of a horror movie, with dusty shelves and hardly any stock. Behind the counter was an old guy wearing a filthy, greasy baseball cap. He was reading a book, but looked up as soon as we walked in. You boys lost, he asked.

His voice was raspy, like he smoked a pack a day for years. We told him about getting lost and asked for directions. He just nodded and told us to go back the way we came, take a left at the telephone pole, and follow the trail to the highway. We thanked him and left in a hurry. As we walked down the path, we couldn't help but glance back. The old man was standing outside the gas station now, arms crossed, grinning at us. It wasn't a friendly grin either.

It was the kind of smile that makes your stomach turn. Eventually, we found the telephone pole and followed the phone. trail like he said. After about half an hour of walking, Twilight was giving way tonight. Just as darkness settled in, we reached the highway. We tried flagging down cars, but nobody stopped. Luckily, a police officer happened to drive by and pulled over to check on us. We told him we were lost and gave him Jason's address. He sighed and said, you boys were way off. It took him another 30 minutes to drive us back to Jason's house. During the ride, he warned us to be careful in those woods. Apparently, there were some crazy folks out there.

After that incident, my mother was in complete shock. She couldn't believe that such a sacred place as a church could become the setting for something so dark. For days, my family was immersed in discussions about what had happened. My mother, in particular, was deeply affected, blaming herself for not reacting sooner or for failing to suspect anything about that man. But how could we have known? In a church, one expects to find comfort and peace, not fear or danger.

Meanwhile, the scout leader stood by us, resolute in his support. He assured us that he would file a detailed report with the church authorities but also strongly recommended that we informed the local authorities. My mother agreed, and after much deliberation, we decided to file a formal complaint at the nearest police station. The process was uncomfortable, and as a child, I didn't fully understand the gravity of the situation. I only knew that this man had scared me more than anything else in my young life.

The weight of the complaint, the church where it all happened, wielded significant influence in the community. This made the case complicated. On one hand, most people were inclined to defend the institution, arguing that any issues should be resolved internally. On the other hand, a smaller group of parishioners, including some concerned parents, began to speak more openly about strange incidents involving that man. It turned out that rumors about him had been circulating for years, but no concrete actions

had ever been taken. When the police began their investigation, they uncovered even more unsettling information. Apparently, the man had been transferred between different churches several times over the past two decades, always after suspicious incidents. None of these incidents had ever been formally prosecuted. This revelation shocked everyone, exposing a troubling pattern of cover-ups and enabling behavior. The tragic story of Minnie and Ed Moran unfolds like something from a horror movie, but it's all too real. In 1985, this charming elderly couple from Lewis County, Washington, well-loved by their community,

simply vanished from their home right before their annual holiday party. This wasn't any small get-together, it was a festive event they'd held every December 19th for their church and friends. Minnie was born on Christmas Day in 2001 and was as passionate about the season as one could be. Their place was known for its Christmas trees and livestock. people adored them. But on this particular day, as friends and family arrived, they found the Morin's house eerily quiet, with no one answering the door. Suspicion and worry crept in as the house seemed oddly ransacked, and their green Chrysler was missing. Inside, the living room was a mess.

Minnie's purse was thrown behind the couch, something she'd never leave without. Bills and bank records littered the floor along with boxes and belongings haphazardly thrown around. To their family and friends, this was no casualty. disappearance, something terrible had happened. The cops were quickly called in to investigate, but unfortunately, the local law enforcement in Lewis County was more accustomed to petty theft and bar fights than to a mysterious potential abduction and murder. The search for the couple went on for days, but without any leads or witnesses, their family was left in painful suspense. Even before the couple was found, something unusual had already happened that morning.

At 5.30 a.m., Minnie's grandson Mike and his father, Dennis saw a light on in the Morin's house. a strange occurrence since the elderly couple rarely woke up so early. Thinking it was an innocent trip for water or to the bathroom, they thought nothing more of it and continued on with their work. But as night fell and family couldn't reach them, Dennis called Mike urgently. When they returned to the house, they found a full-scale investigation underway. Law enforcement was piecing together clues from the ransacked scene in searching for the couple's green Chrysler. A turning point came with an anonymous call reporting that the missing Chrysler was parked in a local mall's lot.

Officers approached the vehicle cautiously in the frigid December morning. Peering in, they saw the front seats stained with blood and bullet holes, an image that haunted the officer who found it. Ed's signature hat lay on the dashboard, a poignant detail in this horrifying tableau. It soon became clear that Minnie and Ed had been abducted. The couple was forced to withdraw a large sum of money from their bank before their captors ended their lives brutally, abandoning their bodies in a ditch by the side of a deserted road. Minnie had been shot twice, and Ed, once. The grim discovery of the couple's bodies devastated their family, who were left searching

for answers and, of course, justice. The first suspects. Family members, especially as rumors circulated that the Morans were sitting on a small fortune. Mike, Minnie's grandson, had a rough past with several arrests, so police tailed him for weeks. But without any concrete evidence, they had nothing. Suspicion soon shifted to Rodney, another friend. family member, but he too was eventually cleared. Without any solid leads, the case went cold, casting a shadow over the Morin family's lives. Fast forward for years to 1990. Out of nowhere,

the police got an anonymous tip. The caller was certain that their own brother, Scott Kudler, was behind the murders. It was a shocking claim, but the police found some reasons to look deeper. Scott was the ex-husband of one of Minnie's granddaughters, meaning he could have known about the Morin's finances. He also had a criminal past involving drug trafficking and connections to the mob, which raised suspicions. Could he have committed this terrible crime out of desperation or debt? The police devised an elaborate sting operation, posing as mobsters who offered Scott an in with their crew. Scott, believing their charade, eventually admitted to kidnapping the couple and killing them. Yet, his confession didn't quite add up, some details were off, particularly about

the murder weapon and the sequence of events. His claims didn't fit with forensic evidence, and once again, the case froze. It wasn't until 1991, six years after the murders, that Minnie's son Dennis decided he was tired of waiting for justice. Taking matters into his own hands, he started piecing together information, speaking with locals and gathering leads on suspicious characters in town. He had long heard whispers about two brothers, Rick and Greg Rife, who had a fearsome reputation in ties to crime. In the age of the age of the age of In the 80s, Rick had hit rock bottom financially. He tried everything, drug trafficking, selling belongings, yet nothing worked.

He eventually left town in 1987, moving to Alaska. The police, finally catching wind of the Rife Brothers' potential involvement, tracked down Rick's ex-wife, Mary Robin, in an Arizona prison. She confirmed some details about Rick and Greg's life in Alaska, fueling the investigation. When police finally questioned Rick and Greg, their reactions were telling. broke down crying, claiming he couldn't remember anything from that day, while Rick stayed calm but evasive, eventually demanding a lawyer. Despite their suspicious behavior, police had no hard evidence linking them to the Morin's murder. The case took another turn in 1992 when

Detective Bruce Kimley took over. Determined to solve it, he painstakingly reconstructed the possible route the kidnappers had taken, from the Morin's home to the bank, the ditch where their bodies were found, and finally, to the mall parking lot where the Chrysler had been left. That was when Jake Shreer, a 17-year-old friend of Mike's at the time, broke his silence after years of harboring a secret. Jake had seen the Morin's Chrysler on the highway the night of their disappearance. Inside, he'd glimpsed Minnie and Ed, alongside two men he recognized as the Rife brothers. For years, Jake had kept this to himself out of fear.

When he asked the brothers what had happened, Greg threatened him, saying that the same fate would befall his family if he spoke. This fear had kept Jake silent until now, but hearing that Rick and Greg were suspects was enough for him to finally come forward. The case heated up again in 2012 when Detective Kinley received the Green Light to go to Alaska and arrest Rick and Greg Rife. Unfortunately, Greg had died of natural causes earlier that year, but Rick was alive and faced justice.

In 2013, he was finally tried and convicted, found guilty of seven serious charges, including kidnapping, armed robbery, and murder. For the Moran family, it was a bittersweet victory, justice, yes, but at a painful cost. What began as a quiet holiday season had turned into a nightmare, and the town of Ethel would never be the same. The beloved Morans were gone, but they were not forgotten. Their family had fought tirelessly for justice, and though it took decades, the truth finally emerged.

This story began in 1917, when two cousins who hadn't seen each other in a long time finally reunited. Elsie Wright, 16 years old, lived in a village of Cottingly, England, while Francis Griffith, 10, resided in South Africa. The only times they could meet were during holidays, and only if one side of the family traveled to visit the other, a rare occurrence, happening once a year or even less frequently. In June 1917, Francis's parents decided to pack up and move temporarily to England. Francis struggled with the change, the weather was different, her friends were far away, and she felt out of place.

Elsie, however, tried her best to make her cousin feel at home. She entertained Francis with stories, played with her, and took her on walks to the nearby woods and stream. It was during these excursions that something extraordinary happened, or at least, something that would change their lives forever. The girls began claiming they were playing with fairies in the woods. When they asked their parents for permission to go out, they often said, we're going to see the fairies.

Elsie's mother, Polly Wright, initially thought they, was just childlike imagination, stories made up by two playful girls. But as time passed, Polly grew concerned. Elsie's school performance was poor, and she seemed more interested in daydreaming and spending time with Francis than focusing on her studies. One day, Polly scolded her daughter, urging her to stop wasting time on make-believe. Elsie, determined to prove her sincerity, declared that the fairies were real and she could prove it.

She borrowed her father's camera and, along with Francis, headed to the woods. Half an hour later, the girls returned, triumphantly handing the camera back to Elsie's father, Arthur Wright. They claimed they had captured a photo of the fairies. Arthur, a skeptic, decided to humor them and went to develop the film himself. To his surprise, the photograph showed Francis standing in the woods, surrounded by what appeared to be small, dancing fairy-like figures. The reactions to this photo within the family were mixed. Holly and Francis's mother believed the photo wholeheartedly, interpreting it as undeniable proof of fairies. Arthur, on the other hand, was less convinced.

His skepticism stemmed from his professional background, he worked in a photographic lab during World War I and had extensive experience creating photomontages. This included superimposing images of fallen soldiers with their families. He was no stranger to the tricks of photography. Yet, despite his doubts, Arthur found it curious that the negatives appeared untampered, and the image seemed flawless. In September 1917, the girls took a second photograph.

This time, it featured Elsie sitting on the grass, her hands outstretched, as if inviting a small figure, a gnome, to sit on her lap. The gnome was described as wearing a brownish-red outfit with a pointed red hat. It appeared to be in mid-leap, as if jumping toward her. Once again, the mothers were enchanted by the image, while Arthur became increasingly frustrated. He forbade the girls from using the camera, upset that they were wasting expensive film on what he saw as childish games. However, the girls' claims didn't end there. They stopped taking photos but continued playing in the woods, keeping their fairy encounters private. Polly, unable to let the matter rest, eventually shared the story with friends and acquaintances.

The tale began to spread, gaining momentum when Polly attended a conference hosted by the Theosophical Society in 1919. The lecture she attended, titled The Life of Fairies, described fairies as elusive beings that lived in natural environments like forests and streams. At one point during the session, Polly interrupted, boldly claiming her daughter and niece not only saw fairies but had photographed them. Her statement left the audience in stunned silence. After the lecture, Polly was bombarded with questions. People wanted to see the photos, hear the girls' stories, and learn more about the mysterious fairies of Cottingly.

One attendee, Edward Gardner, a prominent member of the Theosophical Society, became particularly intrigued. He examined the photos and the girls' accounts, becoming a firm believer. Gardner shared the story with his friend, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the renowned creator of Sherlock Holmes. In 1919, Doyle was working on a Christmas-themed article for the Strand magazine. Learning of the Cottingly Fairies, he immediately saw an opportunity. Doyle contacted Gardner, who provided the photos and detailed accounts of the girls' experiences.

To Doyle, the evidence was compelling, and he became an ardent advocate for the authenticity of the photos. Seeking further validation, Doyle enlisted experts to analyze the images. Arnold Snelling, a photography specialist, examined the negatives and declared there was no evidence of tampering. Encouraged, Doyle sent the photos to Kodak for additional scrutiny. While Kodak found no signs of manipulation, they refused to declare the images genuine, fearing the controversy could damage their reputation. Despite these endorsements, skepticism persisted. Critics, including some psychic investigators, dismissed the photos as clever fabrications. One detractor noted that the fairies' hairstyle seemed unnaturally modern and Parisian,

unlike the traditional depictions of such beings. Others pointed out that fairies, according to folklore, were notoriously difficult to see, let alone photograph. Determined to silence the skeptics, Gardner visited Cottingly in July 1920. He spent several days with the Wright family, observing the girls and their environment. Convinced of their sincerity, he provided them with cameras and photographic plates, asking them to capture more images. By August, the girls produced three additional photographs, each more striking than the last. One image showed translucent fairies dancing on plants, a feat that left even experts puzzled.

In December 1920, Doyle published an article titled Ferry's photographed, a remarkable event in the Strand magazine. The piece described the girls' encounters and included the first two photographs. Public reaction was explosive. Believers hailed the photos as groundbreaking evidence of the supernatural, while skeptics ridiculed Doyle for his gullibility. Over the next year, Doyle continued championing the cause, publishing a second article and later a book, The Coming of the Ferry's, which detailed the entire story. Meanwhile, the Wright household became a hotspot for journalists, skeptics, and enthusiasts. Tours were organized to visit the Ferry Glen behind their home, turning codyly into an unlikely tourist attraction.

By the 1970s, public interest had waned, but curiosity lingered. In 1971, the BBC interviewed Elsie and Francis, now elderly women. When asked if the photos were genuine, they gave ambiguous answers, hinting at a desire not to disappoint anyone. A few years later, in another interview, the women stood by their claims, insisting the fairies were real. However, in the early 1980s, Elsie and Francis finally admitted that the first four photographs were staged using paper cutouts based on illustrations from a popular children's book.

They maintained, however, that the fifth photograph, the one featuring translucent fairies, was authentic. The Coddingly Fairies remain a fascinating tale, blending imagination, belief, and the power of storytelling. Whether viewed as an elaborate prank or a genuine mystery, their story continues to captivate audiences, serving as a reminder of the enduring human desire to find magic in the world around us. June 17, 1997 at 5.46am was the worst day of my entire life. My name is Alex Torland. I was in prison for 26 years for having a simple dream that saved my life, but it didn't save my family's life.

June 17, 1997 at 538 a.m., I woke up from a dream and started screaming. I remember every detail of the dream, including where I was, where my brother and sister was and even our pet dog yogi. I rushed out of bed and started banging on the doors of my mom and dad in my siblings' rooms. They came out worried about what was going on, I was frantic and couldn't get a single word out. Finally after two minutes, I screamed. We need to leave right now. They all looked at me like I was insane, I started pleading for them to believe me, but they didn't. It just hit 5.42 a.m. and I knew we only had four minutes left.

You would think that would be plenty of time, but for two. trying to explain that everyone was going to die, it's definitely not enough time. A single tear flowed down my cheek and I knew at that very second, my family was going to die. My siblings went back into their rooms and my parents were just shaking their heads. I can't even blame them either. I've always had a wild imagination. I also had a history of lying. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, I said. Those were the last words I ever told my family. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 5.45. I had one minute and ran as fast as I could to the front door knowing the seconds were ticking down.

I ran across the street screaming for help. It was like slow motion, I looked up at the right window and saw my older sister with a confused look and then, it was gone. I woke up probably like a minute later on the ground, my ears ringing, looked up and my entire house was in flames and gone. It took exactly seven minutes and 24 seconds for the police, fire trucks, and the ambulances to show up. I tried running up to the house, but I was stopped by the police before I could. I turned around and punched the officer in the face that was trying to stop me. I started running again and I was tackled and handcuffed before I could. I started screaming for my mom and dad, but my screaming fell on deaf ears.

They put out the fire and the only thing left remaining was. was the ashes of my home and my family. I was taken down to the police station for questioning about the events that took place. As soon as I sat down in the interrogation room, I didn't cry or scream, I just sat there in shock wondering if I was still dreaming. I looked down at my arm and pinched myself, the moment I felt the pinch was the moment I felt my whole world crashed down onto me. The lead detective came in as I had my head down and I was crying. He brought me a coffee and a sandwich, I guess this was his way to be the nice cop. Only if I knew about having rights or even for the fact I was the main suspect for an

unforgivable crime I didn't commit. So Mr. Torland, is it okay if I call you Alex or should I call you Alexander? He said, my eyes were empty, my body felt of just pure emptiness and I didn't even respond. Look, we need to talk about what happened tonight, because right now you're being charged with an assault on a police officer and four first-degree murder charges. He said, This is when I looked up for the first time and I was back in my body. I took the coffee and threw it onto him burning his face and three officers ran in and pinned me down and put me in handcuffs.

I started screaming for my mom, which is something I haven't done since I was six. I was 15 at the time, I'm now 43 years old and I remember that scream like it was yesterday. I was taken to a jail cell and left there for three days, I was called every name in the book by the guards. I could hear the radio in the other room and was being called a monster for something I didn't do. Finally they took me out of the jail cell and into the interrogation room again, a different officer walked in. Hey Alex, I'm Detective Lennon, let me go ahead and read you your rights before we start talking. He says, There was only one thing on my mind and I finally spoke up. Are they Dad?

I said as I'm still looking down at the metal table as I can my reflection. Unfortunately, yes, your entire family is Deccist, he says. He reads me my rights. So, at this time, you're being charged with both assaults on the police officers and for the four Mike Asterishtra. That's including your mother Patricia, your father Paul, your sister Lucy, and your brother Eric. Do you understand what I'm telling you? I looked up at him.

I didn't K. asteriskalel them, I said and then put my head back down. He looked at me and said straight to my face, Look, we both know you cled your family, and we both know that you're just going to have to accept this reality. There was an explosive device found in the basement, and you're the only one that's still alive. The sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner we can get this difficult part over with.

Your family is dad, you happened to run out of your house exactly one minute before the B asterisk M.B. went off. Now how did you know the bomb was going to go off if you didn't have any part in this? I looked up at him with tears rolling down my cheeks. I dreamt it, I said as I was staring straight into his eyes. Look Alex, we know you did this, we just don't know why, it looks like you've had a really good life and an amazing family. Why would you KLL them? You're so young and had a bright future ahead of you and you cled your family, he said. I looked up at him again, go F asterisk CK yourself, I said to him. I looked back down again at the prison attire I had on.

The officer got up and walked out of the room, five minutes later a couple of officers came in and put me in cuffs and brought me back to my cell. A few weeks later I had my future trial, I walked into the courtroom and there were a bunch of people. There was police officers, my other family members, the media, there had to be at least 14 cameras in there. I sat down and my attorney sat down right next to me and he whispered in my ear. Welcome to the show, kid, look, we're going to make this as easy as possible and you're going to plead guilty and try to get you life in prison instead of the D-a-a-d-h penalty. I looked over at him, I didn't do this, I'm innocent, he looked over at me again with a surprised

look and chuckled, yes, he actually laughed in my face, a 15-year-old kid. If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that line, look, I'm trying to help you here. If you plead guilty, then you will most likely get life instead of the D asterisk ADHD penalty. The judge walked in and we all stood up, we were told to be seated. I sat down as I saw everyone staring at me. I started shaking as I knew the whole world was against me. I could feel every part of my body just losing its B.L. asterisk O. D. Flow like my heart was about to stop. The trial went on for two years, let's just say that each time I walked into the courtroom, was another time I had to relive

my family's death. Each one of my tears were seen as, he's sorry he got caught, not that his family is dead. I was Fking 15 years old, barely had any hair on my B-a-a-a-a-a-sterisk L-Ls. I didn't get to live my life and neither did my family. After two years of the trial going on, it was finally time for them to sentence me, I was sentenced to four consecutive life sentences. They dropped the chargers for the a asterisk asterisk alt on the police officers. When the judge read off the sentence, I basically dropped to the ground. I screamed, I didn't do this, but not a single person listened to me. It took 26 years for them to finally listen to me, I took 15 lie detector test and every single one of them came back positive. I was in still and telling the truth. I was in still and

telling the truth. My grandfather was a very wealthy man, he owned several different businesses he created and later sold. My uncle Brandon was the type of person to be the so-called life of the party type. He eventually was addicted to Royne and Cain and would do anything to get his fix. He wanted to get the inheritance so the party would never end, even if that meant that his nephew would go to prison for life. He also didn't care that he was K-a-asterisk Ling four of his family members, including his nephew and niece and his brother and sister-in-law. You would think that it's a good thing I was finally released and the man who actually killed my family was behind bars. Some people would call that making things right. It's not about me

being free and the scumbag that K-a-a-sterisk led my family is behind bars. My life will forever be ruined even though my name has been cleared. I was eventually rewarded $17 million for being wrongfully convicted for a crime I didn't commit. I will be donating the $17 million to several different charities including to people who were wrongfully accused. I wanted to quickly tell my story before it's time for me to see my family again. I just want to say a huge thank you to Brian Luther who I met in prison for protecting me through the years and having my back. I will see you Soon mom, dad, Eric, and Lucy. RIP Alex Torland born August 26th, 1982 and D asterisk Ed November 5th, 2024. He was found dead from a self-inflicted GNSHT wound. Starting off with a

photo, one that proves every single word in this story is true. No, I'm not making any of this up. Here's the picture, it's in your face, so I guess I don't have to keep pointing that out. Anyway, this picture was taken by my dad exactly 24 hours after my mom and I had gone to the hairdresser, where I got the genius idea to shave my head completely bald. Yep, like a cue ball. You probably already know how that story goes. But what I didn't tell you is that I tried to soften my bold choice a little by asking the hairdresser to add a few blonde highlights. I figured if I was going to have no hair, I might as well look cool doing it.

Now, you might wonder why my dad took this picture exactly 24 hours later. Well, he wanted to ensure my mom would never forget her parenting fail. In the picture, I'm looking super smug while my mom, well, let's just say her face isn't exactly thrilled. Too bad she wouldn't let me show her expression here, it's priceless. All right, let's dive in. I want to start this story with a nod to my sweet, sweet grandmother. Since I was basically a newborn, she's had this dream of turning me into a mini-lola floris,

a mini flamenco queen. She was convinced I had the looks for it. huge cat-like eyes, curly black hair, and apparently, the charisma to go with it, according to her, anyway. My grandma was totally set on making me perform whenever possible. She'd even dig into her purse to bribe me with coins if I refused. Over time, she somehow convinced my mom that I was destined for stardom, and together, they pushed my dad into enrolling me in acting dance classes. Well, it's not like he had a choice.

They were going to sign me up with or without his consent. After a couple of weeks in those classes, the teacher kept telling my mom how talented I was, how expressive, how much passion I showed. Soon, my mom and grandma were strutting around, telling everyone, see? We told you she has talent. She's going to be a star. The end of year's show finally rolled around, and with it, my big debut. My whole family was there, along with the rest of the town, packed into the theater,

ready to watch my performance. And yes, I had the lead role. Unfortunately, there's no recording of that play, but I do have a video of the dance we performed afterward. And let me tell you, if you're expecting talent here, lower your expectations. I was a tiny kid, so you'd think I'd be excused for missing a few steps, right? But where was all the flair and natural artistry my mom and grandma claimed I had? I didn't even want to be there.

You can actually see me telling the teacher I wanted to leave. The best part about that video is the costume, though. My mom made it by hand. I guess she really thought it was my Hollywood debut or something. As for the performance itself, let's just say my mom didn't give up easily. One of her most valuable life lessons was that falling down is allowed, but getting back up is mandatory. So she kept believing that I be a great artist.

In her defense, I did have two actual talents, drawing and writing. Drawing was the first to appear, and if you gave me a pencil and some paper, I'd disappear for hours. That was a blessing for my parents, considering I was a bit of a troublemaker. But don't be fooled, just because I was quiet didn't mean I was innocent. One day, my dad left me alone with some crayons and a few sheets of paper while he took a quick bathroom break. Rookie mistake. While he thought I'd be occupied, he didn't realize that his art supplies, his paints, brushes, even his more hazardous tools like glue and screwdrivers, were all within my reach on the balcony. And then, like any curious kid, I got an idea. I wanted to make a

card by folding a sheet of paper and gluing it together. Problem was, I couldn't find the safe school glue, so I remembered my dad had a bottle of super glue on the balcony. With a grin of pure mischief, I grabbed the super glue, sat on the sofa, and started squeezing it. When nothing came out, I shook it, trying to coax the glue from the bottle. That's when it happened, a giant blob of super glue shot out and landed smack dab on my parents' brand new sofa. I tried to wipe it off, but that only made things worse. My dad, who returned to see me with a guilty look on my face, immediately realized something was up. After some interrogation, he discovered that his innocent child had, in the span of a five-minute

bathroom break, managed to glue a sizable blob of super glue to the new sofa. The look on his face was pure horror as he took out his camera to capture the moment for posterity. Now, I can't move on without talking about my other talent, writing. When I first started, my stories were all about romance. You know, that eternal, soulmate-level love where you do anything for the other person, with roses and butterflies in every chapter. That phase didn't last long, though. Once I figured out how to type, I started using my mom's old typewriter.

Ah, the joys of clacking keys. Soon enough, I ditched the sappy love stories in favor of a more realistic angle. One of my early gems was titled Lily and the World, it was a clear self-insert story about a girl named Lily who fell head over heels for a boy in her class. They shared a beautiful romance until, surprise. He turned out to be a total jerk and hooked up with another girl. Lily, naturally, took her revenge, leaving everyone miserable except herself. It was, in retrospect, very, me.

The hilarious part was in the details. At one point, I described Lily as being a, great writer but with tons of spelling errors. Oh, the irony. I'd barely learned to write, and my spelling was a nightmare, yet there I was, calling myself a great writer. The story had all the drama and plot twists of a soap opera. At six years old, I was already writing about betrayal and revenge. Apparently, I was very me, even back then.

Fast forward to my obsession with food, which started way back in my chubby toddler days. I was the kind of kid who'd eat literally anything. If it was edible, it went in my mouth, no questions asked. I was eating constantly, three meals a day wasn't enough. I needed food every 15 minutes. My parents, trying to keep me happy, usually gave me whatever I wanted, but eventually, the pediatrician put a stop to it. Apparently, my, cute baby chub was becoming a bit of a health concern.

They started rationing my food, which was devastating for me. So, I had to get creative. By the time I was five, I'd become a snack-stealing ninja. I'd learn to open those Danish cookie tins, yes, the ones that grandmas everywhere used to store their sewing supplies. I'd slide a knife carefully along the plastic seal around the tin, just enough to open it without tearing it visibly. Then I'd carefully lift the lid, remove all the cookies from the top layer, one wasn't enough, and replaced the lid as if nothing had happened. My parents had no idea, I was like the Houdini of cookie heists. Then there was Nutella.

But I wasn't eating Nutella on bread like a civilized person, no, I ate it straight out of the jar with a spoon. I'd sneak a spoonful here, a spoonful there, and then stashed the spoon under the couch so my parents wouldn't notice. Eventually, my dad caught on when he cleaned under the couch and found my Nutella stained spoons. He swore he'd never buy Nutella again, saying I'd never taste that chocolate hazelnut goodness in my life. But a couple of years later, my dad decided to give me one last chance. He bought a jar of Nutella but made me promise I'd only eat it on weekends for breakfast, and only with supervision. Of course, I agreed.

But the very next Monday, as soon as I got home from school, I devised a plan to open the jar without leaving a trace. Using a hair dryer, I heated the seal gently until the glue melted enough for me to pry it open. With my snack thieving techniques perfected, I had that Nutella all to myself, sneaking spoonfuls whenever I was alone. Looking back, these little schemes were just the start of my lifelong love for a good snack. My parents eventually gave up on trying to control my Nutella addiction, though they never fully stopped lecturing me about it. They'd find the occasional

chocolatey spoon in odd places, but by then, I'd earn a reputation as the household food ninja. In retrospect, all these childhood stories, the dancing, the drawing, the epic snack heists, were little glimpses into my stubborn, mischievous personality. Each scheme, each sneaky move, taught me a bit more about myself. From my grandma's dreams of a flamenco star to my mom's unshakable belief that I'd be a star, to my dad's exasperated laughter at my antics, each moment has a special place in my memory. So, one day, after pulling off a flawless Nutella heist, I felt invincible. I'd sneak into the pantry, grab a spoon, and help myself to a couple of generous scoops.

The next day, the same routine. By Wednesday, it was getting routine. On Thursday, I did it again. By Friday, I had polished off half the jar. Now, my dad wasn't clueless, he definitely noticed the Nutella mysteriously vanishing. So, light bulb moment. I thought I could fool him by carefully wiping the rim and gluing the lid back on with a bit of school glue. Voila.

The jar looked untouched, and I felt like a mastermind. satisfied, I even treated myself to a bowl of cereal while watching cartoons. But Saturday morning arrived, and Dad woke me up at 8 a.m. on the dot, far earlier than I wanted. He led me to the kitchen, handed me a glass of milk, and started making toast. I had a feeling something was up when he reached for the Nutella jar. He toasted his bread, took a seed across from me, and twisted the lid. Just as he picked up a knife and poked it into the lid, he paused, looked at the jar, and then looked right at me. The expression on his face was priceless, and his words echo in my mind to this day.

At that moment, two voices popped up in my head, the angel and the devil. The angel whispered, it's time to be honest. Just tell him the truth, he'll appreciate your maturity and honesty. The devil's voice. Blame it on the rats. Just say they got in and ate it. So, after a deep breath, I decided. I hung my head, then looked up and said, clearly, you're mistaken.

That jar was closed, you saw it yourself. I mean, if you're accusing me of stealing Nutella. I'll have you know, I'll tell Mom. Dad stayed quiet all morning, staring at the jar, knowing I'd done it but lacking the evidence. Growing up, I was an only child and didn't have many friends, so I spent a lot of time alone. My parents worked hard, and when they had time, they gave me all their attention. But my mom came up with an idea, my childhood would be way better if I had a companion who would always be with me. So, she promised that if I behaved, she'd get me a dog for my eighth birthday.

Of course, behaving wasn't my style, but my mom caved and got me a dog anyway. That summer, we went to Valencia to visit my grandparents and checked out all the shelters to find the perfect pup. We looked for one with specific traits, lively, playful, good with kids, and medium-sized. If it were up to us, we'd have taken every dog home, but Dad put a stop to it. He's never been an animal person. Every dog we thought was perfect. He'd find an excuse, like, this one's probably got mange, or that one looks like it has eye issues. Eventually, my mom brought home a surprise, a cocker spaniel.

Not a tiny lap dog, but a full-on bundle of energy. This dog turned out to be my first pet, and one of my mom's biggest mistakes. This little guy, Shumi, was basically me in canine form, but even wilder. He'd run for hours without tiring, and if anyone got in his way, he'd latch on to their ankle. He had this ridiculous trick of pretending to faint whenever someone was eating, just to steal their food when they checked on him. He was a professional chaos creator. Shumi tore up a chair leg, nibbled the bottom of a door, shredded every toy we got him, and

even went through a couple of our pillows. He ate my dad's slippers, my Furby, and several doll heads. He loved sleeping in the trash can. Before you ask, yes, he had a bed, but he destroyed about fifteen of them. I wanted to name him Woody after Toy Story, but this stubborn dog wouldn't even look my way when I called him. Eventually, I named him Shumee, like Michael Schumacher, because he was relentless, just like the racer.

He would go on runs with me all over town for hours, and I'd be exhausted while he'd still be ready for more. One day, Shummy escaped and I sprinted after him for five blocks, feeling like my lungs might explode. Luckily, he was at a dumpster, eating something questionable. My mom ended up being more worried about me than before, since I'd be out with Shumi so much. When I turned 9 or 10, my grandmother gave me my first cell phone, a clunky Nokia. Nowadays, every kid has a tablet, phone, or laptop, but back then, it was practically

a prison sentence. These phones had no apps or games, just calls. And my mom would use it to check on me every 10 minutes. It drove me nuts, so I had a brilliant idea, maybe Shumi would eat the phone. Unfortunately, he only had a taste for specific trash, and the Nokia wasn't on the menu. So, I accepted that Shumi was only good at dragging me around, putting me in risky situations, and tearing things up. Eventually, I tried flushing the phone down the toilet.

I thought I'd escaped, but that Christmas, my parents got me the exact same phone again. Great. Now, I have a younger half-brother, Gerard, with a 13-year age gap between us. We've grown really close over the years, and he's every bit of that. the troublemaker I was. When he started school, he got this teacher who had a knack for releasing the kids early so she could head to the gym. She didn't teach much, and I ended up helping Gerard with his English because she couldn't count to ten in the language. I'd take an hour and a half train ride from my university to pick him up, but his teacher would always give me grief

about being a few minutes late. One day, she told me, what kind of nanny are you? If you worked for me, I'd fire you. I just looked at her, held my temper, took Gerard's hand, and politely said, have a nice day. I did my best to teach Gerard good manners, though my own language filters weren't great. I'd call people goofballs, instead of harsher words, trying to keep it PG. But one day, when I arrived late as usual, Gerard was the last one waiting. His teacher snapped at me again about being irresponsible. I couldn't hold back and said, listen, lady, if you can't handle your job, don't take it out on me. The schedule says 4.30, not whenever you feel like it. Later, as we walked home, I was trying to keep it together, and Gerard asked, sis, are you okay?

I told him I was fine, that it was nothing. He kept asking, and finally, I muttered, look, your teacher is a bit of a, well, let's just say she's not my favorite person. The next day, in the middle of my Byzantine history lecture, my phone rang. It was my mom. She told me not to worry about picking up Gerard that day. When I got home that night, I found out why. Apparently, during class, his teacher told him to quiet down, and Gerard, in his innocent little voice, replied, You can't tell me to be quiet, my sister says you're a, you know, not so nice lady, and that's just one of the countless stories with my brother.

He's got a big mouth, but honestly, I wouldn't trade these memories for anything. So my wife, Bridget 38, and I, Harold 32M, had, or maybe I should say have, three beautiful children. Sadie 11, Katie 9, and DJ 4M. We were the kind of family people looked at and thought, they have it all together. Not perfect, because who really is? But we had a good life. A stable home, a decent income, not rich, not struggling. We had enough to take a good.

a trip every now and then, to buy our kids the things they wanted within reason, and to go to bed every night knowing our life was steady, safe. Or at least, I thought it was. I thought it was safe. Until the night it all ended. A year ago, they were murdered. Not just taken from me, but violently ripped away. Someone took a gun and ended the lives of my wife and my babies, my entire world. And for what? No one knows. The police found them in our home, shot multiple times. No forced entry, no sign of a struggle.

Just, gone. My family, my everything, erased in the span of a few moments. The police have been investigating since the moment it happened, searching for the tiniest shred of evidence that might lead to whoever did this. But there's nothing. No fingerprints, no footprints, no DNA, nothing to tell me. me who stole my life away. And not knowing. It's worse than anything else. It eats away at me, day and night, gnawing at my brain like a parasite I can't get rid of. I can't sleep without seeing

them, their bodies motionless, lifeless. I can't walk through the house without hearing their laughter in my head, a cruel reminder of everything I lost. I wouldn't have survived it without Trent. My best friends since we were teenagers, the one person who's stuck by me through everything. When I say I don't think I'd still be here without him, I mean it literally. He helped with the funerals, handled things I couldn't even think about. He stayed by my side when everyone else moved on, when they started looking at me like I was a tragic story instead of a person. He kept me going, even when all I wanted was to lay down and never get back up. But Trent never liked Bridget. He made sure I knew that. Every time her name came

up, he'd make a face, brush off any mention of her, and steer the conversation somewhere else. I asked him once why he didn't like her, but he shrugged it off. She's just not right for you, he said. That was the only explanation I ever got. At the time, I thought maybe he was jealous, not in a serious way, but maybe he missed having me to himself. You know how friendships change when you get married.

I figured that was all it was. I never thought much about it. Until a few months ago. Trent was at my house, helping me go through Bridget's and the kids' belongings. It was something I kept putting off, but I knew I couldn't keep their things forever. The house was too quiet, too empty, and every item I picked up brought fresh waves of grief I wasn't sure I could handle. But Trent was there, cracking jokes, keeping the mood light. It made it easier.

Or at least, it made it bearable. We worked late into the night, and at some point, exhaustion took over. We left everything half-sorted, flopped onto the couch, and turned on a movie. I wasn't even watching it, just staring at the screen, lost in my own head, trying not to think too much. Then, out of nowhere, Trent kissed me. I didn't see it coming. One second, we were sitting there, and the next, his lips were on my mind. I shoved him off immediately.

Trent, what the hell are you doing? My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I was in shock. He stared at me, his eyes wide and desperate. Harold, I, I don't like you like that. I never have, and I never will. My wife and kids died barely a year ago, and you think this is the time to, I cut myself off, my hands shaking with anger. And then he broke.

Not just crying, but full-on hysterics, sobbing, shaking, his voice rising to a scream. I've done everything for you, Harold. I've always been there for you. I left my girlfriend for you, I made sure Bridget was gone before trying anything with you, I did everything. I've liked you for years, Harold, silence. Cold, suffocating silence. The words hung between us.

us like poison in the air, seeping into my lungs, freezing me in place. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. What do you mean, made sure Bridget was gone? My voice barely sounded like mine. Trent sucked in a shaky breath, his expression shifting. I was hoping I never had to tell you, he muttered. I wanted to put it behind me and just be happy with you, but I guess not. Then, so casually it made me sick, he said the words that shattered whatever was left of my soul, I murdered Bridget. And the kids, the room spun. I gripped the couch to steady myself, while rising in my throat.

He kept talking, oblivious to the fact that every word was pushing me further into the abyss. I was so mad that she got you before I did, he admitted, shaking his head. Ever since the day you guys got together, I've been planning it. I thought, I thought once they were out of the way, you'd see it. You'd see me, I wasn't sad. I wasn't in shock. I was furious. A rage I'd never felt before burned through me, consuming every rational thought.

My family. My wife. My children. Their lives stolen, their futures erased, all because of him. My body moved before my mind caught up. My hand closed around the knife on the counter. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

I stabbed him. The first time, he gasped. The second time, he screamed. The third time, he tried to fight back, but I was stronger. The knife went in again, and again, and again, my screams mixing with his until the only sound left was my ragged breathing. I don't know how long I stood there, staring at what was left of him. My hands were covered in blood, my clothes soaked with it. But I felt nothing.

Not guilt. Not grief. Just, emptiness. I cleaned up. Hid the body. The police never found out. They think Trent left town, maybe he couldn't handle being around me anymore, maybe the grief was too much.

That's what I let them believe. And me? I don't regret it. Not a single bit. The only thing I regret is ever meeting him. I'll try to simplify this as much as possible. I'm the oldest of two sisters. My little sister is currently 21, when I was 13 my parents divorced because my mom cheated on my dad with another woman.

Apparently she found out she's bisexual, and left us to have her lesbian trial relationship. After they separated, we had three years in a row in which we lived on a shoestream. My dad cut expenses to the extreme until he was finally able to get a better job and things stabilized. I'm not going to lie, it wasn't easy, but I understood what was going on and I always helped in any way I could, so I am very attached to my father because of that. My mother, on the other hand, cut off contact with us. When I turned 16, I asked my dad what had happened and he told me that. in exchange for not reporting her for abandonment of home, a crime that here is punishable by up to

four years in prison, she would accept a quick divorce, but that communicating with us would depend entirely on her, so yes, she did not want to speak to me or my sister in all these years. In all these years I went to therapy with my sister, I took mixed MMA classes to clear my mind because according to my therapist I had a lot of pent-up anger, so you could say that I'm pretty fit, currently my dad already has a new partner, and they are happy. together, so I'm happy for him. Now, on December 23rd of last year my dad and his girlfriend had gone out and left the house and my sister in my care, when it was nighttime there was a knock on the door and it turned out to be my mother. I was in shock when I saw her in front of me, she asked

if she could come in, but I told her no, that we would talk outside. It turns out that my mother's ex ended up being an abusive woman and that it was hard for her to get out of that relationship, and that because of these holidays she was thinking about reconnecting with us. Now, my initial reaction was to tell her that she can just go fuck herself, to which she slapped me telling me that she's still my mother and I can't talk to her like that, at that moment everything went to hell. I don't know if it was because of my training or resentment, but the first reaction my body had when I got hit in the face was to hit back, and before I knew it my mother was on the ground screaming and bleeding from her nose. Because of the scandal, my sister came out of the house and saw my mom on the ground. She barely processed it, but she wanted to throw herself at her, also angry. I had to stop her and take her into the house because we were making a scandal.

From the second floor window, I could see my mother finally leaving, crying after a while. I'm not going to lie, I had to control myself a lot because I wanted to keep hitting her when she was on the ground, but I knew that would only bring problems. I decided not to tell my dad anything because I thought it would be a one-off thing, but I wanted to keep hitting her when she was on the ground, but I knew that would be on the ground, but I knew that would be on the ground. to tell my dad anything because I thought it would be a one-off thing, but no, my mom showed up after Christmas when my dad was home, once she was here she practically begged for a chance to reconnect with us, so I agreed with my sister and her to spend New Year with her. My plan was to make her understand that there was no chance of reconnection. During New Year's Eve dinner it was just my sister, my mom and I. My mom had the audacity to say that she forgave me for hitting her,

to which I replied that it was obvious, after all she was used to a woman hitting her in the face. My sister let out a little laugh, my mom stayed quiet and then started sobbing. The next day we returned to my dad's house and I told my dad what happened. He also laughed at the beginning of my comment, but he told me that if I was going to be cruel it would have been better if I hadn't gone to her in the first place and saved myself an awkward moment. Now I don't know if what I did was right or not, of course, for me she deserves that and more but my dad said that it's not worth the effort, is he right?

Was it stupid of me to do that? This is going to be a long story, but please bear with me I.F. 25, caught my boyfriend M. 22, cheating, this is a long story, but I'm in desperate need of advice. I've always struggled with depression. I've had a lot of ups and downs, but I've come this far. When I met my now ex-boyfriend I was in a really deep hole, but meeting him made me have a reason to find life exiting again. we started to discover the world in a lot of different ways I never thought possible since my depression and anxiety always stopped me from trying new things. But with him it was different, I felt brave enough because I had him, and it wouldn't matter what happened because I wasn't alone anymore. We lived together for almost three years, we had plans to marry and had kids, our relationship wasn't perfect, to be honest, it was really hard at times because my depression got worse due to some birth control pills I got prescribed to treat PECOs, I was never told about the side effects that would affect me long-term.

regarding my depression. I had infertility issues so I continue the treatment in hopes to be able to be a mom in the future. It saddens me to say this but I started the treatment almost at the same time I met him, so he has only known the saddest version of myself, it wasn't planned, it was just bad timing, I guess. Last November, one morning he unlocked his phone to shut down the alarm and his WhatsApp opened up showing he had an archive chat, I thought it was weird but didn't give much thought since we were literally waking up. Later in the day the feeling of uneasiness was too much, I used to work from home so I checked his laptop and found some messages with a co-worker where he was clearly flirting, the girl asked him if he had a girlfriend and he changed subject. Later in the

conversation she asked if he was living with someone and he just answered he was living with a roommate. I couldn't find more than that since it was a chat from work, but there was definitely chemistry between them and I can only imagine they continue through text, otherwise he wouldn't have had that archive conversation. This was honest a shock to me I thought everything was fine between us, I always thought if a boyfriend cheated on me I would have realized, but nothing really changed, his attitude was still as charming as always with me, every day he was still the same loving and caring guy I fell in love with, so why? Why has he doing this?

The feeling that he hide and denied me broke me. My anxiety got the best in me and I didn't wait for more proof, as I should have, and I texted him that we were done. I also texted her that she could have him. She apologized saying she didn't know he had a girlfriend, moreover, that he lived with me or that we had plans to marry. I then proceed to put all his belongings in bags and cried myself to sleep for the whole day. When he arrived for his belongings he apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again, silly me believed him and we started couples therapy, it was hard,

but I firmly believed that we could work it out somehow, fast forward to February, I was starting to feel like us again. I thought it was just a hard episode in the relationship, but that we were over it, and then the 8th of March I received a message from that same girl. She said that she was a feminist and because it was woman's day she felt guilty to knowingly harm another woman, she then proceeded to send me absolutely all proof that I didn't ask for, all their conversations, screenshots, and pictures of presence he gave to her. She said that ever since she found out he was lying about having a girlfriend, she stopped talking to him, but he persistently continued to search for her.

All the holes that my anxiety created were suddenly filled with all the messages she sends me and made me realize that not even with the therapy, and the false promises, nothing really changed, he just got better at hiding it. I quit my job, I grabbed all of my belongings and I moved to a different city because I knew that if I stayed there I would forgive him again, I knew that I loved him too much to say no to him, I stopped using the pills, since for me I had no reason to keep torturing myself for a future that will no longer be. Everything became a mess, that type of mess you have when you try to start over on a new place, all that time, he never stopped reaching out to me, I couldn't just block him because we had a joined bank accounts paying for the car we got

together and other several adult expenses that I hate. But eventually I got through it. I now have a job, I also started in the beauty business putting nails as a side job and I have plans to study to be a veterinarian, I'm forcing myself to see a future even though every day I struggle with the urge of having zero reasons to live. A few weeks ago he came to my house with a whole plan to win me back, of course I agreed to meet with him. And he was a completely different man, I want to believe that living all alone and that he got promoted to a manager almost immediately after we broke up had a lot to do with it. He acted more mature and apologized again, but this time it seemed that he really means it, to be honest it was like being on vacation

with him. He took me to a lot of nice places that I didn't even knew existed even though I've been living here now for roughly five months, he did his homework. He said that this trip was in a way his last hope to win me back, but if he couldn't do it, he would accept and just close this chapter altogether. Unfortunately, all of my love is still there, I never stopped loving him and I don't hate him either even if I try the good things always win me over the bad. This trip made me fall in love with him all over again, but it's like I'm falling in love for a better version of a man that I'm just starting to know. And then, there's me, that has been stuck on the same loop of depression every day for the last

couple of months. I put on my big girl pants and told him I couldn't go back with him because I know myself and to be honest I'm not sure if I'm ever going to be able to forgive him, or trust again in his words, he said that he understands that he screw up and that he is willing to fight for me and wait for me all the time that I need to. A month already passed since that, and if he was nice with me before we broke up, now his attentions have multiplied, we somehow agreed to wait at least three years before we even remotely start to think on being together again, but in all honesty now it feels like we have a long-distance relationship without the tittle. I knew that I had to leave him because otherwise he wouldn't change,

and I count stay living with someone that wanted someone else, I never wanted to leave him, I thought I found the one, but I set him free, if he was feeling so overwhelmed with our commitment and my mood swings. I gave him the freedom he was so looking for, so he could go and date all the women he wanted, so why? I never expected that he would keep looking for me, why the change? Why now? I don't know what to do, I know I love him, but I don't know if my love for him will ever be

enough to fix all the hurt and the tears and the messed up feeling that I have that I'm broken. I don't want to feel like this anymore, and I'm shitless scared that it will happen again. I don't have anyone to talk about it, I never knew loving someone deeply could hurt this much, and I'm lost. I know he's trying, I know he is changing and puts effort every day, but all the plans we had about marring and children in a house, I don't see them anymore, a part of me does want to get over this and work towards that future with him, I just don't know how, I don't feel like I'll ever be able to love another person as deeply as him, but I don't

know how to forgive him either. In a few months I'll turn 26 and I don't think I'll last three more years feeling this lost, another big part of me truly just want to give up. If you came this far thank you, I really just needed to write this down to help my feelings clear up a little. I'm a 26-year-old man and have been married to Lucy, 25, for three years. We have no kids and are not planning on any. Here's what happened, I have a job that requires me to travel about one weekend every four to six weeks. I leave on Friday morning and come back very early Monday morning, around 2 a.m. Lucy is almost always asleep, so I just crawl into bed with her and we wake up together on Monday morning. I have two days off after the work trip. This time, we finished the work early, and I came back a

day earlier. Most of the time I'm traveling, I'm in a no-cell reception zone, so I couldn't communicate that I would be back home earlier. No problem, this has happened before. I came in at 2 a.m. on Sunday, crawled into bed, and hugged my wife, feeling that she was naked. Being the man that I am, of course I grabbed her boobs. She is my wife, after all. I heard her moan a little, and then I heard Lucy say, just stay put, sweetheart. I'll be right back. I watched Lucy get up and stand there, completely exposed. I couldn't help but say, you look absolutely stunning. The moment I said that, Lucy turned around as if she'd been stunned by a bee and stared at me in shock. It took me a few seconds to comprehend, if Lucy is standing in front of the bed, who am I holding?

I quickly sat up and looked at the person, the naked person, I was holding, who was still sleeping in my arms, with my hand on her chest. It was Amy, 24, Lucy's best friend. I just shouted, what the hell is going on here? This woke Amy up, and she jumped up and ran to Lucy. They both ran to the bathroom. I could hear them talking in panic but couldn't make out what they were saying. I went to the living room, I was exhausted from work, I hadn't slept for close to 24 hours,

I had to comprehend what just happened. I sat on my recliner with my face buried in my hands. After a few minutes I felt her hand on my shoulder. I looked up and say Lucy crying, this confirmed to me that I was not mistaking. I am grateful they did not try to gaslight me. With my lack of sleep and exhaustion they could have easily fooled me into thinking it was something innocent. Both Lucy and Amy were now dressed.

Amy was standing behind the sofa and Lucy was kneeling beside me. back, Lucy's whole body language was that of concern and caring, not defensive and ready to flee. I was honestly too tired to be angry, so I calmly asked, how long? Lucy replied, a couple of months. During my work trips. I asked. Lucy nodded, yes.

Has there been anyone else? I asked. Lucy shook her head, no. I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted. We'll talk about this tomorrow. "'Amy, I don't want you here tomorrow,' I said. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, Lucy was at the breakfast table waiting for me. I have no idea where she slept or if she slept at all. As per my wish, Amy was not here. I made a cup of coffee, sat down, and said, All right, you need to explain everything. After that, I want to hear why I shouldn't divorce you, and finally, what you're planning to do to fix this. Something you should know about me, I have a calm anger, I don't shout, but my voice does change

and sounds harsher, more stern. That is the only way I can explain it. Lucy started by telling me she's bisexual and that she and Amy had been having an emotional affair for a while. It only turned physical during one of my work trips at the beginning of the year when they had a movie night and a lot of wine. She said it wasn't planned, it just happened. That's when I interrupted.

I had suspected her orientation since college, but it was a lot of it was. wasn't my place to bring it up. But wanted to know why she never told me. So early in our friendship, before we even had a relationship a friend made a joke about bisexuals being good for threesomes but not for relationships. And I laughed. This has never been my though process, but at the time I thought the joke was funny, I had no idea the effect if had on the way Lucy saw me. I told her, it just happened, might fly the first time, but every time after that was definitely planned. Why should I not divorce you, my unfaithful wife? She began to tell me how much she loved me, how it was a mistake, how she could only see a future with me, how happy I made her, and on and on.

I cut her off. You need to try harder. I'm hearing plenty of reasons that benefit you, but I'm not hearing a single reason for me to stay in this marriage. I'm the one who was betrayed, and I'm not hearing why I should stay. Then I asked, what are you planning to do to make this right? My trust in you is gone. I can't go on a work trip without worrying about what you're doing. You say there hasn't been anyone else, how am I supposed to trust that's true?

So tell me, how are you going to rebuild the trust you've destroyed? She listed a bunch of things, giving me access to all her devices, sharing her location through her smartwatch, installing cameras in the house, having friends drop by unexpectedly when I'm on a trip. She even suggested joining me on my work trips and staying in the hotel the whole weekend. So, what you're suggesting is turning our home into a prison with me as the warden? Tell me, do you think the warden trusts his inmates? Don't you think he knows that the moment he turns his back, or lets up, they'll go right back to their old ways?

I've heard enough for today. I'll give you another chance in a few days to answer my last two questions. For now, I think it is best to give me some space. I said. She got up and started walking to the bedroom, and then I added, You've offered all these promises to make things right, but you haven't mentioned cutting ties with Amy. Let me be clear, I haven't decided. whether I want a divorce yet, but if you stay at Amy's these next few days, the divorce is a sure thing.

There will be no coming back from that. She left, and I broke down crying. I'm not cold or heartless, that's just a defense mechanism. I was a mess all of Sunday and Monday. I took the rest of the week off. By Thursday, I cleaned the house and the garden and sent her a text saying she could come over on Saturday to talk. If she didn't come or didn't reschedule, I would assume she had given up on us. She arrived at our home at around 8.30 in the morning, which is very early for her. I let her in, she sat on the sofa, and I made her a cup of coffee. Where did you stay this week? I asked. At my sisters, she replied. What did you tell her? Only that we are having some trouble and you need some space. Did you see Amy? No, not even a text, she said, taking out her phone to offer

it to me, but I declined. I told you, I'm not going to play the role of warden, I said. So, do you trust me? she asked. No, I replied. Then how will you ever trust me again if you won't even check my phone? I'm not the one who needs to do anything to regain trust. I wasn't the one who broke it. You're the one who has to do the work, I said. But how, she asked.

I don't know. You spent time and energy sneaking around behind my back. Use that same energy to figure out how to rebuild the trust. This is your mess, so if you want to fix it, you have to do it. the work. I don't have to do anything, I said. You could meet me halfway, she suggested. I already am.

I'm giving you a chance to make things right, I replied. The issue wasn't the sex with Amy. If she had told me after the first time when it just happened, we could have worked it out. The problem was the betrayal of my trust. The problem was doing everything behind my back, keeping it a secret from me, her husband. She broke down crying when I told her this. I told her I'm giving her three months to regain my trust. If after three months I still can't trust her, I'll file for divorce.

I know, three months is a long time, but I want to give her a real chance. Because the truth is, I still love her. But if after three months there is no trust one will file for divorce. I'll give her one courtesy, she can come up with a reason for our divorce that doesn't have to be the truth, I don't want to ruin her reputation with friends and family. But if the new story puts me in a bad light, I'll tell every person. one the real story. It's been six months since D-Day, and yeah, we got divorced. Lucy really did try hard to save our marriage. She put in the effort, no doubt about it. When Lucy came back

home, I didn't ask her to move to the guest bedroom, so she stayed in our bed. As a small sign of protest, I started wearing pajamas. We always slept either naked or just in boxers. The pajamas were a clear message. Of course, I couldn't keep that up for long. Even though I didn't want to play detective, she was constantly sharing her location, giving me updates, and texting me about everything she was doing. I never asked, but she did change her phone password to something I would remember, and she told me about it. So, I had access to her phone and other devices. In those months, I took her phone once, and it was just to order a pizza because my battery was dead. For a while, I thought maybe, just maybe, we could make it work. But then came

the final straw. A few weeks in, Lucy went to a fan. family event I couldn't attend. No big deal, right? She told me about it beforehand, like she'd been doing with everything else. But what she didn't mention was that Amy was there too. I only found out because I saw a post from Amy on Instagram. There wasn't even a picture of the two of them together, but I recognized the place and realized Lucy had been there. If I hadn't known better, I would have just scrolled past it without a second thought. Here's the thing, I never told Lucy what she could or couldn't do. I never said she should want to. I never said she should warn me if she ran into Amy.

The only thing I told her was that actions have consequences. She's allowed to do whatever she wants, but she has to live with the consequences. When I asked Lucy about it, she insisted that she didn't even talk to Amy. She said they just happened to be at the same event, and that was it. And honestly, I did believe her. But her not telling me Amy was there felt like she was hiding it from me. Now, every time she leaves the house, I have this uneasy feeling. I don't know where she's going, and I don't know if I can trust that she's doing what she says

she's doing. That tiny seed of doubt was still there, and it just kept growing. That's when I knew, it didn't matter what she said or did, I couldn't trust her anymore. And I didn't know if that could be fixed. When I told Lucy I couldn't do it anymore, she started crying. It was heartbreaking. She still loved me, and I loved her. She cried in my arms for hours.

She kept saying, I'm sorry, and, I love you. After a few hours, she fell asleep crying. I carried her to bed, packed a few things, and left. The divorce was amicable and took just a few weeks. We decided to tell everyone that we just grew apart. It's easier that way, no drama, no messy explanations. Only Lucy, Amy, and I know the real story. And that's how it ends. I don't hate Lucy, and I know she tried, but sometimes, once trust is gone, there's no going back. We're going our separate ways now, and hopefully, we both find some peace down the road. The divorce was finalized, and a few weeks later, I saw Lucy walking hand in hand with Amy.

That's when I knew I had to leave. That Monday, I went to work and put in for a transfer out of state. I explicitly told them I wanted the transfer immediately. Two days later, it was approved, and two weeks after that, I left for the satellite office. Yes, it was unusually fast. But I'm good with the people in HR, and they did me a favor by pushing my request. This is my first night in my new apartment, in a new state. God, I miss Lucy.

I'm going to get drunk tonight. Tomorrow is a new day. Final part. It has been five years, and I have moved twice more since then. A few weeks after my first move, my buddy Dan told me that Lucy had been looking for me. She wanted to know where I had gone, but Dan could not tell her because he simply did not know. I had left so suddenly that I did not tell anyone where I was going. At the time, I just wanted to leave my old life behind.

The first few months after the move were rough. When I was with Lucy, I loved trying new things with her, like traveling to unfamiliar cities, discovering new restaurants, and ordering the most unusual items on the menu. New experiences were always tied to her. After the divorce, I moved to a new state, a new city, transferred to a new office, and found myself exploring new bars, clubs, and restaurants.

All of it reminded me of Lucy. Over time, I was able to enjoy things again without the constant reminder of my ex-wife, and life started to get better. As the new guy and the youngest middle manager at the office, I became pretty popular. I never dated anyone from work, but through my colleagues, I met a lot of new people, including a few women I casually dated. I was not looking for anything serious at that time, and they respected that. Being an only child with no parents left, I had nothing tying me down.

tying me down. So, I kept moving, twice more, while continuing to work for the same company. For my last move, I decided I wanted to live somewhere warmer and closer to the coast. Before committing to the move, I traveled there for a company project and volunteered so I could explore the area. Afterward, I requested a transfer, and a few weeks later, I made the move. In the last few years, I have changed a bit. I grew a goatee, which my barber calls, the Tony Stark, and I finally got the tattoo I had always wanted, stretching from my chest to my upper arm. While I have always been in good shape, I changed my workout routine to bulk up a little, but not too much. And now for the real update. I made a few friends at the office who are as

loud and fun as I am, so we went out to a local bar with a live rock cover band. It was a great night filled with drinking, singing along with the band, and being the lively crowd that bands loved to have around. It was almost midnight when I heard a woman call my name in a questioning tone, as if she wasn't sure it was me. I noticed my friend's reactions, and from their expressions, I knew a beautiful woman was standing behind me. As I turned around, I said something corny and cocky-like, that's my name, and you will remember

it at breakfast. When I finally faced her, I froze. It was Lucy, and with a teasing smile, she replied, I already know your name, but I hope I get to say it again at breakfast. She looked incredible. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or maybe it was because it had been four years, but she was even more stunning than I remembered. She pulled me into a hug, and I was so taken aback that I didn't react properly.

I gave her a weak hug, which probably came off as if I didn't want to hug her at all. I turned to the guys and said, guys, I am calling it a night. Rob, can you cover my tab? I will pay you back later. I took a few steps, and Lucy looked down as if she thought I was walking away. I turned back, took her hand, and asked, are you coming? Her smile could have lit up the entire room. She quickly said goodbye to her friends and walked outside with me.

In my not-so-so sober state, I thought it was obvious that I wanted her to come with me. Apparently, it had looked like I was going to leave her behind. The night was warm with a cool breeze by the water, and I took her for a walk. We made small talk about our careers, and she mentioned that she had moved here two and a half years ago. After she broke up with Amy, she had no reason to stay, so she found a new challenge and relocated. I had no idea she was here, and maybe that was for the best. I do not think I would have moved here if I had known. But now, I am glad I did.

That night, we talked about many things, including relationships. I told her I had not been in town long enough to start anything serious, and she mentioned she was casually seeing someone, but they both knew it wasn't going anywhere. When we arrived at her apartment, it was time to say goodbye. I had already decided I would ask her out again. But when we hugged, it lasted way too long, and we both knew it wasn't just a hug. While we were still holding each other, she looked up at me and said, I want to make you breakfast. The next morning, I woke up in her bed, greeted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

That was a year ago. Not long after that, I moved in with Lucy. We told our friends part of the story that we used to be married, grew apart, and found each other again. A month ago, Amy contacted Lucy out of the blue using a new number. She said she was going to visit the city and wanted to meet up. Lucy politely replied that, out of respect for our rekindled relationship, she did not think it was a good idea to stay in contact. After that, she blocked Amy's number.

Now, we are looking for a bigger place, because Lucy is pregnant. Part 1, T. LDR, FWB's ex-girlfriend found out that he'd moved on and started pranking slash harassing me. This long story takes place about 17 years ago, when I was single, and still cracks me up. It recently resurfaced in my head so I figured I would share it on Reddit. I hope this is the right place for it because I don't know where else I can post this. If inappropriate, please go ahead and remove it. Throw away account for obvious reasons. I had just moved back to my hometown and reconnected with a little.

an old fling. We decided to be FWB again because why not? Since we were just FWB, I was brief about the reason I moved home and all he said was that he was still single. Few weeks later when the topic of cell phone came up, he dug out a prepaid phone and handed it to me. He said he didn't need it, so I could just borrow it until I got my own. What he failed to tell me was that he was seeing someone before and broke up just a few weeks before we reconnected. So naturally the X had the number to that phone. One weekend morning, the phone rang and dragged me out of sleep. I answered, and a female voice asked for FWB by name.

I grogily said, He's not here, I'm borrowing this phone, I can relate your message to him later when I see him. She said she wanted to wish him a happy birthday, to which I replied, oh, it's his birthday. Okay, I'll tell him. What's your name? She gave it to me, asked me my name, I gave it to her, thanked me, and hung up. I didn't think more about it and went back to sleep. When I saw FWB that afternoon, I brought up the conversation with the girl and he flipped

out. Told me to not answer her call again and that she's crazy, etc. I shrugged and said okay, and thought that was that. We went to dinner with a couple of his friends for his birthday. Upon returning to his home, he saw the answering machine blinking, so he pressed play. I went straight to the bathroom while he did that, so I didn't hear the message. When I came out, he looked upset. F-WB, why are you giving men my phone number?

Me, what are you talking about? He pressed play, and there were several messages from different men saying things like, Hey, you told me to call, why aren't you picking up? Let's continue what we were doing. Me, dude, I was with you at dinner, I have no idea what the heck is going on. Just then the phone rang again a few more times, and he picked up each time. As soon as he picked up, calls were dropped. Frustrated, my mood was gone, so I decided to go home.

About ten minutes into the drive, the cell phone rang, and I answered. Some dude called me by name and was like, hey, let's pick up where we left off. I remained calm and told him that I had no idea what he was talking about, and please explain to me how he got my number. He thought I was joking and I told him that I was just at a guy friend's house and his home number was getting similar calls. This guy was nice enough to tell me that he was chatting with a girl claiming to be me, and she gave him this number to continue talking naughty on the phone. I apologized to him, told him that he was pranked, and hung up. Called the FWB and told him what I had just learned.

He then said, oh, it must be the ex-girlfriend. She used that phone before I broke things off. Cricket, from me, as I honestly didn't know what to say. Couldn't really blame him since he didn't know that she would go completely nutso after the breakup. The following day, or maybe two days later, once again, the phone rang early in the morning, before I intended to be up. It was her again. I ignored it and tossed the phone aside, but that girl was relentless. She kept calling until I finally picked up, out of sheer curiosity on what she could possibly want to talk about. She turned on the waterworks, I tell you.

She apologized for the prank and I said, okay, please don't do it anymore. She asked if I loved FWB, I was honest and said no, we were just friends. Oops, wrong answer apparently. She immediately asked if I could help her win him back. Say what? At this point I still didn't know the reason of their breakup as he didn't seem to want to talk about it and I'm just not the prying type, plus it just was none of my business. I tried to tell her that he wasn't worth it, sorry FWB, and it probably just wasn't meant to be, she should move on, blah, blah, blah. The call ended somewhat well, or so I thought, and I told her that I had to get ready for work and wished her well. I thought that was the end of it. Again, I was wrong.

She continued to call me throughout the day, but I was working so I turned off the ringer and ignored all her calls. I guess she didn't like being ignored by a stranger so that night she started the prank again, so I was getting calls from strangers again. By that point I was very irritated and told FWB that he had got to do something before I track her down and smash her phone and computer. FWB suggested that I changed the number, so I paid the $10 to have the number changed, thinking it was finally over. But if it was, I wouldn't be writing about it. Within days I was getting calls from her, then strangers again. WTF. How did she get my number?

I don't like dramas and this drama was wearing me out. I called FWB and demanded some actions from him. Apparently he believed that as long as he ignored her, she would stop. She obviously wasn't going away, and decided to take her frustrations out on me, the innocent bystander. When I told him that she got my new number, he had a light bulb moment and said, oh, she had the PIN number for that account since she reloaded the card on her own. I was pissed. I wasted $10. So I called the phone company again, spent another $10, which FWB later reimbursed, and changed the PIN number to get her out of my life once and for all.

Finally, she couldn't bother me anymore, so her attention went back to him, L.O.L. He blocked her on Yahoo Messenger, but she created new account and started messaging him. As this post was getting too long, I'll post an excerpt of those messages in, Part 2, T. L. Dar, FWB's ex-girlfriend found out that he'd moved on and started pranking slash harassing me, but after I changed my number twice, she went back to harassing the FWB on Yahoo Messenger. So, here's part two. Since she couldn't reach me anymore, she resorted back to messaging the guy, her ex, my FWB. He shared some of the conversation with me. I'm only posting some parts. If memory serves me right, most of this took place in one day,

while he was working from home. So he wasn't constantly looking at the chat and she apparently got very mad at him, ignoring her. She went from pleading to shouting, all caps, and back to, poor me, rant, then got mad again. I never knew anyone in real life that can be as dramatic as a telenovela. I'm keeping all her typos in to keep it authentic. Only changed out names.

As it's quite long, after pasting everything, there will be a part three. equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals I told her to take care of you. She is nice. She told me to move on. The X told me maybe you are not the guy for E. The X. She also offered to give me other guys. to date. I didn't, not sure where she got that idea. The ex, take care of her too. The ex, I guess I get the closure that I was asking for. The ex, when you love someone you have to let them go. The ex, I just wish it didn't hurt so much. The ex, I took the full-time job and I will be leaving with my uncle. No choice, I have to reconsider and priorits now work over love life, no love life now. The ex, have to date again. The ex, I hope O.P. takes care of you and hope she knows

how to cook and clean. FWB tried to ignore her, but she was getting on his nerves so he finally decided to respond. FWB, well, one thing for sure, she knows how to stay out of my personal stuff. The ex, yeah, she advised me that Beck she said she was also dumped before, again, not true, I never said such things. The ex, so she knows where I'm coming from. The ex, she also advised me to stay away so as not to further humiliate myself and irritate you. The ex, is it true you told her to not to talk to me if I called the cell phone? The X, M hurt. FWB, what is your EXB's phone number? I want to talk to him. FWB, give me his phone number. FWB, since you are so hurt, let's see how you like it if I start talking to him. FWB, well, I am waiting. FWB, what is his phone number?

FWB, hey, FWB, wake up. FWB, give it to me. The X, well to tell you Frenackly Laf and I are still on speaking terms. what is his phone number? The X, what for? FWB, you think it is okay to talk to OP, right? FWB, so, what is his phone number? FWB, you hypocrite, FWB, all the BS about how you are heard, he was really irritated at the point because he was working from home on some codes and having issues with it. I later on told him that he could have just logged off LOL, the X, I talked to O.P to ask if I can win you back. FWB, it's okay for you to talk to O-P, but not me to talk to XYZ, her ex-boyfriend. FWB, you hypocrite.

The X, what will you say to X, Y, Z? The X, why should I give you X, Y, Z number? The X, I believed in you. The X, I even considered spending my lifetime with you and growing old with you, but unlike you XYZ knows how to forgive. The X, he is not vindictive. The X, he doesn't hurt me to spite me. The X, what hurts is that I loved you.

The X, more than him. The X, yes I'm a hypocrite because despite puting up a brave face I'm still brokenhearted. The X, you broke my heart. The X, if you really loved me you will be able to forgive, I seriously LMAO'd when I saw this. The X, other men have experienced even graver situations, their GFS or wives cheating on them, but they have the courage to trust and love again despite that. The X, you gave up on me. The X, and I thought it will be us, I prayed for that.

The X, but you are too proud. The X, X, XYZ's number is triple X, triple X, but you are too proud. X X X, X, X, X, X, call him, the X, tell him. Tell him you dumped me, the X, I broke up with X, Y, Z, the X, so, go ahead call, buzz. The X, make an ass of yourself, the X, as I did today, buzz. The X, are you there? The X, I dare you to call him, buzz. The X, please pick up so we can talk civilly, the X, like adults, buzz.

The X, I don't know where your anger is coming from. X, you can ignore me all you want. The X, I just want you T.O. ask yourself if you are happy doing this to me. The X. Does it make you happy T.O. be so vindictive? The X. Does it make you happy T.O. know that I'm hurt back you have another girl with you now. The X. Do, you want me T.O. call up again. The X. I think the hypocrite lies white you because you love me still and you are so angry because you expected me not Tio become flawed in your eyes.

The X. After all we've been through during the time I was here last year. Those didn't count Beck at the turn of my back you looked for a rebound. The X, I think Op is just a rebound, wrong, he was MY rebound, as stated in part one, we agreed that it was strictly a FWB situation. The X, I hope she will love you and follow you. She seems T.O. be a very independent girl. The X, she also advised me that it was my fault that I put you in the center of my life. The X, she said I should go after my passion and not some guy, I did say that.

The X, not T.O. build my life on a guy. The X. Looking back. I did that. The X, I prioritized you over looking for a job because I am like that when I am in love. The X, I give 100%. The X, nothing is left for me. The X, so I always end up the most hurt. The X, now analize yourself. The X, if you really love her then I will let you go. The X, but if you are not sure go after what you are heart tells you. The X, I don't want what I-Fs so I've exhausted all efforts T.O. when you back, but you are dense. The X, now I cannot do anything about that can I. The ex-I-J-U-S- backslash T-W-D let me explain. Buzz. The X, you can call me and cuss at me,

Buzz. Buzz. The X, at least have the courage T-O talk to me. The X, are you still mad? The X, I don't want to ruin you our birthday. The X, I did it because I want to win you back. The X, I didn't ask her she voluntarily told me everything. Part 3. T.L.D. FWB's ex-Girl found out that he'd moved on and started pranking slash harassing me, but after I changed my number twice, she went back to harassing the FWB on Yahoo Messenger. After these messages, he blocked her. Apparently she started calling him at the office. She would call the main number, ask for him by name, and when the receptionist informed

him of the call, he would decline and transfer to voicemail, at that point she would hang up and call again. The receptionist was going nuts, dealing with this for over a week. Then she wrote him a final goodbye email, which is at the bottom of this. Equ, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals equals. The X, she said you knew her before. The X, and she said you are seeing each other now. The X, I told her to take care of you, Buzz. The X, please talk to me, buzz.

The X, Yves ain't known you not to be cruel backslash. Buzz The X, why are you doing this? Buzz The X, for God's sake she doesn't even remember that today was you our birthday, LOL-L that's true. The X, if you've known each other before and you mean a lot to her she would have remembered. The X, I only reminded her it was you are birthday today.

The X, I hope she doesn't dump you for another guy. Buzz. The X, I wish you well. The X, I tried my best. The X, I hope you realize after all the anger. I hope that you are conscience tell you. you that I do not deserve this. The ex, after what I did for you and after all those ways that I showed you I love you. The ex, all the good things that you did for me I tired to return them in my

own way. My only fault was that I snooped. The ex, I hope you realize when I'm already gone and out of you our life that you could have handled it the mature way. Buzz. The ex, time for me to move on. The ex, I don't have anything to return to. The ex, time to let go. The ex, my ex may be a perv, but he treats me white respect when we talk on the phone, he was never cruel to me. The X, you are the F asterisk king hypocrite not me, I edited the F word to avoid breaking any rules. Buzz. The X, how dare you? The X, look in the mirror you'll see.

The X, you tell me that, but I are exactly that. The X, that's it. F asterisk, asterisk you. The X, you are now on ignore. Oh, really. The X, have a miserable life that's my wish for you. The X, to die alone and miserable. The X, you hurt me you deserve more nasty words.

The X, you make me so angry. The X, good riddance. The X, you are a fucking mistake. Buzz. The X, I am erasing you. The X, out of my system. The X, out of my life. The X, you are not a good catch.

The X, you are bald, ugly and stinky and lazy and don't want children. The X, you cannot commit, so. The X, you are a player and a big liar. The X, I am so. So through with you. The X. I V had it. The X. Disregard all the cards. The X. Return all the stuff I gave you. The X. You are not worthy. The X. You are not worth it. The X. I want you T.O. get hurt. The X. Feel the same way I am feeling right now. The X. But you are an A-hole when you want T-O-B so I don't care anymore. The X. A dollar dollar W-I-P. The X. I have a no future with you anyway. The X. I have a no future with you anyway. the X, player, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, he sent me this. I usually he sent me this. I usually am very good about respecting one's privacy, but given her infantile behavior this past weekend, she deserves none, much less any right to privacy.

So here's her latest. Just want to let you know that I decided I don't want to share, it's against my principle to share. I guess when it comes to matters of the heart am a little selfish, it wouldn't be right too. It's much better to give. I realize there's a lot out there for me. I was excited with my date last Sunday morning for coffee. He is 44 and he is an engineer living in at hashtag dollar percent.

His name is ABC. He is Italian and is from, he has a master's too and is a mechanical engineer. We had coffee at Starbucks and he was a very good listener. He was not fresh and not fast. He was a gentleman. Really sweet. Later on he invited me to meet his friend who was supposed to have his birthday party in at hashtag dollar percent. I had fun because they were a neat crowd.

We were joking because I sent him one of my clubbing picks and he told me that by just looking at my lips gives him a hard on, now that was funny, well I was really sexy in that pick. Can't blame him, LOL. I know I told you that I love you and I still do, but the pleading and winning back has been very exhausting and has become an exercise in futility so I gave Kinda gave up, I hope you understand. I need to move on and the best way to do it is to go out and have fun and meet other nice people. I don't want to stay at home cry and mop. No use wallowing in self-pity, I reallious there are ways you can be really happy. Dating has never been so exciting, I have an excuse to dress up and be beautiful again. In living in percent of the

percent percent percent and it kinda sucks because I am bored there after dinner and cleaning up because I live with my uncle and his wife really old people I just go to my big room and watch TV they don't have a computer there I haven't had the chance to visit jenn and the kids I was there Saturday afternoon but went back to percent percent percent percent right away because they were waiting for me there my problem now is on how to ask for permission to date since I'm not staying with jen anymore I won't be able to go on overnights I have several suitors Joe left 4 hashtag hashtag to be with his mom who had a bypass. He's out of the pick now. I have ABC. Then there's O-O-O-O from at-at-at-A. He was one of my chatmates before. Then there's H-H who was so sweet he sends me minutes to refill my phone so we can talk.

I've become a hot item suddenly. L-O-L. FWB said, perhaps she wanted to make me jealous L-O-L. What's the point though? I've got you. We're having fun and you're not trying to tell you. me down, but don't you worry because I am still cautious and I am still decent. I've learned my lesson, never trust right away. I have to see who's deserving, right? I don't want to sell myself short so I'm not going to share you. If you require me of that then my answer's going to be an O. She can have you. Infidelity has no justification. I don't live by that code and am not too desperate to share. Out of my book, I told you before I promised myself I will never become a mendicant for someone's love or attention. So, with that I wish us both peace. Take care of yourself and

wish me luck, be safe, be happy. If you need someone to listen, I'm always here. Of course I D still ask you for advice. She called a couple more times after this email, then eventually stopped. He replayed some of her messages on his answering machine for me to hear, as he was a habitual call screener. All I can say is she was quite delusional. I truly wish that she has since then found her Mr. Wright. The end, what's the creepiest or most unexplainable thing that's ever happened to you, something you still think about to this day? A few years ago, I was at the lowest point of my life. I mean, things were rough. I had lost a few people close to me, all in sudden, heartbreaking ways, and my job felt like a prison where I was constantly being harassed.

It was like my life was crumbling around me, and I couldn't see a way out. I wasn't just sad or depressed, I was completely drained, like waking up to another day felt unbearable. So, I made a decision. I planned everything. I bought a one-way plane ticket, got my hands on some sleeping pills, and wrote a bunch of goodbye notes. The day I was supposed to carry out my plan, there was a massive accident on the highway leading to the airport.

Traffic was completely blocked off, so I decided to kill some time at a nearby bar and wait for things to clear up. I ordered a beer and sat there, drowning in my thoughts, when this ran. random guy approached me. He asked if he could join me, and I just thought, sure, whatever. What's the point? This man, this complete stranger, looked me dead in the eye and said, What you're planning to do is a terrible idea. You're going to regret it. My first thought was, who the hell is this guy? But I let him talk. He told me he could feel that I was in pain, that I had been suffering, but that my story wasn't supposed to end this way. He said I had an

incredible life ahead of me if I could just hold on a little longer. Here's the thing, I never told him a single word about my plan. I didn't know him, and he didn't know me. But somehow, he knew exactly what was going on in my head. He asked me to hand over my keys and my wallet, promising to give them back after we talked. For some reason, I trusted him. I poured my heart out to this guy. I told him everything, all the trauma, all the reasons I felt like I couldn't go on. I even told him about my plan to disappear across the country, to the cemetery where some of my family members were buried. He just listened, quietly, without judgment. When I finished, he pulled out a lighter and asked me to take out the letters I had written.

He helped me burn them, one by one. Then he looked at me and said, You're worth so much more than you think. Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be better. I promise. And for some reason, I believed him. He gave me back my keys and wallet, and I left. That night, I went home, hugged my family, and slept for the first time in what felt like forever.

The next day, I started making changes. I found a therapist, quit my toxic job, and began rebuilding my life. Now, years later, I'm in an amazing place. I'm happy, thriving, and miles away from where I was that day. No one in my life knows how close I came to ending at all. But I think about that stranger every single day. I never saw him again. I don't even know his name.

He's the most inexplicable thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm forever grateful for him. So, wherever you are, kind stranger, thank you for saving my life that September day in a random bar. When my sister and I were kids, she used to have this recurring nightmare. It happened every single night. I'd wake up to her screaming and crying, and when I'd ask what was wrong, she'd tell me the same story. In her dream, she'd wake up and feel like she needed to go to the bathroom. But as she passed the foot of her bed, a woman wearing a pink robe, someone who looked a lot like our mom,

would lunge at her with something sharp. That's where the dream always ended. This went on for weeks, and eventually, my parents made me switch rooms with her. They thought maybe having someone else in the room would help. For her, it did. The nightmares stopped completely. But for me? I had that exact same dream. just once. And let me tell you, that was enough. Years later, after we'd moved out of that house, my mom told us something that sent chills down my spine. She said she hadn't told us back then because she didn't want to scare us, but strange things happened in that house all the time. Glasses would shatter on their own. The TV would turn on and off by itself.

Creepy stuff. But what she told us next still freaks me out to this day. A few nights after we switched rooms, my mom was sitting in the living room, waiting for my dad to come home from his night shift at the refinery. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone slowly walk past her. They were heading toward the hallway that connected the bathroom and the master bedroom. She froze for a second, then got up to follow whoever it was. When she got a better look, she saw a woman, just the back of her, with hair exactly like hers, wearing a pink robe. My mom said she ran to the bedroom, but there was no one there. She yelled, leave me. my kids alone. Leave this house alone." And after that, all the weird stuff stopped. I'm so glad

we ended up moving out of that place. Even now, just thinking about it gives me goosebumps. One night, my husband and I were driving through the Siskiu National Forest. Google Maps had taken us on a weird detour that turned into a total nightmare. What should have been a short drive turned into a four-hour ordeal in the middle of the night. At first, we were just annoyed. The GPS had us driving on a dirt road that didn't even look like a real road. But then things started getting, strange. The directions kept changing, leading us to non-existent turns. I started tracking the kilometers on the car's odometer, just to see how far we'd gone. Google Maps said it was supposed to be 16 kilometers to the next road, but I stopped counting after 48. We were on this

one-way mountain path, barely wide enough for the car, with landslides and debris everywhere. There was no way to turn around. At one point, we got completely stuck. It was almost 2 a.m., and we found ourselves in front of a gated private property. Another car was stuck there too, with a couple inside who looked just as terrified as we felt. They didn't even get out of their car or turn off their headlights until 11 a.m. the next day. When daylight finally came, we all decided to drive back together. Here's the weird part, the road we'd been on all night was suddenly just 16 kilometers long, like Google had originally said. There were no side roads, no forks, no way we could have gotten as lost as we did.

And none of the landmarks we'd seen the night before were there. No old wooden signs, no rock slides, no trees growing through the pavement. Even the spooky decorations we'd seen, like ornaments hanging from trees and painted rocks, were gone. To make it even stranger, my husband and I had seen slightly different things. What I thought were Christmas ornaments, he thought were fishing lures. The rocks I saw as painted symbols, he saw as something completely different. It was like the road had messed with our perception somehow. We've never gone back, and honestly, I don't think we ever will.

Have you ever heard of people doing weird stuff in their sleep? Well, I once sleep drove to another state. Yeah, you read that right. It was a regular night. I just finished my shift at the local taco joint and was heading home, which was only about 2.4 kilometers away. I was tired but nothing out of the ordinary. As I came to a stop at a red light near my house, I closed my eyes for what felt like a second. When I opened them, I had no idea where I was. My car was completely out of gas, my phone was dead, and I was parked in the

middle of nowhere. Turns out, I was just over the border between Texas and Louisiana. I was terrified. How the hell did I get there? Luckily, I managed to flag down a tow truck driver who gave me enough gas to get to a station. I made it home hours later than I should have, but to this day, I have no memory of driving all that way. The scariest part. The direction I was heading would have taken me straight to Baton Rouge, for reasons I can't even begin to explain. When I was four years old, I had an experience that still baffles me. I climbed to the top of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in our house. It was solid wood, super heavy, so I thought it was safe to climb. But, of course, the whole thing started tipping over.

I remember thinking, this is it. I'm done four. But then something impossible happened. An invisible force held me against the falling bookshelf. The whole thing slowed down, like someone had hit the slow motion button on reality. I wasn't holding onto anything, I was just, floating there. When I finally hit the ground, it was gentle, like I'd been carefully placed there. Even the bookshelf landed softly beside me.

My mom came running in, screaming her head off. But I wasn't hurt at all. I told her, it didn't hurt, Mom. It was slow. Something caught me. She just chalked it up to a kid's wild imagination, but to this day, I have no idea what saved me. An angel?

A ghost? Who knows? These stories are just the tip of the iceberg. From eerie dreams to mysterious strangers, unexplainable detours to brushes with the supernatural, life is full of moments that defy logic. And honestly, maybe it's better that way. Some mysteries are meant to stay unsolved.

I don't know who it was or why they were speaking to me through my window, but I think about it often. Back when I worked as an investigator for a law firm, I had to travel several hours to the site of an accidental electrocution. A power line pole had bent, causing the cable to hang dangerously low. There had been a strong storm in the area a day or two early, earlier. A neighbor, walking between his house and his neighbors, bent down to pass under the

cable. The cable lightly brushed his back, and that was all it took. In less than a second, he was gone. Before heading there, I was told that the power to the line had been cut. That information came directly from my office. So, when I arrived, I walked up to the power line without a second thought, lifted it with my hand, and ducked under it. I surveyed the area a little, then made my way back to the road, lifting the line again as I exited. As I reached the road, a utility company truck pulled up. One of the workers jumped out before the truck had even fully stopped. Before you go back over there where the line is down,

give us a few minutes to cut the power, he said. Instantly, my stomach dropped. Had I inspected the wrong spot? One of the utility workers started heading toward where I had just come from, so I followed. When we reached the downed line, he radioed someone, reporting that he'd the location of the fallen power line. That's when I froze. I felt the blood drain from my face, no exaggeration. I kept repeating the same thing over and over, I touched that line. The worker

turned to me and said, no, you didn't touch this line. This is the live line. I promise you didn't touch this one, but I kept insisting, I touched that line. Twice. The guy looked at me like I was crazy and said sarcastically, yeah, sure you did. Honestly, the next thing I remember is standing by my car, in what I'm pretty sure was a mild state of shock. At some point, the other utility workers returned, and one of them mentioned something about the line not being grounded. I didn't even respond. I got in my car and drove away. I think this might be the first time I've written about that day or even mentioned it to anyone. Mostly because I'm fully aware of how unbelievable it sounds. But it happened.

I don't know how I touched a live power line twice and walked away and scathed. I have no explanation for it, nor do I feel the need to find one. This happened about 20 years ago, and I still think about it to this day. Occasionally, I even have nightmares about it. Oh, and yes, I've often wondered why that area wasn't at least marked off or cordoned off, considering there was still an active, deadly power line hanging just a few feet off the ground. That lack of warning convinced me that the line had to be safe. No barriers, no warning signs, nothing.

What makes it even weirder is that I've always had a fear of electricity. I'll change a light bulb, but that's about as far as I'll go. Nothing else really bothers me, but electrical cords, outlets, anything like that, I leave it to my electrician friends. The fact that I even thought about touching that cable that day is beyond me. But I did, and somehow, I lived to tell the tale. And no, I didn't gain any superpowers from touching the line, as far as I know. switching gears, this happened just this past summer.

Three years ago, I lost my dog, Harvey, after a long battle with cancer. He was my best friend and had three legs. After he had his leg removed, he lived another year and a half, during which we did everything together. I rescued him when I was working as a veterinary technician. He had parvovirus as a puppy, and the plan was to euthanize him. Something about that sad little puppy told me he was mine, so I asked his owner if I could take him and pay for his treatment. They said yes. I saved him from Parvo and also from Valley

Fever. Later, he needed two expensive surgeries, and then came to cancer. But I would have gone broke for that dog. He kept me safe, and I kept him safe. Right before I had to put him down, I asked him, after you've rested for a while on the other side of the bridge, could you find a way to come back to me? I'm not ready to be without you. I hugged him tight and told him, see you later, okay. I love you. Goodbye. I had never felt such devastation.

The grief was overwhelming. One night, close to the first anniversary of his passing, I had a dream. In the dream, I woke up in my bed. Everything was completely white. I was dressed in white, and a bright white light illuminated the bed. Everything else was darkness except for this light. I could hear something, so I leaned over the edge of the bed, squinting to see where the sound was coming from.

The light expanded a bit, and Harvey jumped onto the bed. He wasn't gray or missing a leg anymore. He was young, vibrant, and had all four legs. He was healthy. I hugged him tight and just kept saying, Thank you, Harvey. Thank you. I love you so much.

I missed you. The dream didn't last long, but when I woke up, my face was soaked with tears. I realized he had come back to me in the only way he knew. knew how. That dream helped me understand that he had never really left. Fast forward to the day before National Dog Day in 2019. I came across a photo of a pit bull puppy that looked eerily like Harvey. I pointed to the puppy in the Facebook post and messaged the owner. They said he was the last male puppy left. I told them I wanted him. We named him Eddie. I knew he

wasn't Harvey, but having Eddie made Harvey feel so much closer. That gaping hole in my heart didn't feel as massive. Eddie bonded with me instantly, adored my kids, and they kept saying, he's just like Harvey. You brought him back to life. How did you do that? It was the sweetest year. Then came National Dog Day 2020. I hadn't realized the date. It was COVID times, and the kids were going stir crazy from quarantine. That morning, my youngest stepson came to my bed, whispering, hey, on, come quick. Bring your camera. Eddie's napping on the couch like. a person. Please take a picture. I was a little annoyed and said, I'm still in bed, okay. But I got up and went to see Eddie. Sure enough, he was sitting upright, half asleep on the couch. I snapped

a few pictures, and my stepson kept insisting, take more. I told him, we have enough. Look at these. As he scrolled through the photos, Eddie saw me, got up, and came over for his morning snuggles. As I petted him and said good morning, my stepson exclaimed, on, look. Harvey's sitting next to Eddie on the couch. Look at the photo. There was a tiny reflection in the lens. Now, I'm into spirituality. I have crystals all over the house and talk about spirits.

I guess my stepson had seen me point out anomalies in photos before, because otherwise, I don't know why he said that. The reflection next to Eddie was small and didn't resemble a dog at all. It was cute, though, so I shared the photo and the story on Facebook, telling my friends and family what my stepson had said. I couldn't help but cry. I told the kids to go to the pool with their older brother while I stayed behind for a minute. They ran off, stripped to their underwear, and jumped into the water. Eddie followed them outside, as he did every day. He loved the water but never went past the steps.

The window was open, and I was grabbing towels while they splashed around. As I left the laundry room, wiping my tears, my youngest stepson came running in, screaming. At first, I didn't think it was serious. Eddie fell in the pool. Neda, help. He's in the deep end, I dropped everything, grabbed my stethoscope from its hook by the back door, a habit for my vet tech days, and ran outside. But I wasn't fast enough.

Eddie was gone less than an hour after I had posted that photo. When I told the kids, they were amazing. While I was doing CPR on Eddie, I hadn't noticed them grabbing items from my healing shelf, crystals, sage, candles, and placing them around him, doing everything they knew to help. They were trying to save him the only way they could. But Eddie never came back. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. I told the kids that in that photo, Harvey had really been with Eddie that morning. He had kept Eddie safe, and when it was time, Harvey came to take him and care for him for us.

I don't know if I said it more for them or for myself. That night, I overheard my husband talking to my middle stepson. By then, we had realized it was exactly one year since we brought Eddie home. It was National Dog Day 2020. My stepson told his dad, I think Harvey was Eddie all along. That's why he could only stay with us for one year. That was the deal. My heart broke and healed all at once.

When I think about everything that happened, it's almost unbelievable. But I hold tightly to what my stepson shared that day about Harvey and Eddie. I missed them both so much. Let me share another story. My girlfriend and I are in a long-distance relationship. We usually take turns visiting each other between Australia and Canada. About two years ago, it was my turn to go to Australia and stay with her and her mom. A bit of context, my girlfriend's room was an extension built onto the garage, so to get there,

you had to walk through the garage. A couple of weeks into my visit, I woke up around 1 a.m. The room was completely lit up in red. I looked at the ceiling and saw a black figure crawling across it. The way it moved was so unnatural, like it was breaking all its bones just to move. I started screaming, which woke up my girlfriend. When she looked up and saw the figure, she started screaming too. Instinctively, I grabbed my pillow and threw it at the thing.

The next thing I remember is everything going black. I woke up a few hours later, and my girlfriend was fast asleep. I thought it had just been a weird dream. I had to go to the bathroom, so I walked through the garage and tried to open the door to the main house as quietly as possible. Her mom had previously mentioned that she hated being woken up by the sound of the garage door opening. The door made a loud click, and her bedroom was right next to it.

As I gently pulled the handle and pushed the door, it clicked, and her mom started screaming at the top of her lungs. I thought she was yelling at me for waking her up, so I immediately closed the door and hurried back to my girlfriend's room. I woke my girlfriend softly, telling her that her mom was yelling. She got up to check on her, trying to calm the situation. About 20 minutes later, she came back to the room in complete silence. She asked me, did you see the room light up red and the figure on the ceiling?

I told her yes, and her eyes widened. She said she thought it had just been a dream. Then she told me her mom wasn't yelling at me. Apparently, when I opened the door, I did wake her up. But when she woke up, there was a black figure standing at the foot of her bed, slowly moving toward her. She lost consciousness and only woke up when my girlfriend came to check on her. That night, the whole house slept with the lights on for a month. I'll end with one last memory.

I was about ten years old, and now I'm in my thirties. It was late at night when I saw my grandmother standing at the gate, talking to some. I saw she was talking to my dad. I couldn't see his face because his back was turned, but I recognized the large mole on his back. He was murmuring something I couldn't make out, and my grandmother was saying, if you loved them so much, why did you do it? My mom wasn't home to witness this. My mom wasn't there.

My mom wasn't with us when it happened. She had just stepped out after receiving a call. It was one of those moments that changed the atmosphere of a place in an instant. The call was about my dad. He had been driving drunk and crashed into a mule on the highway. Now, he was clinging to life in a hospital somewhere. Honestly, that wasn't the scariest part of my life, but there's a whole lot of spooky stuff that shaped my childhood.

When I was 11, my family moved to a new city because of my dad's job. It was just a temporary relocation, something that was only supposed to last a year. We were lucky enough to get a house in this gated community for army officers and their families, 20 houses in total. It felt like a little village of its own. One day, my parents went out and took my baby sister with them. My older sister was at a friend's house, which left me alone at home with our dog. It wasn't the first time they'd left me alone, so I wasn't scared or anything. I was actually enjoying the freedom, just playing in my room like any kid would. At some point, I remembered my Monday school uniform, specifically, the black socks I needed,

were drying in the backyard. I went out with my dog. and muttered to myself, man, I wish there was something fun to do. What happened next still makes my skin crawl. Clear as day, I heard a young voice say, well then, let's play. I spun around, heart pounding in my chest, expecting to see someone. But there was no one. My golden retriever, who was usually bouncing off the walls with energy, was sitting calmly, staring at me like nothing had happened. That dog was my partner in crime, my buddy, but in that moment, even he creeped me out. I bolted back inside, ran straight to my parents' room, and dove under the covers. I turned the TV on and stayed there, trembling, until my family came home.

When they found me sweating and panicking, I told them I was sick. I never explained what really happened. Looking back, what scares me the most isn't just the voice. It's the fact that our community was surrounded by these three-meter-high concrete walls. The spot where my socks were drying. It was right next to a wall separating our yard. It was right next to a wall separating our yard from the neighbor's house. But the neighbors didn't have kids. On the other side, the next house was more than 20 meters away. Behind our house.

Nothing but a steep hill. There was no one around who could have said those words. To this day, I get chills whenever I think about it. The slow song, in high school, I was always the first one home. That little slice of a lone time was my favorite part of the day. My room was on the second floor, and as soon as I'd get home, I'd drop my bag and head upstairs. One day, though, I stopped halfway up the stairs. I swear I heard something. It was faint at first, but as I stood there, frozen, it became clear. It was a slow, warped version of ring

around the rosy. The sound was coming from my room. I was 100% certain I was alone in the house. There were no devices in my room that could have been playing music, especially not something that creepy. I stood there, paralyzed, listening for what felt like an eternity but was probably just 15 seconds. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I turned around, went back downstairs, and stayed in the living room until my family got home. When I finally went back up to my room a few hours later, everything was normal. I never told anyone about it. It wasn't something I could explain, and honestly, I didn't want people thinking I was losing my mind. But every now and then, the memory of that slow, eerie melody creeps into my thoughts.

Buried barking, we used to have a rescue dog, a scrappy little terrier mix. We lived out in the countryside, surrounded by woods and fields that stretched for acres. That dog loved roaming around, chasing rabbits, and exploring every corner of our property. But no matter how far he wandered, he always came back home. Until one day, he didn't. We searched everywhere, calling his name, combing through the woods with our other dogs. We even had a friend bring his dogs to help. But after days of searching, there was no trace of him.

By the sixth day, hope was pretty much gone. But I couldn't let it go. Something in my gut told me to try again. There was this one spot we'd already checked, thoroughly, I might add, but I just had a feeling about it. Armed with gloves and a garden hoe, I pushed through a massive tangle of blackberry bushes. It was the middle of summer, so the air was thick with the sound of chirping insects. Then, out of nowhere, I heard it, a faint, muffled bark.

I froze, not daring to believe it. Buddy? I called out. Another bark. I shouted for help, and soon my family was there with me. The local firefighters even showed up to assist. Turns out, our dog had somehow gotten stuck in an old rabbit burrow, completely underground. We managed to get him out, and he was covered in mud but otherwise fine.

The vet said he'd probably been licking the damp soil to stay hydrated. It was a miracle. I'm not a superstitious person, but I can't explain how I just knew he was there. Sometimes, you just have to trust your instincts. So, as I was saying, my friend shouted out, if there are any ghosts here, show yourselves. She was laughing at her own daring, and I was rolling my eyes like, great, now you've gone and done it. But you know what?

Nothing happened. At least, not right away. We went back to our conversation, and for a while, it was just normal, nothing spooky, no flickering lights, no disembodied voices. I was starting to think that maybe she had a point. Maybe all the paranormal stuff I'd been fascinated by was just stories people told to make the world a little less boring. And then, it happened.

Out of nowhere, we heard this loud crash in her kitchen. Like, someone had taken every pot and pan she owned and just dropped them onto the floor. We both froze. Did you hear that? She whispered, her face pale as a sheet. Uh, yeah. Pretty sure the whole building heard that, I replied, my heart pounding. We got up, tiptoeing toward the kitchen like we were in some kind of bad horror movie.

When we got there, the weirdest thing greeted us, one single pot was lying in the middle of the floor. Just one. Now, you're probably thinking, what's so weird about that? Pots fall all the time. But here's the thing, it wasn't near the counter. or the stove. It was dead center, like someone had carried it there and then dropped it for dramatic effect. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and all she could say was, okay, I believe you now, we didn't talk much after that, just cleaned up and put on a comedy

movie to shake off the creepy vibes. But to this day, I swear that pot didn't fall on its own. Another time, I was visiting my cousin in a small, sleepy town out in the middle of nowhere. You know, the kind of place where nothing ever happens, and everyone knows everyone else. We were sitting out on her porch one evening, just chatting and watching the stars. The night was still, and the air was heavy with the smell of pine trees and freshly cut grass. Suddenly, we both noticed a strange light in the sky. At first, we thought it was a plane or maybe a satellite. But then it started moving in a way no plane or satellite could, zigzagging and darting around like it was playing some kind of intergalactic tag.

Do you see that, she asked, her voice trembling. Yeah, I said, squinting at the light. But what the hell is it? Before we could even begin to guess, the light shot straight up into the sky and disappeared. Just like that, it was gone. We sat there in stunned silence for a long time before she finally said, Do you think it was, like, aliens? I shrugged. I don't know. Maybe, we never figured out what we saw that night, but every time I visit her, we still bring it up. It's like this unsolved mystery that haunts our memories, and honestly, I kind of love that will never know the answer. Oh, and then there was the time I was camping alone in the middle of nowhere, classic me,

right? I had my little tent set up, a fire crackling away, and nothing but the sound of crickets and the occasional owl to keep me company. It was perfect. Until it wasn't. Around midnight, I started hearing footsteps. Not the soft crunch of a deer or the scampering of a raccoon, these were heavy, deliberate footsteps, like someone was walking around my campsite.

I froze, my heart racing. I grabbed my flashlight and shone it into the darkness, calling out, hello. Is someone there, no answer? The footsteps stopped for a moment, and I thought maybe it was just my imagination. But then they started again, closer this time. I sat there, clutching my flashlight like it was some kind of magic talisman that would ward off whatever was out there. And then, just as suddenly as they'd started, the footsteps stopped. I didn't sleep a wink that night.

The next morning, I packed up and hiked out of there as fast as I could. To this day, I have no idea what, or who, was out there with me. Speaking of creepy outdoor experiences, I have to tell you about this one time my friends and I went hiking in this supposedly haunted forest. You know, the kind of place where people swear they've seen ghosts or heard strange noises at night. We didn't really believe in all that, but we thought it'd be fun to check it out. We were about an hour into the hike when we came across this old, abandoned.

cabin. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie, broken windows, a sagging roof, and a front door that creaked ominously in the wind. Let's go inside, one of my friends said, grinning like a kid on Halloween. Are you crazy? I shot back. That's how people die in scary movies, but peer pressure is a powerful thing, so I reluctantly followed them inside. The air was stale, and the floorboards creaked under our weight. There wasn't much to see, just some old furniture and a thick layer of dust. And then we heard it. A low, guttural growl coming from the back of the cabin.

We all froze, our eyes wide with fear. What was that? One of my friends whispered. I don't know, I said, my voice barely audible. Before we could decide whether to investigate or run for our lives, the growl came again, louder this time. That was all it took, we bolted out of there faster than you can say, bad idea. To this day, we joke about the haunted.

cabin, but deep down, I think we're all a little spooked by what happened. I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea, my life is basically one long series of creepy, unexplainable events. And honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. Sure, it's scary in a moment, but it makes for some great stories. Anyway, that's enough from me. Your turn, what's the creepiest thing that's ever happened to you? The creepiest encounters with strangers that still give me chills. Back when I was 24, I worked weekends at this video store that catered to adults, you know, the kind with a mature audience only section. The pay wasn't stellar, but it helped me cover the costs of tools I needed for another gig I was starting. I worked the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift,

and thankfully, the store wasn't open 24-7 because, honestly, it was a magnet for weirdos. Occasionally, I'd help out at other locations during their overnight shifts, but that's another bag of creepy stories. One particular encounter, though, has stuck with me through the years. It was a regular weekend evening, nothing unusual, and this older couple, probably in their 60s, came into the store. They seemed friendly enough, renting some videos for what they described as a romantic weekend getaway at their lake house. Cute, right? Or so I thought. The wife kept making these comments about how I was cute and how it would be so much fun if I joined them. She made sure I heard her too, saying it loud enough for it to be obvious.

I brushed it off because, you know, customer service and all that. When they got to the register, she joked about kidnapping me and taking me to their lake house. I laughed it off because, well, what else could I do? The store had audio surveillance, and saying what I really thought probably would have gotten me fired. After they paid for their movies, they didn't leave right away. They lingered at the counter, trying to chat me up, tossing more, kidnapping me. jokes into the mix. By this point it was getting uncomfortable, and I decided to politely

ask them to leave. I used the excuse that other customers preferred their privacy and that I had to start closing procedures soon. They laughed it off, said their goodbyes, and finally walked out. I thought that was the end of it. Fast forward to 11 p.m. I locked up the store, stepped outside, and guess who was still there. Yep, the same couple. They were sitting in their van, engine running. The wife waved enthusiastically when she saw me and called out, asking if I'd changed my mind about going to the lake with them. I froze. They started driving closer to me, and that's when I decided to call a cab instead of walking home like I usually did. As I got into the cab, they followed us. I told the driver to head straight to the nearest police station.

Once we pulled into the station's parking lot, they finally drove off. To this day, I'm convinced they had every intention of kidnapping me. When they returned the movies later that week, my boss handled it. He made me stay in the back and lock the door. Whatever he said to them worked because they never came back. Another time, my girlfriend and I were out at a club with some friends, having a great time on the dance floor. Out of nowhere, this normal-looking guy and his girlfriend bumped into us, spilling our drinks.

They apologized profusely and even offered to buy us new drinks to make up for it. harmless, right? So we accepted their offer. Big mistake. After finishing the replacement drinks, things started to get hazy, fast. I barely remember anything beyond that point, but our roommate, who was with another group, noticed something was off. She said we looked like we were about to pass out and saw those strangers trying to lead us out of the club much earlier than we'd normally leave. Luckily, she intervened and made sure we got home safely. If it weren't for her, who knows what could have happened. To this day, we have no memory of the night after taking those drinks. We usually stayed until 2 a.m., but it wasn't even 10 p.m. when they were trying to take us out of

there. When I was in third grade, I played on a community soccer team. Usually, the parents acted as the coaches and assistant coaches. But one day, the assistant coach was sick, so the community center sent in this random middle-aged woman as a fill-in. At the time, it seemed normal enough. Coincidentally, it was also my best friend Millie's birthday. She was hosting a sleepover after the game, and the whole team was invited. Naturally, we were all excited, chatting non-stop about it. Midway through the game, this substitute assistant coach called me over by name. That was weird because I hadn't told her my name, but maybe she'd overheard someone else say it.

Anyway, something about her gave me a bad vibe. I hesitated but eventually walked over, keeping my distance. She motioned for me to come closer. Closer, she said, and I reluctantly stepped forward. Then she leaned in and whispered, hey, just so you know, I'm Millie's mom. After the game, you'll come home with me, okay. Don't stop to talk to anyone, just come straight to my car. My stomach dropped.

I knew Millie's mom, and this lady was not her. I stuck close to Millie for the rest of the game and told her, look, I'll explain later, but when the game ends, we need to run to your mom's car. Millie didn't question it, and as soon as the final whistle blew, we sprinted to her mom's car. Sure enough, a completely different woman, Millie's actual mom, was waiting for us. I told her what happened on the way to their house, and she was understandably alarmed. She told me to inform my parents, but when I did, they didn't believe me.

Thankfully, my grandma did. I'm still grateful for that because it was terrifying to think an adult would lie like that just to get me alone. In college, I worked the night shift at a subway. The store's front door had a bell that rang whenever someone entered, so it was impossible to sneak in unnoticed. Or so I thought. One night, I was chatting with a coworker here the register, probably scrolling through my

phone when I turned around and nearly jumped out of my skin. There he was, this older man, scruffy, disheveled, with one cloudy white eye that looked straight out of a horror movie. The bell hadn't rung, and I had no idea how he'd gotten in. In the softest voice, he asked for a cup of hot water. It was September in South Carolina, so not exactly chilly. Still, I obliged and went to the back to get it. When I handed him the cup, he stared at me, unblinking, and said, Do I make you nervous?

I lied through my teeth. No, not at all. He then sat down at the table closest to the register, just a couple of feet away from me, and started sipping his hot water while reading a book. Upside down. And laughing. He stayed there for hours, occasionally glancing at me, and every now and then, chuckling to himself. I don't know what his deal was, but I still think about him sometimes.

Gives me chills every time. Years ago, I frequented this Target store and started noticing a guy who always seemed to show up wherever I was. At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but then I started seeing him at other places I went to as well. One day, while I was browsing CDs at Target, he approached me and made some small talk about the music section. Something in my gut screamed at me to get away from him. I abandoned my cart and left the store in a hurry. As I was digging through my bag for my car keys, someone grabbed me from behind and started dragging me across the parking lot.

Two men nearby saw what was happening, shouted, and ran toward us. My attacker let go of me, jumped into his car, and sped off. One of the men got his license plate number and reported it to the police. When they searched his car and home, they found a kit containing rope, duct tape, and other disturbing items. Even worse, his house was filled with hundreds of photos of me, plastered on the walls like some kind of shrine. He even had a photo of me and my mom from when I was about five years old, with a note on the back in my handwriting. Apparently, we had lived in the same apartment complex as kids, and I'd forgotten all about him. To this day, the thought of what

could have happened gives me panic attacks. When I was 14, my childhood best friend and I, both raised by super-strict parents, would sneak out at night during summer vacations. We didn't do anything wild, just walked around and felt cool for breaking the rules. One night, I waited outside her house as usual, but she never showed. Frustrated, I decided to head back home. As I walked down the quiet street, a car appeared in the distance, coming toward me. Something felt off, so I crossed to the other side. As the car approached, it slowed down, and the driver turned to give me this chilling stare that

made my blood run cold. I could hear the car reached the end of the street, turn around, and come back toward me. Thinking quickly, I crossed the street again just as the car neared. This time, the driver's expression was one of pure anger. I ran into a side street, hoping to lose him. I knew a shortcut through an alley that cars couldn't follow. Hearing the car's engine getting closer, I ducked behind a parked vehicle and waited. The car turned on to the side street, moving slowly as the driver scanned the area. After what felt like forever, he drove off. I sprinted through the alley and made it home, my heart pounding. To this day, I'm haunted by the memory of his stare. One evening, while I was pregnant, I was loading groceries into my car with my dog Lexi

waiting in the front seat. Before I'd gone inside, I'd noticed a man sitting in his car nearby, watching me. When I came back out, he was still there. As I loaded the last bag, he got out of his car and asked if I needed help. His tone was polite, but something about him set off alarm bells in my head. I declined, saying I had it under control, but he kept approaching. Lexi, who had been curled up quietly, must have sensed my unease. She leapt over the seats into the cargo area, growling and bearing her teeth. In the dark, her all-black coat made her look menacing, and the man finally backed off, muttering curses as he walked away. I'll never forget how Lexi stood by my side the rest of the night, like a little shadow, refusing to let me out of her

sight. She may have been a short-legged Welsh Corgi, but in that moment, she was my fierce protector. Once we got home, she wouldn't let me out of her sight. When I was a teenager, I worked in a doctor's office. We had a patient named Charlie come in for a worker's compensation case. He hadn't been a patient before, but he stood out. Charlie was tall, about six feet five inches, and built like a tank. He was undeniably good-looking, but something about him just felt, off. At first, I thought it was just me. But after his first visit, the entire office staff felt the same unease. There was something unsettling about Charlie, and it wasn't just his piercing gaze or his too perfect smile. The feeling was mutual enough that we all talked to

the male doctor in the office about it, asking if he could handle Charlie's appointments exclusively. The doctor agreed and made sure Charlie was only scheduled during the busiest times, so there were always plenty of people around. For three months, Charlie came for his treatments. Apart from being a little strange and intense, nothing happened, at least, nothing outwardly alarming. He completed his treatments, and his lawyer requested some documents for the workers' comp case. That was the last we thought we'd ever hear of Charlie. Fast forward about two years. I was reading the newspaper, and there it was, Charlie's name. It was unmistakable, as he had a very unusual last name.

He had been arrested for violently attacking a woman, nearly killing her. My stomach dropped. The article confirmed that the man I had spent months feeling uneasy around had been convicted and sent to prison. I'll never forget that moment. It was my ultimate confirmation, trust your gut. In 2001, when I was pregnant with my first child, I had another unsettling experience. I was heavily pregnant and shopping at Walmart when I noticed a woman around every aisle I visited. She looked to be about 35 years old.

It became more obvious when I headed to the baby section, and she started asking me questions. At first, they were normal, do you know if it's a boy or a girl? But then her questions turned weird. She asked if I was married, whether we lived in a house or an apartment, and even commented on my accent. She wanted to know if we had family in the area. I was originally from Michigan but was in Florida visiting for the baby's birth. Something about her curiosity didn't sit right with me. I was only in my 20s, but I wasn't naive.

My husband and I were both police officers, so I had a decent sense for when something felt off. I brushed off her questions, smiled politely, and excused myself. But then, she started following me more closely, talking about how her husband was outside and they could help me with my groceries. That's when my nerves really kicked in. I told her I was fine, that my husband was home and could help me. She became more insistent, saying they had a big truck and could buy me a big, baby item to help out.

I politely declined again, but she started to get aggressive, suggesting they could even buy my husband a grill if we didn't need baby stuff. At this point, my heart was racing. I quickly headed to the checkout line. She left the store ahead of me, and when I stepped outside, I saw her and a man sitting in a beat up yellow truck parked along the curb. The man rolled down the window and said, we'd love to help you with your bags. Again, I refused. I loaded my car while keeping an eye on them. They didn't move. They just stared. As soon as I pulled out, they followed me. I drove

around aimlessly for about 30 minutes, crying and trying to shake them off my tail. Finally, they disappeared. To this day, that remains one of the scariest moments of my life. I'm 44 now, and the fear I felt that day still haunts me. Another incident happened when I was about eight months pregnant. My best friend at the time was into poetry readings, and she signed up to perform at a venue on the east side of town, a notoriously dangerous area. I talked it over with my husband, and we agreed I could go since it was a public event with a lot of people around.

For the most part, the evening was fine. But at one point, I went to the restroom. As I stepped out, I noticed a skinny, greasy guy in a tank top lingering outside the door. He immediately started hitting on me. I was very visibly pregnant, with a wedding ring on my finger, but that didn't seem to matter to him. Uncomfortable, I hurried back to my friends and told them I wanted to leave. They'd been drinking and shrugged it off, saying they'd call me tomorrow.

Frustrated, I decided to leave on my own. As I headed to the exit, I noticed the guy wasn't around anymore, which made me feel slightly better. But as soon as I got to my car, he reappeared, sprinting toward me. He grabbed the door handle, trying to yank it open. Panicking, I ran back to the building and screamed for help. The security guard saw what was happening and intervened. The man acted like we knew each other, saying, she's my girlfriend. She's just mad at me, the guard didn't buy it.

He escorted me to my car, made sure the doors were locked, and waited until I drove away safely. I was shaking the entire ride home. When there was the night I was walking my dog in New York. It was late, and we lived in a relatively safe neighborhood. My dog, a gentle 80-pound sweetheart, was the worst guard dog imaginable. She never barked or growled, even when strangers entered the apartment. But that night, as a man approached us on the sidewalk, everything changed.

He looked normal enough, well-dressed, probably in his thirties, but my dog's hackles rose, and she let out a deep, menacing growl. She positioned herself between me and the man, ready to attack. I didn't hesitate. We crossed the street and walked away quickly. I'll never know what set her off, but I trust her instincts to this day. Another time, I was shopping late at night, back when 24-hour stores were still a thing. I noticed a man following me around every aisle.

When I went to the opposite side of the store, he followed. Finally, I confronted him, and he started rambling about how he thought I was cute and just wanted to talk. I told him I was married and asked him to leave me alone, but he kept at it. I called for a manager, who escorted him out. When I finished shopping and headed to my car, I noticed a white van parked next to it. No windows, just that eerie, stereotypical, kidnappers' van, vibe. My stomach sank. I went back inside and asked the manager to walk me to my car. As we approached, the man from earlier appeared from behind the vehicles, jumped into the van, and sped off. I'm convinced he was waiting for me.

I never shopped alone at night again. Public transportation also offered its fair share of creepy encounters. Late one night, I was on a bus when I felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Annoyed, I turned to meet the gaze head on. Sure enough, a man was staring at me with dead, expressionless eyes. There was something shark-like about his unblinking stare. I held eye contact for about 30 seconds before it became too unsettling, and I decided to get off the bus.

I don't know what his deal was, but I'm certain I dodged a bullet by leaving. Then there's the time my young daughter was at soccer practice. A middle-aged man with a dog stood on the other side of the fence, staring at her. His gaze was so unnerving that I walked over and asked, Do you have a problem bringing your dog here with kids playing soccer? He ignored me and crossed the street but kept watching. I couldn't take it anymore and yelled, Are you looking for someone or something?

He muttered something under his breath and left. Later that night, I checked the neighborhood sex offender registry. Sure enough, there he was, a convicted predator who'd served 20 years for horrific crimes. Trust your instincts, people. One of the more terrifying incidents happened when I was 18. My girlfriend and I were at a taco joint near closing time in 1991. Two older men wouldn't stop staring at her, making loose. gestures and faces. When they finally left, I thought we were in the clear. But as they

pulled out of the parking lot, I flipped them off through the window. Big mistake. They slammed on the brakes, made a sharp U-turn, and sped back toward the restaurant. The staff, who'd been watching, quickly locked the doors just as the men tried to force their way in. They banged on the glass so hard I thought it would shatter. If it weren't for the quick-thinking employees, could have ended very badly. Another time, I was pregnant and had hired a contractor to fix some walls in our house. From the start, he was aggressive, moody, and rude. I called my husband at work, telling him the man scared me. My husband couldn't leave his job 25 miles away, so I decided to offer the contractor a drink and snack, hoping to lighten the mood.

Instead, he cornered me in the hallway, invading my space and ranting about how his family had abandoned him after his daughter accused him of abuse. He seemed angry at women in general. I was terrified. Then he suddenly stopped, looking over my shoulder at a wedding photo on the wall. He began to cry, pointing at the picture of my late father. That man saved my life, he said. My dad, a doctor, had insisted on tests that helped diagnose the man's cancer years earlier. The contractor packed up his tools and left, never finishing the job. I've never felt more protected by my dad's memory. These are just a few examples of moments when my instincts, or the instincts of others, human or animal, help me avoid potentially dangerous situations.

Trusting your gut isn't just a saying, it's a survival skill. During my childhood I've lived in two different rural communities, both were very isolated. One was in the boreal forest, the other along the northern grain belt which is the northernmost stretch of prairie and where the boreal forest starts. I've been thinking of the weird things I've experienced and how they no longer happen now that I live in a city so I thought I'd share a couple. One of my favorite hobbies is Aurora Chasing. Both of my hometowns were in good areas to see them often. Every other night the sky would be lit up with the dancing green, teal, and sometimes red streaks. One winter the lights were particularly good and it was a weekend so I went outside. My parents

were fine with it as long as I took the dog with me. Not only does she love the snow, but she's a good guard dog. I was sitting outside, watching the lights for a few hours, I was out there from 10 p.m. to 12 a.m. I remember it being quite cold so I did have to play with my dog to warm up a bit. At some point the minus 25 degrees Celsius weather hits me and I decide it's time to go back inside. I make the mistake of whistling at night for my dog to follow me in. I could have just told her to follow, but I whistle. For those who don't know, many cultures have superstitions about whistling at night. It invites unwanted attention from things you don't want to mess with. After I whistle for my dog, I hear a swift motion that wasn't my dog.

It was too heavy to be her. Potentially a moose, I probably spooked a moose. Whatever it was, it was huge and moved quickly. It was a two-beat gait, either something trotting quickly or something on two legs running. My dog gets a little freaked, probably because I was freaked, and she runs inside. Normally she'd protest and try to convince me that she should stay outside in the cold. This time she enthusiastically came inside. My next story can't be explained by a moose.

I was somewhere between six and eight when this happened. This was at our place up north. I wanted the authentic camping experience with my dad so he decided he'd take my brothers and I to the woods right behind our place. The house was still in sight. We were just next to the stream by the house. Night came, my two brothers, my dad and I are in the tent. I remember waking up in the middle of the night because I heard something walking nearby.

My dad reassured me it was just a deer. Elk, white tail, they were all common visitors and generally left us alone if we did the same. However this wasn't one of those. Whatever the creature was, it stopped moving when it got closer to our tent. All four of us heard it let out this haunting howl that soon turned into a scream. almost like a bobcat sort of scream. It was deafening and I could feel it rattle my bones. My dad at this point is like, what the fuck, so we wait a moment.

He listened until he heard it walk away. He opened the tent and made my brothers and I run back to the house. My mom heard the sound too, she knew we'd be coming back in so she unlocked the doors. None of us to this day know what that creature was. I just wanted to share these experiences. I sort of miss experiencing unnerving things like this. I don't hear unexplainable sounds anymore. I don't fear like I once did.

I feel overly secure and I don't like it. Look, I get that kids can be a little strange sometimes. You've seen it too, right? One moment they're cute little angels, the next they're saying the creepiest thing you've ever heard in your life. Like, the kind of stuff that makes you want to burn your house down just in case a demon got in. Anyway, the weirdest thing happened to me recently. I was just doing my regular thing, waiting at the bus stop, headphones in, staring down the road like a zombie in a daydream, waiting for the bus to show up.

No big deal, right? Then I turn around, and bam, there's this little girl standing right next to me. Like, right next to me. I jumped a bit, honestly. She had to be around eight years old, maybe younger. And she's just staring up at me, completely deadpan, not a hint of a smile, like she'd been waiting for me or something. She says, you're really, really pretty.

At first, I was like, ah, how sweet, even though it felt a little off, like she was reading from a script. But hey, kids say weird things all the time, right? No harm done. That is, until she tilts her head a little and calmly adds, I'm going to rip your face off, just like that. No change in her expression. Just, murder vibes level calm. I had no idea what to say. I think I gave her a weird face, like a mix of, what did you just say, and, should I run or laugh?

I was frozen. Then I noticed this guy at the end of the street, just standing there, watching. Must have been her dad, or so I thought. The girl notices me noticing him and suddenly turns around and just loses her mind. She starts screaming at him. Not crying. Not yelling, dad, or anything. Just, this wild screeching. And then the man turns and bolts. Like, full sprint. Then she turns back to me, same blank expression, not crying, not laughing, nothing. Just silence. Then she runs after the man. Not a single look back. And I'm just standing there like, what just happened. I've never had a moment. like that before. Easily one of the creepiest things ever. But it gets worse. Fast forward a few weeks. I'm a couple of neighborhoods over, standing outside my friend's apartment, just chilling with a

cigarette while I wait for him to come downstairs. It's a quiet spot, nobody around really. Then I see her. That same girl. She's walking toward me, locking eyes with me the whole time. not blinking, not breaking eye contact, just be lining straight for me. She stops right in front of me and says, I know you, I'm like, ah, what? I mean, I remembered her obviously, but what was I supposed to say? She just stands there, watching me, eyes tracking every move I make. If I move my hands, she watched. If I shifted my feet, she looked. Like she was studying me. Calculating. It was unsettling. I didn't want to move, but I also didn't want to just stand there like a deer in headlights. But I couldn't leave either, my friend was about to come down. After what felt like

an eternity of this creepy staring contest, she finally narrows her eyes, frowns a little, and says, I'll be back for you. Then she shakes her. head slowly, like she's disappointed in me, and just walks away. No running. No skipping. Just casually walks off like she's got all the time in the world. I stood there in a silent panic, heart hammering like a jackhammer. It felt like I just met the devil's apprentice. Or maybe the Antichrist and Mary Jane's. I tried to push that whole thing out of my head. Repress it. But a few days ago, my siblings and and I were laughing about old stories from when our dad was alive.

He was this big lovable goofball, sometimes too forgetful for his own good. While everyone was laughing about one of his epic parenting fails, this long-buried memory hit me like a brick to the face. I hadn't thought about it in years. I was maybe four years old at the time. I'd had a bad fall at a playground and got a nasty gash on the back of my head that needed stitches. I was brave about it, though. cried like crazy when they put them in, but when we went back to the doctor to get them taken out,

I was cool as a cucumber. My dad was so proud of me. He bought me an ice cream and took me to the beach as a reward. We lived in a small Australian town then, and the beach wasn't exactly crowded. Just a few older kids splashing around. No parents in sight, just kids being kids. My dad took me to the water's edge and gave me a strict warning, don't go. in deeper than your knees.

He made sure I understood. Then he wandered off. Probably to use the bathroom or something. He wasn't neglectful, just, scatterbrained. My mom used to say he had his head in the clouds. It used to drive her nuts. So there I was, paddling in the shallows, when this older boy, maybe ten, swam up closer to me. Blonde hair, huge grin.

He seemed nice enough. Asked my name, asked my age. I told him everything, even bragged about my doctor visit and how brave I'd been. He asked why I wasn't swimming out deeper. I explained the knee-deep rule. He laughed and said, It's fine, I'll teach you. Your dad won't even notice. I hesitated, and he said, what, are you scared?

I thought you were brave, and that got me. I followed him deeper, passed where my feet could touch the bottom. That's when everything changed. He grabbed me, shoved me under. At first, I was too shocked to react. Then I struggled, thrashed, tried to scream underwater. But he held me down. He was twice my size and I had no chance.

Even as a kid, I realized something, he had moved away from the other kids. No one could see us. No one was watching. This kid wasn't just being mean. He was trying to kill me. Seconds before I passed out, I felt myself yanked up into the air. It was my dad, hauling me out of the water. I remember his face, pure rage, confusion, and fear all tangled together.

He didn't say anything. Just kept patting my back while I coughed, screamed, and sobbed into his shoulder. By the time I could breathe again. again, that kid was gone. All the kids were gone. My dad jumped in the car and drove around trying to find them. Never did. I'm pretty sure he would have killed that boy if he'd caught him. We moved shortly after that. I don't know if my dad ever reported it. I'm pretty sure he didn't tell my mom, she'd have freaked. And I don't blame her. To this day, I'm convinced that kid meant to kill me. There was nothing playful or accidental about it. He was calm, focused,

like he wanted to see what it felt like to drown someone. That brings us to today. I took my five-year-old son and my baby daughter to a playground to meet up with a friend and her kid. This park's kind of isolated, surrounded by trees, with a huge grass field and a parking lot. There's some construction going on behind the trees, but I'd never really paid attention to it before. So we're hanging out. My friends there, another mom we know is there, and all the kids are playing. Everything's good. At some point, my son wanted to play on the Sisa, but none of the other kids were interested. I started to get up to join him when this older boy, maybe 10, not part of our group, walks up to me and says, do you want me to play with your son?

Kind of weird, right? Why ask me and not my son? But I was like, uh, sure. Go ahead, but, so he climbs on the seesaw with my kid. No smile, no conversation, just, there. Totally flat expression. My son, of course, is chatting away like he always does, not picking up on anything weird. I start heading back to the bench, and then I hear the boy talking to my son. So maybe he's just shy with adults, I figure.

A few minutes later, the boys' dad walks past, and I say, hey, that was really sweet of your son to offer to play with mine. The guy just looks at me and says, that's not my son. I don't know who that kid is. I felt my stomach drop into the earth's core. He tells me the boy asked him earlier if he wanted someone to play with his daughter, and just kind of followed them around until we all showed up. I spun around and looked toward the seesaws. Gone. They were both gone. I shoved my baby into my friend's arms and bolted. I was screaming my son's name as I ran. Then I saw them. Way off near the trees. The boy was leading him toward the woods.

My son turned around when he heard me yelling. The boy grabbed his arm, trying to drag him forward. That was a mistake. My son has ADHD. He doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't. He is not like being grabbed. And when he gets frustrated, watch out. He started punching and head-butting the boy like a wild animal. The boy let go, and by the time I got there, he'd vanished into the trees. My friends ran up, stunned. My son was crying, I was shaking, and none of us understood what had just happened. I asked my son where he thought he was going. He said, he was taking me to see Ryan, Ryan who, Ryan from YouTube. From Ryan's toy review, apparently, he told the boy about how much he loved Ryan, and the kid told him he knew where Ryan lived and that they could go play

with him. So, of course, my son said yes. Maybe the kid thought it was a prank. Maybe he was just lonely. But I don't think so. I think he had a plan. And deep down, I think that plan was really, really bad. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end, backpackers, campers, and forest rangers alike, we all share a certain love, or at least tolerance, for the great outdoors. But let's be real, sometimes, the wilderness gives us more than we bargained for. From eerie encounters to flat-out terrifying moments, here's a collection of some of the weirdest, creepiest things people have experienced in the woods. Buckle up because this ride is going to get strange. Let's kick things off with a woman who had a run-in she'll never forget. She was thirty-four at the time and out hiking on a

brand-new trail. Apparently, it had just opened that weekend, but she didn't realize this and found herself completely alone. She'd been walking for miles, exhausted but determined, as she was working on getting back in shape after a gnarly leg injury. Suddenly, she heard rustling in the bushes. Before she could process what was happening, two men burst out of the foliage, machetes in hand. Imagine that, you're out in the middle of nowhere, and you're out in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly, two strangers with big knives appear. Frozen in fear, she prepared to defend herself with the only weapon she had, a camera lens. Luckily, the men saw her terror, kept their distance, and explained they were volunteers clearing

invasive plant species. They had no clue the trail was open to the public and didn't expect to see anyone. Still, the encounter shook her to the core and made her rethink hiking alone. But hiking wasn't the only time she had a creepy experience. She also decided to go solo camping at a site that wasn't completely isolated for safety reasons. There was a family nearby that seemed friendly enough, and she even shared a drink or two with them one evening. But something about the husband put her on edge, so she made an excuse and called it a night early. Later, as she lay in her tent, she heard footsteps crunching on the ground outside.

She peaked out but saw nothing. Since it was Australia, she wasn't too concerned about wildlife but decided to keep her flashlight on, hoping to deter any unwelcome visitors. Eventually, she turned off the light and tried to sleep. That's when she saw it, a man's silhouette, outlined by the moonlight, standing right over her tent. The figure bolted as soon as he realized she could see him. To this day, she has no idea how long he was there or what his intentions were. Speaking of Australia, another camper had a bizarre night while camping with a friend in a remote spot.

They pitched their tiny, one-person tents in a gravel parking lot and settled in for a a short sleep before sunrise. Around 3 a.m., a car pulled up out of nowhere. Two men got out, shined their flashlights on the tents, and stared at them for what felt like an eternity. Then, without a word, they fired a gun into the bushes behind the tents and drove off. One of the campers had been awake the entire time but was too terrified to move. The other. He slept through the whole thing. In the morning, they found tire tracks in an empty shell casing, confirming it wasn't just a nightmare. Sometimes, it's not just humans that make the woods a scary place.

One story comes from a lifelong outdoorsman in Colorado. This guy was the real deal, a seasoned hunter and fisherman who spent more time in the mountains than anywhere else. One year, during his annual trip to collect shed deer antlers, something happened that shook him so badly he refused to return to that area ever again. Late one night, he was sitting by his campfire, enjoying the quiet. He let out a howl, imitating coyotes, just for fun. A few coyotes responded, but then he heard something else, a deep, guttural growl from

the grove of aspen trees across the meadow. Curious, he howled again. Within thirty seconds, the growl had turned into a scream, and whatever was making it was now right next to him. It was so loud and powerful that he could feel it vibrating through his jacket. He bolted to his camper and spent the rest of the night with his gun pointed at the door. it was, it didn't stick around, but he swore he'd never set foot in that area again. Coming from a man who practically lived in those mountains, that's saying something.

Then there's the tale of a firefighter who had an unsettling encounter while working deep in the forests of Oregon. This was back before marijuana was legalized, and illegal grow operations were a real concern. He and his team were responding to a wildfire when an ATV suddenly emerged from the dense forest. The driver slowed down just enough to stay ahead of their truck. He was wearing a hat, a face mask, a bulletproof vest, and an AK-47 slung across his back. When the team finally stopped, the man pulled out a notepad, jotted something down, likely their license plate number, and disappeared back into the trees. The firefighter later explained to his rookie partner that they'd likely stumbled too close to someone's illegal

operation. They were lucky to get out of their unharmed. But not all creepy encounters happen on land. A wind turbine technician in northern Europe swears he saw a ghost ship while working offshore. He and a co-worker were taking a break, stargazing, when they heard an eerie rattling sound. The ocean was calm, so the noise didn't make sense. As the aviation lights on their turbine blinked, they caught glimpses of what appeared to be an old warship. They could see massive cannons and even a small airplane on its deck. But as soon as the lights blinked again, it was gone. Radar confirmed there were no ships in the area, but both men are adamant about what they saw. Back on land, a soldier shared his bizarre experience during a field training exercise in the

forests of Georgia. His platoon had spent the day practicing drills and was finally settling in for the night in a quiet pine grove. It was so dark that it didn't matter whether your eyes were open or closed. Around 3 a.m., all hell broke loose. Someone screamed, what the hell bit me, and the next thing they knew, rifle were firing blanks, gear was flying, and everyone was panicking. Turns out, their chosen sleeping spot was home to a flock of wild turkeys.

These weren't your average farm birds, these were massive, aggressive creatures that didn't appreciate being disturbed. The chaos was terrifying in the moment, but hilarious in hindsight. And then there are those encounters that defy explanation altogether. One summer night, a group of teenagers snuck out to explore a rural area near their homes. They ended up on a small bridge over a swollen river, tossing gravel into the water below. That's when they heard it, a loud snap from the woods behind them. Thinking it was just a deer, they ignored it at first.

But when one of them shone a flashlight in the direction of the noise, they saw something they'll never forget. It was humanoid but not quite human, with hollow eyes and no discernible features. Worse, it was nearly as tall as the bridge, which stood about 12 feet above the river. Paralyzed with fear, they were. watched as it let out an ear-piercing scream. The kids bolted, running faster than they'd ever run before. When they returned to the bridge the next day, they found bent metal railings and claw-like marks that hadn't been there before. Another story comes from a guy working night security at a substation

in northern Wisconsin. He was sitting on the hood of his truck, enjoying the quiet, when he suddenly felt a deep, primal sense of danger. Looking up, he saw what he thought was a large coyote or dog in the road. But then it stood up on its hind legs, arms hanging loosely at its sides, and stared at him. It wasn't a playful stance like a dog begging for treats, it was something else entirely. He jumped in his truck and stayed under the safety of the substation's lights for the rest of the night. Sometimes, the wilderness reminds us just how small and vulnerable we really are. Whether it's mysterious creatures, unsettling human behavior, or unexplained phenomena, the woods hold secrets that are equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

So, the next time you venture into the great outdoors, keep your wits about you. You never know what might be lurking just beyond the trees. When nobody knew what was going on or what we were dealing with, the situation was simply terrifying beyond words. I had been a corporate photographer for many years, and photography was also a hobby of mine. Most of my work confined me to indoor studios, so in my free time, I loved hiking, exploring the outdoors, and capturing landscape photos. Back in my twenties, I was reckless and bold, doing all the things you're not supposed to do while hiking, like not telling anyone where I was going, not packing enough of the ten essentials, and so on.

I think I enjoyed the thrill of venturing out alone and coming back with stunning landscape photos to post on social media, surprising my mom and friends. But obviously, that was incredibly naive and dumb. In this first story I'll share, I wasn't alone. I had a friend with me. He was into fitness, but not much of a hiker. We decided to visit a place called Bance Creek Bridge in Washington. It was an unused metal railway arch bridge, about 100 meters above a stream and surrounded by coniferous forest. Built for logging purposes, it was picturesque, the kind of scene you'd expect in any Pacific Northwest-themed media.

It was very much my vibe. I love post-apocalyptic stories and enjoy finding old, ruin structures abandoned by society. The bridge became popular because of Instagram. It got so much attention that it had to be. be closed, one of the first times I realized how the viral nature of social media could lead to the overpopulation and eventual ruin of an isolated, inherently dangerous spot. Since then, I've made an effort to be more discreet about sharing locations in my work, as I want to preserve their beauty and let others do their own research to find them.

At the time, Bance Creek Bridge was still relatively unknown. When we drove up a winding logging road to reach it, we were the only ones there. It was a beautiful November day, cloudy and a bit rainy. The bridge ended abruptly and didn't reach the ground, with no tracks leading out from it since it was no longer an active railway. It was too high to climb from below, but back then, there was a corrugated metal pipe coiled up beside it that you could use as a platform to get on. So we climbed up and started walking across the bridge.

The view from up there was stunning. Clouds rolled between the pines, and intermittent sunlight shone on the valley below. I took tons of photos. It was clear, though, that the railroad ties were broken or missing in some spots, and many were in poor condition. Add to that the rain-slicked surfaces, and one wrong step could send you plunging to your doom. I was cautious about where I stepped when I noticed, through the gaps in the ties, piles of bullet casings stuck in the steel beams of the arch.

I figured people came here to shoot sometimes. My friend, meanwhile, was fascinated by the edge. He kept leaning over and started saying weird things about how it would all end if someone just jumped. I was startled and laughed nervously, trying to say comforting things because I couldn't tell if he was joking. He kept making odd comments about how life's problems wouldn't matter anymore if one were to let go, speaking in a strangely serene tone.

In the past, my friend had shared some troubling stories about his life, and I knew he wasn't in the best mental state at the time. I started genuinely worrying that he might jump. I changed the subject, asking if I could take a photo of him standing in the middle of the bridge, where I could align the rails into a nice vanishing point. He agreed. I've heard this phenomenon described as, the call of the void, and it was strange to see it take hold of my friend for a moment.

He genuinely seemed not to care whether he lived or died. We continued along the tracks. At one point, I had to jump over a missing section, and when I landed, my footing slipped on the wet wood. That sudden thought of falling into the abyss shot through my mind. Thankfully, I regained my balance. As we neared the other end of the bridge, where the ground was gradually closer with each step, I felt relieved that we made it across without anyone falling.

I wasn't inclined to cross back, especially after how my friend had acted. I checked my map and found a trail that looped down and around, eventually leading back to where we had parked. So we headed through some forest and clear-cut areas without any issues. Eventually, we reached the stream, with the bridge towering above us in the distance. It looked incredible, and just as I was about to take more photos, I heard a buzzing sound followed by a loud crack. Then another. Gunshots

I could see what looked like figures on the bridge, and they were shooting into the valley below, right in our direction. My friend exclaimed, Oh, shit, and we bolted out of there with a fresh surge of adrenaline. I admit it was good to see him show some renewed interest in staying alive. I don't think the people shooting had any intention of hurting us, at least, I hope not. We were in the open near the stream and quite far away, they probably couldn't even see us. But who knows? In hindsight, I should have been more cautious when approaching my car on the other side in case of an ambush.

But I was convinced they were just some idiots messing around. Two brushes with potential tragedy were enough for me, so we headed home. It's been a decade since that day, and my friend is in a much better place mentally now. Fast forward to another trip. This time, I was backpacking the Teton Crest Trail, my first time in bear country. I had been studying bear safety for weeks beforehand. On the second night, we set up camp, cooked dinner far from the tent, stored anything scented in the bear canister, and tucked in for the night.

A few hours later, I woke up to a sad, whimpering sound close to the tent. I woke my boyfriend, and we concluded it had to be a bear cub, a lost baby bear. Every bit of bear safety literature we'd read basically said, if you hear a cat, if you hear a cub, the mother is nearby, and you're about to be perceived as a threat. Prepare to fight or die, we listened to the sound for about ten more minutes, having a very emotional, heartfelt conversation that could have been our last words. At that point, we thought, well, we might as well find out what's out there. Death seems inevitable anyway.

My boyfriend started recording video with his camera, using the flash. He stuck it out of the tent and pointed it toward the noise. Then he pulled the camera back in to review the footage. It wasn't a bear cub. It was a porcupine, whining in delight as it gnawed on the sweaty cork handles of our trekking poles. I've never felt such relief in my life. We decided we needed to make it stop, so we started throwing anything we could find in the tent to scare it off. Eventually, it left, and we brought the poles inside.

But the porcupine came back soon after, whining outside the tent all night, begging us to return its salty snack. I kept one of the chewed-up poles mounted on my wall as a memento of that bizarre encounter. Then there was the hunting trip. I headed out early one morning to get to my tree stand before dawn. As I settled in, I heard branches moving in the tree above me. It was a bit windy, so I didn't think much of it. Once I was set up, I organized my gear and sat quietly, listening to the rustling leaves of autumn. That year, I had set up two tree stands, one for myself and another to hold my backpack,

extra arrows, snacks, and other gear. When the sun came up, a nice-looking deer walked into view. Before it got within range, I stood up and drew my bow. Just as I reached full draw, a massive cougar leapt down from the tree and landed on the extra stand beside me. It sat there for a few minutes before climbing down and walking away. Finally, there's the time I decided to take a solo nighttime hike along a local river in northern Queensland, Australia. Houses were about 50 to 75 meters away through the bush on either side, but they were down a slope and barely noticeable. It was a cool winter night with tons of stars but no moon, so it was still pretty dark. As I walked, I had that eerie feeling of being watched. I set up camp under a small

shelter on the slope, feeling protected by the surrounding terrain. I cooked dinner and enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere. That was until around 11.45 p.m., when I started hearing random thumps, snapping branches, and grunting sounds. I was far enough from the water and had checked for crocodiles, though crocs don't usually make noises like that. Despite having several super-bright LED flashlights, I couldn't see anything. Eventually, I fell asleep, only to wake up to a strange, federal moaning noise and more snapping branches,

this time coming from up the slope around me. Once again, I left the tent, flashlight in hand, trying to locate the source. Every time I approached, the sound would shift far away, confusing me even more. Then, suddenly, everything would go silent for a while. I was definitely scared but also irritated because none of it made sense. Sometimes the noises were so loud, I'd sit in my tent, thinking some monster from the bush was about to eat me. For hours, the grunting, moaning, and even a weird smell continued.

I cycled through fear, anger, desperation for sleep, and even considered packing up and leaving. Eventually, the sun came up, and I decided to call it a day and head home. While packing, I kept an eye out for any signs of what I'd heard, but nothing was moving. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a massive hunting dog about two meters away, staring at me. My heart stopped. Behind it, about 25 meters into the bush, were two more equally large dogs. Realizing how dangerous this situation could be, I yelled, get out of here, while waving my arms.

They hesitated, then ran back across the river and into the bush, likely toward someone's property. At first, I felt silly for worrying so much, but then I realized things could have gone south very quickly. Those animals were enormous, and who knows how many there actually were. I wondered if they were responsible for the noises I'd heard during the night. But their sounds didn't quite match what I'd experienced. As I finished packing and started walking back to my car, I spotted a large herd of cattle on the slope. They began making some of the noises I'd heard, and I laughed at myself, feeling a bit of

relief. Still, getting back to my car meant walking upriver through mostly sand. Moving faster than a walking pace was nearly impossible. After an hour of this, I sat down to take a break and noticed a pair of eyes staring at me from across the river. The dogs were back, crouching in the bush with their eyes fixed on me. That's when I truly started to feel in danger. I kept my knife in hand just in case. The dogs followed me all the way back to the road where my car was parked, staying just beyond the tree line. Every so often, I'd shout and scare them off, but they'd return moments later, stealthily advancing. When I finally saw my car, I hit the unlock button on my key fob.

The sound of the car unlocking startled them just enough for me to sprint the last few meters and jump inside. As soon as I closed the door, I breathed the huge sigh of relief. I could see the dog still lurking in the shadows as I drove away, my hands trembling. It was a close call and a reminder of how unpredictable solo adventures can be. The creepiest childhood memories that still haunt me like they happened yesterday. When I was about eight years old, my family and I visited a fast food restaurant. It was me, my parents, and my two younger brothers.

This place had one of those indoor play areas, which we were thrilled about because it was practically empty that day. My three-year-old brother and I eagerly climbed up to the top, ready to enjoy having the whole space to ourselves. But as soon as we got there, I was startled to find someone else, a boy, already sitting silently in one of the corners. He wasn't playing or making any noise. Just sitting.

I wasn't great at judging ages back then, but he was much taller than me. He didn't look like an adult, but he didn't exactly look like a regular kid either. He stood up, smiled, and started following me around, asking if I wanted to play and how old I was. I remember feeling uneasy. Something about him just didn't sit right with me. I tried to focus on helping my little brother navigate the equipment while politely avoiding the boy's attempts to tickle me or get me to engage in some sort of game. My unease grew with each interaction. I didn't ask him where his family was because I just wanted to get away from him. Our family was the only one in the play area, and I noticed there weren't any other kids or even

adults nearby, apart from a few elderly people in the dining area. The boy kept following us, trying to talk and make contact, and I decided to take my brother back to our parents. We sat at the table, thinking we'd escaped him, but he followed us there too. He sat down directly across from me. I felt my stomach churn with unease as he continued trying to engage me in conversation and poking me playfully, even though I wasn't responding. My mom, being polite, asked him where his parents were. To our shock, he casually replied, at home. I just walked here because I felt like hanging out, that was the final straw for my parents. My mom quickly gathered our things, and we left in a hurry.

At the time, I didn't fully understand why we left so abruptly. But now, looking back, the thought of a 15-year-old boy lurking in a play area and targeting much younger kids makes my skin crawl. Maybe it was nothing, but the discomfort and that not in my stomach. Those feelings still feel as vivid as they did that day. The night my cat returned after death, another memory that still makes me question reality happened when I was about twelve. One day, my parents picked me up from school and handed me a small box.

Inside was a frail, sickly kitten they'd found in a dumpster. I instantly fell in love with him. Despite his rough start in life, he grew into the best companion I could have asked for. This cat followed us everywhere, perched on our shoulders like a parrot, and even had this endearing habit of checking every room in the house to make sure everyone was sick. Once, he bravely defended me from a lizard and stayed by my side until I stopped crying. He was, without a doubt, the best pet I'd ever had. Unfortunately, not everyone saw him the way I did.

Our neighbors believed he was bad luck. One day, while he was outside on his own, they attacked him. He didn't survive. I was heartbroken, lying in bed that night, sobbing until my tears ran dry. While lying on my stomach, I heard the door creak open. I froze and held my breath. The house grew eerily silent. Then, I felt the distinct sensation of tiny paws walking across my back.

For steps, slow and deliberate. They stopped, and I felt a gentle weight settle on me. Then came the unmistakable sound of soft purring. It lasted for less than a minute before disappearing entirely. To this day, I believe it was my beloved cat checking on me one last time, comforting me in the only way he knew how. The time a killer almost found me in the shower. When I was 12, another horrifying incident occurred.

My mom was out getting her hair done, and my dad and brother were out picking up food. I stayed home, planning to shower quickly before heading to a devotional service at our church later that evening. Our neighbors had two kids I often played with, but the younger one was a troublemaker and had recently been grounded. As I was getting ready to step into the shower, I heard his mom shouting, stop it. him alone. Her voice faded as if she had moved further from our house.

It didn't seem unusual, so I dismissed it. I got into the shower and halfway through, I heard the backdoor creak open. Mom must be home. I thought, relieved. I assumed she'd help me with my hair before we left for church. Then I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and heading straight for the bathroom. The door handle jiggled. Startled, I called out, I'll be out in a minute.

Suddenly, the upstairs phone began ringing incessantly. It would go to voicemail, then immediately start ringing again. I stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and answered. It was my dad, and his voice was firm and serious, put on the clothes in the bathroom basket and leave the house through the front door. Now, I tried to argue, saying I needed to dry my hair and grab my things, but he interrupted me sharply, do as I say. Now, his tone left no room for debate.

Shaken, I quickly threw on the clothes, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs. Before I could open the front door, loud, aggressive pounding shook it. Police. Open the door, confused and terrified, I obeyed. The officers asked me if I'd heard anything unusual. I stammered about hearing my neighbor yelling earlier, and they nodded grimly. They then asked me to step aside while they searched the house. I left with my dad, who explained everything once we were safely in the car.

My neighbor had been in a fight with her boyfriend, who stabbed her six times and fled. He had entered our house through the back door, the same one I'd heard creak open. My brother, who had seen him, called the police before frantically warning me to get out. It still chills me to think how close I came to confronting him in that bathroom. The forest that swallowed four hours of my life, when I was fourteen, my family rented a cabin in Ruudoso, New Mexico. Along with my immediate family, several relatives joined us. One afternoon, around 4 p.m., my siblings, cousins, and I decided to explore the surrounding

forest. I was nervous because forests have always unsettled me. Determined to prove I wasn't scared, I ventured deeper into the woods alone, partly as a dare. I walked for what felt like thirty minutes, letting my thoughts wander, when something made me stop dead in my tracks. The forest was completely silent. Not a single bird, insect, or rustling leaf.

I'd heard that forests only fall silent when predators are nearby. Hannock started to creep in, and I turned to head back. But then I noticed something even more unsettling, it was dark. Not the shadowy kind of dark you get under a canopy of trees, but pitch black, nighttime dark. Terrified, I retraced my steps as best I could, walking as quietly as possible. Eventually, the usual forest sounds returned, which was oddly comforting. I finally summoned the courage to run, sprinting back to the cabin. When I arrived, I was stunned to see a police car parked outside.

My family ran to me, tears in their eyes, telling me they'd been searching for hours. What felt like 30 minutes to me had actually been over four hours. To this day, I avoid forests whenever I can. A superhuman hero saved me from a dog attack. When I was seven, I visited a friend's house. Their neighbor owned a large dog, a Chow and Rottweiler mix, that suddenly jumped the fence and attacked me. I tried to run, but the dog bit my leg, ripping out a chunk of flesh and knocking me to the ground. It went for my face and throat, but I managed to shield myself with my arms.

The pain was excruciating, and I thought I was going to die. Out of nowhere, a man appeared. He ripped the dog off me as if it weighed nothing. I barely had time to process what had happened when the dog lunged again. The man fought it off, kicked it hard enough to make it retreat and carried me to safety. He spotted a nearby plastic tricycle and, in an incredible display of strength, hurled it like a weapon, hitting the dog with such force that the tricycle shattered. The dog didn't attack again. He carried me home, where my mom called 911. That man was a true hero, and his actions saved my life. I'll never forget his courage, or how the dog's owners just sat there, doing nothing. These memories, though unsettling, are etched in my mind forever.

Remind me of how vulnerable I was as a child and how fragile life can be. Some are terrifying, others heartwarming in their strangeness, but all of them shaped the person I am today. Let me walk you through a series of these events, incidents that shaped my childhood and continue to haunt my memory, even years later. The rope and the tree, one of the first harrowing experiences I remember happened when I was between six and ten years old. I was playing outside when I stumbled upon my best friend hanging from a rope tied to a tree

in his front yard. Panic said in immediately, and I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me to find his grandmother. Together, we managed to get him down in time, and thankfully, he survived. But as the dust settled, unsettling rumors began to circulate. Some said it was a cruel prank by other kids in the neighborhood, motivated by racial tensions. At that age, I didn't fully understand what that meant or how such hate could exist. Looking back, I still don't know the full truth, but the incident left a deep scar.

It was the first time I realized how dark and cruel the world could be. Broken glass and a cry for help, the darkness seemed to follow that family. On another day, while playing at my friend's house, I wandered into their backyard only to find his little sister chewing on shards of broken glass. Blood was smeared across her tiny face as she screamed, her cries piercing the air like a siren. For reasons I still can't fathom, she had been left unattended and somehow found an empty glass baby food jar, shattered it, and decided to eat it. I rushed to get help, and thankfully, she survived with minimal damage.

But the image of her face, the crimson streaks, and the chaos of that day are forever etched in my mind. It was a stark reminder of how quickly things can spiral out of control when care is absent. Encounters with the strange and dangerous. By the time I was 13, my life was peppered with strange encounters, but one particular bus ride stands out. I was traveling alone to visit my father, a ten-hour trip by bus. Early on, I felt to chill and put on my jacket.

That's when the man sitting a few rows behind me tapped my shoulder. You can put your jacket on. I give you permission, he said, his voice dripping with an eerie casualness. Thanks, I replied, trying to brush him off. But he wasn't done. He tapped me again and said, You don't know me now, but you will. Every alarm bell in my head went off. I was no stranger to dealing with creepy strangers, but this man was on another level.

I switched seats, moving closer to the window and away from his direct line of sight. It didn't stop him. He kept muttering incoherent threats, and I couldn't make out most of what he said. Finally, I went to the driver and reported him. The driver stopped the bus, and the man was removed after creating a scene. Later, other passengers told me he had been loudly saying he wanted to stab me to death and hide my body. It's chilling to think how close I might have been to real danger that day.

The man with the lost dog, when I was a teenager, there was a park at the beginning of a trail where I often rode my bike. One day, I stopped for water and overheard a man talking to a girl who looked about eleven. He said, I lost my dog. Can you help me find him? Alarm bells went off immediately. His tone was too polished, his demeanor too calm for someone genuinely searching for a lost pet.

Before the girl could answer, I chimed in, hey, I can help you find him. I tried to sound as friendly as possible, masking my suspicion. The man didn't seem thrilled by my offer. He reluctantly started walking, and I followed, peppering him with questions about the dog, its name, breed, and where he last saw it. He ignored me, eventually getting into his car and driving off. I memorized his license plate and reported him to the police. It turns out he was wanted for crimes against children.

I ended up testifying in court, and I hope justice was served. Haunted dolls and tornadoes. When I was young, my mom believed I had possessed dolls. They were large, almost the size of toddlers, and I had named them after my favorite cousins. They sat on a shelf near my bed, and at night, I would sometimes wake up screaming, convinced they had moved. My mom would find them on the floor, far from where they'd been placed. Eventually, she had enough.

She made me watch as she stuffed them into trash bags and threw them into the garbage truck. To this day, I'm not scared of it. dolls or horror movies, but I sometimes wonder if there was something genuinely eerie about those toys. Around the same time, I experienced my first tornado. My mom, still young and figuring things out, grabbed me in a child she was babysitting, stuffed us into a closet, and sang to keep us calm. The storm warred around us, loud and violent. She genuinely believed we wouldn't survive, and her fear left an impression on me. Even now, storms make me uneasy, though I've learned to face most fears head on. The cult of cats, this story is less chilling and more bizarre.

One night, I was walking home and saw a dozen cats sitting in the middle of the street. They were evenly spaced, about two meters apart, and didn't budge when I walked past, or even when a car drove by. My own cat was among them, but when I tried to pick him up, he hissed and bit me hard enough to draw blood. The scene was surreal, almost cult-like. I shared the story with my neighbors, and one of them confirmed they had seen the same. same thing. To this day, I don't know what was going on, but it felt like something out of a Stephen King novel.

The white-haired stranger, when I was fifteen, I used to take an early morning class in high school. One winter morning, I was waiting for my dad to pick me up when a strange girl approached. She had long, white hair and a pale complexion, almost ethereal. She asked if she could sit with me, and I agreed. Our conversation was brief and oddly one-sided. She asked about my goals, dreams, and life in general. As my dad's car pulled up, I thanked her for the chat and turned to leave. But when I looked back, she was gone, completely vanished.

There were no footprints in the snow, no sign she'd ever been there. I still don't have an explanation for that encounter, but it stayed with me ever since. The man in the truck, one of the most terrifying experiences happened to my younger sister when she was thirteen. A man in a truck began following her during her walks. He would stop to talk, asking inappropriate questions and smiling in a way that sent chills down her spine. One day, he followed her home, circling our house multiple times. Our parents didn't believe us, thinking we were overreacting.

But one day, when I stayed home sick with her, we heard footsteps in the house. Our usually gentle dog started growling and barking at the top of the stairs. The doorknob to our room began to rattle. Terrified, we called 911. one. The police arrived, but the man was gone. Our parents were skeptical, but my dad later spotted the truck near our property. After that, we never saw him again, but the experience left us shaken. These stories, each strange and unsettling in their own way, are pieces of a puzzle that shaped who I am. While I've learned to face fear and navigate the unexpected, the eerie

events of my childhood remain a vivid reminder of life's unpredictable and often chilling nature. Unfortunately, she was so exhausted, and everything was so dark that she didn't know what to do. She couldn't make out shapes or lights, she didn't know where to go. She tried to run, to jump the fence, but nothing seemed to make sense. And in a moment of confusion, Jessica collided with a post. We begin. Jessica Lynn King was born on September 24, 1975, in Columbus, Ohio, the younger of two daughters born. to Rebecca and James King.

Everyone who knew her spoke highly of her, she was generous, sweet, friendly. She was one of those people who seemed good at everything, from sports to science, and because of that, she was always an honor student. She had a brilliant mind, an incredible voice, and a deep talent for the arts. Since she was a little girl, her dream had been to become a dancer, singer, or actress. But she knew how hard that dream would be to achieve, so she focused on her studies and worked toward earning a scholarship to study zoology. Eventually, she enrolled at Westland High School, and once there, she became a cheerleader, which opened many doors. Everyone adored her.

Everyone knew her. But knowing so many people isn't always a good thing. When Jessica turned 15, her friends introduced her to a boy named Sean Thompson. Sean was three years older, and while Jessica was experiencing her first love, Sean had already dated multiple girls. There are two versions of who he was, the first says he was perfectly normal, a good guy who didn't get into trouble. The second says quite the opposite, that he was rebellious, involved in petty theft, drank, smoked, and was overall a problematic figure. Regardless of which version is true, Jessica and Sean began dating shortly after meeting, and her life changed. dramatically. She had never dated anyone before, so everything she felt was new and intense.

She wanted to be with him 24-7. He was all she could think about. Slowly, she began to pull away from her friends, her studies, and her family. Jessica started skipping class, showing up late, not doing homework, ignoring calls, and disobeying her parents. Naturally, it all caught up with her. Her chances of winning a scholarship were slipping away. So her parents had to act. We forbid her from seeing Sean. We said, you can't see him until your grades improve. And of course, she started threatening me.

I won't talk to you again, she said. But I knew I had to do something. Rebecca King, Jessica's mother, Jessica had always had a good relationship with her parents. But being banned from seeing Sean made her increasingly rebellious. She threatened to run away, to never speak to them again, and arguments with her mother became frequent and intense, usually ending in yelling, insults, and sometimes even physical altercations. No matter what anyone said or did, Jessica did what she wanted. She promised not to see Sean, then secretly met with him. She promised to go to school, then skipped class the next day.

Eventually, they decided to send her temporarily to a youth home for troubled teens, Huckleberry House, located in Columbus, Ohio. According to its website, Huckleberry House offers teens shelter, group activities, counseling, and psychological support. There are schedules, supervision, and clear structure. And that's when something remarkable happened. Jessica was admitted on March 4, 1991, and surprisingly, her behavior. changed drastically. Being at the center where she couldn't see Sean, helped her return to her old self. She improved her grades, followed the rules, and behaved responsibly. Because of this, her parents promised to bring her home on March 16th. Unfortunately, on March 15th, Jessica

decided to call Sean. At first, the call went well, they laughed, talked, but at some point, something went wrong. The conversation escalated into an argument. No one knows exactly what they talked about or why they fought, but given their history, it seems Sean didn't understand why they weren't seeing each other, why they weren't hanging out as before, or why they talked less. Jessica tried to explain, but Sean didn't want to hear it. So between shouting and frustration, they broke up. I was Jessica's roommate. She was devastated, Jessica's friend. She was devastated, Jessica's friend, at 5 p.m., Jessica left Huckleberry House alone. She didn't want company or conversation.

She just wanted to disconnect. She grabbed her things and headed out, no one stopped her. Around 6 o'clock or 6.30 p.m., a group of girls walking toward Huckleberry House saw Jessica sitting at the bus stop. They said she was alone and looked very sad, but they didn't speak to her. They kept walking, not realizing. they were the last people to see her alive. At Huckleberry House, staff take attendance twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, to make sure no one sneaks out. So at 11 p.m., when a staff

member knocked on Jessica's door, she wasn't there. They searched for her for an hour and a half before calling her parents. Rebecca King hadn't heard from her daughter since March 4th. She knew only that her daughter's grades and behavior had improved. Many sources of her say that the investigation was delayed because of Jessica's troubled history, her bad grades and status as a resident at a youth home. But Rebecca was able to prove through the center that Jessica had changed. And she argued, convincingly, that Jessica had no reason to run away, especially not the night before she was supposed to come home. Police began searching, calling friends, knocking on doors, but everything seemed useless. Two days after filing the missing person report,

a man walking through Foster Chapel Cemetery called police. Behind a headstone, he had found a girl's body. The cemetery was 32 kilometers away from the bus stop where Jessica was last seen. Her family didn't believe it could be her, Jessica didn't have a driver's license, and there was no way to get there by public transport. But sadly, the autopsy confirmed their worst fear. The body was Jessica's. The crime scene was horrific.

First, the body was completely naked, wearing only a misplaced bra, one sock, earrings, and a wristwatch. Second, her skull was fractured in multiple places, and the cause of death was blunt force trauma, delivered by a gravestone. Third, Jessica's prints were everywhere, footprints, handprints, elbow and knee marks, all over the cemetery. Fourth, her other sock was found at the cemetery entrance. A full examination showed Jessica. Jessica had been beaten to death with a gravestone weighing over 30 kilograms, that she had mailed DNA on her, and that she had been assaulted. Using all this, the police built a timeline. Around 5 to 5.45 p.m., Jessica called Sean. They argued. They broke up.

Jessica walked to the bus stop. Around 6 to 6.30 p.m., she was seen sitting there, sad and alone. Then comes a gap. Two possibilities. either she knew the person who picked her up and accepted the ride willingly, or it was a stranger who forced her into the car. Either way, investigators believe Jessica was held for six hours against her will. Her attacker drove her outside West Jefferson, undressed her, and assaulted her. Around 10 to 11 p.m., Jessica escaped the vehicle and ran into the darkness. She ran toward a light, perhaps from a nearby farmhouse. Guided by those lights, she unknowingly entered the cemetery. At the entrance, she lost a sock, hid somewhere,

but later panicked and ran again, leaving Prince all over. Unfortunately, she was so tired and it was so dark she couldn't make sense of her surroundings. She ran, tried to jump a fence, but everything was chaos. In a moment of confusion, Jessica collided with a post. It's believed that the noise alerted her killer, who, in the darkness, grabbed a grave and struck Jessica in the skull repeatedly, ending her life. What they did to her, the fear Jessica must have felt. I can feel her heartbeat running through that cemetery. I can imagine her breathing hard as she knelt behind a gravestone to pray.

And that might have been the worst moment anyone could endure. Rebecca King, Jessica's mother, the DNA found on Jessica did not match anyone in criminal databases, and tracking it would be difficult. Still, police asked around, and everyone pointed to the same person, Sean Thompson. He had caused problems, pulled Jessica away from her life, and turned it upside down. And then came a key detail, when Jessica's body was examined, one thing was missing. When they started dating, Sean had given her a necklace with the word taken on it. She never took it off.

Police built their theory. They fought, Jessica left for the bus stop, Sean followed, picked her up, and, driven by rage and jealousy, attacked her, stole the necklace, and killed her. But the case wasn't that simple. At the time of Jessica's death, Sean was in Florida, not Ohio. He had receipts, photos, and witnesses to prove it. Still, police requested a DNA sample, and the result was negative. The King family was devastated. No clues. No witnesses. No witnesses. No suspects. They turned to the media and offered a $3,000 reward for information. Time passed, no one called. The case went cold. More than 10 years passed. But then,

something extraordinary happened. On March 17, 2008, 17 years after Jessica's body was found, Ohio's criminal identification office received a DNA match from a newly uploaded profile. It was a perfect match to the DNA found on Jessica. The suspect, Marvin Lee Smith Jr., 51 years old. Years earlier, Marvin had been convicted of kidnapping and robbing two teenage girls, in the same year Jessica died, 1991. Early that year, Marvin kidnapped two girls, drove them to a remote area, assaulted them, robbed them, and let them go.

They immediately went to the police. He was arrested, but released on prison. parole while awaiting trial. Facing years in prison, Marvin decided to have one last wild night, and that's when he saw Jessica at the bus stop. He abducted her, took her outside the city, stole the necklace, and killed her. Shortly after the murder, he was imprisoned, served nine years, and was released in 2000. He started a new life in Burlington, North Carolina. But laws had changed. Now, anyone convicted of violent crimes had to see. submit their DNA. So, in March 2008, Marvin gave a DNA sample. On March 17, the match came in.

On March 28, police knocked on his door and arrested him again. At first, Marvin denied everything, said he didn't know Jessica, had never seen her. But his lawyer told him that if he kept denying, he could face the death penalty. So Marvin made a deal. He claimed he was very high the night of March 15, 1991, drove around looking for someone, saw Jessica, and abducted her. In 2009, his final trial was held. This time, he received a much harsher sentence, life in prison with the possibility of parole after 30 years. The earliest Marvin Smith could be released as 2030, when he'll be about 80 years old. So now it's your turn. What do you think about this case? Do you believe the sentence was fair?

The end. Between 1992 and 1995, the Bosnian War was in full swing. Nerman was born into this chaos, and his formative years were marked by instability and hardship. His family was reportedly poor, struggling to put a warm meal on the table. Jobs were scarce, and the constant tension of living in a war-torn country took its toll. Anxiety and stress became a daily reality, and these circumstances shaped Nerman's personality and outlook on life. As he reached adolescence, things didn't improve, if anything, they got worse. The economic and social pressures persisted, and by this time, it said that Nerman began to mix with the wrong crowd.

Rumors suggest he got involved in petty crimes, such as small thefts, minor assaults, and dealing drugs. However, there's no concrete evidence to support these claims, just speculation. Allegedly, these minor offenses escalated over time. What started as small-time thefts and fights grew into more. serious activities, potentially involving organized crime. Around this time, Nerman reportedly developed a deep hatred for the police, though the reasons for this resentment remain unclear.

Surprisingly, as he entered adulthood, Nerman seemed to turn his life around. He left his criminal past behind, or so it appeared. No longer was he known for trouble or conflicts. Instead, he shifted his focus to his physical appearance and immersed himself in the world of fitness. became his passion, and he even pursued certifications to become a fitness coach. Nerman began working at a gym, later switching to another, where he formed a close friendship with his boss, Amija.

Over time, he built a loyal clientele who seemed to adore him. To everyone around him, he appeared to be a likable, friendly, and normal guy. It was during this period that he met a nurse named Nisama Gesimovic. By all accounts, their relationship started out wonderfully. Nerman came across as attentive, caring, and devoted, the ideal partner. The two eventually married and had a daughter together. However, the affection Nerman displayed early on soon became suffocating, a point will return to later. As Nerman's interest in fitness deepened, he began exploring different aspects of training, strength,

endurance, speed, and more. His focus eventually shifted to bodybuilding, a discipline vastly different from general fitness. While fitness emphasizes overall health, flexibility, and cardiovascular wellness, bodybuilding is centered on muscle growth and aesthetics. This shift marked a radical change in Nerman's lifestyle. His exercise routine, diet, and overall priorities underwent a complete overhaul. He started bulking up, gaining significant muscle mass, and eventually began competing in bodybuilding competitions. His efforts paid off as he won several awards, gaining increasing notoriety in the process. However, his exaggerated physical appearance

didn't sit well with everyone. Many people began to speculate that Nerman was using steroids. His muscle size, combined with his stretched skin, seemed unnatural, leading to widespread suspicion. The potential dangers of steroid use are well documented, not just physically but psychologically as well. Mood swings, bursts of anger, and erratic behavior are just some of the side effects. But since Nerman never admitted to using performance-enhancing drugs, no one could confirm these suspicions. Still, his appearance and behavior raised eyebrows, and it became evident that something was off. As Nerman's reputation grew, so did his hunger for attention. He created multiple profiles on Instagram and Facebook, using these platforms to promote a healthy

lifestyle. His content focused on exercise tips, competitions, and positive messages. He never shared anything about his personal life, maintaining a carefully curated image. By 2023, Nerman had amassed 10,000 followers on Instagram alone. Brand started to notice him, and he began collaborating with companies that sold sportswear and protein shakes. He had discount codes and regularly hosted live streams, where he would work out, prepare shakes in his kitchen, and answer questions. His online persona was casual and approachable, which only added to his appeal.

But behind the scenes, Nerman was far from the charming, health-conscious man he presented online. In his private life, he was a monster. From the beginning of their relationship, Nerman isolated Nisama from her loved ones. He cut her off from friends and family, leaving her without a support system. According to reports, he soon became her worst nightmare. He frequently belittled and humiliated her, making her feel worthless and dependent on him. Nerman controlled every aspect of her life, what she wore, how she acted, and where she went. Nisama lived in constant fear of upsetting him, as even if she was.

the smallest misstep could trigger his wrath. He would disappear for days at a time, only to return with apologies, blaming her for his outbursts and insisting that she was the problem. As time went on, the verbal abuse escalated to physical violence. Nerman began hitting Nassama over trivial disagreements, leaving bruises in places where they wouldn't be visible. But the violence didn't stop there, it intensified. Soon, Nassama's injuries became impossible to hide. Black eyes, broken ribs, the abuse was evident. to anyone who saw her.

Yet, she was too terrified to seek help, fearing that Nerman's anger would only worsen if she tried to leave. Eventually, Nerman's violence extended beyond Nisama. He began destroying household items in front of their daughter, who was just a toddler. His rage spiraled out of control, and Nizama's fear for her child's safety pushed her to take action. She attempted to leave him and reported his abuse to the police,

but her pleas fell on deaf ears. Although she managed to secure a divorce, Nerman continued to stalk and harass her. He bombarded her with calls and messages, tracked her down through friends and family, and refused to let her move on. Desperate, Nisama returned to the police, seeking a restraining order. This time, she came prepared with evidence, medical records documenting her injuries, threatening messages, recordings of his abuse, and witness statements from friends and family. Despite her thorough documentation, the authorities were slow to act. By the summer of 2023, Nassama's mental and physical health had deteriorated significantly.

Her friends described her as a shadow of her former self, anxious, withdrawn, and visibly unwell. Then came the breaking point. On August 11, 2023, Nerman started a live stream on Instagram. His followers were accustomed to seeing him in one of two settings, his kitchen, making protein shakes, or the gym, working out. But this time was different. The camera captured the backyard of his home, where Nassama was tied up, battered, and bleeding. She was unrecognizable, her face swollen and bruised. Beneath her was a pool of blood.

She appeared to drift in and out of consciousness, unable to speak or move. Viewers were horrified and confused, unsure if what they were seeing was real. Normally, Nerman's streams attracted 50 to 100 viewers. But this time, the audience swelled to 12,000. Among them were people who cheered him on, urging him to escalate his violence. The encouragement seemed to emboldened him. Holding the camera, Nerman began interrogating Nassama, asking why she had reported him to the police. Her response was barely audible, but she managed to say that she had done it to protect herself and their daughter.

Her answer only angered him further. You're about to witness something you've never seen before, Nerman told his audience. A live murder, he pointed the camera at a table where a gun was placed, picked it up. and aimed it at Nisama. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The live stream captured everything, and the audience, including some of Nisama's friends and family, watched in horror. Tragically, their young daughter witnessed the entire ordeal. After killing Nisama, Nerman turned the camera toward his daughter, asking his viewers to ensure someone came to take care of her. He then left the house as if nothing had happened. The live stream ended abruptly.

Authorities were alerted to the incident by various sources. including Nerman's employer, Amiga, who reportedly rushed to the house to rescue the child. Meanwhile, Nerman fled in his BMW, heading into the city. There, he went on a shooting spree, killing two more people, a father and son named Jenny's, 55, and Dennis, 23. Some reports suggest these murders were not random but rather acts of revenge tied to personal disputes. As Nerman continued his rampage, the city's mayor declared a state of emergency, urging residents to stay indoors.

Police launched a manhunt, but before they could apprehend him, Nerman started a second live stream. In this video, he boasted about his actions, claiming to have killed his enemies and expressing his hatred for the police. He also hinted at past crimes, though it's unclear if these claims were true. The live chat was a chaotic mix of reactions. Some condemned his actions, while others shockingly praised him. Shortly after, Nerman ended the stream and took his own life,

shooting himself before police could intervene. The aftermath of these events was marked by outrage. Authorities announced investigations into the viewers who had encouraged Nerman during his live streams, promising to hold them accountable. Protests erupted across the country, with citizens demanding justice for Nassama and criticizing the system that had failed her. Despite multiple reports of abuse and extensive evidence, the police had ignored her pleas for protection.

As of now, it remains unclear whether any changes have been made to prevent similar tragedies. Laws may have been strengthened, but updates on, let's begin. William Dian Holbert was born and raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina on September 12, 1979. He was the son of Karen Bonn Moore and William, Stanley, Holbert. While studying at North Henderson High School, he played American football. He had to be the best, to break the best records. and to ensure that he got deeply involved in gym workouts, a point that will become very important later. Soon after, he founded a landscaping business and married his lifelong girlfriend, specifically in 1998. Years went by, and they had three children.

From the outside, everything looked great. They came from good families, had money, a business, they had known each other all their lives, their kids were perfect, well-mannered, everything seemed great, wonderful. But behind closed doors, everything was very complicated. The landscaping business wasn't working, and William created several companies, all of which were declared to be losing money. Eventually, he began working at a gym called the Body Shop. This time, he wasn't the owner.

The owner was a friend of his named Kevin, and over time, Kevin appointed him manager of one of these gyms because he owned several. He gave William a good position, let him manage things, but eventually noticed something was wrong. William had issued fake checks worth $20,000, and that money went straight into his own pocket. But that wasn't all. Behind Kevin's back, William tried to sell one of the gyms without telling him. When Kevin found out, he fired him. But before that happened, William had met a woman at the gym named Laura Michelle Reese, and he immediately fell in love with her. They started dating, seeing each other in secret, became lovers, but, miraculously, his wife found out about the affair and not only filed for divorce, but also requested full custody of the kids.

William and Laura moved into a small apartment, and the landlord reported they were terrible tenants. The guy came with a wad of cash, paid in full, and when they left, they left the house. completely destroyed, dirty, beer bottles thrown everywhere, racist graffiti. It was unbelievable. But after that, the woman lost track of them. She couldn't report them or do anything because the couple had disappeared. However, I must tell you that William and Laura wouldn't stay still. William opened a rather peculiar bookstore in Forest City, North Carolina. The store was called Southern National Patriots, and there he sold all sorts of products related to his ideology, stickers, scarves, flags, books, and all kinds of items with swastikas. I think with that

detail, we all understand what was being sold there, right? The kind of content. But the worst part was yet to come. William would stand in front of the bookstore with a megaphone and shout, Southerners, a call to action. This place held meetings for people who thought exactly like him. They would mobilize, patrol the streets, make lots of noise, and even appeared in the media. But eventually, the store had to shut down, and William and Laura moved on. They spent several months in Wilmington, and eventually ended up on NKY Island, where William noticed a beautiful house that seemed uninhabited. He passed by often, saw no movement, the place was nicely decorated, furnished, it was perfect,

but the owners were nowhere to be seen. So, he forged documents and pretended to be the owner in order to sell the house. He talked to a real estate developer, made an offer, and asked for a down payment of $200,000. They made the deal, he got the money, and immediately, he and Laura disappeared, knowing the law would come after them. They went to Kentucky, bought a house with that money, and on the way, William committed all kinds of crimes, stole vehicles, assaulted a police officer, and worst of all, the police couldn't catch them. There was a manhunt, but William and Laura mysteriously managed to escape. It was absurd, ridiculous, it made no sense. It was so incredible that the couple ended up on America's most wanted, and at that point, they decided they had to leave the country.

Their faces were everywhere, at police stations, on TV, in the newspapers. They had to get out of the country immediately. And in 2006, they made a ridiculous yet strangely effective move. They pretended to be disgustingly rich tourists. They boarded a luxury cruise headed to Costa Rica, and according to witnesses, they seemed completely normal, drinking, dancing, having fun, shouting. But once in Costa Rica, they got off the boat and didn't go with the tour group, they simply vanished.

And at this point, something very interesting happens. According to William, during the cruise they met a lawyer named Jeffrey Arlen Klein, who supposedly had fled the U.S. with his and his ex's savings. He told his story, said he was going to spend all his money, and William, according to his own account, killed him and stole everything. But we have no evidence of this crime. Continuing with their story, the couple lived a life on the run from Costa Rica to Panama. They stole a car, got fake passports, and finally settled in the district of Bokit, in northern Cherokee province.

There, William set up a completely fake psychiatric clinic under the name Dr. William R. It was then that he discovered something truly interesting. This part I prefer to re-record to explain a bit better, because I left it quite messy before. there was a legal loophole involving the creation of a shell company that could issue bearer's share certificates. And therefore, to sell a house, a lawyer wasn't required, as long as you had the papers, you were the owner. So, with just two documents, you could sell the property. Once William found this out, it became crystal clear to him. From that moment on, he would dedicate himself to buying and selling real estate.

Over time, the couple obtained new identities with fake passports and began calling themselves William Adolfo and Jane Cortez. The story they told was as follows, William, now known as Bill, had Mexican parents, but he didn't speak Spanish well, which obviously no one believed. He didn't look Mexican at all, very tall, blonde, very fair-skinned, sunburned easily, and had a clearly American accent. He fooled no one, and people often made fun of that. But Bill believed he was fooling everyone and continued the charade. On Thanksgiving 2007, William and Laura, now Billy and Jane, decided to visit Vulcan, Panama. Out of curiosity, Bill opened a real estate app and found a listing he loved, a massive estate with several hectares, multiple buildings, and the owner was a man named Michael Brown. So he immediately messaged him.

James stayed in Vulcan, and Bill went to visit the estate. For several days, he explored the place, stayed there, got to know the owners, their lives, who they were, and the story he uncovered fascinated him. Michael Brown was not his real name, his real name was Marcos Francis Allen, and he was a protected witness from the U.S. anti-drug agency. He had been charged in the U.S. with drug and kidnapping offenses, but cooperated with the DEA to intercept cocaine shipments. Because of that, he was entered into the Witness Protection Program.

He received a new identity, new passport, and moved abroad to live peacefully with his wife and young son in Panama. Michael shared his entire story with Bill, introduced him to his wife, Manchita Nan Katroki-Brown, better known as Nan, and their son Watson Seward Brown. This family was lovely to Bill, warm, honest, welcoming. They opened the doors of their home and lives to him. But unfortunately, he had no good intentions. The Bocas del Toro Islands had become a hotspot for expatriates who appreciated anonymity and wanted to disappear.

Many of them used fake names, and few seemed to care. With this information, Bill was certain, the Brown family had friends, but most of them were outside Panama, in the U.S., in other countries. So if they disappeared, no one would really come looking for them. And so, Bill took action. He went with Michael to a well, asked him to show him the area, and when Michael turned his back, Bill pulled out a gun and shot him in the back of the head. Then he went to get the son, asked him to come to the well, and once the boy turned around,

he did the same. And lastly, he searched for Michael's wife Nan, and again, when she had her back turned, he shot her. He finished them all off with a second shot and buried them in two separate graves. To be continued. when he finishes them all off with a second shot and buries them in two separate graves. In one of them he buries the mother and the son, and over them he places trash and dirt, and in the other, he puts the father, trash and more dirt.

The graves are on the same property, and after burying them, he turns this place into the Cortez estate. He takes the documents, forges the entire sale, and changes the name of the owner to his. He changes the owner of the business, the house, the land, and puts on the front door of the house a flag with a skull and crossbones. In one part of the estate he creates a hostel for tourists, and in another, a bar that will soon be very well known, the Jolly Roger Social Club, where every weekend he throws the wildest parties. Parties with music, alcohol, wild behavior, parties that make Bill known as Wild Bill, Bill the Savage. Bill and Jane gradually become very well known. People know the Cortez estate, its parties, its bar, but they also know that a family used to live there, and when they ask about them, the Cortezas have no answers. They say they left, that they don't know where to, that they have

no idea, and relatives of the Brown family report them missing. They ask for help from the police, local officers, but the response they receive will be repeated throughout the case, that Americans come here to disappear, and if they can't be found, it's because they don't want to be found. In September 2009, Bill decides to move forward with his plans. He's not satisfied with what he has achieved, the estate, the hostel, the bar. That's not enough for him. So he contacts a man named Bo Eeler because he hears this man is selling his house. However, at first he doesn't have the money to pay. Bo asks a price, but supposedly Bill can't pay it.

Still, they become friends, Bill invites him to his parties, earns his trust, they become buddies, and he discovers Bo is a lonely man. He arrived in Panama in 2004 after selling his art gallery. And although he has friends in the United States, in Panama he doesn't have many. He is well-known, friendly, has some friends, but at the same time, is introverted, reserved. He prefers peace, quiet, being alone. And this fact makes him the perfect victim. On November 29, 2009, Bill meets with him to make a deal for his house. Bo tells several people about it. He goes to a cafe, greets friends, and says that in a few minutes he's meeting

with Bill to sell him his house. In fact, he's carrying all the documents under his arm. He also calls a friend the United States and again tells her the whole story, he says they've made plans, that he's going to sell his house. But the next day, November 30th, Bo is nowhere to be found. He doesn't answer calls, messages, or emails. The man has disappeared, and the most intriguing part happens now, on November 30th, a painter was supposed to come to his house, but as soon as he arrives, he is met by Bill Cortez, who kicks him out, saying the house is now his and that Bo will not be coming back. And now you're wondering, what exactly happened? Well, Bill repeated the same operation as before. Bo turns his back, not paying attention, and then Bill pulls out a gun and shoots

him. At that time, Bill had employees on his estate, and he asked them to dig a pit to dump garbage. These people asked no questions, they just obeyed. Bill threw the body in, added trash, then dirt. Immediately afterward, he took all of Bo's documents, changed the name on them, and took the house for himself. But what he didn't count on was that Bo's friends would investigate. They went to the house, Bill kicked them out, and they realized all Bo's things were still there. The house was untouched, his clothes, his furniture, everything was as if he had never left. Although Bill kept saying he had sold him the house. They brought the police, wanted to file a report, but again received the same answer, that people go to Panama to disappear,

and if they want to be found, they'll show up. At this point, Bill felt unstoppable. He could do whatever he wanted, and no one would say a thing. That's when an American couple appeared in his life, Sher L. Huge, better known as Sure, and Keith World. For a few years, sure, Keith, Billy, and Jane were good friends. They partied together, drank, talked, they had a great time. But in 2010, everything changed because Sher discovered that Keith had been unfaithful. She kicked him out. He found another apartment in downtown Panama, and meanwhile, she stayed with the house, and the dogs. She repeated many times she would never leave. It was the house of her dreams, they had built it together, and the dogs were very

happy there. But on March 21st of that same year, this woman disappeared and sent Keith a message that was chilling. She told him she had someone knew, that he wasn't better than him, that she had moved on, that she had sold the house, and was going around the world with her new love. But Keith didn't buy it. For one, she would never have sold the house. It was her dream, her favorite place in the world. Second, she still loved him, wanted to try again. And third, Shur didn't talk like that. The person who sent that message wasn't her. So he went to the estate and discovered it was exactly the same.

No sign of moving out, nothing changed. Everything was exactly as she had left it. Her belongings were there. His, too. And the strongest thing of all, the dogs were still there. Among them, a Doberman named Jackie, Scher's favorite. Without that dog, she would never have left. After this discovery, Keith asked for explanations, but Billy and Jane repeated the same story,

that she had sold the house, that she had left, and they'd send all her things soon. But they were saying this while holding Scher's belongings. Bill had her iPod and jewelry that were undeniably hers. It made no sense. Keith immediately called the police, but again, same response. That people go to Panama to disappear, and not to worry, she'd show up. This made no sense, so he decided to make as much noise as possible. He contacted journalist Don Winner and asked him to please spread the case.

They investigate together what's happening, six similar stories, and discover that in Panama, more people have disappeared after selling their homes to Bill Cortez. There are the Browns, there's Boisler, and there's also sure huge. This information is spread. It appears on television, in newspapers, on the radio. There is intense pressure, but the police won't listen, until finally, they have something. They discover that at his parties, Bill Cortez always talks about having weapons, especially in AK-47.

And the topic of weapons is taken seriously. So they request a search warrant. As I mentioned before, Cher had several dogs, including a Doberman named Jackie. He was her favorite, they were always together. And when the police arrived, the dog was frantic. He ran toward them, barked, insisted, circled, left, returned, it was like something out of a movie.

The dog barked at them, then went back into the woods. Testimony from Don Winner, the dog seemed to be asking to be followed, but at first, they didn't listen. They reached the Cortez estate, breaked. down the door, enter, and in the house they find everything they were looking for. And by everything, I mean everything, not just weapons, but documentation that doesn't belong to them. Passports, credit cards, bank statements, sure's purse and phone, and documents belonging to Boisler. They search everywhere for Billy and Jane, but the couple has fled. So they

decide to follow the dog. Jackie leads them to a mound in the woods. The answer is a man. The The animal digs, urges them to follow, and the officers obey. They dig up dirt, trash, and underneath is the lifeless body of sure huge. But that grave wasn't the only one, further along, there's another mound. They dig it up and find the body of a man, later identified as Bo Eeler. They continue investigating and find two more mounds. Underneath them are the lifeless bodies of the Brown family. That's when a major manhunt begins, and third.

For a long time, Billy and Jane managed to stay on the run, until July 26, 2010, when they are captured with fake passports at the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. The trial was delayed for a long time, and in it, Bill confessed to everything, and more. He confessed to all the murders, the Browns, Bo Eeler, sure huge, and he also confessed to others the police knew nothing about. He confessed to killing a lawyer they met on a cruise, but in that case. case, no evidence was ever found. He also hinted he killed more people. But again, no evidence. Rumors began to spread, that people who worked for them had disappeared, but sadly, nothing was

ever proven. Bill first said he acted alone, that no one helped him. Later, he claimed the murders were contract killings. But either way, what he always repeated was that Jane knew nothing, that she wasn't an accomplice, that she didn't know anything, that he wanted her to stay out of it and not go to prison. But the justice system was clear, they both knew exactly what they were doing, and therefore, both had to be sentenced. In 2017, the sentences were handed down. William Dathan Holbert, aka Bill Cortez, was sentenced to 47 years and one month in prison, and Laura Michelle Reese, aka Jane Cortez, to 26 years and four months. As of today, both remain in prison, although I should tell you that they divorced, rebuilt their lives, met other people, but now it's your turn.

What do you think about the case? And do you really think it's closed? The end.