Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Murderous Minds: True Crime Marathon

Episode Date: January 27, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #truecrime #murderstories #criminalminds #darkrealities This true crime marathon presents a collection of real cases involving brutal murders, calculated killers, and shocking investigations. Each story examines not only the crime itself but also the mindset behind it, revealing how ordinary lives can hide terrifying secrets. As the cases unfold one after another, listeners are pulled into a grim journey through real horror—where the monsters are human and the fear is real horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, murdercases, serialkillers, criminalpsychology, darkminds, realhorror, unsolvedcrimes, disturbingcases, crimeinvestigation, psychologicalcrime, truecrimestories, coldcases, violentcrimes, criminalstoriesThis episode includes AI-generated content.

The tale of the Tomon family is one of the most bone-chilling, spine-tingling, and downright unsettling ghost stories to emerge from the small town of Horicon, Wisconsin. It's a story steeped in eerie whispers, unexplained phenomena, and, of course, a mysterious bunk bed that became the center of it all. This wasn't just another tale to tell around a campfire. No, this one left a lasting mark on everyone involved, and plenty who heard about it afterward. The move to Larrabee Street. In 1986, Debbie and Alan Taman decided it was time for a change.

They had three kids, a seven-year-old boy named Chris and two little girls aged two and four. Life in their cramped old house just wasn't cutting it anymore, so they went house hunting and eventually stumbled across a cozy little spot on Larrabee Street in Horicon. Horicon, back then, was a quiet rural community. A place where everyone knew everyone, or at least someone who did. Perfect for raising kids, right? Their new house wasn't huge, but it had everything they needed, three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a basement, and a garage big enough for storage.

Sure, it needed a little work, but nothing they couldn't handle. They signed the papers and moved in on April 13, 1986. From the moment they stepped through the door, they had high hopes. New beginnings, fresh starts, and all that. But as they settled in, things started to go a bit, sideways. The strange start, shortly after moving. in, the kids began to fall sick, a lot. Fevers, coughing fits, dizziness, things the Tomon kids never dealt with before. The doctor brushed it off, saying it was probably stress from the

move, but no amount of medicine or rest seemed to help. It was like the house itself was draining them. In the meantime, Alan busied himself with renovations. The girls were outgrowing their crib, so he figured it was time to upgrade their room. They found an old bunk bed at a secondhand store for just $100, a steal, given how solid it was. Until the girls' room was finished, the bed stayed in the basement. When the time came, Alan brought it upstairs, put it together, and set it up. That night, the girls couldn't have been happier. But the house?

Well, it had other plans. A haunted radio and nightmares begin. It started small. Chris, the oldest, had a habit of sleeping with the radio on. He liked the background noise, it helped him drift off. But that first night after the bunk bed was assembled, the radio went haywire. Static, random station changes, odd noises, it freaked Chris out so much he woke up his dad. Alan, being the practical guy he was, figured the radio just needed tweaking.

He adjusted it and went back to bed. But not long after, Chris was back, in tears, insisting that the radio was possessed. Frustrated, Alan unplugged it, took it out of the room, and told Chris to go back to sleep. The following nights didn't bring much peace. The girls began having nightmares, terrifying ones that sent them screaming out of bed. But it wasn't just nightmares. The whole house seemed to come alive. Footsteps echoed when no one was there, doors slammed on their own, and strange knocking

sounds reverberated through the walls. Debbie even swore she could hear the girls laughing and playing late at night, but every time she checked, they were fast asleep. The basement turns creepy. After moving the bunk bed, the basement was mostly empty. so Alan decided to turn it into a home office. One morning, while painting, he set his brush down on a cloth and went upstairs for lunch. When he came back, the brush was gone.

He searched everywhere and eventually found it submerged in the paint can, bristles up. No one else had been down there. That same night, the youngest daughter woke up screaming. She swore there was an old woman with fiery red eyes in her room, hiding behind the door, trying to set the place on fire. Alan and Debbie did their best to calm her down, chalking it up to a nightmare. But the girl was adamant, the woman was real. Things escalate, a few nights later, it wasn't the girls waking up screaming, it was Chris.

He ran to his parents' room, sobbing, saying the same thing, a red-eyed old woman had tried to burn his room and told him the family was going to die. By now, even Alan, ever the skeptic, started to feel uneasy. Debbie, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly convinced that something was wrong with the house. house. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Voices whispered her name, cold drafts seemed to follow her around, and the oppressive sense of dread hung over her daily tasks. The final straw for Debbie came during Christmas. Chris begged to sleep on the couch by the Christmas tree, saying he felt safer there. Reluctantly, they agreed. But in the middle of the night,

Chris's screams pierced the air. Once again, he told the same story, the red-eyed woman, the fire, the death threats. Alan, frustrated and fed up, finally snapped. He stood in the middle of the house and shouted, daring the supposed spirit to show itself. Nothing happened, at least not right away. The pastor and the exorcism, desperate, Debbie reached out to their local pastor, Wayne Dobat. Pastor Dobat visited the house and immediately claimed to sense a demonic presence. He prayed with the family, blessed the house, and declared the entity gone. For a while, it seemed to work. The house was peaceful again, no voices, no nightmares, no strange occurrences. But the calm didn't last.

On January 7, 1988, Alan came home late after a long shift. As he walked up to the house, he noticed an eerie light flickering in the garage. Smoke seemed to seep from the edges of the door, and the unmistakable smell of burning filled the air. Panicked, he flung the door open, only to find nothing. No fire, no smoke, just darkness. Then, as he turned back toward the house, a lunchbox he'd been carrying was ripped from his hands and hurled across the porch, smashing a lamp.

A brother's witness, by now, Alan and Debbie were at their wits' end. They invited Alan's brother, Mike, to stay the night, hoping for some validation. Mike, a skeptic, agreed. That night, as he lay in the girl's room, he claimed to see a shadowy figure at the foot of the bed. No one knows exactly what Mike experienced, but whatever it was, it scared him so much that he told Debbie to pack up and leave immediately. The haunted bunk bed, after consulting with Pastor Dobat again, the family became convinced that the bunk bed was the source of their torment. They dismantled it, took it outside, and burned it.

The haunting stopped almost immediately. But the damage was done. The Tomans no longer felt safe in their home and decided to move out in April 1988. The fallout, the story was a lot of. of the haunted bunk bed spread like wildfire. Horicon became a hub for ghost hunters, skeptics, and thrill seekers. Crowds gathered on Larrabee Street, hoping for a glimpse of the infamous house. Police had to break up fights, and a few people were even arrested for trying to break in. Despite offers from the media, the Tomans refused to capitalize on their story.

They agreed to share a heavily anonymized version for unsolved mysteries under strict conditions, no faces, no real names, and no intrusive questioning. To this day, the story of the Toulman family remains one of Wisconsin's most infamous hauntings. Was it real? Was it all just a bizarre coincidence? Or was it something darker, something that defies explanation? Whatever the case, it's a story that still sends shivers down the spine of anyone who hears it. Through these invented friends, children begin to release their positive and negative feelings, as well as project their fears and phobias.

You could say that these games help children control their emotions, better understand the world around them, and the point of view of others. But what happens when an imaginary friend becomes violent? What happens when children fear coming face to face with these friends? On this channel, we have already encountered the story of a supposed imaginary friend, Robert, the cursed doll. However, even though we have heard stories of haunted dolls, We have not been able to see the point of view of adults.

We have not been able to feel the fear through the eyes of a worried parent. So that is what we will see next. Make yourselves comfortable, because in the following minutes you will be able to watch the most shocking videos I have been able to compile, in which these imaginary friends make their presence known. When we see a child talking alone, we automatically think it's nothing more than a game. No one thinks it should be treated as something paranormal, at least not at first. We try to play along, confused by the little one. It doesn't seem to matter to us that they occasionally talk alone.

But little by little, things start to get worse. The child starts to have long conversations with someone while playing, laughs out loud, and eventually cries and gets angry because they say their friend is mad at them, or has even attacked them. In the past, there was a religious belief around imaginary friends. They were considered children's guardian angels. angels, invisible celestial beings who came down from the heavens to give values and protect the children. But when the relationship between the imaginary friend and the child turned dark,

parents thought that it was God's will, that God wanted the child to grow by facing the only being they considered their friend. However, over the centuries, this belief has faded. Parents, when faced with the crossroads of having to separate fantasy from reality, often don't know what to do. This is why many of them turn to. to the internet, sharing homemade videos that, although they may seem like simple childhood games, turn out to be truly chilling. In 2008, Dana created a YouTube channel. However, she wouldn't use it until 2010, when the doctors gave her the big news, she was expecting her first child. Dana and her husband decided to document everything through this channel so their families

could access the pregnancy's progress and the growth of their first daughter, whom they named ABA. Up to this point, everything seems absolutely normal. Dana published her videos on YouTube and then shared the links on Facebook so that her relatives wouldn't miss a single detail of Little ABA's life. Until, on August 3, 2014, Dana published a video that gave many people boost bumps. Little ABA used to talk to herself while playing, interacting with a supposed imaginary friend from a very young age. However, this time her mother wanted to dig a little bit.

little deeper into the matter, and the answers the little one gave instantly robbed her of sleep. You tell me about him. He said you might turn into a monster, he might turn me into a monster if you tell me. No, I told you, when I told you, as we've seen in this video, the girl seems amused by the game with her imaginary friend. So Dana downplayed the matter and let time pass, waiting for ABA to voluntarily give a name, the name of her friend. But no one in the family ever got access to it, because according to the little girl, the ghost had told her she couldn't tell anyone. And one day, it simply left, dragging away the memories ABA had of it. And the same thing happened with Samantha, a little girl from Mexico.

The girl had been playing and talking alone for some time, having really strange encounters. So her parents, in March 2014, contacted Dimensional Radio so that Antonio Zamudio, president and founder of the Mexican agency for paranormal investigation and the parapsychology center, could look into it. Before the broadcast, the interviewer contacts the interviewee. They both hold a telephone conversation, which is recorded to later be edited and aired on the agreed day. And that is exactly what happened. Antonio spoke for a few minutes with Little Samanta, and at the end, he reviewed the recording to correct some things. What a beautiful name.

How old are you? Five years old. How beautiful, baby. Hey, do you have siblings? Yes. And a friend. Oh, a little friend. Wow, is he here with you too, your little friend? Yes. Hey, how old is your friend? Oh, so he's your age. Yes. Hey, what's his name? He won't let me tell you. And why not? He says no, he doesn't want to play, no. Why so much secrecy? Why didn't these imaginary friends want their names to be known? I suppose we will never know. We will begin this section with one of the most chilling stories I've found on the internet, the story of a first-time father who, upon seeing inexplicable events start to happen in his home, began sharing them on social media, hoping someone with a bit of knowledge in parapsychology could help him. This story happened shortly after the birth of his first child. The man, whom will call Alan, acquired a base-a-based-a-based-a-old.

monitor so that he and his wife could watch over the little one from the master bedroom. So far, the story seems perfectly normal. However, one night a sinister melody began to play through the monitor, it was a lullaby, a tune they had never heard before, as the baby didn't own any toy that played that melody. Without thinking twice and with the monitor in hand, the father headed to the baby's room. But just before entering, the music stopped, and the baby woke up. To be continued.

But just before entering, the music stopped and the baby woke up. Many of you might think that this could, be due to interference or that the device, might have connected to the frequency of another monitor, however, this story began to repeat itself every night from that point on, every time the parents put the baby to bed in, that crib, they would step away and after a few minutes, the melody would start playing. They changed the frequencies on the monitor and the melody. kept playing. They removed the batteries from, all the toys in the room and that melody, kept playing, it played, and when it stopped, the baby would start crying. That's why on

December 2, 2015, the child's father published the following video, asking for help from anyone with even minimal knowledge, about the paranormal world. Some people commented on that video, telling the child's parents that they shouldn't worry, because clearly the one producing the song, was the baby's guardian angel, the angel who, when the child grew up, would become his imaginary friend. And that same, explanation was given to Jade, an Australian mother, who on January 23, 2016, asked for help via Facebook. She describes herself as a tech enthusiast, so when she gave birth to her daughter Ruby, she purchased the latest in baby monitoring technology. Each night she would put the little one to bed, activate the device, and go to bed herself, confident that from there she could

see everything was fine. However, one night after putting Ruby to bed, as usual, activating the device, and going to her room to rest, she decided just before turning off the lights, to check the monitor. That's when she noticed the following. Jade had lived in that house for more, then a year and had never seen anything like it before. In fact, she didn't even believe in ghosts. But that strange mist floating over her daughter, watching her sleep, kept her awake for the rest of the night. The next story is clearly related to the previous two, but with a small difference, this time, the child involved, was aware of what was happening. During the summer of 2014, Ben had a lot of trouble falling asleep.

Every night was the same story, every night was another fight with his mother, because he didn't want to go to bed. One night he'd used the excuse that the sheets were itchy, another that he wanted a glass of milk before bed, and another that if he didn't have a specific stuffed animal, sleep wouldn't visit him. But anyway, when he finally did fall asleep, he would wake up in the middle of the night crying, and screaming at the top of his lungs. So his mother finally decided she wanted to know, the real reason why Ben couldn't sleep, and she wasn't going to stop asking questions, until he confessed his true problem. But she couldn't be harsh with him, since Ben was barely two years old. So she did it in the sweetest way she could think of, and while gradually getting the little one to open up, she found the following scene. Bed, bad, well everyone has to go to. Be done, do you want some more?

Milk, what do you want? Then, sad, because you don't listen to me. Sad when you don't listen to, me, are you ready for bed? Now, what was, that, what are you looking at? P. He, all right, are you ready for, bed, ready for bedtime? Perhaps many of you don't give much importance. To what I just showed you, probably you think, it's nothing more than child's play, but let me clarify a couple of points. First, it's worth noting that when the child starts acting, as if something or someone is touching his hair, a kind of orb appears on screen, a phenomenon,

that usually indicates the presence of a paranormal manifestation. And second, when the woman turned off the camera, and talked a bit more with the little one, he told her he was afraid to go to bed, because when the lights went out, a tall man dressed in black would come, and stroke his hair, preventing him from, falling asleep. Little and used to talk to herself, and when her parents asked her who she was talking to, she always replied that it was just a game. So they never gave the matter much importance. However, one family member started getting annoyed, by those games, and that was Billy, her older brother. Every time it was his turn to babysit his little sister and he sat down, for a moment,

he would find things out of place, and that bothered him a lot. I'll give you an example so you understand better. One afternoon, while Billy was doing his homework, at the living room table, and was watching TV, lying on the couch. Taking advantage, that the little one was entertained, Billy got up for a moment, went to the kitchen, got some juice, and when he returned, the notebook, he had been writing and was full of scribbles, and repeatedly denied having done it, but if she hadn't, who had? There was no one else in the house, it was just the two of them.

And many more situations like this occurred. So one night, when again it was his turn to babysit, he decided to record everything that happened, when he wasn't present. He had made dinner, set the table, but before they both started eating, he decided. decided to turn on the camera of his iPhone 4, and step away to the bathroom. He made it very clear to Anne that she wasn't to eat anything until he got back. However, while he was gone, the camera captured something truly strange. Indeed, and tried her big brother's soda, but there was someone else there, that only

she could see, and whose intentions were exactly the same as the little ones. The last video I want to show you, could have been taken by any of the people, watching me right now. In 2010, John and Diane became parents to a beautiful baby boy they named the by. Aside from the sleepless nights, midnight bottles, and typical colic, they didn't notice anything strange in the little one, until shortly after he turned 22 months old, when he began behaving very strangely. When he played, he looked around, chased something invisible, or even laughed out loud, for no apparent reason. At first, his parents and grandparents, thought, this was just a game, but the matter kept escalating. Every time the child raised his hands,

interacting with nothing, the atmosphere in the room became tense. Absolutely no one felt comfortable, with that situation. So John and Diane started filming everything, to see if they could catch something strange, on the recordings, and finally on February 19th, 2012, they captured something that made their hair, stand on end. Talking, Tewing. Two, are you talking, two, are you talking, towing, two, John and his wife, swear precisely by that word, that it's not the little one's voice, because at the moment Diane was recording, she didn't hear him say it. But as always, now it's your turn, what do you think about imaginary friends? Do you believe they have something supernatural, or are they just childhood fantasies? End. Let me take you back to a morning that still gives me chills whenever I think about it.

I was probably in third or fourth grade at the time. You know, still young enough that I needed help getting up in the morning, but old enough to start understanding when something was off. On this particular day, I woke up not to the usual gentle nudges or cheerful good mornings, but to my mom practically bursting into my room like a whirlwind. She was clearly in a rush, her hair wild and her eyes wide with panic. Turns out, she had overslept. And since she was the one who always,

I always woke me up, that meant I was late too. There was no way I was going to make it to the bus on time. School started at 8 a.m., and the bus usually rolled up around 7 a.m. But here we were at 6.40, and I was still in my pajamas, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, not even thinking about breakfast yet. So my mom made a quick decision. She figured she'd just drive me to school herself. gave me a little extra time to pull myself together. I sat at the dining table, still in my pajamas, eating a bowl of cereal, the milk starting to get warm and gross because I was eating

so slowly. It was now around 6.50 when we heard it. The familiar sound of the bus breaks hissed from outside. Weirdly early. Ten minutes early, in fact. My mom, still frazzled but trying to keep it together, peeked out the front door. It was one. One of those foggy mornings, the kind where everything looks gray and quiet. She waved at the bus to go on without us, then closed the door and came back inside. But here's where things started to get strange. The bus didn't leave. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

My mom opened it and found a man standing there in a bus driver's uniform. He told her he was a substitute for the regular driver, who had apparently called in sick. He was early, he explained, because he wasn't familiar with the route and wanted a head start. Now, my mom's no detective, but even she found that a little weird. She told him again that she'd be driving me to school today because we had overslept and I wasn't anywhere near ready. The guy didn't like that answer. He got visibly annoyed and even offered to wait a few minutes since he was ahead of schedule

anyway. But my mom stood her ground. She told him to leave. He didn't argue anymore, just turned around, climbed back onto the empty bus, and drove off. I didn't think much of it at the time. I went back to eating my cereal, still clueless about what had just happened. But right at 7 a.m., another bus pulled up. Now this was really strange.

My mom, puzzled, went outside again. When she came back in, she looked completely different, pale and shaken. She didn't explain anything. Just told me to hurry up and get ready. Years later, she finally told me the truth. That second bus was the real one. It was being driven by the regular driver, and it was packed with the usual kids from our neighborhood.

My mom asked him about the so-called substitute, and he looked confused. Said he never called in sick. Said there was no substitute driver scheduled at all. He immediately called dispatch and report. the incident. Then he told my mom to go back inside and call the police. She did. That mysterious first bus. Completely empty. Completely unauthorized. Whoever that guy was, he wasn't from the school district. He wasn't even supposed to be there. We never found out who he was or where he

went. But one thing was painfully clear, if my mom hadn't overslept that day, if we had gotten ready like usual and I had gotten on that first bus, I might never have come home. Crazy, right? But that wasn't even the only close call I had as a kid. Let's rewind even further. This time, I was around six or seven years old. My mom, well, to put it kindly, she was dealing with some heavy stuff. Addiction. Bad choices. The kind of life that turns into stories you don't tell until you're older because even you can't believe they actually happened. One night, we were driving. I had no clue where we were going. It was super late, so late the roads were nearly empty. I don't even remember getting in the car. One minute I was home, the next,

I was curled up in the back seat, sleepy and confused. She pulled up to this sketchy-looking house and told me to stay in the car. I waited. And waited. and waited some more. It felt like forever. Then, out of nowhere, the car door flew open. A man grabbed me. Not gently. He yanked me out by my arm.

I started screaming, kicking, doing anything I could. But then he looked me dead in the eyes and said, be quiet. Don't try to run, or I'll kill you. He had a rough beard, wild eyes, and a terrifying vibe that made my skin. crawl. I was too scared to even breathe. So I listened. I shut up. He gripped my arm and started walking. I kept looking back at that house, praying my mom would come out and stop him. She didn't. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't even think straight. My brain was fogged with panic and confusion. He dragged me through the neighborhood, eventually into a cluster of

run-down apartment buildings, the kind of place that looked like it hadn't seen anything good in decades. We climbed up a bunch of stairs. My feet hurt. My legs were sore. But I was too afraid to stop moving. Then something unexpected happened. Another man. Standing in the hallway. Smoking a cigarette. And then, boom. In a blink, the kidnapper was on the ground. The cigarette guy didn't even hesitate. He punched, kicked, beat the guy into unconsciousness. Then, with this insane strength, he picked the guy up and threw him down the stairs. Blood.

Everywhere. It was horrifying. I was still just a little kid, watching this like it was a movie. But it was real. It was happening. The cigarette guy started pacing, swearing under his breath. He looked pissed off, fists clenched. For a second, I thought maybe he was mad at me.

I started crying again. He looked at me and said, okay, okay, okay, okay. Shut up. Stop crying. Weirdly, I listened. He started asking questions. Why was I out so late? Where were my parents?

Why did I talk to strangers? I couldn't answer. Not properly, anyway. I tried to explain, but everything came out jumbled and messy. Somehow, though, he figured out where my mom's car was. Maybe he knew the area. Maybe he just put the pieces together. I don't know.

He told me he'd take me back, but I had to promise, over and over, that I wouldn't tell anyone I saw him. Not the police. Not my mom. No one. He wasn't mean, but he was definitely not someone who liked the law. I promised. We left the building, stepping over the unconscious man on the stairs. For all I know, he might have been dead.

I didn't care. I just wanted to go home. As we walked, the cigarette guy kept glancing around nervously. Cops don't like me very much, he muttered. I didn't ask why. We walked fast. I could barely keep up. When I cried again because my feet hurt, he sighed, picked me up, and carried me.

Awkwardly, but still. I wasn't exactly light. Then we saw a cop car. He panicked. Ran behind some houses. Put me down and told me to run to the cruiser. I tried, but my legs barely worked. He swore again and picked me back up.

We hid from every cop car like. we were in some kind of chase movie. Eventually, we reached a street where I saw my mom. She was with the police. When I saw her, all the pain disappeared. I ran to her. She scooped me up and hugged me like she thought she'd never see me again. The cop started asking questions. I don't remember much about that part. My mom told some strange, unbelievable story. Told me to stay quiet. We went home. A few days later, my dad showed up and took me away. I told him everything.

That was the last time I ever stayed with my mom. Years later, I asked my dad what he thought had really happened. He said my mom was probably buying drugs, and I was snatched by some guy off the street. The cigarette guy. He probably had warrants. Maybe was a criminal himself. But that night, he saved me. He didn't have to.

But he did. Imagine that, a wanted man risking it all to save a scared little kid. Because if the police had caught him with me, they might have charged him for the kidnapping. With my mom lying in me too shocked to explain, he could have been locked up for something he didn't do. To this day, I've never forgotten that man. I don't know his name, don't know what happened to him. But wherever he is, I hope life gave him something good. Because he gave me a second chance.

And sadly, that wasn't the only sketchy adult I encountered because of my mom's choices. When I was in kindergarten, she dropped me off with whoever she could find, daycares, neighbors, you name it. One summer, she left me with this woman from the neighborhood. No idea what made her think that was a good idea. Desperation stupidity Both Whatever the reason

She left me there most days And that woman She had no business being around kids To be continued Looking back I honestly don't know if it was stupidity Naivety or a little of both But whatever the case

My mom made the unfortunate choice of leaving me In the care of a woman who should never have been allowed around kids Let alone be responsible for one From the moment I met this woman something felt off. I suspected she might have been an alcoholic because she always had this sickly, exhausted look about her. Her eyes were perpetually bloodshot, and her breath constantly reeked of stale vomit and

something bitter I couldn't quite identify back then. She rarely ever actually watched me. Most of the time, she just locked herself in her bedroom. I remember feeling invisible, like I was just this burden she couldn't wait to ignore. The only time she even pretended to care was when my mom dropped me off or picked me up. The rest of the day. I was completely on my own. She barely spoke to me, and when she did, it was either to complain or to blame me for something I didn't do.

One time, she claimed I broke some of her picture frames and made me clean her entire room as punishment. When I stepped into her room, it looked like a junkyard of empty glass bottles. They were scattered everywhere, under the bed, next to the closet, some even rolled into the corners. It wasn't hard to guess what she'd really been up to. That summer, two girls came to stay with her, her nieces. I don't remember their names, or whether they were sisters or cousins, but I clearly remember their ages. The younger one was around eight, and the older was about eleven.

They were, without a doubt, the most awful children I have ever met in my eyes. life. The younger one was a gross little brat who was rude and obnoxious, while the older one was a straight-up psychopath, manipulative, violent, and completely heartless. When we first met, I was polite. I didn't have any reason to be otherwise. For the first day or two, they were nice back. But it didn't last. Quickly, the older girl started making fun of me, calling me names. The younger one, not wanting to be left out, followed her lead. It started small, name-calling, teasing, then escalated. They began stealing my things, blaming their messes on me,

and within just a week, they were physically attacking me. The younger one found joy in dumping food and dirt on my head, pulling my hair, and stealing my lunch. One day, she even peed on the living room floor and blamed it on me. Of course, I was the one who got yelled at. The older one, though, she was worse. She threw glass bottles at me for fun. One morning, she even put pieces of broken glass into my cereal bowl.

I almost ate it. When I asked her why, she just smirked and said she wanted to see what would happen. What kind of kid thinks like that? She shoved me into walls, yanked me around by my hair, and laughed when I cried. I was smaller and weaker. I couldn't defend myself, and when I tried, the younger one would jump in to help her sister or cousin, or whatever she was. I was outnumbered, outpowered, and completely alone. I started coming home with bruises, scratches, even blood-crusted in my hair.

I'd spend my evenings picking things out of my scalp, bandaging myself up, and scrubbing food or worse out of my clothes and skin. My parents? They didn't notice a thing. Not the bruises on my face. Not the cuts on my arms. Not even the clear signs that something was wrong. I began having panic attacks. I'd cry as soon as I woke up, knowing I had to go back to that house and deal with those monsters.

It wasn't until one morning when I was completely hysterical that my mom finally asked what was going on. I told her everything. I showed her the bruises, the cuts, even the small burn marks from when they set pronged. part of my hair on fire. I was desperate for her to believe me. To her credit, she reacted immediately. She took the day off and drove straight to that woman's house. She was furious, demanding answers. She showed the woman my injuries and asked for an explanation. The woman, calm as ever, called the nieces in and asked for their side. And, of course, the girls lied. They said I hurt myself to get them in trouble. They said they didn't know why I didn't like them and that they still

wanted to be my friends. And my mom, she believed them. She actually believed those little psychopaths. She accused me of lying and told me to apologize. I couldn't believe it. She made me apologize to the girls and that woman, then dragged me home and gave me a spanking. After that, she didn't care anymore. She stopped noticing the bruises. She stopped asking questions. She just assumed everything was for attention and ignored me. So the abuse continued. I had no choice.

I couldn't make her believe me, no matter how bad it got. Eventually, I just shut down. I became numb, zoned out. I stopped crying. Stopped reacting. By the end of that summer, after three straight months of hell, I felt like a zombie. Then came the pool. Out of nowhere, that woman set up a backyard pool and decided the three of us could use it.

Probably so she wouldn't have to deal with us. One morning, she asked my mom if I could bring a swimsuit. My mom hesitated, I couldn't swim yet, but the woman promised to supervise and make sure I stayed in the shallow end. The next day, I packed my suit. Despite everything, I felt hopeful. swimming sounded fun. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad. When I arrived, the woman told me to get changed and meet them at the pool.

She laid out the rules, I had to stay in the shallow end, and the girls were not allowed to bring me near the deep end. Then she went inside to make a phone call, leaving us alone. At first, the girls ignored me. They sat at the edge of the deep end, watching me while I splashed around in the shallow part. For once, they left me alone. Fifteen whole minutes of peace. I laughed, smiled, actually had fun. For the first time in weeks, I felt like a kid. Then they called my name. They started teasing me, daring me to come into the deep end. Calling me a chicken. I ignored

them, tried to stay in my happy little bubble. But eventually, I had enough and got out of the pool. That's when the younger one ran into the house and locked me out. I panicked, running to the glass door and trying to open it. She stuck her tongue out at me through the glass. Then I felt it, arms grabbing me from behind. The older knees had snuck up on me. She yanked me by the hair and dragged me toward the pool. Before I could scream, she threw me into the deep end.

I hit the water hard. Instant panic. I couldn't swim. I flailed, gasped, swallowed water. Every time I surfaced, I heard them laughing. Then she jumped in. I saw her face right before she grabbed my head and shoved me under. My knees scraped the bottom of the pool.

I fought her with everything I had, kicking, pushing, until finally, I hit something. She let go. I surfaced, gasping, coughing, and realized I was back in the shallow end. Then I heard the woman yelling. The older niece was crying, blood streaming from her nose. The woman stormed into the pool, grabbed me, and threw me into a chair. What the hell is wrong with you? she screamed. I told you not to go near the deep end.

Now look what you've done. She pointed at the older niece, crying and sniffling. I tried to explain, she threw me in, she attacked me, but the woman wasn't listening. She demanded I apologize. I screamed no. I told her I hated them. That they were mean, that I didn't want to be there anymore. She slapped me across the face.

I didn't even cry. I just sat there, numb, as she yelled about how ungrateful I was. How I made everything up. How my mother only left me with her because she didn't love me. She said I owed my life to the girls, and because of my behavior. I was never allowed back. She called my mom to pick me up. My mom apologized to her. Apologized to the nieces. Then she took me home and screamed at me the entire way. She was furious she had to leave work. My dad came home later and yelled too. I was grounded for a month. I never went back to that house.

But I still drive past it on my way to work. Every time, my son. stomach knots. I've never told my parents the full truth. They'd probably say I was being dramatic, or just a brat. But I've had years to think about it. And every time I do, I get this sick, cold feeling. Because I'm not sure the older niece was just bullying me. I think she was trying to kill me. I think the younger one was helping her. Acting as the lookout. And when things didn't go as planned, she went to get the woman so they could twist the story and get me in trouble. I'll probably never know for sure. But I know what I felt. I know how scared I was. And I still wonder what kind of people those girls grew up to be. I'm not a hateful person.

But I sincerely hope that woman's liver gave out years ago. And those girls? I hope they're locked up somewhere. Because some people really do deserve to be feared. The end. All right, so let me take you back to when I was like 13 years old. Back then, my world was pretty small, school, home, and my best friend, Alan. He lived right next door, and we'd been tight since second grade. We used to spend every waking moment together, riding bikes, playing video games, getting in harmless trouble, the whole classic childhood package. But what really changed everything, like the turning point, the moment where the road forked, was a stupid remote control car.

Now, Alan had this top-tier RC car, man. I'm talking full throttle, street speed kind of beast. It could drift around corners, launch off ramps, even handle grass like it was nothing. He'd be out there almost every day tearing up the sidewalk like he was in the fast. and the furious. I'd watch for my window, face practically glued to the glass like a sad puppy, just drooling over that car. You know how it is when you're a kid and your friend has something amazing you don't? Pure jealousy. So naturally, I begged my parents for one. And when I say begged, I mean full-on campaign mode, pleading, bargaining, dropping hints during dinner,

even trying that hole, I'll never ask for anything again, move. Eventually, my My birthday came around, and guess what? I got one. Well, kind of. It wasn't anywhere near the level of Allen's. Mine was a yellow RC Camaro, much cheaper, kind of slow, couldn't really do tricks or anything, but man, I loved it anyway. It was mine.

The very next day, I hear that familiar buzzing, that high-pitched hum of Allen's car out front. So I grab my brand new Camaro, practically glowing with excitement, and rush outside. This was my moment. My grand debut. I was finally going to show him I was in the game too. So I drive it out the driveway, easing into the street, just as he comes flying by at full speed. And boom. Collision.

Catastrophic. His car absolutely destroyed mine. I mean, bits of yellow plastic went forward. flying like confetti. My little Camaro went tumbling down the street like a crash dummy. It was like watching a toddler get body slammed by a linebacker. Total annihilation. I just froze. My stomach sank. My heart dropped. I hadn't even had the thing for 24 hours. I immediately started apologizing, my voice all shaky. I knew it was my fault. 100%. I should have waited or at least warned him. His car was pretty busted,

but mine. Done. Scrap. But Alan didn't take it well. Like, at all. He ran over, looked at the remains of his car, then just screamed in my face and straight up punched me in the nose. No hesitation. I was in shock. Instinct kicked in and I shoved him back. He fell on his butt, started crying, and then yelled something like, You're not my friend anymore. That hurt more than the punch, honestly. Like, this was my best friend, and in one second it all unraveled. I tried going over to his place a few times after that,

but his mom always answered the door and said he didn't want to play. At school, he avoided me like the plague. Then the real kicker, he started hanging out with this group of total jerks. You know the type, bullies, the ones who think they're cool because they're mean. And sure enough, he joined in and started picking on me too. That's when I stopped trying. Just cut my losses. We lived next to each other for a few more years, but we might as well have been strangers.

Total silence. It sucked. I'd see him sometimes through the fence or out front, but we never said another word. One time, I saw him and his dad at the park with an RC car. I couldn't tell if it was the same one repaired or a brand new one, but I noticed something. He never played with it in the street anymore. Only the park. And every time I happened to be outside when his dad was around, the guy would give me this

death glare like I was the one who crashed the car on purpose. Like I was some neighborhood menace. I'm pretty sure Alan told him a twisted version of what happened. maybe even said I wrecked it on purpose. I never tried to correct it. What would have been the point? Fast forward a few years. High school.

Alan's whole vibe changed. He went from being this goofy kid I used to build Lego towers with to a full-blown rebellious punk. I remember overhearing him and his dad screaming at each other in their driveway once. Something about drugs. His dad found some stash in his room. It got ugly real fast. Then came the motorcycle. Not even a car, nah, this guy jumped straight to a crotch rocket. And not the kind of guy who takes it for calm Sunday rides either.

He'd rev the thing to the max, blast through the neighborhood at midnight, doing wheelies, and almost clipping mailboxes. It was chaos. He became infamous around town. You'd hear the engine and know, oh, that's Alan being a lunatic. again. Somehow, he even built a bit of a TikTok following. Yeah, seriously. He'd post videos of him weaving through traffic, riding on sidewalks, doing stunts like he was in a low-budget action movie. Got a few thousand followers. People loved watching the madness. The danger. I guess it made him

feel important. Untouchable. But that kind of recklessness always catches up to you. Last year, everything came crashing down, literally. He was riding his bike, doing one of those stupid stunts for content, and ended up wrecking hard. Real hard. So bad, they had to airlift him to the hospital. It was all over social media for a while, people posting about it, sharing updates. The whole thing felt surreal. Like, this was the same guy who used to stay up with me playing Pokemon on our game boys,

and now he was in the ICU missing half his leg. Yeah, they had to amputate. His left leg, below the knee, gone. I didn't hear much about him after that until recently. Just a couple weeks ago, I caught wind that he got arrested, something about selling drugs online. He went from a neighborhood hero with a cool RC car to a one-legged ex-Tick-Toker now facing charges.

So there I was, laying in bed, thinking about all this. The timeline. The downfall. And you know what? It all looped back in my head to that day. That dumb RC car accident. It was like this weird butterfly effect. One moment, one crash, one broken toy, and suddenly we weren't friends anymore.

And everything after that? A chain reaction. Would he have ended up like that if we had stayed friends? Would he have drifted toward the bullies, the drugs, the chaos? Or would things have been different if I never pulled my little yellow Camaro into the street that day? I don't know, man. I'll never really know. Maybe it's dumb to even think about.

Maybe he was always going to end up that way. Or maybe we were both just kids, and one bad moment sent us in totally different directions. Who knows? All I know is, some of the same. Sometimes I still think about that yellow RC car. About how it barely lasted a day, how I wrecked it and maybe a friendship too. And how a dumb toy ended up being the beginning of the end for someone I used to call my best friend. Crazy how life works sometimes.

The end. Lesson 1, its color. I stared at death, his eyes were still closed tight. I half expected them to open and for him to show me that they glowed an awful green or red. Shouldn't death have eyes that reminded me of wounds and decay? They wouldn't be a peaceful blue or a jet black. I shook my head and noticed that he held my hand in a manner that was causing it to cramp. I tried to let go a bit to signal that I wanted to shift its position but there he remained,

a still, solid stone. As beads of sweat began forming on his forehead and his hand grew moist and warm, my initial perceptions of him began to change. I was beginning to see him more tormented than tormentor. Wanting to inquire who could be oppressing him so my tongue froze before I could seek the name of his assailant. I took a rather macabre comfort in his strain, but barely for a moment. Shuddering slightly I groan at the shiver sent down my spine as if there were a sharp breeze coming through the open window. But it was the stillness of the air that aroused me and I sought comfort as I closed my eyes.

gazing into black the light danced in a picture, from where it came I could not tell, began to form in my mind. These were the dusty days when nothing dared disturb the silence still. I awoke that morning to the familiar sound of the garbage truck that always seemed to rattle the beerkin collection that graced the metal shelving next to the casement window of my attic bedroom. I had no use in straightening or securing them my menagerie for I rather liked the sound and the Harbinger it was that another day, another summer Wednesday, was no. and holding no limitations for me. I noticed that my father's bed across the room was empty and unkempt. He had not been up long and there was still opportunity to convince him of a grand adventure or two. As I stumbled out of bed I brushed against the plaque that my mom and dad had given me. It was blue and round with a picture of a blonde boy like me holding a little chick

while several others milled about not waiting their turn to be held but not afraid of the gentle giant in their midst. My middle name, Francis, was a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. Legends about of St. Francis, love for and care of animals both domestic and wild. It was as if his love for them were somehow transferred to me. Making my way downstairs I turned on the light in my aquarium that housed my two goldfish. Hey guys! I greeted them getting out their favorite food.

It's going to be a warm one today, I hope you are not sweating in there. My goldfish were cold water specimens and I had to disposable income to create or purchase a chiller for their water. They were at the mercy of the internal temperature of the house as my parents had no extra income for central air. They seemed happy enough so I lazily looked for someone to greet. My mom had a rare work day at the dry cleaners a couple doors down and left a list of chores for us to accomplish. Taking note of them I noticed that some of the simpler ones were crossed off already. My brother was diligent to not only complete them but to make sure that he would hold it over my head that I had not done a single thing yet that day. Undaunted I half-hearted dusted the basement family room when I saw him for the first time.

Hey, I think there was a party at the exempts last night, I started shaking the dust cloth out the window. Yeah, there was, he almost laughed. I had to turn the TV up on the porch to drown out the noise. Well, you know that means that those dumpsters are going to. to be chalk full of bottles, I continued wringing my hands like an evil scientist. And that wooden wire spool is still down there as far as I can tell. I think you're right. I saw it a couple a days ago.

I think we'll get some good busting in before the others get there. But our list, it's not done yet end. Mom works till three, we'll be fine, I reassured him. Not that he needed it. He was already getting his swamp shoes on. These were the ones he wore in deference to our parents' wishes to not muddy up our good sneakers. Those were ones that we'd wear to picnics, or the museum, or any other place that required something less than shoes and a bit more than the muddy, scuffed footwear that had laces barely long

enough to tie. Today of all days the right shoes were necessary as we were heading to one of the most coveted places in the neighborhood. There was a swamp at the end of our street. A swamp where we would go and collect tadpoles or break liquor bottles that we would find in the dumpster at the back of the bar that was not 300 yards from where we liked to play. The swamp held special significance in the neighborhood lore and its name betrayed its importance, dead man's swamp. It was there, as Goody Goodwin would insist, that a man was buried. Deep in the middle of the swamp, inaccessible to us kids as it was over six feet deep, a man took his last breath and succumbed to death.

Now no one was sure if it was the swamp that killed him or just where, they threw him after he died. The missing details were not unimportant as they shifted depending on who was recalling the story. Suffice it to say that no one dared to swim to the middle of that ruthless body of water for fear of disturbing the man's rest. Or maybe they wouldn't venture in for fear that the tale wasn't true. Whichever reason the journey was never endeavored was somewhat irrelevant as the story lived in the mind of this almost 50-year. old man. This day was soon to take a different tack as my brother and I sprinted across the field between the bar and the swamp with arms full of the largest liquor bottles we had ever seen, and a cut finger or two. It was only then that we saw the two older boys that had already arrived.

My younger brother and I had never seen them before, but we could easily chalk that up to the fact that we were on the early side of our almost daily pilgrimage. We weren't sure what their names were and we quickly ascertained that they weren't interested in ours. What held their interest was the necessity to catch a frog for some sort of science experiment. At least that is what we thought we overheard as we set up the bottles on the large, wooden wire spool and began to look for suitable rocks to throw at them. As I knelt down and dug a rock out of the mud that tattered, blackened form seemed to darken the scene and quickly vanished. It was as if that simple act disturbed the rest of a memory, one that this death, lusted for me to recall. As I tried to cling to forgetfulness I signaled to him

that I was not much interested in being transported there. When I tried to open my eyes they remained shut. I summoned some strength to shake my body in an attempt to affix my energy to another place. I could see louder, more colorful days in a distance and I attempted to make my way towards them. They were quickly sealed in a translucent haze almost mocking me with their inaccessibility. Now, gazing upon my brother, I found him growing less solid and more phantom-like. I could feel his bones fade as I attempted to grab him by the arm silently mouthing the words, we need to leave. No sound escaped my throat as he lightly shook his head, looked me between the eyes and loudly whispered, remember. I found my attention, again, fixed on the older boys

and I saw that they had, indeed, caught a frog. When one of them mentioned that it was little used to them alive, I vividly recalled their treatment of it. I looked for comfort for my brother, but he was gone, and I was frozen, alone, and barely ready to watch them. I held a stone in my hand and knew that I had to hurl it at them to focus their attention elsewhere, but my arms hung limp and I lost my grip on it. It fell into the water near my feet scattering tadpoles and bringing up a cloud of silt.

They were to abuse our ever-increasing, God-given dominion over nature and kill this frog. One of the boys threw it to the dirt as hard as he could. The other skipped it along the same semi-soft ground while his friend ran to retrieve it. It was barely alive when it was dashed against a half-buried boulder of a rock and finally lifted as a lifeless shell its tongue hanging out of its mouth so slightly. We should have toyed with it more, one of the boys confessed seemingly wishing that its life was taken much more slowly, and deliberately. Yeah, well, we have what we need now, don't we? His friend confessed as they chuckled and left taking part of my life with them. I felt as though I had been diminished. I couldn't leave. Still somewhat frozen I looked around for somewhere, anywhere to retreat to

when I spotted a well-worn spade sticking straight up into the ground. My heavy feet plotted towards it as I looked for the boulder, the embedded stone altar, they used to strike the final blow. Making my way towards the rock I is determined to dig it out and throw it in the middle of the swamp. That is where death lived. That is where his instruments were to remain. As I dug, and sweated, and swore, and cramped I sang my silent screams. The rock seemed to go for miles under the earth and the more I dug the bigger it grew. The bigger the whole became I found that the rock filled increasingly filled it. I could not defeat it. I could not bring it. I could not it to its rightful resting place upon the dead man's chest.

Knowing that I would not save another frog from the slab, I would now save a frog from another's hands. Almost desperately searching for a frog to rescue, cherish, and comfort I frantically splashed about making so much noise in the early morning air that I swore I could hear windows closing and shades being drawn. After witnessing what had happened I reckon that a frog could not have been all that keen on staying in dead man's swamp. Not for the rest of that day anyway.

I wanted to reassure the frog that we were not all like that. There were people there who, even though they broke bottles, would never harm a living thing unless they were feeding a worm to the tadpoles that they had in their fishbowl at home. I couldn't find one and I feared that I would never find one again. My world snapped back to my kitchen table and the chair creaked as I jerked. Conscious again of my surroundings my skin tasted the fresh, warm breeze that moved the curtains on the south-facing window. Death's sweat was gone and his hands were cold, shrunken, and wrinkled as I drew mine out slowly at first and then with abandon. It was then that I shot straight up in my chair.

I was young. I cried a single tear rolling down my right cheek. Why didn't you look away? Death rasped seemingly accusing me of crime that I had merely witnessed. I was held there. I shot back in my defense knowing that inescapable fact. By whom? Death retorted as he gripped the side of the table.

You were, indeed, held. But not by me. But you know how much I loved animals. I would have never done that to the poor frog. And that is the criteria. That is what you thrust upon me for my selection of whom, or what I touch. My master is no respecter of persons and you should be joyful that I cannot resist him. What am I to say?

To whom should I appeal? Death started to shake a bit as if you were being summoned. You were held, he continued, yes, most certainly. You were arrested by you. It was there that I had nothing to admit by my fascination with it all. I was not utterly sheltered from the reality of death. I had killed before and seen, on more than one occasion, the carcass of an animal strewn on the road. A squashed fly here, a goldfish that expired.

in the middle of the night or while I was at school there. But now, there, then, I saw something more like me. Something that had legs. Long legs like mine. A tongue, a sticky one that tasted food. Tight, waterproof, freckly skin. And all of that encased something like a life that I seemed to have. It was this thing that helplessly happened upon a greater, merciless force that would not allow it to move one more muscle toward preservation.

Rather this force sought the weaker vessel's destruction bending it to its own will. It was that aggression, that violence, that reckless, careless abandon against that which I esteemed that cemented this journey in my mind. I longed to be the one to designate those that he afflicted. I couldn't bear to think of the frog, let alone my wife's, sons, parents, brothers, or sisters' bodies and wills bent and broken by him. All of them I wanted to preserve from his penetration and the pain that we would face as the wake of their absence wet my feet.

I knew he was restrained, but he marched to a drumbeat that seemed to assail my soul and thickly veil my understanding. Will it ever leave? I asked. Will I always remember this? That's for him to decide, death sniffed, almost exhausted, and now with sweat reforming on his forehead. Now take my hand, please, quickly, he almost sobbed lips quivering as he spoke.

is still much to show you. Reluctantly, my left hand crawled toward him when he reached out and snatched it. His was, again, warm and wet as his eyes rolled into the back of his head just before hiding them from me. The end. The day everything fell apart, January 19th, 2024, a date I probably won't forget any time soon. Not because anything beautiful happened. Not because it was somebody's birthday or a school dance or even the day I finally mastered my science project. Nah. It was the day my mom beat me with a belt and left a red belt across my back and arm like some kind of permanent reminder that respect and rage often walk a very thin line in my house. I'm 13. I'm a girl. And I'm mixed, black and white. That's not always easy,

especially in a world that seems hellbent on putting people into boxes. Too black for the white kids, too white for the black kids, and constantly trying to just figure out who the hell I'm supposed to be in the middle of it all. It all started with something that felt totally harmless, just another chill day at school. Me and my best friend, we've been tight since forever, were goofing off with our school-issued Chromebooks. You know, taking silly selfies during free time, posing with ridiculous faces, giving each other double chins, putting on those weird Snapchat-looking filters. Just innocent stuff that makes middle school bearable. Stuff we wanted to look back on one day and laugh about. But of course, something always has to ruin the fun. There's this dude, Liam.

And man, if I had to list the people who make my life unnecessarily difficult, this guy would be at the very top, highlighted, bolded, and circled in red. Liam has never liked me. Or my best friend. or really, anyone who isn't his weird little clone. He's that kid who thinks he's smarter than the teacher and snitches just because he gets a weird high from it. We ignored him most of the time, but somehow, every single photo we took had Liam in the background. It wasn't on purpose, he just happened to be there, lurking around like some nosy NPC with a grudge. Well, Liam decided to take our fun and turn it into a federal case.

He told the principle that we've been taking pictures of him without his consent and uploading them online for everyone to see. Which, let me be super clear, we did not do. At all. We didn't post a single thing. Not on TikTok. Not on Instagram. Nowhere. We just had the pics in a shared Google slides file that only me and my friend could see.

That was it. But Liam wanted attention. or revenge, or drama, who knows, and he got it. Next thing I knew, me and my bestie were being called down to the office like we were criminals. We sat there while the principal, who I'll talk more about in a second, lectured us about privacy and digital responsibility. We tried explaining it was just us having fun, that the pictures weren't public, that we didn't mean anything by it.

But he wasn't trying to hear any of that. He made us delete the whole slideshow right then and there. breathing down our necks like we were hacking the Pentagon. It sucked, but we figured that was it. We got in trouble. We paid the price. Moving on, right? Wrong.

Word got out. Fast. You know how schools are, especially middle schools. Someone blinks weird and by lunch period it's a whole conspiracy theory. So yeah, people found out Liam had snitched. And in our school, being a snitch is social suicide. Suddenly he was the guy who ruined someone else's day for no reason, and people weren't subtle about it. The looks, the whispers, the passive-aggressive comments in the hall, Liam was catching heat.

So what did Liam do next? Something even worse. He called my best friend a monkey. Yeah. That. A whole racial slur. Out loud. In the middle of class.

Like it was casual. At that point, things exploded. Some kids who heard it told the teachers, and the teachers got the principal involved. Now a bunch of kids were getting called to the office again, but this time as witnesses. I figured, okay, now Liam's finally gonna get held accountable for something. Maybe, just maybe, the system will actually work for once.

But guess what? The principal didn't even care that Liam said something racist. He didn't ask questions about that. Nope. Instead, he focused the whole meeting on me. He started asking everyone if I had said anything rude to Liam. Like, really? Out of all the things going down, racial slurs, snitching, drama, he wanted to know what I did.

This guy hates me. That much is obvious. He's always had something against me. I could sneeze too loud and he'd write me up for disturbing the piece. So now, instead of asking why Liam called my friend something disgusting, the principal was laser-focused on whether I might have said something mean to poor little Liam. Everyone said no, that I didn't say anything. But apparently that wasn't good enough.

He called my mom. Now let me tell you something about my mom, she does not play when it comes to bullying. especially if race is involved. I've seen her go off on people before. She's got this no-nonsense vibe, like, she won't even blink before putting someone in their place if they cross the line. And when she's mad, man, you better run. So when I got home, she was already waiting. Sitting in her room like a judge ready to pass down the verdict.

She called me in, told me to sit, and just started asking questions. What happened at school? Why did the principal call me? What did you do? I tried to explain it calmly at first, but the whole situation had me heated. I was still mad at Liam. Still mad at how the principal treated us. Still mad at how unfair everything was.

So when I opened my mouth, I didn't hold back. I said, exact words, I couldn't care less about that hunchback of Notre Dame N. Asteris Gere. it was like the air got sucked out of the room. My mom's face turned into stone. Not shock. Not sadness. Just pure, volcanic fury. She didn't even say anything.

She just grabbed her belt, one of those thick leather ones that's not just for show, and started swinging. It wasn't like one quick slap to prove a point. Nah. It was full-on punishment mode. Across my back. across my arms. Through three layers of clothes, my bra, my t-shirt, and my hoodie. And it still felt like knives.

Afterward, I stumbled back into my room, sore, shaking, and a little dazed. I took off my sweater and looked in the mirror. My skin was red, like burning hot red. My right arm looked like I got slapped by fire, and my back felt like it was pulsing in time with my heartbeat. And that's when I started wondering. Was I wrong? I mean, yeah. I lost control.

I said something terrible. I was mad and I used a slur that should have never come out of my mouth, even if I was quoting or mocking. But did that mean I deserved to be hit like that? I kept asking myself, was my mom right for doing what she did? Or did she go too far? I wish I could tell you I had a clear answer, but I don't. All I know is I couldn't lie down on my bed properly for two days straight. The bruises didn't fade fast.

The guilt didn't either. I kept thinking maybe if I hadn't gotten so mad, maybe if I'd just explain things better, maybe if I'd kept my mouth shut, none of it would have happened. But then again, should a kid ever be hit that hard for slipping up? A couple days later, I saw people online talking about what happened. Some were asking whether we actually posted those images of Liam. So just to clear things up, we didn't. Nothing was public.

Nothing got uploaded to social media. The photos were saved in a private slideshow, shared only between me and my best friend. There was no big Instagram reveal. No TikTok drama. Liam made that part up. And just in case anyone still confused, our principal. He's white. I don't know why some people thought he was black or mixed.

He's not. He's just a regular middle-aged white guy with weird bias issues and a serious grudge against certain students, aka me. That's pretty much it. That's how my regular school day turned into a nightmare. How a petty classmate with a grudge set off a chain reaction that ended with me getting beaten and humiliated. How a principal ignored real racism to focus on his personality. personal vendetta. And how my mom, someone who should have been my safe place, took justice into her own hands and ended up hurting me worse than anyone else. But here's the thing.

I'm still standing. Even with the marks. Even with the guilt. Even with the confusion and the questions I still don't have answers for. I'm still here. I might not have everything figured out, but I've got my own voice, and I'm not afraid to use it anymore. Maybe that's the first step toward healing, telling the truth, no matter how ugly it is. Because sometimes, surviving is more than enough. The end. The worst day of my life, August 22nd, 2016. It was August 22nd, 2016.

A regular day on the calendar. Just another hot, humid afternoon in the deep south. You'd never guess a day like that could change your life forever. But it did for me. I was working at an auto part store, an old place that had definitely seen better days. We didn't have any fancy backroom or indoor storage setup. No, sir. Instead, we had this rickety old trailer park behind the building where we kept our overstock.

Whenever stuff piled up, one of us had to go back there and re-scan inventory, making sure we knew what we had. boring repetitive work but that day boring was the last thing it turned out to be so there i was inside the trailer with a scanner in hand sweating my face off it was around three-thirty in the afternoon the kind of hour where the sun's just beating down like it's got a personal grudge if you've ever lived through a southern summer you know what i'm talking about air so thick it feels like breathing soup The kind of heat where even the shade is hot. Right behind our store was this thrift shop. Between us, there was this narrow little strip, more of an alley than anything else, with an old wooden bench just sitting there. After school, kids like to hang out back there.

Every day, like clockwork, a small crowd would form. They'd mess around, joke, sometimes even scrap with each other. Nothing too serious, usually just harmless teenage nonsense. That afternoon was no different, at first. School had just let out, and a group of high schoolers had started trickling in, laughing and yelling, the way kids do when they've got energy and nowhere to put it. I decided to step out of the trailer for a second to catch some air, not that the air outside was much better, but at least I could stretch a bit and take a break

from that cramped metal box of a trailer. That's when it happened. Out of nowhere, this old Grand Marquis comes tearing into the lot like something out of a movie. It wasn't just rolling in, it was flying. Tires squealing, engine growling like it was angry. I barely had time to process what was going on. A man jumps out of the car and walks, no, runs, straight toward another guy just a few steps away from me. I mean, the distance between us was so close I could have reached out.

and tapped one of them on the shoulder. Then the worst thing I have ever seen with my own eyes happened. The guy who jumped out of the car pulls out a gun and just start shooting. Point blank. Bam. Bam. BAM. Multiple shots.

No warning. No hesitation. Just cold-blooded violence, right in front of me. The other guy, the one who got shot, didn't even have a chance to react. act. He was just, their one moment and bleeding the next. The shooter turned to bolt. In that split second, he pivoted, and I swear to God, he almost ran right into me. Like, inches away. We made eye contact. I saw his face. He saw mine. And I thought, no, I knew, that I was next. I was frozen. My brain screamed at me, you're dead.

You're next. This is it, adrenaline kicked in and I turned to run, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape my chest. But in my panic, I slipped on the gravel. It wasn't just a trip, it was one of those ugly, full-body wipeouts. I went down hard, and when I hit the ground, my chin slammed into the rocks. Blood started pouring from my face instantly. I didn't even feel the pain at first, just fear. Pure, raw fear.

The shooter jumped back into the Grand Marquis, which had at least three or four other people packed inside, and they peeled out of their like bats out of hell. Tires screeched again, and they were gone. I didn't see which direction they went. My brain was still stuck on what had just happened. Meanwhile, the guy who got shot, he'd somehow managed to run off.

I don't know how he did it or where he went, but when I looked around, he was nowhere in sight. Just gone. I was still on the ground, dazed and bloody, trying to piece together what the hell had just unfolded right in front of me. My chin felt warm and sticky. I put my hand to it and looked, yep, covered in blood. I didn't just scrape it. I had split it wide open. It felt like my whole face was hanging off.

I picked myself up and stumbled back into the store, holding my chin. Chaos had already broken out. Customers and co-workers were panicking, talking over each other, trying to make sense of what just happened. My store manager took one look at me and her eyes went wide. She thought I'd been shot. She rushed over, panicking, trying to help, yelling something about needing alcohol to clean the wound. I saw my reflection in the little office mirror. and it was bad.

My chin looked like a horror movie prop. Skin hanging, blood soaking my shirt. I started yelling, no. No. Don't touch it, and I pushed her away. The pain was finally catching up to the shock, and I was feeling it, sharp and deep and pounding like a drum. We locked down the store.

The front doors were bolted, and no one was allowed in or out. My manager stuck a few band-aids on my chin, but it was pointless. They were instantly soaked through. I ended up pressing a clean towel to my face, just trying to hold the skin together. That was all I could do. Then an off-duty cop showed up. I guess he'd been in the area and heard the commotion. He checked the guy who'd been shot, who, by now, had collapsed in the parking lot.

The cop called in more units, and soon enough, the lot was crawling with law enforcement. Blue lights everywhere. Radio's crackling. Even though I was clearly injured, bleeding out, everyone seemed more interested in figuring out what we saw. I heard someone yell, we've got someone in here who needs medical attention. But the cops brushed it off. One of them came over to me and started interrogating me like I was a suspect or something. It got worse. There was this Facebook group called Where They At, though. W-T-A-T-A-T for short. Originally, it was meant to be a place where folks posted about traffic stops or roadblocks, stuff like that. But over time, it had turned into this weird local news feed where everyone spilled tea,

shared rumors, or posted live updates about anything happening in town. Naturally, the shooting blew up in the group. Post started pouring. in. Everyone was talking about it. Videos. Photos. Speculation. And then, out of nowhere, someone posted, they just pulled the shooter out of the part store. They were talking about me. I was freaking out. People thought I was the one who did it. Me. I couldn't let that stand, so I snapped a quick selfie, bloodied face and all, and posted, no. I'm a victim. I fell while running.

But once something's on line, you can't undo it. Damage done. Cops kept grilling me. One officer tried to pull me outside and told me I had to come with him. I was like, not unless I get medical attention first. He didn't like that answer. He offered me an ambulance ride, but I didn't want to go in the back of an ambulance. I just wanted someone I trusted to take me.

He wasn't having it. He opened the back of his patrol car and told me to get in. I said no again. Then he threatened me, basically told me that I either got in willingly, or they'd throw me in the ambulance, patch me up and drag me downtown afterward. I asked if I could at least sit in the front, and he said, no. My stuff is up here. What a joke!

They treated me like I was a criminal. I was hurt, traumatized, and barely holding it together, and this guy was acting like I pulled the trigger. Meanwhile, outside, a crowd was gathering. People were shouting, crying. The victim's family had shown up, and the whole street had turned into a scene from a movie. Back inside, another cop asked me again, sternly, what I'd seen. I stared him dead in the face and said, I saw the ground. And that was true, in part.

I did see the ground, after I hit it face first trying to run. But the truth was, I saw everything. I saw the shooters face up close. I could describe him in detail. But I didn't. I couldn't. I was too scared. The way he killed that boy, cold and fast, he would have done the same to me without a second thought.

Hours passed. No medical attention. No proper time. treatment. Just more questions and sideways glances. Finally, my district manager arrived. He took one look at me and said, we got to get you out of here. But the cops had the area locked down, and we couldn't just leave. Eventually, they let us go, and one of my co-workers drove me to the hospital. It took five stitches to close the gash on my chin. The nurse gave me a little kit to remove them later at home. I went back to my apartment that night and stared at the ceiling

for hours. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't stop replaying that moment, the gunshots, the eyes of the shooter, the fall. Over and over again. A few days later, I told my manager I didn't feel safe. I was scared the shooter would come back. Scared his friends might try something. Word spreads fast in small towns, and I didn't want to be the next target. So they brought in security, and eventually, I was transferred to another store. I kept quiet with the police. They kept visiting, asking more questions. Even the county commissioner came by.

I felt guilty for not saying more, but I was too afraid. My silence wasn't because I didn't care, it was because I cared too much. I cared about staying alive. About a month later, they caught the guy. They arrested him, and I saw the news story. There was his face, clear as day. And I cried. I cried hard.

That was the man I looked in the eyes. That was the man who killed someone five feet from me and didn't think twice. That day never left me. It still hasn't. And I don't think it ever would. The end. Let me take you back to 1999. I was just a kid, ten years old, still watching cartoons on Saturday mornings and barely understanding how life worked. I didn't even know how to properly use a microwave yet, let

alone how to process trauma or comprehend violence. That year shaped me in ways I didn't understand until much, much later. And the thing that changed it all. I saw something no kid should ever see. I saw my 13-year-old brother shoot and kill our 15-year-old nephew. That memory has never left me, and honestly, it's been the anchor dragging me underwater ever since. I guess it's best to start at the beginning. Our family wasn't exactly what you'd call normal. My dad, let's just say he wasn't winning any father of the year awards.

He kept a gun around, and not just for show. He carried it with a purpose. At that time, he was furious, absolutely boiling, about the older guys in the neighborhood messing around with my sister. She was just 14, and he was trying to play guardian, protector, whatever you want to call it. Instead of taking that anger to the police or doing anything remotely legal, he decided to keep the gun close. Usually, it stayed hidden in the car. But not on that day. That day started off like any other. I had a doctor's appointment, nothing serious, just the usual check-up.

My dad took the gun into the house first for some reason, probably because he didn't want to leave it unattended in the car. Then we headed out. After the appointment, we were driving home when he mentioned he needed to stop at the auto parts store. He said he'd just drop me off at the house first, then go run his errand. So I got out of the car, walked up the steps, opened the door, and stepped straight in. into a nightmare. As soon as I walked in, I saw my brother. And I saw the gun. He was standing in the front room, holding our dad's gun like it was part of a movie scene. But this wasn't a movie. This was real. He had the barrel pointed right at our nephew. It didn't look like a prank. It didn't look like a joke. There was no laughter, no smirking, just tension. The air felt like it was

holding its breath. Everything inside me went cold. Our nephew, being older, tried to reason with him. He said, if you shoot me, you'll have a witness. He was talking about me. What happened next still replays in my head, like a broken record I can't shut off. My brother didn't even flinch. He just turned the gun towards me and said, I'll shoot you two, ten years old. 10. There I was, standing in a room, staring down a loaded gun pointed by my own brother. Something primal kicked in, fear, panic, survival instinct, whatever you want to call it. I didn't beg. I didn't scream. I just told him I was going to tell Mom. She was in the kitchen, completely unaware, probably chopping onions or stirring something on the stove.

I ran. Didn't even wait to see what he'd do. Just bolted for the kitchen like my life depended on it, which, it turns out, it might have. I didn't hear the gunshot. Not the sound, not the echo. Maybe my mind blocked it out, maybe the house swallowed it. But whether I heard it or not, it still happened. And the next thing I knew, my brother was running past me, crying, panicked. His face was red, his voice shaking as he stumbled into the kitchen, saying, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to, and me? I just stood there, frozen. Until the words came tumbling out, Mom, he shot him. He shot him. We rushed to the front room. There was our nephew, lifeless, crumpled on the ground, blood soaking into the carpet.

The bullet went into his eye, right into his freaking eye. I wish I could erase that image, but it's tattooed onto the inside of my eyelids. Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The police came. They ruled it an accident. Said it was an unintentional shooting. Maybe because of the ages involved. Maybe because no one wanted to admit what it really looked like.

My brother didn't get charged like you'd expect. It was brushed off, at least legally. But emotionally, spiritually, internally. That accident was the first domino to fall in a line of trauma that never stopped toppling. In the weeks and months that followed,

the whispers started. Family members began sharing things. Bits and pieces. Conversations they'd had with my brother. Things he said that didn't line up with an accidental shooting. One quote stuck out, and it's haunted me ever since, I shot him in his good eye. And he laughed.

He laughed. Tell me how you laugh about something like that. Tell me how that kind of thing even slips out of your mouth if it wasn't on purpose. I've turned those words over in my head so many times they don't even sound like real words anymore. They're just sharp sounds in the shape of guilt and horror. And from that moment on, everything just kept unraveling. My brother started getting in trouble. First small stuff, then worse.

in and out of jail, like it was a revolving door. And then came the story that made me sick to my stomach. Apparently, he and our older sister got into some kind of fight. I don't even know what it was about, probably something stupid. But she ended up with his phone, and what she found on it. Jesus. Videos Of him torturing animals.

Not just abuse, torture. One of the clips showed him. mutilating a dog, cutting its head off, and, this is the part that makes my soul ache, he stuck his hand into the dog's decapitated head and used it like a sock puppet. Made it talk. Laughed the whole time, like it was the funniest thing in the world. That video broke me. It confirmed what I was already afraid to admit, something was deeply, irreversibly wrong with him.

And it didn't stop there. He had a girlfriend for a while. She was quiet, always seemed a little scared. I didn't think much of it until I found out why. He used to hit her. Burn her with cigarettes. Just for fun. For power.

For control. He treated her like trash, and she stayed because she was scared of what he'd do if she left. He watched snuff films, two. Real ones. I won't describe what that means. If you're brave, or foolish, enough, you can Google it. But let me just say this, no healthy human being watches that kind of thing. No one with a soul finds entertainment in real life death.

I distanced myself. Completely. I don't talk to him. I don't ask about him. I don't want to know where he is or what he's doing. If I hear his name, I change the subject. I've spent years in therapy trying to scrape the memory of that day out of my brain, like gum stuck to the bottom of my soul. But therapy brought this question up, and now I can't let it go, was it an accident?

Or is my brother a murderer? I know what the law says. I know what the police report says. I know what the adults wanted to believe that day. But deep down, in my gut, I think I've always known the truth. I saw the way he held that gun. I heard what he said. I saw his face after it happened.

And later, I heard his laughter. Do accidental killers watch snuff films? Do they mutilate animals? Do they brag about shooting someone in the good eye? Do they burn women for fun? I think about all the red flags. All the signs. All the things we should have noticed sooner.

But how do you notice something like that when it starts so young? When you're just a kid in your world is too small to understand evil. When the person who commits the act is your own brother, I haven't forgiven him. I don't know if I ever can. And maybe I'm not supposed to. Sometimes I wonder what my nephew would be like now. He'd be in his late 30s.

Maybe a dad. Maybe someone's husband. Maybe just a regular guy with a job and a mortgage and a dog of his own. Or maybe he would have struggled like the rest of us. Maybe life would have been hard for him too. I'll never know. Because in the blink of an eye, in the pull of a trigger, that path was erased. I was 10.

I should have been playing outside. Writing bikes. Watching cartoons. Not watching someone die. That day Rob. me of my innocence. And the years after robbed me of peace. So here I am, years later, typing this all out, hoping maybe someone will understand what it feels like to carry this kind of memory. Hoping someone might be able to answer the question I keep circling back to. What do you call

someone who kills, laughs about it, and never looks back? Is he a murderer? In my heart, I think the answer is yes. But maybe I'm still just that scared kid, standing in the whole. hallway, watching a nightmare unfold, and waiting for someone else to admit it, too. This story took place in 1999, when I was just 10 years old. It was the day I saw my 13-year-old brother shoot and kill our 15-year-old nephew. That moment changed everything. It's been burned into my mind ever since, dragging me down a path I never asked to walk. Our father owned a gun. He wasn't the type to flash it around or show off, he had it for one reason only, to protect my 14-year-old sister from older men who wouldn't leave her alone. He kept it in his car most of the time,

but on this particular day, he brought it inside before taking me to a doctor's appointment. After the appointment, on the way home, he told me he needed to stop at the auto parts store and that he'd drop me off at the house first. I stepped out of the car, walked inside, and immediately froze. My brother was holding our dad's gun, pointing it directly at our nephew. My heart pounded. Even as a kid, I knew this was bad. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what happened next.

Two sentences. Two sentences that have haunted me for years. Our nephew looked at my brother and said, If you shoot me, you'll have a witness, referring to me. My brother barely hesitated before turning the gun on me. and saying, then I'll shoot you too, I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of, I told him I was going to tell Mom. She was in the kitchen, just a few steps away, cooking like it was any other day.

I turned and ran, desperate to reach her, to make her stop this before it got worse. I never even heard the gunshot. One second, I was running. The next, my brother was racing past me, tears streaming down his face, sobbing, I didn't mean to. He got to Mom first, and I was right behind him, breathless, shouting about what I saw. We rushed to the front room. There, on the ground, was our nephew. A gun shot straight to the eye. His body still. The room deadly silent except for my mother's scream. The police ruled at an accident. But I never fully believed that. Maybe part of me didn't want to believe it was

on purpose. But over the years, family members have told me things, conversations they had with my brother. He laughed about it. He told them, I shot him in his good eye. Who the hell says something like that? Since that day, my brother has been in and out of jail. And the things he's done since. They only make me believe more and more that what happened that day wasn't an accident at all. The last I heard, he was locked up for animal cruelty. Turns out, he and our older sister got into an argument, and she ended up taking his phone. What she found inside was something out of a horror movie, videos of him killing and decapitating a dog. One of the videos showed him with his hand inside the dog's severed head, making it talk,

like some kind of twisted sock puppet. That wasn't even the worst of it. He had a girlfriend once. She thought she knew him, thought she could love him. But he beat her. Burned her with cigarettes. Just for fun. And she wasn't the only one.

He's jumped people for no reason, hurt them just because he could. And then there's what he watches, snuff films. If you don't know what those are, don't look them up. Trust me, you don't want to know. I've kept my distance. As far away as I possibly. can. But therapy has forced me to confront these memories, to think about that day all over again. And now I'm left wondering, is my brother a murderer? I wish I could say this was fiction,

but let's just say, for entertainment purposes only, that it is. Two years ago my daughter told me about the disclosure. Where David Grush addressed Congress on July 26, 2023. At this time I certainly wasn't ready nor open to this information. My life's mission was to renavigate my way back to psychological balance after the death of my mother through a long battle with illness, a heartache, health and work-related challenges. How the hell would I bear much more life-changing, mind-bending facts with the onset of, another, global adjustment? I mean, look what COVID did. FFS. G grappling with my health and grief, miraculously through determination to keep my mental health and physical progress on track, I was able to keep my head above water and slowly

tackle the information as it came trickling in. There were days and nights of absolute disbelief mixed with, we knew it all along. Adjusting my thinking to the possibility of non-human intelligence was not as hard as it would have been 20 years ago. Back then I was definitely in no position to feel even a micron of safety as I struggled as a freshly divorced single mother of three daughters whose prime concern was for our survival of a split family making ends meet. I am absolutely sure this information would have pushed me over the edge. I would rather have believed in a massive disinformation operative than look at the available evidence that has not only been mounting for decades, but centuries.

Or at the very least believe those that truly believed in their experiences and researched evidence. However, as further facts unfolded and I discussed these whispered sensitive topics with my daughter, I noticed a shift in how I perceived and processed my next stages of consciousness. In the beginning I'll admit that the first thought that came into my head was bullshit, I couldn't comprehend that such a massive lie could be covered up over decades if not centuries without the truth beginning to unravel. By the time I accepted that we had been told so many lies, which were the very least of the crimes against humanity,

mostly at the hands of humans themselves it appears. Due to the colossal pushback from government authorities and cover-ups, intrusions and threats to all those trying to uncover the truth, my next reaction was this is bullshit. Time after time, story after story, witness after witness, my next reaction was how could so many people go through so much of this bullshit. To never be believed, even worse, be ridiculed and victimized or even physically hurt or unalived for telling their truth. Now with every story that I research and all the data that I collect to make the ever-mounting files onto one database, I often say inside my head, there is so much bullshit that goes on out there that we don't even know about being hidden from us as we speak. We need to rise to the task of finding, sorting and proving facts and processing this critical knowledge, possible healing powers and acknowledge the sovereignty of our ancient divine existence. Perhaps finally embrace the empathy and love towards others over division and indifferences. Harness the potential of free energy for the good of humanity, not used to harm humanity and serve the elite.

By the time I myself accepted that we are not alone, I decided to go and see the movie, Fly Me to the Moon. With Scarlet Johansson and Channing Tatum released in 2024. No coincidence that it was released soon after David Grush addressed Congress. Whilst a romantic light-hearted and humorous film, it highlighted the political and psychological complexities of the moon landing itself with astronauts Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins in the Apollo Lunar Module on the 20th of July 1969. I was five years at the time, I have the letter my great-grandmother wrote to my parents conveying her great wonder at this incredible feat, read it again and cried once more. This movie made more sense than any of other

movie trying to convince us that this was just a space race between America and Russia. Its depiction of how ruthless the U.S. would be prepared to go to keep that secret from not just the people of America, but from the whole world. I was the only one in the cinema with tears streaming down my face throughout the whole movie, a lead weight on my heart, because with all the information about disclosure filling my head with so many emotions, the fact that we now know. We are not alone. It changes everything, everything. So this really is a story about the day that the moon broke my heart. Greg Braden being interviewed on a podcast with Andre Dukham early 2024 where Greg reveals his

information discussed with other scientists of the geological formation of the moon which is not what we have been lead to believe. It's craters that do not go deeper than several 100x meters down and is not the typical structure of a planet, or moon, that has been hit over millions of years by violent meteorological impacts and events. Apparently, USN a missile missile to the moon in the 70s and again in the 90s and it rang like a bell for hours. Certainly not your typical response to a solid object. This information is made available with FOIA accessible for confirmation. Again, internal dialogue, how FKN irresponsible to do such an utterly reckless thing. If you hear some of the remote viewers' experiences of visiting, inside, the moon where there are

100s if not 1,000s of coexisting species inhabiting within the moon and have been living there for millions of years. I know. Another massive rabbit hole to get your head around, but let's just say that, if, that was a possibility slash reality. So, sending missiles into the moon because you want to see what happens or because you suspect that it's something other than what it's not. Is this not be an act of aggression? To an unknown passive civilization. Yes, I say passive. because there have been no acts of such aggression towards us with their presence throughout their existence. Beggers belief

I cannot express highly enough the extreme concern of those that make the most diabolical reckless decisions by their actions on behalf of mankind without consultation or even concern for the collective risk to our very existence. Greg Braden believes we did go to the moon, he's unsure of the exact time we were lead to believe, but the samples taken from the moon show that none of these elements occur naturally within nature. For example, our moon is offset just off of the equator to stabilize the tides of our oceans. Otherwise we would have 400 feet tidal waves hour after hour violently pummeling the earth's surface. Greg quizzically stares at the interviewer, what are the chances of that?

Where there's no other moons where this is typical of that geological nature. So, the men, and some women I guess, behind the charade that took it upon themselves no matter what their reasons, they have weaved a web of deception not just to their country but for all of humanity, delaying our energy crisis, our sustainable living, our peace, our evolution, our ascendance and our acceptance of our place in the cosmos. Is it just me, or is this all varied 50 shades of fucked up? The end. This is going to be a long story, but I just need to get this off my chest.

Here's what happened. Back in March 22, I was just a regular 16-year-old kid, going to be a single-year-old kid, going through the motions of school, life, and everything in between. Then, one random day, everything changed. And I mean everything. It started with a text. Nothing particularly strange about that, except it was from my mom and our family group chat, the one that included both my parents, me, my older sister, and my younger brother. Mom never really texted much, though, she was more of a caller. If she wanted to tell us something, she'd just pick up the phone and call. If she needed to get in touch, she knew how to use voice memos, but she almost never did.

That's what made this message feel, off. I was in school at the time, sitting in class after the lesson had ended, just spacing out for a bit before heading out. The second I saw that text, my stomach twisted into knots. It wasn't even words, just an audio. file. Something about it filled me with dread before I even pressed play. But I did. I put on my headphones, took a deep breath, and hit play. What I heard made my blood run cold. Heavy breathing. A voice, shaky and uneven. My mom. She started talking, but it wasn't like any conversation we'd ever had before. Her voice was breaking, cracking under the weight of something huge. Pain. Tears. I couldn't tell. And then she said it. She and my dad had been in a car accident.

Dad didn't make it. I swear, my brain just stopped working. Like, literally shut down. My vision blurred, my chest tightened, and I couldn't breathe. I sat frozen in that classroom, my hands shaking so badly, I almost dropped my phone. My mom kept talking, saying things about how much dad loved us, how much they loved us, how we needed to take care of each other. I think she said she loved us one last time before the recording cut out. And then, silence. Just this gaping void of disbelief. No. No way. This couldn't be real. I lifted my head, and through the fog, I spotted my younger brother in the hallway, goofing around with his friends. Completely oblivious.

He had no idea that our world had just shattered. He saw me sitting there, pale as a ghost, tears already streaming down my face. Concern flickered in his expression as he called my name and started walking over. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even process what I had just heard, let alone say it out loud. How do you tell your little brother that both of your parents are gone? How do you even start that conversation? I didn't.

Instead, with shaking hands, I pulled off my headphones and put them on his head. I pressed play. I watched as the confusion on his face turned to horror. His eyes widened, and his breathing grew uneven. He ripped the headphones off, his expression crumbling into panic and disbelief. Then the tears came, and with them, the crushing reality that nothing would ever be the same again. Before we could even figure out what to do next, my sister called. The second I picked up, I knew she had heard it too.

We didn't even say much, we just sat there, trapped in the same nightmare. About an hour later, two police officers walked into my classroom. Everything was a blur at that point, but I remember them quietly telling me and my brother to come with them. No questions, no explanations, just the silent understanding that nothing. good ever comes from a visit like this. We got in their car, and the entire ride was dead silent. They didn't say a word, but I could see the sadness on their faces. When we arrived at the station, our sister was already there. The second we saw each other, we broke. We clung to

each other, crying, shaking, trying to make sense of something that made no sense at all. The officers sat us down and explained what had happened. Our parents had been hit by a drunk driver. The impact was severe. Dad died instantly. Mom, well, she held on just long enough to send that message. The driver? Minor injuries. That part made my blood boil. How could he walk away almost fine, while we lost everything? I asked questions, but I barely remember the answers. It was all a haze of words I wasn't ready to hear. The days that followed were a blur. We had no idea what was going to happen to us.

My brother and I were both minors, and the thought of being split up into foster care was terrifying. The one thing we did know was that we had to stay together. That's what Mom had said. That's what Dad would have wanted. We clung to that idea, and somehow, somehow, our sister pulled through. for us. She was legally old enough to take us in, and after a long, exhausting process, she became our guardian. Almost a year has passed since then. I won't lie, it's been the hardest year of my life. Some days, the grief is so heavy it feels like I can't move. Other days, I'm okay, almost normal,

and then I feel guilty for not being sad enough. It's a cycle I can't break. We still live in the house we grew up in. It's different now. It's quieter. Emptier. But it's still ours. My sister works herself to the bone making sure we have everything we need. My brother and I do what we can to help, but it's hard. Sometimes we just sit in silence, all three of us, lost in memories of what used to be. We take care of each other, though. Just like Mom asked us to. I wonder all the time what life. would be like if they were still here? How different things would be? Don't get me wrong, I love my siblings more than anything. We've grown even closer through all this. But there's

this hole in our lives, this constant ache that never really goes away. Sometimes, I think I hear my dad's voice when I wake up, like he's just in the other room. Sometimes, I dream about mom calling my name, and for a split second, I forget she's gone. Then I wake up, and reality crashes down all over again. I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe I just needed someone to hear it. Maybe I needed to get it out of my head and onto something real. If you've made it this far, thanks for listening. I don't know what the future looks like, but I do know one thing, we're going to be okay. We have to be. The chilling presence that sent shivers down my spine deviated from the stereotypical image of a hardened criminal. It embodied

the unassuming figure of a little old woman burdened with the weight of a true killer. Two years prior to our encounter, she had fatally shot her husband with a shotgun. Despite rumors in the neighborhood whispering a different tale, she had managed to avoid jail time by claiming self-defense, supported by multiple witnesses. Regardless of the truth, she had committed murder, and that very shotgun, resting in the corner of her foyer, could very well have been the weapon. During the peak of my drug addiction, our paths crossed. However, I have since recovered and remained sober for six years. At that time, opioids ruled my life, and percassettes were my poison of choice. A fellow addict informed me about a new dealer, Miss Coco, who sold her monthly prescription of 70 pills. Intrigued,

I decided to visit her address, conveniently located just a few streets away from my friend Selena's place. Before heading there, I dropped by Salinas to share the news. Little did I know, Selina held a treasure trove of cautionary tales about Miss Coco, stories of her dark deeds within the neighborhood. Selina pleaded with me to be careful, but I dismissed her concerns, assuming that an old woman posed no threat. Fear was absent from my thoughts as I approached the shotgun house and knocked on the door, fully aware that I was expected. The door creaked open, revealing a short, elderly woman.

Catching a glimpse of her face and one bloodshot eye, she inquired about my name and gestured for me to come inside. As I stepped into her home, my attention was drawn to the shotgun leaning in the corner. She led me further into the house, giving me a chance to observe her closely. A peculiarly placed rug on the otherwise bare floors triggered thought. of bloodstains, reminding me of Salina's words. However, Miss Coco seemed amiable, offering me a drink and a snack. Underneath her surprisingly kind eyes, I pondered the bizarre nature of this drug deal. I silently scoffed at Selena's warnings, considering them unfounded. I accepted the soda but

declined the snack, completing my purchase of her entire script of pain pills. Miss Coco mentioned she would refill it on the same day next month. I bid her farewell, blissfully ignorant of any wild notions about this seemingly harmless old woman's capacity for violence. For several months, I followed a routine, returning to Miss Coco's place, sipping on soda, declining snacks, and leaving in a state of blissful intoxication. Over time, our interactions allowed me to catch a glimpse into her life, her struggles with diabetes, stories of her children, and how we'd brought her.

her relief. Occasionally, I even shared a joint with her and helped her with minor tasks like moving furniture. Yet, the topic of her late husband never arose, and I dared not broach the subject. Days turned into weeks, and the notion of this old lady's capacity for sudden violence faded from my mind. Then, one summer day, it was my turn to visit Miss Coco for my drugs. My friend Shane accompanied me on this particular occasion. We followed our usual routine, entering her home. However, Shane innocently mentioned a recently released movie he wanted to watch. Struggling to recall its title, I was taken aback when Miss Coco's eyes lit up,

revealing a collection of bootleg DVDs, including the exact movie Shane desired. Excitedly, she allowed us to choose three movies and requested their return once we were finished. That night, at my place, we eagerly inserted Shane's preferred movie. into the player. To our disappointment, the footage resembled a shaky cell phone recording, complete with people walking in front of the screen and constant chatter from behind the camera. The quality was abysmal. Laughing at our misfortune, we assumed the other two DVDs would be just as terrible and opted for a different film. A few days later, on my way to meet Selena, I remembered the DVDs and decided to return them to Miss Coco. Attempting to call her first,

I received no answer. Undeterred, I approached her doorstep and knocked, but still, there was no response. Thinking nothing of it, I left the DVDs propped up against her door, protected from the elements by the screen on the top half of her storm door. My mind shifted to my plans with Selena, and I promptly forgot about the encounter. Later that night, as I indulged in the company of friends and the haze of my high, my phone incessantly rang. Disinterested in conversation, I initially ignored the calls. But as they persisted, my friend urged me to answer. Retrieving my phone, I noticed it was Miss Coco attempting to reach me.

The late hour and her uncharacteristic behavior heightened my concern. Normally, her number served the sole purpose of arranging my visits on the 12th of each month. Today was only the ninth, anxiety crept in, and I returned her call promptly. Astonishingly, she answered before the phone even rang once. An aura of fury emanated from her voice as she unleashed her anger upon me. I had carelessly left the DVDs in her door, and in her eyes, I had disrespected the ways of the hood. Anyone could have seen them, seized the opportunity, and stolen them.

My actions were disrespectful, rude, and ungrateful, but according to her lengthy diatribe. Though I maintained a calm tone, I offered my sincere apologies while also expressing my opinion on the lackluster quality of the movies. Unexpectedly, her tone shifted once more, returning to the sweet old Miss Coco I had known. She conceded that her reaction had been unwarranted, blaming her edginess that night. She apologized for her outburst, reassuring me that I had been good to her and didn't deserve such treatment. As if to make a she informed me that she had obtained her script earlier than usual. In fact, she had it with her at that very moment.

She invited me to collect it that night. Now, a rational and sober person would have detected the red flags instantly. But under the influence of my intoxication and oblivious to the danger, I foolishly believed I had stumbled upon a miracle. Junkie Jesus, I thought, had granted me another opportunity for an enhanced tie. Eagerly, I set off towards Coco's house. The intoxication still enveloped me as I approached her home. To my surprise, the DVDs were still where I had left them.

Coco swung open the door as I approached the step, commanding me to retrieve the movies and bring them inside. Although her voice carried a stern tone, it lacked the earlier crazed edge. With the DVDs in hand, I entered the living room, taking my usual spot. Yet, something felt amiss, a gnawing uneasiness crept up my spine. I shifted my gaze around the room, and that's when I saw it, the shotgun. It was no longer resting in the corner, instead, it was firmly gripped in Miss Coco's frail hands. Panic surged through my veins, jolting me into a state of hyper-awareness.

I glanced at the door, calculating my chances of escape. But before I could make a move, Coco spoke in a soft, chilling voice. She recounted the story of her husband's murder, a narrative that deviated drastically from her previous self-defense claims. She confessed to cold-blooded murder, describing how she had lured him into the living room, promising a moment of intimacy. Instead, she pulled the trigger, unleashing a devastating blast that ended his life. Her motive, she revealed, had been her husband's infidelity, a betrayal that shattered her heart. The image of the blood's stained rug came rushing back to my mind, and I realized it had been soaked with the remnants of her

husband's life force. Paralyzed by fear, I listened to her words with growing terror. She declared her intent to recreate that horrific scene, this time with me as her unwitting victim. In a macabre twist of fate, the very weapon she used to end her husband's life would now be turned against me. The seconds ticked away, each one stretching into an eternity. In a desperate bid for survival, I muster the courage to plead for my life. I spoke of redemption, of change, and of the possibility of a different path. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes. It was in that fragile moment that I saw a glimmer of mercy. She hesitated, her grip on the shotgun loosening ever so slightly. Taking a gamble, I continued to speak,

appealing to the humanity buried beneath her hardened exterior. I shared my own journey of addiction and recovery, of the struggles and the strength it took to overcome them. I painted a picture of hope, of transformation, and of the possibility of redemption. As the minutes passed, I could see the conflict within her, the battle between vengeance and compassion. And then, in a final act of defiance against her past, she released her grip on the shotgun, dropping it to the floor with a thud. We sat in silence, the weight of our shared secrets hanging heavy in the air. She glanced at me, her eyes filled with a mix of regret and resignation. In that moment, I realized that despite the horrors of her past, Miss Coco was still capable

of change. The darkness within her could be tempered by the light of compassion and the possibility of a different future. It was a lesson I would carry with me for the rest of my life. As I left her house that night, the weight of the encounter pressed upon me. The path to recovery, I realized, was not just about overcoming personal demons, but also about confronting the demons that lurk within others. Miss Coco had been a reminder that beneath the surface, anyone can carry a story of darkness and struggle. But within each person, there is also the potential for transformation, for healing, and for a new beginning. And as I walked away, I vowed to carry a

that lesson forward, embracing the power of redemption and the possibility of change in every step of my own journey. The West African diaspora population may dwindle to negligible numbers, experts say, as only one in ten are actually starting families. Only one in ten younger, millennials, and older gen Zurs, between the ages of 20 and 40 are actually starting families whilst nine out of ten are currently childless. Wayne Ferguson of Global Population Watch stated, If these statistics were global and the same for everybody around the world, it would not be hyperbolic to say that mankind would be in danger of dying out within a few generations, especially if a cataclysmic event or pandemic coincided with such a huge population bottleneck.

A population bottleneck is an event that drastically reduces the size of a population. Rather bizarrely, Ferguson says that major explanations for this population bottleneck are very contradictory. On the one hand, job security, low income and lower levels of wealth in these population groups along with higher levels of intelligence mean people are less likely to start families. On the other hand, the wealthier people in these population groups are, the less likely they are to have children. It's pretty bizarre and contradictory. Ferguson added that it's now common to see people in these population groups who had children in the late 1980s and early 1990s and Notties have childless children and thus no grandchildren at the

moment. Some people could have had three or four children decades before and none of those children have started families. This is especially the case if they are male. If there were millions of African diaspirants in the decades before, that number may have been drastically reduced to a six or even five-figure number right now. Ferguson also warned against the spreading of false propaganda and misinformation. There is false information going around that African diaspirants are having many children, this could not be further from the truth. It is the complete opposite. In Great Britain, for example, they are flooding more foreigners in from Europe and Russia and the Indian subcontinent into areas where there used to be large African and Afro-Caribbean

populations because these populations are not producing as many babies as before. It sounds apocalyptic, but it is the case now. Sadly, the lower population figures have not led to a decrease in the number of construction projects as communities are being regularly flooded with newcomers, many of whom are starting families of their own, meaning more homes and apartment buildings are being erected for newcomers. Max peddled through the winding forest path, his bicycle tires crunching against gravel as he neared his destination. He checked his phone again, squinting at the GPS marker that confirmed he was on the right track. But the dense trees and eerie silence around him made his stomach twist with unease. For a second, I thought I took the wrong turn and ended up in the middle of nowhere, Max

muttered under his breath. Why the hell would they set up a shoot in a creepy forest? The towering mansion loomed in the distance, its gothic architecture casting long, jagged shadows against the moonlit sky. Max skidded his bike to a stop, taking a moment to collect himself. The place looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Just a horror game show, he reminded himself, forcing a shaky breath. Just another gig. Just another paycheck. He wiped the sweat off his palms, even though the night air was chilling, and made his way up the stone steps to the entrance. Inside, the dim lighting and elaborate macabre decor made the mansion feel less like a set and more like a place where ghosts might actually reside.

The other contestants were already gathered in the Grand Hall, some chatting nervously, others taking in their surroundings with wide-eyed wonder. A flamboyant man in a velvet suit stood at the head of the room, his grin unnervingly wide. Welcome to Demon's Lair, the host announced dramatically. You're all here to face your fears and win big. Max forced a smile, though his nerves nodded. him from the inside. The air was thick with a strange energy, like static clinging to his skin. The contestants were led to a long, candelot table, where the host explained the

rules with an almost manic enthusiasm. Here's how it works, he said, his eyes glinting. You'll answer quiz questions posed by our very own resident demon. Answer wrong, and, well, let's just say the consequences are very real. Max's stomach twisted it. as a memory surfaced. The game is about fear, the writer had explained during a production meeting. The set is so immersive that the contestants will start questioning what's real and what's not. The challenge room is designed to make them feel like they're actually facing a demon. That's the thrill. That's the hook. Max clenched his fists under the table. He had signed up for a reality game show, not a paranormal experience. But he couldn't have

afford to back out now, not when this was his shot at staying relevant in the industry. A loud, guttural laugh rumbled through the room, and a figure emerged from the shadows. The demon was massive, seven feet tall with horns that curled like gnarled branches. Its eyes glowed an unnatural red, and its grin was filled with too many teeth. I'm bored, the demon purred, its voice like grinding stone. Let's play a game. Answer my questions, or face the consequences. Max exchanged uneasy glances with the other contestants.

He wasn't the only one regretting signing up for this. The first question was posed, and a contestant named Greg answered with an uncertain stammer. The demon tilted its head, then let out a cackle. Without warning, the floor beneath Greg split open. He barely had time to scream before he was swallowed into the abyss, the trapdoor slamming shut behind him. A horrified silence filled the room. Max felt his pulse skyrocket.

His breathing grew ragged. Don't walk away from this just because you're scared, he muttered to himself. This could be your last chance. You need this. The questions continued, but the contestants kept getting them wrong. And one by one, they disappeared. Each time, Max flinched at the blood-curdling screen. screams echoing through the chamber. His hands trembled as he struggled to keep his answers straight,

but fear was sinking its claws into him. Soon, only he remained. The demon loomed over him, its grin-stretching impossibly wide. You've answered seven questions correctly, Max, it crooned. But here's a twist, you can leave now, or you can answer one final question. Get it right, and you'll be granted three wishes. Get it wrong, and my master will possess you. Max's mouth went dry. His name, his real name. He had only given the producers his stage name.

How did they know his actual name? Wait a minute, he whispered. How does it matter how they know? Maybe they found out somehow. Don't kid yourself, Max. This is just a game. But the demon's piercing gaze bore into him, making him feel like he was being stripped of every layer of logic he had.

I. He hesitated. What happens if I'm possessed? The demon chuckled darkly. My master will remain inside you. Dormant. Waiting for the stars to align. Max's skin prickled. He thought back to what the writer had said about the show's realism.

It'll be scary, the writer had warned. I know you've had problems before. for, Max. If you're scared, don't go for the last question. Max clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. To hell with it, he whispered. I'll show them I'm not afraid. His heart pounded as he met the demon's gaze. I'll take the question. The room fell silent. The demons grin widened as it spoke. Max listened carefully, mind racing for the correct answer. He answered. The demon let out a deafening, victorious laugh. Wrong answer, it roared. Welcome to your new reality, Max. Max's body went rigid. A cold, searing sensation wrapped around him. His vision blurred,

the world spinning as shadows engulfed him. Then, suddenly, the demon turned away. Its laughter faded. Mac stumbled out of the mansion, his breath shaky. The night was silent, the once lively set now completely deserted. Where is everyone? He muttered. Who's running the shoot? We were all improvising, but there should have been a crew. He fumbled for his phone. A notification popped up.

$5,000 received. His blood ran cold. How did they see everything, he whispered. There were no cameras, no mics. He thought back to the writer's words. The director is taking realism to a whole new level. It'll feel like no one is actually filming. And he'll be busy that night, so don't stick around to meet him.

Max swallowed hard, turning back to the mansion. It stood there, silent and foreboding. If I got the money, it means nothing supernatural happened, he told himself. I was just being paranoid. He climbed onto his bike, pushing off into the darkness. But as he rode away, the wind carried a faint sound. Laughter. Low. Erie.

Familiar. It followed him long after he left the forest. We begin with the fact that the exact date of construction of this building is not known for certain. Even so, and purely by intuition, we might consider it to be from the mid-19th century. This enormous building is clearly of Anglo-Saxon eclectic style, with two floors and exaggerated dimensions, even for wealthy families of that era. In fact, it is said that in its origins it had a total of 365 windows. Attached to the building is a family chapel, and in its foundations, according to local rumor, there exists an endless network of passageways and countless

secret rooms that connected the cortegeo with distant places, with sites kilometers and kilometers away. The Cortijo and what were once its lands are located on the outskirts of Malaga, in the Campanilla's neighborhood. As we can see at a glance, this must have been an idyllic place, a location to enjoy nature and the good weather, and of course, to forget the stress of the big city. But nevertheless, not everything that glitter seems to be gold at Cortijo Gerado. According to what is told, a series of dark events took place here while a family, the Heredia family, living in it. Another family, the Lario's family, who lived in the nearby Cortijo Colmenaris, which today is a golf club, was also involved in these macab events. Both families maintained a

close friendship, as both had arrived in Malaga from La Rioja. According to legend, at an undetermined date, still within the 19th century, young girls began to disappear in the area. These girls were systematically found dead in a river near the property. Their body, their body after undergoing the necessary tests, showed signs of abuse and all kinds of torture, torture that linked their deaths to sinister satanic rituals. The Heredia family soon came under scrutiny, as they were linked to Freemasonry and were allegedly importing these practices from France and England, where they had many friends also connected to the masons.

The fact that the victim's bodies were found in a nearby river automatically linked the Heredia family to these events. But how did they do it? How did they transport the bodies without being seen? Through the tunnels, tunnels that were rumored to connect the Cortijo to the river. And apart from establishing this connection, many more were said to exist. In the bowels of the building, it was said there were torture rooms, rooms whose difficult access was only possible through those tunnels, tunnels through which attendees of rituals and executioners passed.

Another of the secret tunnels connected Cortijo Girado with Cortijo Colmenaris, as it was in the latter where the attendees of these dark rituals stayed for weeks. This is more or less the original legend, but as with everything, it evolved over the years into a distorted image of what it once was. For much of the 20th century, this story was forgotten. But at some point in the 1990s, it resurfaced, resurfaced wrapped in a mysterious aura, an aura directly linked to parapsychotic Paranormal phenomena began to occur when the building was already abandoned, when its condition was deplorable. In specialized publications, a series of photographs began to circulate, images capturing specters and strange mists in Cortijo Girado. In all the images appeared orbs, strange silhouettes, shadows, and odd shapes emerging from vapors. What seemed like simple spectral apparitions gradually took shape, gradually found their voice.

Thanks to all that Spectral Chronicle, many young people were encouraged to visit the site with their Ouija boards under their arms and in the company of their friends. Everyone seemed capable of establishing contact with the beyond. Everyone seemed convinced that this building was a portal to the spirit world. There were those who claimed the Ouija board revealed names and surnames, the names and surnames of the girls who had been tortured and murdered there. Some specters, through the Ouija board, claimed to still be buried. there, or even walled in. Then came the turn of parapsychology. Multiple experts from around the world gathered once again at this site. They measured electromagnetic fields and recorded EVP sessions, really chilling voices, lamentations, echoes from the past, or even intelligent responses.

What was the name of the family that lived in this corticchio? Are you someone from this house, or someone who came with me? Experienced mediums said they suffered collapses. in some of the rooms. They claimed that the paranormal activity there was very intense and very negative. And with their eyes closed, they were able to point out the spots where the victim's bodies were supposedly located. At this point, there are hundreds of stories that contradict each other, a hundred testimonies that make no sense. This fact forces us to investigate a bit about the Heredia and Larius families. Who exactly were they? Are there any negative records about either family? We'll now talk a bit about them. In the case of the Larius family, we find their first

founder, Pablo Larius, father of Martine, who would become the first Marquess of Larios. This man settled in Malaga at the beginning of the 19th century, shortly after becoming a widower. Here, he began his flourishing export business to Gibraltar and, much later, opened wineries and financial societies. His son, Martin Larios, who is supposed to be a widowery, who is supposed to to be a protagonist of this story alongside Manuel Augustin Heredia, didn't arrive here until 1831. Until then, it is known that he likely lived between Gibraltar and Madrid, since through these two places he controlled the family business. After gaining the Marquisate and the enormous profits the family obtained from the war against Napoleon, the family became one of the most

powerful in Spain. Manuel Augustin Heredia arrived in Veles Malaga in 1801, the year of Martin Larios' birth. He arrived here an orphan, seeking a future he could not achieve in his native land. With much effort and dedication, he obtained a job in a grocery store, a store that was on the brink of bankruptcy. But with his help, it managed to stay afloat. As the years passed and Malaga was taken by the French, Heredia decided to dedicate himself to something else, smuggling goods through Gibraltar. His comings and goings between Malaga and Gibraltar were constant, and it is very likely that during them he met Martin Larios. At the same time, it is also very probable that they came to collaborate with each other.

The fact is that Manuel Augustin Heredia soon secured a good social standing and began to take part in industrial societies, obtaining mining concessions in various places. His industrial career skyrocketed, and in a very short time he became the owner of mining and agricultural operations in South America. And how did he manage to reach them? Thanks to his powerful naval fleet. To further cement his social standing, he decided to marry a woman who could match all his power, and this would be Isabel Livermore, a member of a noble Malaghan in lineage. With all this, the bond between both families, Heredia and Larius, is now

established. Wealthy residents of the same city, possibly with commercial ties to each other, and, of course, common origins. It's quite logical, then, that they decided to settle next to one another. The architectural similarity between both buildings suggests that they were probably designed by the same architect. We even came to think that the decision to live next to each other on the outskirts of Malaga was a joint one. Although it's worth mentioning that historical records show there was already a building on

the site where Cortijo Colminari's now stands, a building dated to 1740s. But most likely, that one was demolished to make way for the enormous and imposing construction that now exists. It's difficult to reach clear conclusions when the history were dealing with dates back decades and decades. Everyone knows that word of mouth distorts stories and can even twist them 180 degrees. That's why, from this point on, we will proceed step by step, reviewing truthful and verifiable information. Between the years 1890 and 1920, five women aged between 18 and 20 were found dead on the banks of a river very close to Cortijo Girado. Apart from that, there are no records of systematic disappearances of minors in this area. There are no written reports, let alone police records.

The mentioned bodies were found several days after their disappearance, but even so, they showed no signs of having been tortured in satanic rituals, nor did they bear evidence of having been sexually abused. At this point, it's important to note that both Martine Larius and Manuel Augustin Heredia had already died, so they could not have been responsible for these deaths. If any of these accusations were true, they would have to involve their descendants. The next topic is that of the supposed tunnels. Many of you might wonder why it's believed that there were tunnels if no one had ever seen them. The answer is that someone did claim to have discovered them.

This legend is based on the testimony of a local resident named Manuel Martine. When he was just 20 years old, in 1932, he was dared by his friends to sneak into the site one night when it was unoccupied. He entered the estate from the back and had the misfortune of tripping and falling down a well, a well that led him straight into a strange cavern. The man claimed that from there, a dozen tunnels extended outward, tunnels stretching for kilometers and kilometers. Through these, one could access multiple rooms, rooms filled with bones and strange torture machines. After following a long corridor, he reached what seemed to be a huge metal door sealed shut. He was convinced that on the other side of that door was another hallway leading directly to the Larios Cortigo. Decades after his experience, hundreds of people gathered at the site with picks and shovels,

but no one ever found the entrance to that supposed cavern or those alleged tunnels that connected to the larios cortijo. To further fuel the legend, it said that decades later, during remodeling work at Cortijo Colmenaris, an excavator was swallowed by the ground, swallowed by a massive sinkhole of enormous proportions. Workers discovered it wasn't just a hole, but a room from which various tunnels emerged, some of which led directly to Cortijo Girado. The owner of the Cortijo ordered his employees to seal the sinkhole and forget about the matter. However, this report is very difficult to verify. On one hand, the owner's request to seal the sinkhole and forget about it is extremely suspicious.

On the other, the testimonies about the event don't agree with each other, not on the exact location where the sinkhole appeared, nor on the date, nor the time, not even on the weather conditions that day. At this point, many of you will remember another legend linked to Cortijo Girado. It's said that during the Spanish Civil War, people were executed in its basements and tunnels, executed and tortured. It's also said that the bodies disappeared without a trace, both corpses and the wounded. That's supposedly why the place was eventually abandoned by the military themselves, who claimed to be afraid of the ghosts haunting the estate. Unfortunately, we have no record of this. There are no official archives and not even reliable testimonies.

We only have legends and popular tales. The landscape has changed a lot in recent years, highways, canals, new buildings, and in none of those developments has anyone ever encountered tunnels or sinister rooms. Thinking logically, it's not very sensible to kill someone and leave their body just meters from your house, let alone do so through underground tunnels, tunnels whose existence has never been proven. However, on this channel, we've learned about killers who did exactly that, despicable psychopaths who buried their victim's bodies inside their own homes. Lady Lubit did it on her grand estate, and John Wayne Gacy in the backyard of his house.

But both disposed of the bodies in a place they monitored daily. Both the Larios and the Heredia families used their corticos sporadically. Manuel Augustine and Martine spent most of their time kilometers and kilometers away, while their wives and children enjoyed the natural beauty of these marvelous estates. They lived in a peaceful and uncomplicated manner. It is very likely that they were Freemasons, as this was almost obligatory for their social class at the time. But of course, the only thing we truly know about them is what written records say,

and we don't know if any real tragedy occurred in either of the two Cortigos. What is clear, however, is that Cortijo Girado is one of the most abnormally active places in the world. There is a wealth of evidence marking it as a highly active location, EV piece, photographic captures, chilling images, orbs, shadows, sudden drops in temperature. And there are plenty of people who claim to have felt something inside that building. For that reason, from my point of view, this is and always will be a great unsolved mystery. In the early 20th century, Cortijo Girado was sold by the Heredia family to the Larios. The reason for this first sale is said to be that the Heradius were ruined by the high maintenance costs of the estate.

Who knows? The fact is that from that moment on, the building passed from hand to hand. After the Larius, it went to the Casadas, and from the Casadas to the Vega Gerado family in 1975. In the year 2000, the estate was sold to a hotel company that planned to restore it and build a hotel complex with over 200 rooms. However, since then, the project has been frozen. Steel structures were added to prevent collapses, but nothing else has been done. It's even been claimed that the reason is fear, fear that something tragic might happen. It is said that within its walls, old manuscripts were found that read, the nightmare comes.

All will die. But now your turn has come. What do you all think about this? Do you believe something truly terrible happened in that building? The end. When I was eight years old, I learned how to read the air in a room. Some kids memorized multiplication tables or played make-believe. I learned to gauge the weight of silence, to recognize the sharpness of footsteps on the floor, to interpret the tone of a sigh.

It became second nature, a skill I didn't even know I had until much later. Survival has a way of teaching you things without asking if you're ready to learn. My father wasn't always angry. At least, I don't think he was. I have vague memories of him sitting in his recliner, a cigarette balance between his fingers, laughing at something on the television. Those moments were rare, though, and as I grew older, they felt more like pieces of someone else's life that I had accidentally wandered into. The man I remember most clearly was the one who filled every corner of our house with his rage. It wasn't the kind of anger that exploded all at once.

No, it was slower than that. It simmered, building under the surface until the smallest spark set it off. A glass left on the table. A shoe not placed neatly by the door. A toy left in the wrong room. Those were the kinds of things that turned his voice into a weapon, his hands into something I flinched away from. My mother never got in the way.

She had learned her lessons long before I was old enough to notice. She kept her head down, her voice quiet, her movements careful. I used to wonder why she didn't leave, why she stayed and let him do what he did. But as I grew older, I began to understand. Fear is a powerful thing. It roots you in place, wraps itself around you until escape feels impossible. I was ten the first time I tried to run away. I had packed a bag with some clothes, a book, and the little bit of cash I had saved from doing

odd jobs for the neighbors. I waited until the house was dark and silent, my father's snores rumbling through the walls, before I slipped out the back door. The night air was cold, but it felt good on my skin, like freedom. I made it three blocks before I stopped, sitting on the curb and staring at the empty street ahead of me. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know who to call.

I sat there until the sun started to rise, then I walked back home. He never found out about that night. If he had, I don't know what he would have done. The thought of it kept me from trying again. By the time I was 14, I had learned how to stay out of his way. I spent most of my time in my room, the door closed and locked whenever I could get away with. I kept my music low and my movements quiet. When he was home, I tried to become invisible.

Sometimes it worked. Other times, it didn't matter what I did. He would find me anyway, his voice sharp and cutting, his hands heavy and unrelenting. One night, he came home drunk. That wasn't unusual, but something about the way he moved that night scared me more than usual. He stumbled through the house, slamming doors and muttering under his breath. I stayed in my room, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for the inevitable. When he finally reached my door, I could hear the anger in his voice before he even spoke.

Open the door, he growled. I didn't move. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, he would leave. I said open the door, the doorknob rattled, then shook harder as he tried to force it open. I pressed myself against the far wall, my hands trembling. I know you're in there, he shouted. Open this door right now, or I swear, The sound of wood splintering filled the room as he kicked the door open.

I froze, unable to move as he stepped inside, his face twisted in fury. What the hell is wrong with you? He demanded, his words slurred. You think you can lock me out of my own house. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My throat felt like it was closing, my chest tightening as panic took over. He stepped closer, his hand raised. I flinched, bracing for the impact, but it never came.

Instead, he grabbed the lamp on my bedside table and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass made me jump, tears streaming down my face as I curled into myself. Clean it up, he said, his voice cold. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door hanging off its hinges. I didn't move for a long time. When I finally did, my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the broom. I swept up the broken glass and threw it away, then sat on my bed and stared at the floor until the sun came up. That night was a turning point for me. I realized then that I couldn't keep

living like this. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew I had to find a way out. I started saving money, taking on any job I could find. I spent hours at the library, researching ways to get emancipated, looking up shelters and resources for kids like me. It wasn't easy. It took years of planning and waiting, of pretending everything was fine while I worked toward my escape. But eventually, I did it. I packed a bag and left, this time for good. I found a shelter that helped me get back on my feet, helped me start a new life. I wish I could say I left it all behind, but the truth is, the scars my father left, both the ones you can see and the ones you can't, will always be with me.

I still flinch at loud noises. I still have nightmares. But I'm free now, and that's something he can never take from me. The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang. Crane here, I answered, half asleep. It was well past 2 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was out there. Sorry about the late hour, Chief. It was Stinson, my deputy, out of breath. But we've got a situation and I think

you ought to be in on it. Ongoing. Suppose that depends on your beliefs. About what? I asked. The devil. I put Stinson on speaker and got dressed as he filled me in on the particulars, the address, over on Highland Crescent, the fact the house was sealed off just in case, and that two of them are dead already, and how? It puts the fear of God in me just to remember the bodies. I slid on my boots.

And the others? alive and in the house. One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them? Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer, could still be inside. I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway,

okay, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far, I said. Caller was a small fellow called Uriah. nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of M with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Hale as ghosts, all of M. I turned on to the highway. Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, satanic paraphernalia all over the place.

When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off, a few officers loitering outside, neighbors starting to gossip on their front lawns, and a face in the window, banging on the glass. That there's Samara, said Stinson. Let's go in. Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't want to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place, about the whole situation.

There also arose other thoughts in my head, walk away. Retire. Forget about it. I put those ones aside. Stinson followed me in. Jesus, I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. Quite the first impression, eh. Stinson closed the door.

Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, crane, chief of police, I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living, corpse. Chard. I, sorry, said Stinson. Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too.

I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. Got an ID on it? Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name. We walked a little further. This next one I did warn you about, said Stinson. Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one tick and Miyakovsky.

That includes his supposed sister. Mr. Miyakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there. Happened, I thought. As promised, a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against a wall, headless, neck sliced clean off, and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. Jesus! Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room.

Feel that? I asked. Sure. Maybe A, C. acting up. Maybe. I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. The last time we had a killing in town was, Bakerfield, 2003. I was surprised it was that long ago.

Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut, I said. No burning. No decapitation. No, he bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. Devilry. Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle,

he referred to as the murder room, small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains, wax, blood, who knows what else, encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulfur. And now, he said, the suspects. I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked. I could hear banging from inside. Was the lock necessary?

Stinson shrugged. I had to imprinted. and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene. Six are inside. I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tickin's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl, Ramundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah. I finished writing the names. Any impressions? Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both, said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered.

Six people indeed. Good evening. Names Crane. I'm the chief, anger. What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due? Let us be. Let us all be, then get out.

Leave. Leave here and never come back. I, I said. Stinson took out his gun. Calm down, Samara, said one of the five people seated. They won't believe you anyway. They think one of us is the killer. Samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window.

Why would I do it? Why would I kill my own brother, she said with her back turned. More than that, we've a spiritual obligation, one of the women said. To see it through. No chance of that now that he's ruined us all, Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken, crane, chief of police, and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, Raymondo.

What I want are the facts, I said. Facts, Samara said with audible distaste. Always with your facts, your reason. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tickin was learning how to overcome. Just tell me what happened in the order it happened, I said. Promise to hear us out. Ramundo asked.

Yes. He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. Do you mind? After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever heard, and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. Do you see? Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun.

Is that a trick? I asked. No, he said, stubbing out the cigarette. It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal. You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step by step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand, faith, said Samara. I asked, a portal to where? Hell.

Told you they're mad, the lot of M, said Stinson. Everything rests on faith, Samara was saying. Tickin knew that better than anyone. Tell me from the beginning, I said. One of the other women in the room piped up, it was a seance. We were having a seance. And you are. Naomi.

For God's sake, it wasn't a seance. Samara walked decisively away from the window. A seance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living. I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down, and finally at Ramundo, who said, Samara's right. This wasn't a seance.

Sorry, mumbled Naomi. It was my first time. Sometimes we spoke with the dead, said the third woman, who I deduced was Pearl. Or rather they spoke to us. That wasn't the point, said Samara. It happened, said Pearl. Were you speaking with the dead tonight?

I asked. Stinson scoffed. No, said Ramundo. We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never-living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere. How did you open that portal?

Did it involve, Samara, we didn't kill anybody. Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual. There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it. What happened then? I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terror.

terrible fright. You felt that, didn't you? Samara said to me, what is it? The never-living passing through the world of the living. So this portal is still open. Laughing furiously, of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving, said Samara. I'm here to solve two murders, I said. You shouldn't be here at all. If he hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem. That's not fair, said Yeriah in a thin voice. It was already happening.

Tickhan lost, shut your mouth. Let him speak, I said. He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte, Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disregard. So he has no excuse. He's a dilatante, and he's always been nothing but a dilatante. Uriah muttered something under his breath. What happened after you opened the portal?

I asked Ramundo. Tickon made contact with a demon. Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. It's coming back, he said. It said half, and it's coming back. Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realized he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat.

What's coming back? The demon, Raimundo said. We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all, said Pearl. Once it got into Tickhan, I've never seen such a possession. Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating, two more. Two more. Two more. Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eaves troughs. Two more what? I asked. Two more victims.

The demon demanded payment, said Naomi without looking up. Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll. Milton, singing, 50 for the farmer, 50 for the red hen. How did the demon say this? Through Tickin, said Pearl. It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight. So you're admitting Tickin threatened you. Stinson burst out.

It wasn't Tickon. It was the demon speaking through Tickon, Ramundo calmly explained. Tickin was no longer present. Samara's. aside. This is all pointless. What happened after the demon, speaking through Tickhan, threatened you? It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store? Samara asked. I corrected myself. What happened after the demon made its statement? Wait, Naomi Rose, looking at Samara,

then around the room. You knew about this? You knew there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen. We'd done it before without a price, said Uriah quietly. We knew, said Samara. What happened next? I asked. Naomi, you used me. Oh, don't be so naive.

Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk. I repeated my question, loud. He killed Lenny, said Uriah, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. He set him on hellfire. I looked to Ramundo for confirmation.

I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four. What did you do while Lenny was burning? We continued the ritual, said Samara. That was what we had agreed to. Some of us, said Naomi. Pearl said, he didn't burn long.

Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door. Then Tickin started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning.

said Samara. Not Tickhan. Turning and turning. Milton, put the bird upon the stone, sharpen your axe and bring it down. Cleave the body from the head, and watch it run until it's dead. Until it came off, and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern, the mouth still wet and alive and talking, and it said, Either you or Samara are selected, or both, said Naomi.

Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriah was speaking, the blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't. Coward. What did you do? I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up. He interrupted the ritual, said Samara.

One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end. He was going to take another. He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocence in danger. And what did you do after getting up? I asked.

I watched. Tickhan, stumble, collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon, said Uriah, and staggered toward the door. He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolling. his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be. Soon the police came, said Raimundo. And here we are.

Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me. A man burned alive but no other signs of fire. A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blames. it was done with. The witness who called it in, in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both. The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes, said Pearl. He always gets his due, said Samara. Why did you do it? I asked. We didn't. The demon did it.

That's what we've been trying to tell you from the very beginning. He took two, and he's owed two more. Not the killing, I said. The ritual, the opening of the portal. Why do that? Why split the atom? Samara answered, as the wind through rain drops against the glass. Why suffer to discover the source of the Nile?

Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To no existence. I think it's going to be me, Yorai said, biting his fingerna. again. I feel dead already. But the ritual was broken, doesn't that mean it's all over? The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed. The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us. Can you close the portal? I asked. I can't believe you're humoring these looms, Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him.

We can't, said Samara. That's the problem. It was unbearably hot. Remundo said, although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed. Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose. Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed, said Samara. I looked over my notes. The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt. I say we do the world of favor and kill all of them, said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. Not any two, said Ramundo. Only the chosen too, said Samara. That is the conundrum. I glanced at my notes again. Does anyone remember

anything else said by the demon? Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part, the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh, knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. Not something heard, but something seen. As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote, if I am indeed to go to hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damate pearl and tick and alongside me. That's what the demon showed you. I reckon, said Milton. There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire, added Pearl.

His eyes, they opened wide as saucers, and he asked with this great misunderstanding, what's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is? A moment later he was ignited. I remember that too, said Naomi. Anything else? Silence. Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence, no rain, No wind, no tapping branches, no breathing.

What in God's name? Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question, because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tickhan entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot. Once, twice, and a third T.I.

But Tickhan, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders and tore him in two, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not shriek, or cry. I, said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, always, I saw, Samara crying tears of joy, Uriah peeing his pants, Ramundo Ovarod, Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face.

Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets, Pearl laughing hysterically. Get my do. Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tickon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper. For minus two is equal to two. When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them, the way a snake consumes a rat, by distending. its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey.

When both halves were in him, he said, that one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of annihilation. Then the world returned, first of it. the rain, followed by the house beyond the door, now open on its hinges, and all of us in

it, all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. There is one more thing, Samara said finally. Words tick and whispered to me when we first began our experiments. If the devil takes you, he will not take me too, then, staring at me, she asked, Do you believe us now? My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm, I said.

Have faith. In my notebook I wrote, Who else must die? It's wild how some memories just stick with you, like glue. Even though more than ten years have slipped by, I can still see that day in my mind like it happened yesterday. Not just see it, but feel it, the weight of it, the air, the silence. It's burned into me like a permanent scar. Back when life felt whole, I was married to Mia. And man, she was everything.

You know how sometimes people say their partner is their better half. Mia was my better three-quarters. She was kind in ways that made you question how someone so good could exist. We met in the most movie-like way too. It was a gloomy Thursday, the rain was pouring like the sky had just quit trying. I was stuck outside a bookstore, soaked and pissed off at the world, when she walked up to me, smiling, holding out an umbrella. That little moment turned into a chat, then into grabbing a bite, and somehow rolled into five years of marriage that felt like pure sunshine. She had this way about her.

Like walking into a room with her and it was walking into your favorite season. She smelled like flowers, laughed like wind chimes, and hugged like home. Just, warmth. I still don't get how someone like me got someone like her. Every day with her felt like I was winning at life without even trying. The day everything crumbled, I had picked up Indian food for dinner, her favorite, butter chicken with extra non, because she loved dunking the bread in a sauce. I had no reason to expect anything would go wrong. It was supposed to be a normal night.

But the moment I opened the front door, I knew something was off. The kind of silence that doesn't feel peaceful. It felt heavy. Wrong. The air in the house felt frozen. I called her name, no answer. My heart started doing somersaults in my chest. I walked through the living room, up the stairs, and when I got to our bedroom, I saw her.

She was lying there on the floor, completely still. Cold. Lifeless. I don't even remember screaming, but I know I did. It didn't sound like me. It didn't sound human. Cops came, they put up tape, snapped photos, collected things in little baggies. No forced entry, no fingerprints, no signs of struggle.

It was like she just, stopped existing. Weeks turned to months, and eventually the detective started saying things like, We've hit a wall, and we're doing our best. Then it was a cold case. Her name became a number in a file, filed away like a book no one wanted to read again. I couldn't feel anything. It was like I turned into a shell. People say grief hits you in waves, but for me it was just one long flood that never receded.

Then the post-mortem report came in. That's when I found out she was pregnant. Four weeks. She hadn't told me. We'd been trying, on and off, but I guess she wanted to be sure first. I collapsed when I read that line. That I lost two people. One who had my heart.

One I never even got to meet. Two years passed. I waited for a call from the police, hoping for something, anything. But nothing ever came. Life became this muted thing. Colors looked dull. Food tasted bland. The world moved on, but I couldn't.

I never remarried. Couldn't. Every woman I met reminded me of what I lost, what I would never get back. And I couldn't bring myself to leave that house. It became this museum of pain. Every creek in the floorboards, every photo on the wall, every little note she left me in the kitchen. they all screened her name. I lived among ghosts.

For seven years. Then came the day I decided to move. It wasn't easy, but I figured it was time to let go. Or at least try. I was packing up the bedroom, going through old drawers and shelves, when I reached the top of the cupboard. Way in the back, I found a small box. Inside was a leather-bound book, kind of worn around the edges. A diary.

It was Mia's. I didn't even know she kept one. Her handwriting danced on the pages, looping and soft, just like her voice. I read the first page and instantly fell apart. She had written everything, how we met, our wedding day, our honeymoon on the coast, the night we danced in the rain on our third anniversary. It felt like she was right there, telling me these stories. But then things started to change.

The tone of her writing shifted. Confusion crept in. Then guilt. Then temptation. And then a name appeared. One I never expected. My father. At first I thought I read it wrong. But the more I turned the pages, the more real it got. Mia had been writing about an affair with my dad. My actual, biological father. She said it started as support while I was away on work trips. She was lonely. He was there. And somehow, it became more physical. She hated herself for it. The words were soaked in regret. And then she wrote the part that broke me in ways I didn't think possible. The baby wasn't mine. I dropped the diary. I couldn't breathe. My whole body felt like it was rejecting reality. I wanted to scream, break something, erase everything I just read. But I couldn't. I needed to know the truth.

I needed to know what happened, really happened. So I hired a private investigator. I figured, worst case, it was a waste of money. Best case, maybe some closure. But what he found? It blew my world apart all over again. He pulled in a retired homicide detective, someone who, who still had ties to the department.

Together, they dug through the old case files. And they found something. A smudge on the inside lock of the front door. It was dismissed back then, not tested because it didn't look like much. But the new team tested it. DNA said it belonged to my father. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Why?

Why would he do this? Why would he take her away? They brought him in, reopened the case. And eventually, under the pressure, he confessed. He killed her. She had told him she couldn't lie anymore. She wanted to come clean. She was going to tell me everything that night.

About the affair. The baby. All of it. But he panicked. Afraid of what it would do to his image, to the family name, his legacy, whatever the hell that means. He said it was an accident, said he just wanted to scare her. But the evidence said otherwise.

It was calculated. Cold. He wiped everything down, got rid of the gloves, made sure the door was locked behind him. Then he walked out like nothing happened. Like he didn't just destroy everything. He's in prison now. Life without parole. But you know what?

That doesn't bring her back. Doesn't erase the nights I wake up reaching for someone who's not there. Doesn't silence the echo of that empty house, or undo the pages of that diary. Sometimes I wish I never found it. Never read those words. Ignorance would have hurt, yeah, but at least I could have kept the good memories untainted. Instead, I got truth that burned everything down. Now, I live smaller.

Quietly. I moved to a different city. Got a little apartment, nothing fancy. I work, I sleep, I read, I walk. That's about it. I keep to myself. People ask if I'm okay, and I nod. But I don't think I'll ever really be okay.

Because grief like that? It doesn't fade. It just changes color. Morves from sharp pain into this dull ache that follows you around. Like background noise. Always there. And forgiveness? That's not even on the table.

My father? He's dead to me. I don't care how old he gets, how sorry he pretends to be. There's no coming back from what he did. Sometimes I go to the beach, the one Mia and I used to visit. I sit there with my feet in the water and I talk to her. Out loud. People probably think I'm crazy, but I don't care.

It helps. In some weird way, it keeps her alive. I tell her about the sunsets she's missing. The books I'm reading. The songs that make me think of her. I keep her diary in a box under my bed now. I don't read it anymore. I don't need to. Her words are etched into me. And that's both a blessing and a curse. I miss her. Every single day. And the child, we never got to raise. The life we were supposed to have. So yeah, it's been over a decade. But some stories, they never really end. They just echo. Forever. On a cold Christmas Eve in 1945, Fayetteville, West Virginia, was a buzz with the excitement of the holiday season. The Sauter family, comprised of George and Jenny Sauter and their ten children, was preparing for a festive evening. Little did they know that this Christmas would end in unimaginable tragedy and mystery. As the clock struck midnight, a fire broke out in the solder home. George and Jenny were awakened by the crackling flames and the acrid smell of

smoke. Hanek set in as they rushed to save their children. They managed to escape with their two youngest children, but five of their children, ages five to fourteen, were still inside. The flames consumed the house rapidly, and despite their desperate attempts to rescue their children, the fire was unforgiving. As neighbors rushed to the scene, the fire was, department was called, but by the time they arrived, the house was reduced to smoldering ruins. George and Jenny clung to the hope that their children had made it out. However, as the fire was extinguished and the embers cooled, the grim reality set in, no bodies were found. In the days following the fire, the sodders were left in a state of shock. Local authorities assumed the

children perished in the flames, but George was unconvinced. He believed that something far more sinister had occurred. There were no remains, no signs of their children's presence. His instinct told him that they might still be alive. As the investigation continued, George began to gather strange pieces of information. A witness claimed to have seen a group of people at the edge of the solder property on the night of the fire. Furthermore, a mysterious phone call came in a few days later, someone asked for George by name and then hung up. This only deepened his suspicions. With a fire that took his children yet left no evidence of their bodies, George became increasingly convinced that the children had been kidnapped.

His suspicions were fueled by his knowledge of local organized crime. He had previously refused to pay protection money to the mafia, leading him to believe that they might have taken revenge. In the following months, the Sauter family sought answers. They plastered Fayetteville with posters featuring the faces of their missing children, hoping someone would come forward with information. Their determination was unwavering, but each day without leads added to their despair. Then, in 1946, the family received a mysterious phone call from a woman claiming to have seen their children. She reported that they were living in a nearby town, apparently unharmed.

This revelation rekindled the Sauter's hope, but it also added to the uncertainty surrounding the tragedy. As time went on, George and Jenny were bombarded with odd reports. In one instance, a truck driver claimed to have seen their children being loaded into a car by two men just after the fire. The other report suggested that the children were being held by a local family who had ties to the mafia. With each new lead, the Saughters grew more determined to uncover the truth. They hired private investigators, but the results were often inconclusive.

Despite the setbacks, George remained convinced that his children were alive and that someone knew where they were. In a bold move, George decided to take their search public. He erected a billboard along the highway, featuring pictures of the missing children and the words, What Happened to Our Children? The Hillboard captured the attention of travelers, re-igniting interest in the case. Local media began to cover the story, leading to more tips and sightings. George even took to the radio, pleading with the public for information. He described the children in detail, hoping that someone would recognize them.

As the investigation unfolded, several theories emerged about the fate of the Sauter children. Some believed they had died in the fire, and their bodies had simply never been found. theorized that they had indeed been kidnapped, perhaps as part of a larger conspiracy. Some even suggested that the fire had been deliberately set to cover up the abduction. The Sauter's persistent efforts led them to connect with other families who had experienced similar tragedies. They discovered a pattern of mysterious disappearances of children across the country, further fueling their belief that their children were still alive.

In 1947, the Sotters received a chilling lead that would haunt them forever. A woman approached them, claiming she had seen the children at a neighbor. farm. She described them as being well cared for, which added another layer of complexity to the case. The family investigated, but the trail went cold. The final piece of the puzzle came when George discovered an intriguing photograph in a local newspaper. It showed a group of children, and one of them bore a striking resemblance to one of the missing solder children. George felt a surge of hope, but as the investigation into the photo began, it led to nothing concrete. The solder children were never found. Over the years,

years, George and Jenny continued to search, driven by a mixture of hope and despair. George passed away in 1968, still believing his children were alive. Jenny lived on for several more years, holding on to the hope that one day, the truth would be revealed. The mystery of the Sauter children remains one of America's most perplexing unsolved cases. Their story has captivated the public imagination for decades, inspiring countless theories, books, and articles. It serves as a haunting reminder of a family's unusual, and the enduring questions that can linger long after a tragedy. The disappearance of the Sauter children is more than just a story of loss,

it is a tale of desperation, hope, and the relentless pursuit of truth. The unanswered questions and the shadow of doubt continue to loom over Fayetteville. For George and Jenny Sauter, the search for their children became an all-consuming quest, leaving a legacy of sorrow and an enduring mystery that still resonates today. As we reflect on their story, we are reminded of the fragility of life and the lengths to which a family will go to seek the truth. The Sada children's fate may remain a mystery, but their story endures, echoing the chilling reality that sometimes, the past holds secrets we may never uncover. The car waited. The driver stepped out, lit a cigarette, and wandered around the area.

He glanced around, checking his phone after a while. Nothing. No sign of her. Frustrated, he tried calling, but by then, Adrian's phone was turned off. With no other choice, the taxi driver drove away, leaving the scene behind. This story begins with Adrian Celest Salinas, a 19-year-old from Tempe, Arizona. At the time, she was studying journalism at Arizona State University. She lived in an apartment she shared with two roommates, Sammy Dugan and Rebecca Flores. Adrian didn't have much public information about her life, but she was described as sweet, kind, and someone who was always smiling in every photo.

Whether it was selfies, family pictures, or shots with her. friends, Adrian's bright smile always shone through. She was well-loved by everyone who knew her and especially close to her parents, Rick and Mary, even though she was now living independently. However, Adrian was also a private person. Despite her sunny demeanor, she had gone through some tough times. She once had a great job, but due to health issues, she couldn't continue working. She had contracted valley fever, which led to a major lung surgery. Though recovering by 2013, the experience left her with a visible scar, a detail that would later become crucial in this case. Adrian had a tight-knit circle of friends she'd known for years, many from Arcadia

High School. Her boyfriend, Francisco Artiega, was one of them. They had met in eighth grade, but their relationship was complicated. To Adrian, Francisco was her one and only, her exclusive partner. But to Francisco? He didn't see it that way. Their relationship was rocky, on again, again, filled with arguments and make-ups. It had been a messy situation for years. Now, let's jump to June 13, 2013. It was a Thursday, and Adrian, Sammy, and Rebecca decided to throw a birthday party at their apartment. Initially, it was supposed to be a small gathering with close friends. But like many parties, things spiraled out of control, and by Friday, June 14th, nearly 40 people were crammed into their place. There was alcohol, music, and energy drinks.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Francisco was there, along with Adrian's closest friends. But at some point, Adrian started feeling uncomfortable. According to witnesses, Francisco was ignoring her and even flirting with other girls at the party. Meanwhile, Adrian had to watch other couples laughing, hugging, and kissing. While everyone else seemed happy, she felt invisible. The tension between her and Francisco boiled over, and they started arguing. Everyone at the party saw it, and eventually,

the two left together, heading to Francisco's house in Scottsdale. No one knows exactly what happened at his house, but it's clear they fought again. By 2.30 a.m. on June 15, Adrian had had enough. She decided to leave and started walking home on foot. Francisco, however, wasn't ready to let her go like that. He grabbed his car, caught up to her, and begged her to get in. He promised to take her home, saying everything would be fine. Reluctantly, Adrian got in the car.

But the piece didn't last long. The argument re-ignited, and once again, Adrian had enough. She told him to pull over. Francisco stopped the car in Tempe, and Adrian got out, determined to walk the rest of the way alone. At 3.20 a.m., she left the car. By 3.30, she had made it home. From here, the story splits into two perspectives. The first version, told by a few partygoers, paints Adrian as visibly upset when she returned home.

They described her as emotional, angry, sad, and distressed. It wasn't just the fight with Francisco, she seemed overwhelmed by everything. She had been drinking, she was exhausted, and on top of it all, the house was still packed with people. Her room wasn't a refuge, it was just as chaotic as the rest of the apartment. She couldn't sleep, couldn't change clothes, and couldn't find any privacy. It was all too much. The second version, supported by most of the party guests, is different. They claimed they didn't even notice Adrian return.

The music, the alcohol, the laughter, it all drowned out her presence. To many, she was invisible that night. But one key witness saw Adrian leave the apartment. This person described her as furious, storming out, getting into her car, and driving off at 3.44 a.m. Not long after Adrian left, a 911 call came in. A witness had just seen a car driving erratically before crashing on a curve. The collision was severe, blowing out two tires.

The driver got out to inspect the damage. It was a chaotic scene, and the witness reported the vehicle's license plate to the police. But by the time officers arrived, the car, and the driver, were gone. Later, investigators confirmed the car belonged to Adrian. After the crash, she had driven the damaged vehicle a short distance, parked it near her apartment, and walked back home. By this time, her apartment was still full of people, but few noticed her. return. Adrian went into her room, changed clothes, and made a decision, she needed to see Francisco.

She had to talk to him, figure things out, and resolve their issues once and for all. Between 4.10 and 4.50 a.m., Adrian called Francisco's phone nearly 30 times. She sounded desperate. Tired, emotional, and likely still intoxicated, Adrian was spiraling. After several unanswered calls, she decided to take action. First, she called a taxi, giving detail instructions to pick her up at the corner of Hardy Drive and University Drive, near a gas station and convenience store. Then, at 4.43am, she sent Francisco one last text, I'm on my way. That was the last message she ever sent. Francisco didn't respond. Maybe he was asleep, or maybe he just didn't want to answer. Either way, Adrian's phone went silent after that. The taxi arrived at the

designated corner a few minutes later. The driver waited, stepped out, smoked a cigarette, and wandered around. When Adrian didn't show up, he tried calling her. By then, her phone was off. Frustrated, the driver eventually left. According to police, Adrian's phone was turned off at 507 a.m., and after that, there was no further activity. On Saturday, June 15th, no one had heard from Adrian. Her roommates assumed she was with Francisco, and Francisco thought she was with her roommates. Her parents didn't worry at first, thinking she was recovering from the party. But by Sunday, June 16th, Father's Day, her dad, Rick, started to get concerned. Adrian always called him on Father's Day, but this year, the phone never rang. He tried

calling her instead, but her phone was still off. Alarmed, Rick contacted Adrian's friends and roommates. When no one knew where she was, her family went to the police to report her missing. The investigation began, but it quickly. quickly hit dead ends. No one was formally accused, but suspicion fell on many people. Police started with Adrian's inner circle, friends, family, anyone who might have held a grudge. But nothing turned up. Francisco cooperated fully, as did Adrian's roommates. The focus then shifted to the taxi driver. The taxi company Adrian had called was run by two men, a father and son who both shared the same name, Thomas Simon. To differentiate, they were referred to as Thomas Simon

and Thomas Simon Sr. the police arranged a three-way phone call to speak with them, as both were working different routes at the time. During the call, they gave their accounts of what happened that night. But things took a strange turn when Thomas Jr. S. Passengers contacted the police. They reported bizarre behavior during their ride. At one point, Thomas Jr. had stopped in Sedona, opened the trunk, and pulled out a saw. The passengers were alarmed and asked why he had it, to which Thomas Jr. replied he didn't know. The passengers contacted the authorities as soon as they got home. Police began surveilling Thomas Jr., but he quickly noticed.

He led them on several high-speed chases, taking sharp turns to lose them. Eventually, the police brought him in for questioning and asked him to take a polygraph test. He refused. His erratic behavior raised even more red flags, prompting officers to search his home. Thomas Jr. Lashed out, claiming he was being unfairly targeted and insisting he was innocent. Despite his protests, investigators collected a DNA sample from him. Shortly after his release, an anonymous tip came in from a woman claiming her cousin had heard female screams coming from Thomas Jr. S. House.

According to the cousin, the screams were horrifying, as if someone was being silenced. Police rushed to investigate, but Thomas Jr. refused to let them in, insisting nothing was wrong. When officers tried to follow up with the tipster, she vanished. They couldn't reach her again. By then, a month had passed since Adrian's disappearance. Out of nowhere, Thomas Sr. uploaded a video to YouTube. In it, he retraced Adrian's supposed route, filming every detail, from her apartment to the gas station where she had called the taxi. He speculated about what might have happened, suggesting another taxi driver or even a random predator could have intercepted her.

Imagine this, a late night, a young woman, Adrian Salinas, alone and somewhat disoriented, perhaps tipsy, wanders through the streets. Many theories swirl around her disappearance. One possibility is another taxi driver, someone who might have intercepted her. Not her usual driver but someone else, someone predatory, lurking for an opportunity. Or maybe it wasn't a taxi driver at all. Perhaps it was a man hiding in the shadows, someone who saw her vulnerability, someone waiting for a moment like this. The theories are endless, and speculation runs rampant.

One particular man even recorded everything he could about the case. When the police asked why he made those videos, his answer was simple, he just wanted to help. But, of course, there's always skepticism. Was his motivation really pure? Despite his actions, the police still had nothing concrete. They were stuck. And with no new leads, Thomas Sr., Adrian's taxi driver that night, became the focus of their investigation. Over time, the authorities dug into his past and, yes, discovered he had committed some crimes.

However, Thomas vehemently denied having any connection to Adrian's disappearance. His argument. Whatever he might have done before had no relevance to this case. To him, the police were wasting their time chasing shadows. Months passed and the trail went cold, until August 6, 2013. That day, after heavy rains caused severe flooding, a man made a chilling call to the police. On his property in Apache Junction, about a 40-minute drive from Adrian's home, he had found human remains. For hours, vultures had been circling above his land, drawing his

attention to the grisly discovery. This revelation hit the media like a storm. Newspapers, magazines, TV stations, and radio shows couldn't stop talking about it. Everyone was glued to the updates. Forensic experts arrived at the scene and, after an initial assessment, believed the remains could be Adriens. However, the condition of the body was appalling, badly decomposed, little more than mummified bones. But there was one critical detail, a scar that hinted it could indeed be her. Later, DNA tests confirmed the remains

belonged to Adrian Salinas. Sadly, that's where the answers ended. The body was so deteriorated that determining the cause of death was impossible. And to make matters worse, there was no clear crime scene. Where had she died? How did she end up there?

Nobody knew. There were a few theories about how her body got there. One possibility was that it had been buried nearby but dislodged by the torrential rains. Another was that animals had unearthed her remains. And the third, more sinister theory. Someone deliberately placed her body there. The missing pieces of her body, her head and hands, only deepened the mystery. Why were they gone?

Forensic experts speculated three scenarios. First, scavenging animals might have taken them. Second, the floodwaters could have washed them away. And third, her killer might have taken them as some sort of gruesome trophy. It sounds like something out of a horror movie, doesn't it? But here's the unsettling part, similar crimes had occurred in the same area back in the 1990s. Victims back then were found in eerily similar conditions, decapitated, with missing body parts. Those cases remained unsolved for years.

And without new leads, Adrienne's case, like the others, was shelved once again. Fast forward to 2015. Advancements in DNA technology allowed investigators to connect one man to two of those earlier crimes. His name. Brian Patrick Miller The victims linked to him were Angela Brasso, murdered in 1992, and Melanie Bernas, killed in 1993. The case against him progressed slowly, inching forward until his trial finally began in 2022 and concluded in 2023. But what does Brian Patrick Miller have to do with Adrian Salern?

That's where things get interesting. Back in 2013, Brian was a divorced father in his 40s, working at an Amazon Logistic Center. At first glance, he seemed like an ordinary guy, nothing remarkable. But he had an unusual hobby, cosplay. Brian loved dressing up as a zombie hunter. In Arizona, he was well known for his quirky outfits. He'd wear gas masks, carry fake weapons, and even customized his car to match his persona. His license plate red, zombie hunter, and he'd proudly drive around like that. To most people, he was just a harmless nerd, a guy with a weird passion. But his past was far from harmless, it was terrifying. Let's rewind to 1989. Teenage Brian underwent a psychological evaluation that revealed some

disturbing findings. He had above-average intelligence, but he struggled to manage his emotions, often retreating into fantasies and escapism. He was also on medication for depression and anger. And here's the real red flag, he had significant issues with his sexuality, which led professionals to recommend he enter a program for sex offenders. But guess what? Nothing was done. No real action was taken. And just months after that report, Brian attacked a 19-year-old girl in a mall parking lot,

stabbing her. When the police arrested him, Brian confessed. His chilling reason? He wanted to see how it felt. For that crime, he spent two years in a juvenile detention center. At 18, he was released back into the world, unsupervised and unmonitored. Not long after, in May 1992, Brian became a suspect in the disappearance of Brandy Myers, a 13-year-old girl who vanished while walking in Phoenix.

Brandy had been collecting donations for a charity with her sister, but at some point, the two were separated, and Brandy never returned. Brian lived nearby, in a neighborhood that had a canal, a detail that would later become significant. Police questioned him but, without evidence, dismissed him as a suspect. Later that year, tragedy struck again. On November 8, 1992, Angela Brasso, a 21-year-old woman, went for a bike ride near that same canal. It was a route she often took with her boyfriend. But that night, Angela rode alone while her boyfriend stayed home to bake her a cake for her upcoming birthday. The next day, Angela's lifeless body was found in the canal. She was naked and

decapitated. Her head was missing for weeks until it was discovered frozen, a detail that suggested her killer had preserved it. Then, in September 1993, another young woman, Melanie Berners, also vanished near that canal while riding her bike. Her body was found in the same way, stabbed and dumped in the water. Over the years, similar crimes were reported in the area, but suddenly, everything stopped. Brian moved to Everett, Washington, in 2002, where his violent tendencies re-emerged. While driving one day, he offered a woman a ride to work. Once she got in, he stabbed her in the shoulder. Miraculously, she escaped and reported him. However, Brian was acquitted after claiming self-defense, arguing that she had tried to rob him. Despite his crimes,

it wasn't until 2015 that DNA evidence tied him to Angela Brasso and Melanie Bernas. As news of his arrest spread, people who knew Brian began sharing disturbing stories. His ex-y-y-y-y-y-y-yred. His wife, Amy, testified about his violent tendencies and his obsession with knives. She described terrifying moments during their marriage, saying, he enjoyed seeing me suffer. I often wondered if he loved me enough not to kill me. She also revealed that Brian had once confessed to a murder, providing chilling details about how he captured, killed, and disposed of the victim. At the time, Amy didn't believe him, but she lived in constant fear. Another friend of Brian's contacted the police, suggesting he might be connected to Adrienne.

in Salinas' death. While no physical evidence linked him to her case, the similarities were undeniable. Angela Brasso had been decapitated, and Adrienne's remains were missing a head and hands. Brian lived close to Adrian's home and was known to frequent the area where her body was found. The timeline also raised suspicions. Around the time Adrian disappeared, Brian had posted melancholic updates on Facebook about his struggles with women and his mental health. days before her disappearance, he had planned a solo bike trip. Coincidentally, Adrian vanished on the same night he intended to ride. Her remains were later discovered in a location Brian was known

to visit. Everything seemed to align, the proximity, the patterns, the behavior, but there wasn't enough concrete evidence to charge him. In 2022, Brian was finally convicted for the murders of Angela Brasso and Melanie Berners. He was sentenced to death in 2023. But the cases of Brandy Myers and Adrian Salinas remain unsolved. Did Brian have something to do with Adrian's death? Or was it someone else entirely? So, what do you think? Could Brian Patrick Miller be the key to unraveling this mystery? Or does another shadowy figure still lurk out there, waiting to be caught? In early 2014, a 30-year-old woman named Agnes Clavina received two life-changing pieces of news? First, she had secured a position that one of the most prestigious clubs in Marbella, a sunny coastal

in Spain. Second, her boyfriend proposed a wedding plan for after her contract ended and she returned home. The future looked dazzlingly bright, and Agnes couldn't contain her excitement. She shared the news with everyone she knew, family, friends, and even casual acquaintances. Her joy was so immense that she flew back to her home country, Latvia, to celebrate with her parents. It seemed that nothing could cloud her happiness. But life had other plans, once steeped in mystery and heartbreak. Agnes packed her bags and headed to Marbella, starting her dream job at the exclusive Ocean Cloud. Tragically, she never returned home. This marked the beginning of one of the most perplexing cases to ever emerge from the sun-soaked streets

of Marbella. Agnes Life Before Spain, Agnes Clavina was born on June 8, 1984, in Riga, the bustling capital of Latvia. She was the second child of Daiga and Vladimir Clevena and grew up close to her elder brother, Gunta. Gunta often described their relationship as inseparable, with the siblings doing everything together from a young age. Their parents, supportive and loving, encouraged both children to pursue whatever careers they desired. Agnes, full of charisma and charm, made friends easily and had a knack for leaving a lasting

impression on people. As she reached adulthood, Agnes envisioned a future in tourism or entertainment. She studied languages and tourism while juggling various service industry jobs and a busy social life. However, Riga soon felt too small for her ambitions. Conversations with her parents led to a bold decision, she would move to the UK in search of broader opportunities. Initially, the move was intended to be temporary, a year or two at most. But once in London, her plans changed. She met Michael Mills, a charismatic club owner, and fell deeply in love. Michael ran the West Bend Studios Club, a vibrant space offering everything from a cinema to arcade games.

Their relationship blossomed quickly, with the couple traveling together, exchanging gifts, and sharing countless joyful moments. The dream job in Marbella, in 2014, an incredible opportunity arose for Agnes. She was offered a three-month stint at the Ocean Club in Marbella. This wasn't just any job, it was a ticket to financial success. With a high salary, generous tips, and exposure to wealthy clientele, the position promised not just financial gain but exciting new experiences. Fluent in several languages, outgoing, and naturally hardworking, Agnes was the perfect candidate. There was one downside, Agnes would have to live in Marbella for the duration of the contract, leaving Michael behind in London.

With a wedding planned upon her return, the couple decided to make the distance work. They agreed to stay in touch daily and focus on the beautiful life awaiting them after the contract ended. Agnes embraced her new life in Marbella with enthusiasm, documenting every detail on Facebook. From the people she met to the places she visited, she shared it all. Her family and Michael stayed updated through her posts, reassured by her visible happiness. Despite the distance, everything seemed to be going smoothly. An unexpected extension. By the end of her contract, Agnes had made a considerable amount of money and valuable connections.

Weddings are expensive, and she saw an opportunity to save even more by staying a few extra months. Michael agreed to the extension, but he missed her dearly and decided to visit. During his brief trip, the couple enjoyed the beaches, partied with Agnes new friends, and made wedding plans. After Michael returned to London, Agnes began working at a restaurant called Way. She loved the job, the people, and the ambience, but her streak of luck took a hit when she was fired for an incident that shocked her colleagues. One busy night, Agnes disappeared mid-shift.

She was eventually found outside, drinking and smoking with friends, and act her employers couldn't overlook. Though charming and hardworking, Agnes was also known for her love of partying, and this trait seemed to have caught up with her. A night out gone wrong. On September 5th, 2014, Agnes decided to go out with friends. The plan was casual, they didn't even settle on a specific destination. Agnes informed her family and Michael of her night out, sharing photos of her simple yet elegant outfit, a white Louis Vuitton handbag being the standout accessory. Two friends, Nicholas and Joachim Broberg picked her up from her apartment. Their first stop was a bar called Living Room in Portabannis.

After it closed at 3 a.m., part of the group decided to call it a night. But Agnes wasn't ready to go home. She reassured her friends that she would take a taxi later and stayed behind. The last known sighting of Agnes was at Aqua Mist, a glamorous nightclub frequented by celebrities. Surveillance footage showed her enjoying herself, but things took a darker turn when she was seen outside the club's parking lot. The footage captured Agnes with three men. She appeared to be hesitant, shaking her head and pulling away from one of them as he tried to lead her to a car. Eventually, she entered the vehicle, but not without resistance. At one point, she opened the door

as if to exit, but one of the men stopped her. The car drove off, and six minutes later, Agnes' phone went silent forever. The aftermath, the next day, Michael tried calling Agnes. When she didn't answer, he assumed she was sleeping off the night's festivities. But as the hours turned into days, his concern grew. Michael contacted her family, friends, and anyone else who might have heard from her. No one had. Even her usually active social media had gone quiet. Friends checked her apartment and found her car parked outside.

Inside, everything was untouched, her passport, clothes, and belongings remained as they were. Michael and Agnes family flew to Marbella to report her disappearance. Frustratingly, Spanish authorities required them to file the report in person, wasting precious time. When the investigation began, it was slow and disorganized. Surveillance footage from Aqua Mist revealed unsettling details, but by then, much of the evidence had been erased due to the delay. Agnes family and friends plastered Marbella with missing person posters and spoke to local media, desperately trying to keep her case in the spotlight. Suspicious figures, the investigation

eventually identified three key individuals seen with Agnes that night. Wesley Capper, the son of a British millionaire, was the man seen leading her to the car. His close friend, Craig Porter, was in the passenger seat, and the club's doorman, Siam Usman, was also present. Each man told conflicting stories. Capper claimed that Agnes willingly got into the car to continue partying at his villa but later asked to be dropped off. He alleged that she got out in an isolated area, far from her apartment. Porter claimed to have fallen asleep during the ride and woke up to find Agnes gone. Usman, meanwhile, said he had no idea what happened after he closed the car door, believing she had entered willingly. Further investigation revealed suspicious behavior.

Surveillance footage from a marina showed Kapper and Porter loading a large suitcase and a rolled-up carpet onto a yacht days after Agnes disappeared. The boat, owned by Kapper's father, returned without the items. A forensic search of their car revealed traces of organic matter and a blonde hair strand, but the evidence was inconclusive. Lingering questions, as the months dragged on, the case remained unsolved. Speculation ran wild, was Agnes kidnapped. Murdered?

Her body was never found, leading many to believe it was disposed of at sea. Despite the efforts of her family and private investigators, no new leads emerged. Agnes disappearance left a lasting scar, not just on her loved ones but on everyone who followed her story. To this day, her fate remains a haunting mystery, a stark reminder of how quickly life can take a tragic turn. It was said that the house wasn't far from there. Supposedly, there would be other kids and plenty of adults present. So, this man, who seemed so kind and approachable, asked the family if he could take little grace with him. Initially, everyone refused. But this man was polite,

an elderly gentleman with a warm demeanor. He even employed their eldest son, which made the family feel a little indebted to him. Reluctantly, they agreed. From that moment on, Grace Budd was never seen again. The beginning of Albert Fish's disturbing journey, Albert Fish, born Hamilton Howard Fish, entered the world on May 19th, 1870, in Washington, D.C. He was the youngest child of Randall Fish and Ellen Howell. Back then, arranged marriages were common and age differences between spouses weren't unusual. Even so, the 43-year age gap between his parents was striking. The couple had several children, but only four survived, and Albert was the baby of the family. Randall Fish worked as a riverboat captain and a fertilizer manufacturer, while Ellen stayed at home

to care for their children. From the outside, they seemed like an ordinary family, hardworking father, devoted mother. However, this family had a dark legacy of mental illness. Albert's mother experienced hallucinations, an uncle suffered from mania, his older brother was institutionalized, and a sister allegedly had severe depression. It's no wonder Albert's future took such a grim turn. Until Albert was five, life was relatively stable. There was food on the table, and the family managed to get by. But in 1875, his father passed away from a heart attack.

Suddenly, Ellen was left alone with four children and no means to support them. Desperate, she sent Albert to St. John's orphanage, hoping he'd receive proper care and education. Unfortunately, orphanages at that time were far from the safe havens they were supposed to be. They were often dark, cruel places where children endured strict discipline and frequent abuse. For Albert, the experience was nothing short of hell. The harrowing years at St. John's orphanage, at the orphanage, Albert suffered immensely. The other children teased him mercilessly, mocking his name, Hamilton Howard, and calling him. him, ham and eggs. Feeling humiliated, he decided to change his name to Albert Fish, in honor

of a deceased sibling. The verbal torment was just the beginning. The physical abuse was relentless. Albert began wetting the bed, a symptom of the trauma he endured, and became the staff and children's punching bag. But something even darker began to take root. Over time, Albert started associating pain with pleasure. The beatings, though horrifying, ignited something within him. He began seeking out trouble, wanting to provoke punishments just to experience the twisted comfort they brought him. He became addicted to the pain, creating a vicious cycle where his suffering fed his cravings and vice versa. By 1880, when Albert was 10, his mother managed to secure a government job and take him out of the orphanage. However, the damage had already been done.

The years of abuse had left deep psychological scars, setting the stage for the atrocities that would come later. A disturbing adolescence, at 12 years old, Albert began to explain. his sexuality with a boy of the same age. Sun sources claim they were in a relationship, but it seemed more like experimentation. Together, they delved into euralagna and coprophagia, practices that would disturb most people. They also frequented public restrooms to spy on other boys.

Albert's fascination with sex became an obsession. By 1890, he had started selling his body and preying on children as young as six. Around the same time, he began responding to personal ads in newspapers. These ads, posted by men and women looking for everything from jobs to romantic partners, became a tool for Albert. He wrote letters to women, describing graphic fantasies about making them his slaves. It said he sent dozens of such letters, but unsurprisingly, no one ever replied. Despite his unsettling behavior, societal norms pushed Albert toward marriage.

In 1898, his mother arranged for him to wed a woman nine years his junior, Anna Marie Hoffman. They went on to have six children. Two outsiders, Albert appeared to be a loving husband and father. But behind closed doors, his sinister tendencies continued to grow. The mask of a family man, Albert worked various jobs, including as a handyman and house painter. The latter occupation allowed him to travel across the United States, meeting new people and gaining access to countless homes. With his frail frame and unassuming demeanor, he seemed harmless.

trusted him, unaware of the danger he posed. Albert claimed to have attacked over 100 children during his travels, often targeting those who were disabled or from marginalized communities. He believed these victims wouldn't be missed, a chilling reflection of his predatory mindset. The birth of a monster. In 1903, Albert was arrested for grand larceny. While serving his sentence, he engaged in sexual relationships with other inmates, further indulging his masochistic desires. But it was in 1910 that he met someone who, who would play a significant role in his twisted story, a 19-year-old named Thomas Kedden. Some accounts described their relationship as consensual, but Thomas had an intellectual disability,

meaning he likely didn't fully understand what was happening. After a brief period of dating, Albert lured Thomas to an abandoned farmhouse, where he held him captive for two weeks. During this time, Albert tortured the young man mercilessly. Eventually, he decided not to kill Thomas, fearing the summer heat would cause the body to decompose too quickly and attract attention. Instead, Albert mutilated him, cutting off half of his genitals. He cleaned the wound with peroxide, left Thomas ten dollars, kissed him goodbye, and fled. A descent into madness. Albert's wife, Anna Marie, tolerated his strange behavior for years, but in 1917, she reached

her breaking point. She left him for another man, taking their children with her. This abandonment sent Albert spiraling further into madness. He began hearing voices, which he claimed were messages from saints and apostles. One voice, in particular, told him to perform bizarre acts, like wrapping himself in a carpet or howling at the moon. His self-harm escalated. Albert drove needles into his pelvis, some of which became permanently lodged in his body.

He would later set fire to cotton balls soaked in alcohol and insert them into his rectum. He even fashioned a paddle studded with nails, using it to beat himself. Tragically, he involved his children in his sadistic rituals, turning them into unwilling participants in his twisted games. The man in gray, Albert's violent tendencies continued to escalate. In 1924, he attempted to lure an eight-year-old girl named Beatrice into going fishing with him. When she refused, her mother intervened, chasing Albert away. But he wasn't deterred.

That same year, he targeted a nine-year-old boy named Francis MacDonald. reported seeing Francis with an elderly man who matched Albert's description. Days later, Francis's mutilated body was discovered in the woods, earning Albert the nickname, The Gray Man, the disappearance of Billy Gaffney. In 1927, Albert abducted a four-year-old named Billy Gaffney. A witness, Billy's three-year-old friend, later described the kidnapper as, the boogeyman. What Albert did to Billy remains one of the most horrifying chapters of his life. He tortured and killed the child, later confessing to cannibalizing parts of his body. Grace Bud and the letter of confession. In 1928, Albert responded to a job advertisement from an 18-year-old named Edward

Bud. Disguising himself as a kind, elderly man named Frank Howard, he visited the Bud family's home. However, when Albert met Edward's younger sister, Grace, he changed his plans. Claiming he needed to attend his niece's birthday party, Albert convinced the Buds to let Grace accompany him. Years later, in 1934, the Bud family received an anonymous letter detailing Grace's gruesome fate. Albert described luring her to an abandoned house, strangling her, and consuming her remains over the course of nine days. The letter ultimately led to Albert's arrest and revealed the depths of his depravity. Justice for Albert Fish's victims, Albert Fish was apprehended and confessed to numerous crimes,

though the true number of his victims remains unknown. He was convicted of Grace Budd's murder and executed in 1936. The legacy of his horrific acts continues to haunt, though. It's hard to imagine a case that starts with such a chilling opening, anonymous posts on a forum, eerie images, and cryptic messages. But this is exactly what happened on November 4, 2014, when a series of unsettling events unfolded in Port Orchard, Washington. What began as an anonymous internet post ended with the horrifying discovery

of a woman's body and a sinister confession. Let's unpack this case step by step, from the chilling post to the ultimate consequences for the man responsible. A post that shook the internet, at 2.30 p.m. that Tuesday, an anonymous user on 4chan, a notorious online forum, posted something that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The post included several photos of a naked woman who appeared unconscious, or worse, dead. Her skin bore bruises, and her neck showed marks consistent with strangulation. Along with the images, the user posted an ominous caption, it's much harder to strangle someone

than it looks in the movies. She fought so hard. Look at the news in Port Orchard, Washington, in a few hours. Her son will be coming home from school soon, he'll find her, and then he'll call the cops. Just wanted to share these photos before they find me. At first, many users thought it was a tasteless joke or some kind of trolling, common occurrences on that platform. But as hours passed, and moderators deleted the post, local news outlets began reporting a horrifyingly similar crime scene in Port Orchard. The realization hit, this post wasn't a hoax. It was chillingly real.

Amber Lynn Copland, a glimpse into her life. Amber Lynn Copeland was a 30-year-old woman living in Port Orchard, a small town in Kitsap County, Washington, with a population of just over 16,000 people. The town was known for its quiet, family-friendly vibe. Amber grew up in a large family with five sisters and two brothers, and she dreamed of creating a similar family life for herself. Born on May 30, 1984, Amber idolized her parents and hoped to emulate their clothes-knit family. dynamic. However, her parents divorced during her adolescence shook her belief in love and family

unity. Despite this, Amber remained optimistic. As an adult, she married Paul Coplin and together they had five children, Adam, Bryce, Timothy, Jason, and Jay. For a time, life seemed to fulfill Amber's dream. But just like her parents, Amber and Paul's marriage eventually ended in divorce. Though the reasons for their separation remained private, the couple appeared to part amicably. They agreed on shared custody of their children, with one child living full-time with Amber. Amber was juggling a full-time job, raising her kids, and studying for a general insurance license in 2014. Her life was hectic but fulfilling, and she even found time to volunteer with the Boy Scouts,

as all her children were members. Enter David Callick. In the midst of her busy life, Amber met David Callick, a 33-year-old man. The two quickly fell in love and decided to move in together. By all appearances, David seemed like a good match. Amber's family described him as respectful, caring, and someone who got along well with her children. However, David's past told a different story. He had a long criminal record dating back to his teenage years.

In 1997, he began using drugs and racked up numerous charges, including reckless driving, driving under the influence, and fleeing from police. By 2011, his crimes escalated to assault with a deadly weapon when he attacked an elderly, man with a knife outside a convenience store. In March 2014, just months before meeting Amber, David's ex-girlfriend Jesse Foster accused him of domestic violence. She alleged that he had threatened her with a knife and assaulted her in their shared home. Despite the serious allegations, David received only community custody, a form of supervised probation, and was allowed to remain free. Amber either didn't know the full extent of David's criminal history or chose to believe

in his potential for change. She moved forward with the relationship, unaware of the darkness that lay ahead. A night of Tension, on the night of Monday, November 3rd, 2014, tension boiled over in Amber's home. She, her 13-year-old son, and David were the only ones there. According to her son, the couple had an argument that escalated throughout the evening. At one point, Amber entered her son's room and asked to borrow his sleeping bag. She thanked him and walked out, yelling at David that she would sleep on the couch that night. The boy retreated to his room, trying to block out the noise of the argument. Eventually, he fell asleep.

When he woke up at 6 a.m. on Tuesday, the house was eerily quiet. David, who usually left for work early, was nowhere to be found. Amber's bedroom door was shut, which was unusual. The boy grabbed his lunch, left for school, and tried to go about his day. Midway through the morning, he began to feel sick. He texted Amber, asking her to pick her to pick up. him up from school. When she didn't respond, he called his father, Paul. Concerned, Paul picked up his son and drove him home. What they found there would haunt them forever. A horrifying

discovery, Amber's son entered the house first. The eerie silence remained, and his mother's bedroom door was still shut. He decided to open it. Inside, he found a scene straight out of a nightmare. The blinds were drawn, and someone had written bad news on them. Her belongings were scattered across the floor, and her ID card lay on a pillow with the word dead, scrawled over her face. The boy took a few steps closer and saw Amber's lifeless body on the bed, partially covered by a pile of sheets. Her body was bruised, her face bore signs of a brutal beating, and she had been strangled. Insults were written all over her skin in marker, and the entire scene radiated hatred. Shaken, the boy called his father, who immediately told him to call

the police. Officers arrived at the house at 3.25 p.m. Forensic experts confirmed Amber had been beaten, bitten, bitten, and strangled. The discovery of a note on her nightstand added another layer to the mystery. It revealed Amber had recently undergone an abortion. While the exact motive for the crime remained unclear, detective suspected David was behind it. The hunt for David Callick. David was nowhere to be found, and neither was Amber's car, a gold-ford focus. Police issued an alert and began searching for him. Meanwhile, users on 4chan pointed investigators to the chilling post featuring Amber's photos. Only someone deeply familiar with the crime scene could have written such a post, and David quickly became the prime suspect. At 5.33 a.m., hours before

the post appeared, surveillance cameras captured Amber's car crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. Later that morning, David texted his boss, confessing he had done something terrible and would likely appear on the news. He also messaged a friend, hinting at his involvement in a horrific act, before turning off his phone to avoid being tracked. By 1 p.m., David was spotted at a pawn shop, where he sold a laptop for $100. He then visited a nearby store to buy vodka and juice. At 2.30 p.m., he entered a Walmart and purchased a realistic-looking toy gun. He sat in Amber's car in the parking lot for several minutes, likely the time he used to upload the photos to 4chan, before driving away and disappearing into the woods.

A surprising surrender. Despite an extensive manhunt, David managed to evade police for most of the day. Then, at 8.45 p.m., he walked out of a wooded area in Wilsonville, Oregon, and approached a patrol car. calmly, he surrendered. Police later discovered a makeshift campsite in the woods where David had been hiding. Among the items found were vodka bottles, juice cartons, pills, and a sign reading David's last place. Inside his tent, investigators found a note that read, I killed Amber Coplin.

I strangled her with a cord. There was no reason other than I was drunk and she made me mad. Running from the police was fun. The handwriting matched the writing found at the crime scene, leaving no doubt about his guilt. David's trial and conviction. David's defense was as bizarre as his crime. He admitted to killing Amber but claimed he couldn't remember the details

because he was heavily intoxicated. He suggested that the notes found at the scene might have been written by him but insisted he wasn't sure. He admitted he would have been angry if Amber had told him about her abortion but denied that it would have driven him to murder. His vague and inconsistent statements didn't help his case, especially when surveillance footage and forensic evidence painted a clear picture of his actions. The timeline of events showed he was fully aware of what he was doing. From the moment he left the crime scene to the chilling post on 4chan, every step was calculated. In the end, the jury didn't by

his claims of memory lapses. David Callick was convicted of first-degree murder, vehicle theft, and robbery. He was sentenced to 82 years in prison. Final thoughts. The murder of Amber Coplin is a haunting reminder of the dangerous lurking behind closed doors. It's a case that combined modern technology, social media, and age-old violence to create a story that shocked an entire community. David Callick's actions were cold and calculated, leaving little room for doubt about his guilt. But what do you think? Was David truly unable to remember the details of that night, or was it all an act to escape accountability? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain, Amber's family will never forget the horror of that day, and her children will forever

bear the scars of her loss. It all began with a holiday gift, the kind of present that seems innocuous but ends up changing everything. For 23-year-old Jenna Roger Botovsky, a Michigan resident with a love for animals, music, and dancing, life seemed pretty ordinary. She shared her joys and quirks openly on social media, often showcasing her strong bond with her family, her mother, her sisters, and the grandmother she adored. Her grandmother's passing had left a void, but their connection was something Jenna cherished deeply.

So, when her best friend unwrapped a DNA testing kit from ancestry during the holidays, it sparked Jenna's curiosity. This wasn't just about science or family trees, it was a way to connect with it. to dig into the roots of her family history, and maybe even feel a deeper connection to her beloved grandmother. Intrigued, she decided she wanted one too. The journey begins, why not, she thought. She ordered her kit, spit into the little tube as instructed, and mailed it off.

The whole process felt simple, almost fun. A month later, her results arrived, just as they had for her friend. The two compared findings, laughed at the overlapping bits, and joked about how their distant ancestors might have been frenemies. It was all light-hearted, a quirky pastime to break up the monotony of life. But that's when things got weird. The first call, it was a regular workday, nothing unusual about it, until Jenna's phone rang. She glanced at the unfamiliar number and hesitated. Should she answer? Curiosity got the best of her. On the other end was a man claiming to be a Michigan State police officer. His tone was serious, almost ominous. Jenna's mind raced.

Was this about a traffic violation? Had someone she loved been hurt? But the officer's words sent a chill down her spine. He told her they had reopened a 25-year-old cold case, a case involving an unidentified infant, known only as Baby Garnet. And here's the kicker, her DNA had come up as a familial match to the victim. Jenna was floored. What could this possibly mean?

The officer explained they believed she might be a distant relative of the baby and asked for her cooperation. Although shocked, she agreed. After all, what harm could it do? Suspicion creeps in. Things got stranger when the officer referred Jenna to a woman in Chicago who specialized in DNA databases for cold cases. That same evening, the woman called Jenna to explain more about baby Garnet.

The story was tragic. The baby had been found in 1997 at Garnet Lake, a tiny, unassuming body of water in Hudson Township, Michigan. The child had been discarded in an outhouse at a nearby campground, suffocating shortly after birth. The woman from Chicago seemed professional at first, but then she asked Jenna for something odd, her username and password for ancestry. Alarm bells went off in Jenna's head. That's personal, she thought.

Was this a scam? Had someone seen her DNA results and decided to take advantage of her? She hung up, deciding to let the situation simmer for a bit. Chaos at home, a week later. Jenna's mother called her at work, panic in her voice. You need to come home right now, she said, offering no explanation. Heart pounding, Jenna rushed out, unsure what to expect. At home, her family was in chaos.

Her cousin, looking pale and shaken, explained that police had shown up at his door that morning, asking for his DNA and informing him that their family was connected to baby Garnet. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation hit Jenna like a freight train. This wasn't some elaborate scam. This was real. Digging into the past, as Jenna began piecing together the details, the story grew darker. Garnet Lake wasn't well known, even among locals. Hidden away in Hudson Township, the campground was tiny and had reopened just months before baby Garnett's body was discovered. On June 26, 1997, a maintenance worker had been clearing out the campground's outhouse when his equipment jammed.

Investigating the blockage, he made a horrifying discovery, the lifeless body of a newborn baby. An autopsy revealed the baby had been carried nearly to full term, between 36 and 42 weeks. Death by suffocation. The most heartbreaking revelation. Her death could have been prevented. The tragedy shook the tight-knit Hudson community. Whispers and rumors spread like wildfire. People speculated, accused their neighbors, and pointed fingers at any woman who might have been hiding a pregnancy.

But despite extensive interviews and investigations, law enforcement hit a wall. A case on ice. At the time, DNA technology was in its infancy. Investigators collected and stored samples, hoping future advancements would unlock answers. Baby Garnet was given a name in honor of the lake where she was found, and she was laid to rest. The case was shelved, seemingly forgotten. But in 2010, a new sheriff in Mackinac County, Ed Wilk, decided to breathe life into the department's cold cases. Among them was Baby Garnet's file. Sheriff Wilk couldn't shake the feeling that this case could be solved.

His team began exploring new forensic methods, including something called genetic genealogy. Science meets justice. Genetic genealogy had been making waves in law enforcement, solving decades-old mysteries by cross-referencing DNA with public ancestry databases. Sheriff Wilk's team reached out to Identifinders International, a pioneer in the field. Led by Dr. Colleen Fitzpatrick, the agency specialized in using familial DNA, to identify unknown individuals. Dr. Fitzpatrick received Baby Garnet's DNA sample and uploaded it to international databases.

While many people use sites like ancestry and family tree DNA to trace their heritage, law enforcement often uses these same databases to find familial matches for victims and suspects. Jenna's connection. For years, Baby Garnett's DNA sat in a system with no matches. But in 2020, Jenna's test changed everything. The result suggested a distant familial connection, setting off a chain reaction of investigations. When Jenna and her mother submitted additional samples, the results were staggering, Baby Garnet wasn't just some distant relative. She was Jenna's aunt, her mother's half-sister.

Suddenly, the focus shifted to Jenna's maternal grandmother, a woman Jenna barely knew. Growing up, Jenna had been told little about her mother's mother. The relationship between her mom and grandmother was strained, and Jenna only learned snippets about her when she was a teenager. The truth emerges, the information. Investigation uncovered shocking details. In 1997, Jenna's grandmother, Nancy Sherwitovsky, had been a 32-year-old woman living in Newbury, Michigan.

Reports suggest she concealed her pregnancy from everyone around her, telling some she'd had a miscarriage. Alone at home, she gave birth to a baby girl. For reasons that remain unclear, she drove to Garnet Lake and abandoned the infant in the outhouse. For 25 years, Nancy carried on as if nothing had happened. But in July 2022, her past caught up with her. She was arrested and charged with involuntary manslaughter and concealing a death. The aftermath. In October 2023, Nancy was released on bond under strict conditions, house arrest and a GPS ankle monitor. She is scheduled to stand trial in December 2024, facing the possibility of life in prison if convicted.

The case has reignited discussions in Hudson, where Baby Garnett's story remains a haunting memory. For Jenna, the experience has been surreal. What started as a simple curiosity about her heritage has turned into a media frenzy. Her TikTok explaining the case went viral, amassing millions of views as people around the world learned about baby Garnet. The power of DNA, the case of baby Garnet highlights the profound impact of genetic genealogy. What was once a cutting-edge technique has become a vital tool for solving cold cases and bringing closure to families. But for Jenna, the emotional toll has been immense. Never in a million years did I think I'd be connected to something like this, she shared in her TikTok.

It's overwhelming, but I want people to know the truth. Looking ahead, as Jenna's story captures global attention, a production company has approached her about turning the case into a documentary. It's a chance to shed light on Baby Garnett's short life and the advancements in forensic science that helped bring her story to light. For now, Jenna and her family are left to grapple with the revelations. The past has a way of surfacing, often in ways we least expect. And for Jenna, one thing is clear, she'll never look at a DNA kit the same way again. What do you think of Baby Garnet story? Will justice finally be served after all these years?

The life and tragic death of Brittany Jane Gargle, a story of dreams, struggles, and betrayal. Brittany Jane Gargle was born on August 31, 1996, in Saskatoon, Canada, to Susan Gargle and Everett Hillbourne. From a young age, Brittany had a glow about her. She was the kind of person whose inner person whose inner person. beauty matched her outward charm, and her family adored her for it. She was adventurous, fiercely independent, and had a strong will. Nature was her playground, she loved snowboarding, camping, and sailing. At the same time, she had a keen eye for fashion, loved shopping,

and often posted selfies online to show off her latest outfits, makeup, and hairstyles. By 2015, Brittany was studying at Natana College, where she was excelling academically. Her grades were solid, and she never missed a deadline. On top of that, she juggled two part-time jobs, one at the German Cultural Center and another at a pizza place. Everywhere she went, she made friends easily. She was responsible, punctual, and hardworking. At just 18, Brittany had her life mapped out.

She dreamed of studying business administration, with the goal of one day managing hotels. It was a clear vision for her future, but she also knew the challenges. With three stepsisters who also wanted to present. pursue higher education, her family couldn't afford to support her studies financially. Instead of letting that stop her, Brittany took it upon herself to fund her dreams, working tirelessly at her two jobs.

It was this determination that made her stand out. Her best friend, Natasha's story, described her as someone destined to achieve great things. She had this unstoppable energy, this fire. I knew she was going to go far, Natasha recalled. From the outside, Brittany seemed like the quintessential, perfect girl, beautiful, popular, smart, and loved by everyone. But her life wasn't as picture-perfect as it appeared. A childhood full of challenges, Brittany's childhood was far from easy.

Her mother, Susan, struggled with drug addiction, which caused countless fights with her father. These arguments eventually led to her father packing his bags and leaving the family. This left Susan to grapple with her addiction alone, and unfortunately, Brittany bore the brunt of it. Forced to grow up quickly, Brittany learned to be independent. She hit her struggles from the world, donning a metaphorical mask to project an image of strength and resilience. Most people around her had no idea about her painful past. They only saw the bright, cheerful, and determined young woman she had become. By 18, Brittany had managed to build a life for herself that seemed perfect from the outside.

But life wasn't all smooth sailing. Among her friends was Cheyenne Rose Antoine, a girl three years older than her. Brittany and Cheyenne's friendship became a turning point in Brittany's story, a relationship that would ultimately lead to heartbreak and tragedy. Cheyenne's troubled past, Cheyenne's life couldn't have been more different from Britann's. Born into a family deeply scarred by trauma, Cheyenne's parents had grown up in harsh conditions. Both were survivors of Canada's residential school system, a system designed to strip indigenous children of their identity, culture, and traditions. These schools were notorious for the abuse they inflicted, both physical and emotional. Many survivors carried lifelong scars, and Cheyenne's parents were no exception.

Unable to heal from their own wounds, Cheyenne's parents fell into patterns of substance abuse and crime. Amid this chaos, Cheyenne was born. By the time she was two years old, the state had removed her from her parents' custody. What followed was a decade of instability as she bounced from foster homes to relatives' care to orphanages. In each place, she faced neglect and abuse. At the age of 12, Shiazhii's Cheyenne committed her first crime, stealing her foster parents' car in a desperate attempt to escape. Arrest followed. By 14, she reconnected with her biological mother, but this reunion brought new problems. Her mother introduced her to alcohol and drugs.

Parties became her escape, and Cheyenne often found herself surrounded by older, dangerous crowds. Tragedy tragedy struck again when her mother died of an overdose, sending Cheyenne into a deep depression. In her teenage years, Cheyenne was spiraling. She accumulated a record of petty crimes and struggled to find stability. But then, Brittany entered her life. An unlikely friendship, Brittany's positive energy seemed to have a grounding effect on Cheyenne. Brittany was everything Cheyenne wanted to be, responsible, hardworking, and focused. The two became inseparable, and for a while, it seemed like Brittany's influence might help Cheyenne turn her life around.

However, Brittany's family and friends weren't entirely on board with the friendship. They worried that Cheyenne's troubled past might drag Brittany down. But Brittany defended their bond, insisting that Cheyenne was a good person deep down. For a time, their friendship appeared to thrive. They bonded over a shared love for fashion, often hanging out, shopping, and partying together. It seemed like things were going well, until the night of March 24, 2015. The night that changed everything, that evening, Brittany told her parents she was going out with friends. After getting their permission, she headed to her grandmother's house with Cheyenne to get ready.

They did their makeup, dressed up, and even took a few photos before heading out. Their first stop of the night was Natasha Story's house. Brittany and Cheyenne borrowed some cash from Natasha, who would later remember their brief conversation vividly. I told her to be careful and to call me if she needed anything, Natasha said. She hugged me, and that was the last time I saw her. At 1202 a.m., Cheyenne posted a selfie of the two on Facebook. In the photo, Brittany and Cheyenne are smiling, with Britney's grandmother's kitchen visible in the background. Everything about the picture seemed normal, two happy friends enjoying a night out.

From there, they went to a bar called the Manchester Brew Pub. They danced, laughed, and had drinks before moving on to another bar, the colonial pub and grill. By the end of the night, they had consumed a lot of alcohol. Their final stop was a private party on Avenue U, where the night took a darker turn. At the party, Brittany caught the attention of a man in his 30s. Despite the age difference, she found him attractive and started chatting with him. Cheyenne, meanwhile, became separated from Brittany. Intoxicated and confused, Cheyenne decided to leave the party alone, walking to her uncle's

residence at the White House, a building in downtown Saskatoon. She arrived around 4 a.m., logged on to Facebook, and posted a message. on Brittany's wall, where are you? Haven't heard from you. I hope you got home safe. Unbeknownst to Cheyenne, Brittany would never see that message. A horrifying discovery, at 6 a.m., a passerby on the outskirts of Saskatoon made a chilling discovery. Lying on the side of the road was the lifeless body of a young woman. She was barefoot and her belongings, shoes, a belt, and a necklace, were scattered around her. The woman had been severely beaten, with bruises and scratches covering her body. The most telling injury was a mark around her neck, indicating

she had been strangled. Police were unable to identify her initially as she had no ID on her. Desperate for Leeds, they released images of her tattoos, a cluster of stars and the head of a lion. When Natasha saw the images on the news, she immediately recognized the tattoos as Britney's. I just collapsed on the couch and started crying, Natasha recalled. I couldn't believe it. She had just been here. After Cheyenne's interrogation, investigators were left with more questions than answers. Her story kept changing, and each version seemed less believable than the last. The evidence against her, however, was mounting. The DNA on the belt, the inconsistencies in her timeline, and her previous criminal record painted a picture of someone who was not only capable of violence,

but also someone trying desperately to cover her tracks. Despite her claims of not remembering what happened that night, the physical evidence told a different story. The investigators were determined to get to the truth, but Cheyenne remained uncooperative. Her emotional detachment and lack of remorse were unsettling. Friends and family of Brittany Jane Gargle couldn't comprehend how someone who claimed to be her best friend could act so coldly. The trial begins. In 2018, three years after Brittany's tragic death, Cheyenne was officially charged with second-degree murder. The trial was widely covered by the media, and the courtroom was packed with reporters, family members, and curious onlookers.

The prosecution argued that the evidence was clear, Cheyenne had killed Brittany in a fit of rage, using the belt she was seen wearing in the now infamous selfie. The defense, however, painted a different picture. They argued that Cheyenne's troubled past, marked by abuse, neglect, and substance issues, had left her vulnerable and unstable. They claimed she didn't have the intention to kill Brittany, and whatever happened that night was a tragic accident. The prosecution leaned heavily on the physical evidence.

The belt, the DNA, and the injuries on Brittany's body all pointed to intentional violence. The selfie taken on the night of the murder became a key piece of evidence, as it not only showed the belt in question but also the close relationship between the two women. Witnesses were called to testify, including Cheyenne's aunt, who recounted the horrifying night when Cheyenne allegedly confessed to the crime. Friends of Brittany also took the stand, describing her as a kind, ambitious, and loving person who didn't deserve what had happened to her. A shocking confession.

As the trial progressed, Cheyenne's demeanor remained largely stoic. However, in a surprising turn of events, she eventually took the stand. Her testimony was a mixture of defiance and sorrow. She admitted to being present during Brittany's death, but insisted she didn't remember the details. I didn't mean to hurt her, she said, her voice trembling slightly. She was my best friend. I loved her. The courtroom was silent as Cheyenne reaffed.

counted bits and pieces of that fateful night. She spoke about their argument in the car, how it escalated, and how she, blacked out during the altercation. She claimed she didn't remember strangling Brittany but acknowledged that the evidence against her was undeniable. This partial admission shocked many, as it was the first time Cheyenne had acknowledged any responsibility for Britney's death. Her words, however, did little to sway the jury. The verdict, After weeks of testimony in deliberation, the jury found Cheyenne guilty of manslaughter, a lesser charged than second-degree murder. The verdict sparked mixed reactions. Brittany's family expressed disappointment, feeling that justice hadn't been fully served.

They believed Cheyenne's actions were deliberate and deserved a harsher sentence. Cheyenne was sentenced to seven years in prison, with the possibility of parole after serving half her sentence. While some saw the sentence as too lenient, others argued that it reflected the complexity of the case and Cheyenne's troubled background. Life after the trial, for Brittany's family, the pain of losing her was immeasurable. Her mother, Susan, spoke publicly about the need to focus on Britney's legacy rather than the circumstances of her death. She was a bright light in this world, Susan said during a memorial event. We want to remember her for the amazing person she was, not for how her life ended. Cheyenne, meanwhile, served her time

quietly. Reports from inside the prison indicated that she participated in counseling and substance abuse programs. Some believed she was genuinely remorseful, while others thought she was simply trying to improve her chances of early release. Brittany's legacy, despite the tragedy, Britney's memory lived on. Friends and family organized annual events to celebrate her life, including fundraisers for scholarships in her name. They wanted to honor her ambition, her kindness, and her adventurous spirit. Her story also served as a a cautionary tale about the dangers of toxic friendships and the importance of recognizing red flags in relationships.

Many young people who heard Brittany's story were inspired to make better choices about the people they allowed into their lives. Reflection, as the years passed, the question of what truly happened that night lingered in the minds of many. Was it a moment of blind rage? A tragic accident? Or something darker? While Cheyenne's partial confession provided some answers, it left many details unresolved.

life was a reminder of the potential each person carries. She was a young woman with dreams, determination, and a heart full of love. Her death was a loss not just to her family and friends, but to the world she had yet to impact. The aftermath, in 2023, Cheyenne was released on parole after serving just over half of her sentence. Her release reignited public interest in the case, with many debating whether she had truly paid her debt to society. Cheyenne largely stayed out of the public eye, reportedly focusing on rebuilding her life. For Brittany's family, the pain of her loss remained a constant presence. They continued to advocate for victims of violence and work tirelessly to keep Brittany's memory alive. In the end, Brittany Jane Gargall's story was one of

both inspiration and tragedy. She was a young woman who had overcome so much in her life, only to have it cut short in the most senseless way. Her legacy, however, remains a testament to her strength, resilience, and the love she brought to those around her. The terrifying legacy of David and Catherine Bernie, Australia's most infamous serial killer duo, when you think of partnerships, you might picture dynamic duos working together in harmony, aean to each other's young. But not all partnerships create beauty. Some carve trails of terror into history.

This was the case with David and Catherine Bernie, whose twisted love story unfolded into a chilling saga of violence, manipulation, and murder that shocked Australia in the 1980. A match made in hell, the story begins in Perth, Western Australia, where two broken souls found each other and sparked a partnership destined for destruction. David Bernie and Catherine Harrison, both outcasts in their own ways, bonded over their shared disdain for societal norms and a penchant for thrill-seeking. Their relationship started innocently enough, two troubled teens sharing secrets and dreams. But as time wore on, their darker impulses came to the surface, transforming their connection

into something sinister. By the time they reunited in the early 1980s, their relationship had evolved into an unholy alliance, fueling each other's sadistic fantasies. Catherine Harrison, the girl nobody wanted. Catherine's early life reads like a tragic script. Born on May 23, 1951, she was thrust into a world of instability. Her mother died during childbirth, leaving her to be raised by a grieving and distant father, Harold, and her maternal grandparents.

Harold's frequent absences and erratic parenting left young capital. Catherine feeling like a burden. School was no solace. She was an awkward child, ostracized by her peers, desperate for validation but unsure how to fit in. At 12, she finally lived with her father full-time, but the relationship remained strained. The cracks in her psyche deepened. By her teenage years, Catherine had developed an almost pathological need for approval, especially for men.

So when she met David Burney, a boy just as troubled as she was, their connection felt like fate. Bernie, a childhood of chaos, David's upbringing was no less tragic. Born on February 16, 1951, he grew up in a home that could only be described as toxic. His parents, Margaret and John Bernie, were notorious in their community for their neglect, alcoholism, and suspected incestuous behavior. From a young age, David exhibited troubling signs. Teachers noted his violent tendencies and difficulty concentrating. By the time he was a teenager, his behavior had escalated to petty crime and delinquent. His chaotic home life had warped his perception of relationships and morality, setting the stage for the horrors to come.

Reunited and it feels. Dangerous. David and Catherine's lives diverged briefly in their twenties. Catherine married another man, Donald, and had six children. She tried to build a stable life, but her marriage was marred by tragedy, including the death of one of her children in a car accident. David, on the other hand, married briefly but spiraled after a head injury left him with a high. heightened libido and an insatiable appetite for pornography. His wife left him, taking their child and severing all ties. By the time David and Catherine reunited in the early 1980s, they were both shells of their former selves, damaged, disillusioned, and ready to embrace their darkest desires. The killing spree begins. The Bernie's descent into murder began in 1986.

David and Catherine, now living together in the suburb of Will Agee, were no longer content with petty crime. They wanted something more, something that would solidify their bond and satiate their twisted fantasies. Their first victim was 22-year-old Mary Nielsen. Mary had come to their home on October 6, 1986, under the pretense of buying car tires. But once inside, she was overpowered, tied up, and subjected to unspeakable acts. The Bernies then drove her to a remote area known as Glen Eagle's National Park, where David raped and murdered her while Catherine watched. This horrifying act marked the beginning of a killing spree that would claimed the lives of at least four women over the span of a month. The modus operandi, the

Bernies operated with chilling efficiency. Catherine often acted as the bait, using her seemingly unthreatening demeanor to lure women into their home. Once inside, the victims were overpowered and subjected to a horrifying cycle of abuse before being driven to remote locations, where David would kill them. Catherine's role in the crimes has long been debated. While David was the primary perpetrator of the violence, Catherine's participation was far from passive. She not only assisted in luring the victims but also played a direct role in their captivity and psychological torment. The one who got away. On November 10, 1986, their reign of terror came to an end, thanks to a teenage girl who managed to escape. The girl, whose identity remains protected,

was abducted by the Bernies and subjected to the same horrifying ordeal as their previous victims. But she was resourceful. While David was at work, she managed to convince Catherine to let her call her parents, using the opportunity to escape from their house. She ran half-naked to a nearby supermarket, where she begged for help. Her bravery led to the Bernie's capture. Justice served, when police searched the Bernie's home, they found evidence that corroborated the survivor's story, as well as items belonging to the other victims. David and Catherine were arrested and charged with multiple counts of murder. During their trial, David confessed to the crimes, seemingly unrepentant.

Catherine, on the other hand, tried to minimize her involvement, painting herself as a victim of David's manipulation. The jury didn't buy it. Both were convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. David died by suicide in prison in 2005. Catherine remains behind bars, one of Australia's most infamous female criminals. The legacy of the Bernice, the Bernie's crimes left a scar on the Australian psyche. Their case is a chilling reminder of how two people can amplify each other's darkness, creating a partnership that thrives on destruction.

Today, their story serves as both a cautionary tale and a horrifying example of what happens when damaged individuals find each other, and choose to embrace the worst parts of themselves. David's Dark Street began in early 1986, where he was already making women feel unsafe. His thing was stalking them, showing up at their workplaces, harassing them on the street, and somehow getting their phone numbers and addresses. He was relentless, not letting them breathe. But guess what? That approach didn't work.

His harassment didn't get him the control or satisfaction he was craving. So, David switched tactics. Lying became his weapon of choice. And that's exactly how he met his first victim, Mary Nilsson. Mary was just 22. A psychology student who worked part-time at a local shop, she was smart, responsible, and independent, or at least she wanted to prove to the world, and her parents, that she was. Her parents were away on vacation on October 6, and Mary decided it was the perfect time to

prove her independence. She thought, what better way to do that than handling her car problems alone? She took the car to a local mechanic to get her tires replaced. There, she got a price estimate that made her grimace. It was steep. David, who was working at the shop, saw her hesitation and swooped in with a sweet deal, he claimed he had some good quality tires at home that he could sell her for much less. to save some cash and show she could handle things on her own, Mary agreed. They made plans for

her to stop by his place that afternoon. When Mary pulled up to his house at the agreed time, she had no idea what awaited her. David greeted her at the door, but not with tires in hand. Instead, he was holding a knife. Before Mary could react, David forced her inside. He dragged her to the master bedroom, stripped her, tied her up, and gagged her. As if the scene wasn't already horrific enough, David's partner in crime, his girlfriend Catherine, watched it all unfold. She didn't just stand there, though, Catherine was actively taking photos, asking David questions like, what excites you the most, and, is she doing it right? When night fell, the couple forced Mary into her car and drove her 54 kilometers to the remote bushland of Glenald

National Park. It was there that David strangled her to death, stabbed her in the chest for good measure, and buried her in a shallow grave. Afterward, they parked Mary's car near a police station and walked home, hand in hand, feeling invincible. For two weeks, they monitored the news, expecting a media frenzy. But when nothing came up, they relaxed. Their first kill gave them such a thrill that they couldn't wait to do it again. A terrifying pattern begins, on October 20th, their next victim crossed their path. Susan Candy, just 15 years old, was walking home after her part-time shift at a local restaurant. Normally, her dad would pick her up, but that night, he couldn't.

She had no choice but to hitchhike. Unfortunately, the car that stopped for her belonged to David and Catherine. What happened to Susan was eerily similar to Mary's fate, but there was a twist. David became infatuated with the teenager. He kept her alive longer than Mary and even made her right letters and call her parents, pretending she'd run away to party with friends. Catherine, however, couldn't stand the attention David was giving Susan. Jealousy consumed her, and she demanded that he killed the girl.

David tried strangling Susan, but for some reason, it didn't work. So, he drugged her with sleeping pills, and when she was unconscious, he turned to Catherine and said, Your turn. Prove you love me, Catherine didn't hesitate. She strangled Susan with her bare hands. They buried her in the same area as Mary and immediately started hunting for their next victim. The chilling routine continues. On November 1st, Noleen Patterson, 31, found herself stranded on the side of the road after running out of gas. It was late, and the odds of finding help seemed slim, until David and Catherine's car pulled up.

Nolene recognized them. They were practically neighbors, so she felt safe hopping in their car. But safe she was not. Back at their house, Nolene endured the same horrific ordeal as the others. Catherine initially participated, snapping photos and taking notes, but something about David's behavior set her off. He was too, soft, with Noeline, giving her extra attention, being overly affectionate. Catherine exploded with rage, even threatening to kill herself if David didn't murder Nolene. David ultimately gave in.

He drugged Nolene, strangled her, and buried her next to the others. But Catherine's jealousy didn't stop there. She spat on Noeline's body and flung dirt at her face. before storming back to the car. Denise Brown's harrowing fate. For days later, the couple found Denise Brown, 21, waiting for a bus on the Sterling Highway. She didn't have much money, so when the pair offered her a free ride, she happily accepted. Denise faced the same unspeakable horrors at their home.

Like Susan, David seemed to develop a twisted fondness for her. He kept her alive for two days, during which she was forced to write letters and call her family. Catherine's jealousy boiled over again, and this time, she decided to take charge. They drove Denise to a secluded pine plantation, where David assaulted her one last time before strangling her. Thinking she was dead, they began burying her, only for Denise to suddenly sit up. David panicked. In a frenzy, he grabbed a shovel and an axe, striking her until she stopped moving.

They buried her in a shallow grave and left, believing they were untouchable. Kate M.O., the one who got away, by November 9th, David and Catherine were on the hunt again. This time, they picked up 17-year-old Kate M.O., who had been out partying with friends. Tipsy and worried about getting in trouble with her parents, Kate asked her friends to drop her off at the end of her street. As she tried to walk the rest of the way home, David and Catherine pulled up beside her, all smiles. They offered her a ride, which she accepted without hesitation. What followed was a nightmare. They drove her to their house, where she was tied up and assaulted.

But Kate was clever. She noticed David's attraction to her and decided to use it to her advantage. She pretended to be okay with her captors, feigning friendliness and even gratitude. Her act worked. Catherine and David started to trust her. Over the next day, Kate cleverly left clues around the house, a lipstick under a couch cushion, a cigarette packet on a shelf, her fingerprints on various surfaces. When David left for work the next morning, Kate convinced Catherine to untie her hands.

She played along with Catherine's small talk, even joining her for a cigarette outside. Then came her chance. The doorbell rang, a drug customer for Catherine. While Catherine was distracted, Kate slipped into a room, opened a window, and ran for her life. She banged on neighbors' doors, screaming for help, but no one opened up. Some even peaked out their curtains and turned away. Eventually, she made it to a shopping center, where she finally found someone willing to call the police.

At first, the cops didn't believe her. They thought she was drunk or on drugs. But one rookie officer took her seriously. Kate provided detailed descriptions of the house, its layout, and even the items she'd planted as evidence. The couple's downfall, following Kate's information, police located the house. Smoke was rising from the chimney, odd, given the mild weather. they entered, they found the clues Kate had left behind, as well as items belonging to

multiple missing women. David and Catherine were arrested. David confessed to four murders and was sentenced to consecutive life terms. Catherine, however, refused to admit to anything, even spitting on Noleen's grave during the investigation. In prison, Catherine adapted surprisingly well, even becoming a librarian. David, on the other hand, struggled. He was targeted by other inmates, isolated, and ultimately took his own life in 2005. When Sherry disappeared, her daughters later visited the Bernie's house and reportedly found one of her belongings, a nightgown. However, police didn't believe her case fit the Bernie's MO. So, was Sherry another of their victims? It's hard to say. Dan thought Sarah was the love of his life. But in 2013,

he made the difficult decision to leave her, thinking it was the best choice for both of them. Little did he know that this decision would lead Sarah to seek revenge in the most devastating way possible, she would send him to prison. Our story begins like a fairy tale back in 2011. Daniel Jones, or Dan, as most people called him, was the second child of Michelle and Ian Jones, a couple who had been happily married for 30 years. At 25, Dan dreamed of building a similar life for himself. He had dated several women, but none of those relationships ever turned into something serious.

What Dan wanted was a family to get married, settle down, and share a life with someone. But he hadn't yet found the right person. At least, that's what he believed at the time. Dan was doing well for himself. He had a stable job as a corrections officer and trained dogs on the side. He'd saved up some money and led a peaceful life. And then, he met Sarah Jane Parkinson, a 20-year-old who seemed to be everything he had ever dreamed of. The connection between them was instant.

Sarah was sweet, innocent, incredibly loving, and had a calm demeanor that Dan found endearing. She was the kind of person who seemed to live for others. Her dresses were floral, her voice soft, and her mannerisms delicate. Sarah was so perfect that she almost didn't seem real, and Dan knew he couldn't let her go. It wasn't long before Dan introduced Sarah to his family. They were all charmed by her. She was polite, kind, and carried herself with grace. But during that first family gathering, someone raised an eyebrow.

No one could be that perfect, they thought. Everyone has flaws, right? Yet Sarah appeared to be flawless. The other odd thing was her lack of friends. For someone so wonderful, how could she not have any close companions? But every time Sarah spoke, she had an explanation. She revealed that she had been through a lot, an abusive past that had damaged her trust in others.

She said she had been a victim of a sexual assault, and the perpetrator fled the country before facing justice. She also shared stories of toxic, abusive relationships that had shattered her self-esteem. According to Sarah, she felt unlovable and unwanted, and all Dan wanted was to protect her. She was so sweet and vulnerable that he couldn't help but want to care for her. Adding to her perceived fragility was a serious health condition. Sarah suffered from Brugada syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affected her heart's electrical system. The condition caused her to experience dizziness, tunnel vision, and fainting spells.

She would collapse unexpectedly, often bruising herself or sustaining minor injuries. Combined with her naturally clumsy nature, Sarah's body was often covered in scrapes and bruises. Dan doted on her, always ensuring she was safe and cared for. Within months of dating, they got engaged and started building a future together. Dan, who had savings, took on most of the financial burden to construct their dream home. Sarah, on the other hand, didn't contribute as much but Dan didn't mind, he was deeply in love. When they first met, Sarah worked for an airline. However, in 2012, she switched jobs and began working as an administrative assistant at the

Queenbyan police station in Australia. The new job brought a fresh social circle, and Sarah often spent evenings out with her colleagues. Dan, supportive as always, encouraged her to build friendships since she had so few. However, their relationship took an unexpected turn when Dan received a phone call from Sarah's boss, Inspector Anthony Hill. The inspector asked Dan to come down to the station for a serious conversation. Feeling uneasy, Dan asked his father to accompany him. At the station, they were told something shocking. Dan had been accused of domestic violence against Sarah.

There was even an apprehended violence order, AVO, filed against him, supported by five police officers who claimed to be witnesses. Dan and Ian were stunned. Dan denied ever laying a hand on Sarah, but the inspector warned them not to fight the order, implying that doing so would only make things worse. Reluctantly, Dan agreed to comply. When Dan returned home, Sarah acted as if nothing had happened. She reassured him that she hadn't accused him of anything, blaming the police for overreacting. She claimed her colleagues had misunderstood her bruises and taken it upon themselves to file the order.

Dan believed her, after all, Sarah was his sweet, innocent fiancé. Ian, however, wasn't convinced. He began to see cracks in Sarah's perfect facade but couldn't yet prove anything. As time went on, Dan noticed more red flags. Sarah became secretive, constantly glued to her phone, hiding her screen and taking calls in private. Dan's suspicions grew, and eventually, he confronted her. That's when he discovered she was having an affair with a police officer named Scott John White. Heartbroken, Dan ended the relationship in November 2013. But Sarah wasn't done with him yet. On Christmas Eve 2013, Dan's life took a turn for the worse. While working his shift at Alexander McConakey Center, he was arrested by several

police officers. Sarah had accused him of 32 counts of domestic violence, including horrific acts like hitting her with objects, pushing her against walls, and even urinating on her. Dan vehemently denied all the charges, insisting he had never harmed Sarah. But with the police backing her claims, Dan's protests fell on deaf ears. He was placed under house arrest at his parents' home, while Sarah was given possession of the house they had built together. The Jones family's nightmare didn't end there. Sarah continued to accuse them of harassment, stalking, and theft.

She claimed they broke into her home and stole her iPad. She alleged Ian had threatened her. The family, now living in fear, went to great lengths to document their every move, saving receipts and installing surveillance cameras in their home. Despite their precautions, Sarah's accusations persisted. In March 2014, Dan was arrested again. Sarah claimed he had broken into her home, assaulted her, and sexually violated her. She described a horrifying scene, alleging that Dan forced her to open a box of condoms before

attacking her and then used a garden hose to wash away evidence. Yet there were no forensic findings to support her claims. Dan's family had alibis and photographic evidence showing he was with them at the time of the alleged assault. But none of this seemed to matter to the authorities. Dan was sent to Goldburn Prison, one of Australia's most dangerous facilities. While Dan languished in prison, the Jones family refused to give up. They spent thousands of dollars on legal fees, even remortgaging their home to fight for his release. Then, a breakthrough came when Detective Lisa Alexander joined the investigation. Initially believing Sarah's story, Lisa soon uncovered

inconsistencies and lies. Sarah's claims were not supported by evidence, and her behavior raised red flags. As Lisa dug deeper, she discovered Sarah's history of deceit, including false allegations against another man years earlier. Lisa's investigation revealed that Sarah had fabricated much of the evidence. For instance, she had planted her iPad dear the Jones family's home to make it seem like they had stolen it. She had even staged the alleged car theft, smashing her own car window and blaming the Joneses. The final blow came when Lisa discovered that the rape scene Sarah described had been staged with the help of her lover, Scott John White. After spending four months in prison, Dan was granted bail. He was finally able to share his side of the story. In 2015, Sarah was

arrested and charged with filing false reports. She was sentenced to three years in prison but served only two. Many felt her punishment was far too lenient. After her release, Sarah married Scott and took his last name. Scott, too, faced charges of perjury for his role in her schemes. As for Dan, he slowly rebuilt his life. He found a new job, met someone new, and tried to move on. But the scars of Sarah's lives remain. Dan lost his job, his home, and his reputation. His parents' marriage, once strong, crumbled under the stress. While Dan has done his best to move forward, the trauma of his experience will never fully fade. What do you think? Was Sarah's sentence fair?

Or did justice fail Dan and his family? It all begins in the early 1980s with the tragic death of a man named Bill Davis. Bill was far too young when he passed, leaving behind his wife, Jerry, completely devastated. Jerry was so close to Bill and his family that even years after his passing, she remained in contact with her former mother-in-law, Norma Davis. Jerry would call her regularly, check on her well-being, and even visit her occasionally. By 1988, Jerry remarried a man named Russell Armour, adopting his last name. Despite this major life change, her bond with Norma stayed intact.

She continued to visit and support her, helping out whenever needed. Fast forward to 1994, Norma, now 86 years old, underwent triple bypass surgery. This left her frail and more dependent than ever. Jerry, always the caring figure, stepped in to assist. She dropped by to keep her company, watch movies together. help her shop, and even assist her with bathing. It was a special bond. On February 14th, as usual, Jerry made plans to visit Norma. She went grocery shopping first, then headed over to Norma's house in a gated community in Canyon Lake, Riverside County, California. When she arrived,

Jerry unlocked the door and called out for Norma. She heard the TV upstairs but got no response. Knowing Norma's habits, Jerry assumed she was napping. Norma often fell asleep. with the TV on, so Jerry wasn't alarmed. She left the groceries in the kitchen, called out one more time, and decided not to disturb her, thinking she might be resting and didn't want to wake her. Two days later, on February 16, Norma's neighbor, Alice Williams, grew concerned. She hadn't seen Norma in days. Deciding to check in on her, Alice knocked on the door but received no response. Trying the knob, she found it oddly unlocked, a rare occurrence, but she dismissed it since the neighborhood was considered safe, populated mostly by elderly

residents. Once inside, Alice called out for Norma but still heard nothing. The TV was still on upstairs, and upon heading to the bedroom, Alice was met with a horrifying sight. Norma's lifeless body lay there. She had been stabbed multiple times. Not just one knife, but two, were still lodged in her body, one in her neck and the other in her chest.

Blood was everywhere, and a broken fingernail and a bloodied handker. lay near her feet. Alice immediately ran out and called the police. Authorities quickly responded, combing the scene for clues. Here's what they discovered. A single Nike shoe print was found near the kitchen door. The phone cord had been ripped from the wall and was lying close to the body. There were no signs of forced entry, indicating that Norma likely knew and trusted her attacker. Nothing in the house appeared to be stolen, not even the social security check worth $148 sitting near the door. The brutality of the attack led investigators to believe the motive was personal,

something fueled by rage, jealousy, or a family dispute. The excessive stabbing pointed to an intense emotional connection between Norma and her attacker. Naturally, suspicion turned to Jerry, the last person known to have seen Norma alive. Jerry was questioned thoroughly. She recounted her visit on February 14, explaining how she entered, left the groceries, and didn't disturb Norma. However, the police found it odd that Jerry didn't check on her upstairs if she was there to care for her. When asked about her footwear that day, Jerry admitted she had worn Nike sneakers, the same brand as the shoe print found at the scene. This made her a prime suspect. As investigators delved deeper into

Norma's murder, they received another chilling report. On February 28, another woman, Joan Roberts, aged 66, was found dead in the same gated community of Canyon Lake. Joan had been strangled with a telephone cord and bludgeoned with a wine bottle. Once again, there were no signs of forced entry, and nothing seemed to be stolen. But shortly after Jones' body was discovered, her bank contacted the police with an interesting lead, someone was actively using Jones' credit cards. Rather than withdrawing cash, the culprit was splurging at a luxury mall. Purchases included a haircut for a woman, an eyebrow waxing, and even a haircut for a child. Police tracked the transactions to a salon where one of the hairstylists vividly remembered the woman.

The client had introduced herself as Joan Roberts and had come in with a young boy she called Jason. The stylist noted her polite and well-dressed demeanor. Additionally, a man, tall, dark-haired, had briefly accompanied her. This description didn't fit Jerry at all. She had no young children, and her physical appearance didn't match. Meanwhile, Jerry was working closely with the lead Detective, Joseph Greco, to find Norma's killer. She actively helped disseminate information, contacted the media, and seemed genuinely invested in solving the case. Detective Greco trusted her, but that trust would soon be tested. On March 10, 1994, yet another alarming incident occurred. A well-dressed woman entered an antique shop in Lake Elsinor, about 20 minutes from Canyon Lake.

She browsed casually, admiring photo frames, and eventually approached the shop owner, Dorinda Hawkins, for assistance. Dorinda, 57, was happy to help and engaged in a friendly conversation. As Dorinda bent down to retrieve a frame, she suddenly felt a cord wrapped tightly around her neck. The woman was trying to strangle her. Dorinda struggled desperately, fighting for her life, until she eventually lost consciousness. Assuming she was dead, the attacker rummaged through her belongings, stealing $25 in cash

and credit cards. When Dorinda regained consciousness, she called the police immediately. Despite the trauma, she provided a detailed description of her attacker. She was petite, well-dressed, polite, but cold and calculating. Dorinda also mentioned something eerie. During the attack, the woman whispered, relax, just relax. This peculiar phrase led Dorinda to believe her attacker had medical training, possibly a nurse. Authorities circulated the suspect sketch everywhere.

Shortly after, they learned the suspect had changed her appearance, dyeing her hair red to avoid recognition. Then, on March 16, 1994, another brutal murder took place. This time, the victim was 87-year-old Dora Beebe. Dora had just returned home from a doctor's appointment when she opened her door to someone she knew, or thought she could trust. Moments later, she was strangled and beaten with a clothing iron. Her credit card was stolen and promptly used for shopping sprees. As detectives pieced the puzzle together, Jerry approached Detective Greco with a shocking revelation.

She believed she knew the killer, her stepdaughter, Dana Sue Gray. Dana, born on December 6, 1957, in California, had a troubled upbringing. Her parents, Beverly and Russell Armour, divorced when she was just two years old. Dana was raised by her beauty-obsessed, temperamental mother, while her father rarely visited. Dana acted out frequently, stealing candy and money, and later, even falsifying school grades. When her mother passed away from breast cancer in 1975, Dana moved in with her father and his new wife, Jerry. Dana's relationship with her father and Jerry was rocky, and she frequently clashed with them.

One incident stood out, when her grandmother, Norma, discovered marijuana in Dana's room, she reported it to her father. Furious, he kicked Dana out of the house. In later years, Dana's personal life was tumultuous. She became a nurse but also developed a pension for excessive spending, accumulating massive debts. Her marriage to Tom Gray in 1987 seemed promising at first, but her financial irresponsibility soon led to bankruptcy. By September 1993, Tom had had enough and filed for divorce. Dana moved in with her boyfriend, Jim Wilkins, and his young son, Jason. On February 14th,

the day of Norma's murder, Dana had allegedly called her former in-laws, pleading with them to convince Tom to meet with her. Suspicious of her intentions, Tom declined. Investigators later speculated that Dana may have originally intended to kill Tom that day, as she had secretly taken out a life insurance policy on him. When that plan failed, she turned her rage toward Norma instead. As detectives tracked Dana's movements, they discovered her connection to each victim. Joan Roberts was the wife of her father's best friend, making Dana familiar to her. Dora Beebe had merely been a chance encounter when Dana got lost and stopped for directions.

On March 16, Dana was arrested. A search of her home revealed a trove of stolen items, including credit cards from her victims. Despite overwhelming evidence, Dana remained cold and unremorseful during interrogations, refusing to confess. Eventually, Dana Sue Gray was convicted of multiple murders and sentenced to life in prison. Her case remains infamous, a chilling tale of betrayal, greed, and rage hidden behind the facade of charm and elegance. To everyone around him, Tad seemed like the last person who would ever do something inappropriate.

The idea of him being involved in something scandalous didn't fit with the image people had of him. Yet, the accusations were serious. While the school investigated, Tad was suspended without pay, and the news began to spread like wildfire. The police got involved, questioning both Tad and the student at the center of the allegations. Tad, however, stuck to the same story during every interview. He claimed he loved his wife, was devoted to his family, and would never jeopardize his marriage or career. I'd never do something like that, he told them repeatedly. His insistence on his innocence left investigators with no solid evidence to move forward,

so after a while, the case seemed to hit a dead end. Eventually, Tad was allowed to return to work. However, the school administration imposed two strict conditions. First, he was prohibited from having any contact with the student in question, and second, the student was transferred to a different class to avoid any interaction. But despite these efforts, rumors started circulating. Witnesses claimed to see Tad and the student talking in hallways and even in secluded corners of the school. One person reportedly saw the student leaving Tad's office late one afternoon, which only fueled the gossip.

What started as whispers within the school soon spread to the streets and even social media. The situation spiraled out of control, and everyone was talking about it. Then came the shocking event that made headlines. On March 13, 2017, Tad left his home without warning, leaving behind a note for his wife. Jill. It read, Jill, I'm sorry. I'm heading to Virginia Beach or maybe D.C. I just need time to think and clear my head from all this nonsense. I'm not running away, and I will be back. Please don't call the police, they'll think I'm guilty, and I'm not. I love you, and I'll call you soon. Please forgive me. Tad. Understandably, his sudden disappearance in the middle of an active

investigation raised suspicions. The police immediately began their search, starting with Tad's workplace and close friends. Eventually, they went to Jill for answers. Jill was distraught and unsure what to believe. On one hand, she trusted her husband of over 30 years. On the other, she couldn't ignore the strange behavior he had been exhibiting in the days leading up to his disappearance. Jill admitted to the police that Tad had been acting unusually for a while. For instance, every morning, Tad had a routine, he'd make breakfast and brew the coffee. No one else in the house knew how to use the coffee maker but him, it was his thing. But the night before he left, on March 12, Tad approached Jill and taught her how to use it.

He showed her every function, how to make the coffee strong or light, and explained the entire process. When Jill asked him why he was doing this, Tad casually told her he'd be traveling the next day for a job interview. He reassured her not to worry and said he'd be back soon. But the next morning, Jill woke up to find his note instead. That wasn't the only red flag. After he left, Jill started investigating on her own. She realized Tad had taken a significant amount of clothing with him and noticed several peculiar items were missing from their home.

She discovered that just days before his disappearance, on March 9, Tad had taken out of $500 personal loan. He had also packed his medication for erectile dysfunction, a detail that made Jill's stomach drop. By now, the police were heavily involved. They reviewed Tad's phone records and discovered at the last person he had contacted before disappearing was none other than the same student at the center of the allegations. When the police told Jill about this revelation, she was shocked. She knew the student, Elizabeth Thomas, personally. Elizabeth had been to their house multiple times, gone to church

with them, and even joined them on family outings. Jill had treated her like a third daughter, so the idea of her husband being romantically involved with Elizabeth seemed absurd. But for the police, all the pieces were starting to fit together. Elizabeth Thomas, a teen caught in a dark web. Elizabeth Thomas was just 15 years old when this entire ordeal began. She came from a large family, she was one of ten siblings born to Kimberly and Anthony Thomas. Elizabeth was described as outgoing, funny, and fearless, always lighting up any room she entered. On the surface, she seemed like the type of girl who could easily be able to.

a cheerleader or even prom queen. But Elizabeth's life had been anything but glamorous. Up until 2017, she had been homeschooled. This year was supposed to be her big transition to public school, specifically Culeoca Unit School, where Tad Cummins taught science. While Elizabeth was excited about this new chapter, her father, Anthony, had his concerns. Their family had been through a lot. Two years earlier, Anthony had uncovered a horrifying truth, Elizabeth and her siblings had been suffering abuse, at the hands of their mother, Kimberly. The details of the abuse were deeply disturbing. Kimberly had reportedly smashed Elizabeth's head into a washing machine,

thrown her down the basement stairs, and locked her in the basement. She allegedly beat her children until they bled, through chairs at them, and even used a wooden board as a weapon. The abuse had gone on for years while Anthony worked long hours, unaware of what was happening at home. When he finally found out, Anthony didn't hesitate to act. He reported Kimberly to the authorities, leading to her arrest. She faced multiple charges, including four counts of child abuse and

neglect and one felony count of aggravated child abuse involving a child under eight years old. In the end, Kimberly was released on bail but was hit with a restraining order, barring her from any contact with the children. By late 2015, Anthony had divorced her and gained full custody of the kids. Raising ten children on his own wasn't easy. Anthony worked long hours to make ends meet, which left him little time to homeschool them. Eventually, he made the decision to enroll them in public school. This decision was life-changing for Elizabeth. When she joined Kulioca Unit School, the staff, including Tad Cummins, were informed of her

situation. Tad, being the, caring and supportive teacher he was known to be, took Elizabeth under his wing. He helped her adjust to life in a traditional classroom setting, guiding her through the schedules, social dynamics, and academic pressures. To many, it seemed like he was just doing his job. over time, things started to take a darker turn. It wasn't long before Tad's special attention toward Elizabeth began to raise eyebrows. Students noticed the two spending more time together

than seemed normal for a teacher and student. They would sit together at lunch, chat in the hallways, and were often spotted laughing and joking in Tad's classroom during breaks. At first, people chalked it up to Tad's well-known kindness. He had always been the teacher who went the extra mile for struggling students. But as time went on, their interaction grew increasingly inappropriate. In January 2017, another student reported seeing Tad kiss Elizabeth on the lips in his classroom. This single allegation set off alarm bells, prompting the school to launch an internal investigation. When confronted, Tad denied everything, insisting that the student must have misunderstood what they saw. Elizabeth also denied the incident,

claiming Tad had simply given her a fatherly hug to comfort her after a bad day. Without concrete evidence, the school initially took no further action. But rumors spread like wildfire, and it wasn't long before Elizabeth's father, Anthony, caught wind of a situation. Furious, he demanded answers and warned both the school and the police that something was seriously wrong. The pressure mounted, and Tad's life began to crumble. In early February, he was suspended without pay. His reputation as the friendly, dedicated teacher was in Tatters. But even as his professional life unraveled, Tad didn't back off. The disappearance, on the morning of March 13, 2017, Elizabeth's sister noticed something strange.

Elizabeth wasn't in her bed when she woke up, and her backpack was missing. At first, her siblings thought she had simply left for school early, but as the hours passed, Elizabeth failed to show up. Meanwhile, Tad's wife, Jill, was discovering her husband's disappearance. As the police pieced together the timeline, they realized Tad and Elizabeth had vanished on the same day. It didn't take long to connect the dots. Investigators discovered that Tad had rented a silver Nissan robe just days before he left. Surveillance footage from a nearby gas station showed him filling up the vehicle while Elizabeth sat in the passenger seat.

Witnesses later reported seeing them at a local Walmart, where Tad purchased a variety of supplies, including food, toiletries, and a tent. The police issued an Amber alert, warning the public that Tad had abducted Elizabeth and might be armed. The case quickly gained national attention, with news outlets and social media platforms plastering their faces everywhere. But Tad and Elizabeth had a head start, and they had no intention of being found. A run from reality, for over a month, Tad and Elizabeth remained on the run. During this time, the pair traveled through multiple states, staying in remote locations to avoid detection. Tad's survival skills, honed through years of outdoor adventures, proved to be invaluable. He avoided main roads, camped in the wilderness, and used cash instead of credit cards to avoid leaving a trail.

Elizabeth later revealed that during their time on the run, Tad convinced her they were soulmates. He told her that no one else understood her pain the way he did and that they were destined to be together. Tad framed their situation as a love story, persuading Elizabeth that running away was the only way they could be free. But as the days turned into weeks, their resources began to dwindle. Tad had only taken a small amount of cash with him, and the constant fear of being caught weighed heavily on both of them. Their downfall came on April 20, 2017, when a tip led law enforcement to a remote cabin in Cecilville, California. The cabin was tucked away in the mountains, far from any major cities or towns. When authorities arrived,

they found Tad and Elizabeth inside. Tad was immediately taken into custody, and Elizabeth was brought to safety. The nation breathed a sigh of relief, but the ordeal was far from over. The aftermath, Tad Cummins faced a slew of charges, including kidnapping and transporting a minor across state lines for the purpose of engaging in criminal sexual activity. During his trial, details emerged about the extent of his manipulation and grooming of Elizabeth. Prosecutors painted a chilling picture of a man who had exploited a vulnerable teenager for his own selfish desires. Tad had not only betrayed his wife and family but also abused his position of trust as a teacher to prey on Elizabeth. Elizabeth's testimony was particularly harrowing.

She described how Tad had used fear and emotional manipulation to control her. He warned her that if they were caught, she would be blamed, and her life would be ruined. In 2019, Tad was sentenced to 20 years in federal prison. Elizabeth, meanwhile, returned home to her family, but the trauma of the experience left deep scars. Reflections, the story of Tad Cummins and Elizabeth Thomas is a haunting reminder of the dangers of unchecked authority and manipulation. It's a case that shocked the nation and led to renewed conversations about the responsibilities of educators, the vulnerabilities of at-risk youth, and the importance of speaking out when something doesn't seem right.

In January 2017, Elizabeth Thomas, a 15-year-old girl from Columbia, Tennessee, found herself caught in an emotional hurricane. She wasn't in love with her 50-year-old teacher, Tad Cummins, but somehow, he managed to make her feel like he was the only one who truly cared about her. Tad played mind games, manipulating her into believing that her life would crumble without him, that she'd fail at school, be ostracized by her community, and end up alone. It was a twisted mix of fear and dependency that left her paralyzed. She was scared of him, yet she couldn't bring herself to cut ties.

Her mind was a chaotic battlefield. Tad's manipulation didn't stop there. He told her over and over again that if their relationship ever came to light, it would ruin her life. According to him, the school would expel her, her family would disown her, and the entire town would turn its back on her. For Elizabeth, it felt like there was no way out. Then came a fateful day, January 23, 2017. After classes, Tad cornered Elizabeth and kissed her. It wasn't some romantic moment, it was calculated, predatory, and completely shocking for Elizabeth.

She froze, unsure of how to react. To make matters worse, a classmate saw the evening. entire thing. The witness went straight to the school administration, spilling everything, the inappropriate comments Tad had made, his constant hovering over Elizabeth, and now, the kiss. This report set off an investigation. By January 30th, both Tad and Elizabeth were questioned. Tad tried to paint himself as a loving family man, a dedicated teacher with a spotless record. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was visibly terrified. The authorities weren't buying Tad's act. They knew something was deeply wrong. While the investigation was ongoing,

Tad was temporarily suspended from teaching. However, he was eventually allowed to return under two conditions, Elizabeth would be transferred to another class, and he was forbidden from contacting her. But Tad didn't care about the rules. He continued to approach Elizabeth in the hallways, talk to her, and even meet her in private. He knew his job was on the line and that if anyone found out, he'd lose everything. And so, he came up with a chilling plan. Tad began bombarding Elizabeth with messages on social media, urging her to run away with him. She resisted at first, saying no repeatedly. But Tad's manipulation was relentless. He told her that if she didn't come with him, he'd harm himself. He threatened her family. He guilt-tripped her into submission.

From February 6th to March 12, Tad sent Elizabeth countless messages that would later send chills down the spines of investigators. His words were full of manipulation, coercion, and desperation. Behind the scenes, Tad was preparing for their escape. He took out a $4,500 personal loan, packed a bag, bought hair dye, and even taught his wife how to use the coffee machine, a grim sign he wasn't planning on coming back. On March 13, Tad left his house, leaving behind a note. That same morning, he posted a cryptic message on Instagram, Good Morning.

I love you. Today is a beautiful day to start. For Elizabeth, March 13th, was far from beautiful. She woke up early, got dressed, and ate breakfast like it was any other day. Then, she went to her sister, Sarah, and said something that would haunt her family, I have to go. If I'm not back by six, call the police. Sarah, stunned, thought Elizabeth was joking at first. But when she saw the serious, pale look on her sister's face, she knew this was no joke.

Elizabeth left the house slowly, almost reluctantly. A friend picked her up and dropped her off at a restaurant in Columbia, Tennessee, around 7.30 a.m. Minutes later, Tad arrived in his Nissan rogue to pick her up. From that moment, the pair vanished. For the next 38 days, they were ghosts. By March 14th, an Amber Alert was issued for Elizabeth, and an arrest warrant was put out for Tad. But the man had planned his escape too well. He disabled the GPS in his car, threw their phones into a river, and began a journey across

multiple states. Every night, according to reports, Tad and Elizabeth would stay in motels, where he'd continue his abuse. To avoid being tracked, Tad stole license plates and swapped them out constantly. He changed his appearance, dyeing his hair black, and forced Elizabeth to dye hers red. The trail was cold, but the police weren't giving up. Tips poured in daily. One lead came from a Walmart in Oklahoma City, where surveillance footage captured the pair. They looked different, but it was undeniably them. This proved what investigators feared, Tad had meticulously planned this escape. He'd even researched marriage laws for minors, searching for states where it might be legal

to marry a teenager. He wanted to keep Elizabeth under his control permanently. As the search dragged on, Tad's name was added to Tennessee's most wanted list. The case gained nationwide attention. Elizabeth's family and Tad's wife, Jill, appeared on television, pleading for their return. But the media frenzy didn't deter Tad. He knew the police were closing in, so he decided to lay low. They disappeared from public view completely.

Then, on April 20, 2017, everything changed. A tip came in about a suspicious-looking Nissan rogue in Cecilville, California, a remote town in the middle of nowhere. A SWAT team descended on the location and found Tad. and Elizabeth hiding in a secluded cabin. Tad was arrested on the spot, and Elizabeth was finally rescued. The aftermath of the ordeal was devastating. Tad's wife filed for divorce, and he lost his teaching job. But the real tragedy was the toll it took on Elizabeth. What she endured wasn't a love story, it was a nightmare of manipulation, abuse, and trauma. Her family described how she would break down into tears without warning. She was deeply scarred, and it took

years for her to begin healing. Investigators later revealed that Tad had carefully groomed Elizabeth, exploiting her vulnerabilities. He chose her because she was struggling and sought his guidance as a teacher. He prayed on her trust, turning it into something sinister. While it's unclear if there were other victims, one other teenager did come forward, claiming she'd also been targeted by Tad. In court, Tad eventually confessed. He admitted to manipulating Elizabeth and apologized, though his words rang hollow. During the trial, he even sent letters to his wife, blaming, demonic influence for his actions and begging for forgiveness. The prosecution sought a 38-year sentence, one year for each day of the

abduction. However, the judge sentenced him to 20 years in prison and required him to register as a sex offender. The case didn't end there. Elizabeth's family believed the school bore some responsibility. They argued that the administration ignored warning signs and failed to act until it was too late. In 2020, they filed a lawsuit against the school, but it didn't go anywhere. Even after the trial, Elizabeth faced relentless scrutiny. Some people in her community refused to see her as a victim, accusing her of willingly running away. The constant judgment forced her into isolation. I hid in my little corner, she later said. I'm tired of letting these people affect me. I want them to know I'm not afraid anymore. In August 2023, a movie based on her story, abducted by my teacher,

the Elizabeth Thomas story, was released. The film aimed to capture the horrors she endured, shedding light on the reality of grooming and abuse. For Elizabeth, it was a chance to reclaim her narrative and show the world the truth about what happened. This case is a haunting reminder of how predators operate, how institutions can fail to protect the vulnerable, and how victims often face blame instead of support. What do you think? Was justice truly served, or did the system fall short?

It all began on a chilly morning. The day was November 18th, 2017, and it started like any other Saturday. But for Edgar Alexander, that morning was anything but normal. It was around dawn when he picked up the phone and called the police, telling them a story that could rival a blockbuster crime thriller. His ex-wife, Gina Paola, had taken her own life in her home. Edgar was the first to stumble upon her lifeless body, and shortly after, their housekeeper, Ruth, also arrived at the scene.

The moment Ruth stepped inside, Edgar's word. froze her in place. She hanged herself. She left us. Ruth was paralyzed by shock. Her eyes darted downward, and there Gina lay, lifeless on the ground. Ruth knelt down and lightly touched her former employer's body, her trembling voice breaking the silence. Why did she do this? Why did she leave us? Edgar didn't have any answers. What could he say? He pulled out his phone at 6.15 a.m. and called Rodrigo, Gina's stepfather. His words were blunt, devoid of emotion. Paula hanged herself. You need to come here. She's, she's hanging. It sounded like the kind of thing you hear in nightmares. Gina's family couldn't wrap their heads around it. Why? How? She had

it all, or at least that's what everyone believed. A fresh relationship, a bright future, a daughter about to celebrate a birthday. There was no way this made sense. Yet, the scene in front of them painted a grim and undeniable reality. When the police arrived, the situation was straightforward, at least on the surface. Gina was gone. What the scene revealed, her body lay flat on her back in the inner patio of her home. Around her neck, faint marks hinted at strangulation. A rope rested nearby, and when officers glanced upward, they saw a ceiling pipe partially

dislodged. Close to her body, there was a chair and a small stool. It didn't take a seasoned detective to conclude what had happened, or so it seemed. Everything pointed to suicide. But the real question was why. Edgar thought he knew the answer. He wasted no time explaining to the police that Gina's business had been on the rocks lately. Sales had dropped, and debts were piling up.

She was overwhelmed and stressed about her work life. Then there was the divorce. Edgar admitted that their split had been messy, and that it had crushed Gina emotionally. I cheated on her, Edgar confessed. Multiple times. She never got over it. She felt alone, misunderstood. She couldn't see a way forward.

Edgar's story only got darker. He claimed Gina had texted him in the early hours, pouring her heart out, saying she couldn't go on anymore. Her messages were desperate, full of pain. He said they argued about it for nearly an hour before she sent a final goodbye, asking him to take care of their kids. Something about it felt wrong to Edgar, or at least that's what he told the cops. He'd immediately hailed a taxi and rushed over to her house.

security cameras on the street captured his arrival at exactly 606 a.m. From there, his timeline checked out. He entered the house and found her body, just as he'd said. Inside the house, Gina's two kids, one fourteen and the other eight, were sleeping soundly, unaware of the tragedy unfolding just steps away. A housekeeper was also present, but none of them had heard a thing. According to Edgar, the blame lay with the storm that had raged through the night. The howling winds, pelting rinds, pelting run.

rain, and thunder masked any sound Gina might have made in her final moments. Everything Edgar told the police aligned perfectly with what they saw at the scene. Case closed, right? Not even close. A deeper dive into Gina's life. Gina Paola Manrique Quintero was born in Neva, Columbia, to Janet Quintero in Samuel Vargas. Her parents' marriage didn't last, and when Gina was just a baby, they went their separate ways.

Not long after, Janet remarried a man named Rodrigo Manrique, who not only did. gave Gina his last name but also stepped up as a loving father figure. Together, they built a happy, blended family. Gina grew up as a bright, ambitious, and driven young girl. People described her as fearless and resourceful, a natural go-getter with a head for business. Her knack for spotting opportunities became evident early on. So, when she turned 16, she decided it was time for a change.

After discussing it with her biological father, Samel, she packed her bags and moved to Bogota pursue higher education. Sammel was a successful businessman, and he offered Gina a spot in his company while she studied business administration at university. This setup worked perfectly. Gina balanced her studies and worked seamlessly, all while building valuable experience. It was during this time that she met a man who swept her off her feet. Details about him remain fuzzy, but what's clear is that Gina had her first child with him. Unfortunately, their relationship didn't last. By 2004, she was 25 and a single mom, until Edgar Alexander Calderon entered the picture. The start of something new, Edgar was a messenger at her father's company when they met.

At first, their relationship was purely platonic. But over time, sparks flew. Edgar seemed like a solid guy. He was hardworking, studying to become a publicist, and had a passion for film. Gina's father approved of the match, and before long, they were inseparable. Their relationship blossomed. Gina graduated, Edgar completed his studies, and together they started building a life. They never officially tied the knot, but they were every bit the image of a married couple. They welcomed a son and eventually decided to take their adventures overseas, moving the entire family to China. Life in China was an adjustment, but they thrived.

The kids adapted to school, and Gina found her footing in the workforce. But it was something else about China that caught her eye, the electric vehicles. Everywhere she looked, people were zipping around on electric bikes and scooters. It sparked an idea. The big break, Gina saw potential. Electric vehicles were cheap, eco-friendly, and practical. She was convinced they'd be a hit back in Columbia. After doing her research, she pitched the idea to her family.

Her father agreed, and the entire clan returned to Colombia to bring Gina's vision to life. The first store opened in Bogota. The response was overwhelming, and soon Gina's business expanded across the country. Media outlets caught wind of her success. Interviews followed. Her empire grew to 29 stores. But every success story has its challenges. For Gina, those challenges were both personal and professional.

Betrayal and decline. To keep the business running, Gina needed to travel to China one or two times a year. These trips often lasted a month, leaving Edgar in charge back home. she thought nothing of it. But during one of her trips, a call shattered her trust. Someone told her Edgar was cheating. When she confronted him, Edgar begged for forgiveness, promising it was a one-time mistake. Gina, wanting to hold her family together, forgave him. They moved to Cali to start fresh. But old habits die hard. Edgar's infidelity didn't stop. On another trip, Gina came home early and found her worst nightmare, her half-sister, Claudia Patricia Manrique, naked in her

home. In the bedroom, Edgar was in bed. What followed was chaos. Gina and Edgar's relationship spiraled. Yet again, Edgar pleaded for another chance, and astonishingly, Gina forgave him. But their relationship was never the same. As if that weren't enough, the business faced new hurdles. Government regulations made electric vehicles less appealing to consumers, causing sales to plummet. And then came the final straw. Rumors surfaced that Edgar had been inappropriate with Claudia's 13-year-old daughter. This story is about a woman named Gina Paolum Enrique. Back in the day, she had a complicated, messy life, full of challenges and people who just

wouldn't leave her alone. Let me tell you, though, it's a tale that's not just intriguing but also heartbreaking, and it leaves you questioning everything. A start with drama, so here's the thing, Gina's troubles weren't something that just popped up overnight. They were brewing for years. At the center of it all was her ex, Edgar Alexander, who would eventually play a critical role in her tragic story. Edgar was a man who, to put it mildly, just couldn't let go. Even when Gina moved on, even when she tried to build a new life for herself, he always found a way to circle back into her world. Let's rewind for a moment. Back when Gina was

just 13 years old, there was talk of Edgar being involved with another girl of that same age. Rumors swirled around that he might have been extorted by this young woman, who allegedly threatened to report him unless he gave her money. But you know what's wild. No formal complaints were ever filed, and no evidence was ever found to back up any of these claims. Was it true? Who knows? But it paints a pretty murky picture of Edgar from the get-go. Fast forward to Gina's adult life, and you can see why things weren't great between them.

By 2016, she'd had enough. Their relationship was beyond repair. No amount of talking, arguing, or trying to make it work was going to save them. So, she ended it. For good. A new chapter begins. By 2017, Gina was determined to start over. She packed her bags and moved to a beautiful new home in El Cedral, a neighborhood not far from her parents. It was her fresh start.

Sure, her business wasn't booming, but Gina wasn't the kind of woman to let that bring her down. She had this incredible resilience, you know, always full of ideas, always on the move, always figuring out her next step. She even reassured her mom, telling her not to worry because, no matter what, she'd find a way to make things work. And 2017 was shaping up to be a good year for Gina. Her daughter was turning 15, and she planned an epic celebration. I mean, eight days of partying. She went all out, finding the perfect dress, the best venue, and sending out invitations like, like it was a royal wedding. She was also in love. Her new boyfriend, Andres Maldonado,

was a systems engineer, ten years younger than her, and absolutely smitten. Age difference? Not a problem. They traveled together, dreamed of opening businesses in Peru, and had what seemed like a healthy, loving relationship. But there was a dark cloud looming over Gina's happiness, Edgar. Edgar's obsession, despite Gina's best efforts to move on, Edgar couldn't let go. Sure, he had his escapades, visiting brothels, seeing other women, but he kept coming back to Gina. He dropped by her house in Neva, spend weekends with their kids, and then start pressuring her to get back together.

Gina, though, was firm. She kept their relationship strictly about the kids and made it clear she wanted nothing more from him. Every time he brought it up, she shut him down. And every time she shut him down, he got angry. It all came to a head on November 17, 2017. The night everything changed. That night, Gina and Andres planned a night out.

Edgar was visiting, but Gina wasn't about to let that stop her from having a good time. Before she left, though, Edgar tried to stop her. He started drinking, begging her to stay, asking her to reconsider their relationship. Gina, being the strong woman she was, said no. Firmly. Andres, sensing something was off, offered to pick her up, but Gina told him not to worry. She shared what was happening and said she'd meet him at the club. Once there, she vented about the drama, but they didn't let it ruin their night.

They danced, drank, and had a great time. Around 3.30 a.m., they decided to call it a night. Andres wanted to drop Gina off at her door, but she insisted he let her out a street away. She didn't want Edgar causing a scene. Security cameras caught her walking to her house at 4.05 a.m. She opened the door, went inside, and, Silence. Andres texted her to check if she'd made it home safely.

She read his messages but didn't reply. Assuming she was fine, he went to bed. The next morning, Andres called her, but there was no answer. Worried, he reached out to Gina's mother, only to hear the devastating news, Gina was gone. Her sister told him she'd taken her own life. But Andres couldn't believe it. Neither could her family. And when the police arrived, they noticed things didn't add up.

A scene full of questions, according to Edgar, he found Gina's body hanging in the courtyard of her home. He claimed she'd used a chair and a stool to reach a pipe, tied a rope around it, and ended her life. But investigators quickly realized that story didn't hold water. First off, the stool and chair combo was so unstable it couldn't support any weight. Second, the pipe was too high for Gina to reach, even if she jumped. And third, the pipe wasn't strong enough to hold her weight, it was bent but clearly incapable of support. Then there was the matter of how Edgar found her. He claimed he in the housekeeper, Ruth, discovered Gina hanging and worked together to cut her down.

But Ruth told a different story. She said Gina was already on the ground when she arrived. And there was another odd detail, Edgar said he untied the knot around Gina's neck. But think about it, wouldn't your first instinct be to cut the rope? Why waste time untying a knot when someone's life is at stake? The inconsistencies were piling up, and Edgar was looking at and Edgar was looking more and more suspicious. Uncovering the truth, the police pressed Edgar for answers, and he gave them a story.

He said Gina had texted him around 4 a.m., saying she was overwhelmed with debt and despair. They argued, and she told him she was going to end her life. Edgar said he rushed to her house, arriving at 606 a.m., as confirmed by security cameras. But Andres told a different story. He said Edgar had been at the house the entire time. To verify, the police checked the location data from Gina's and Edgar's phones. Sure enough, both phones were at Gina's house between 4 and 5 a.m. Surveillance footage showed Gina entering the house at 405 and Edgar leaving at 459.

And then there was the autopsy. It revealed that Gina had been physically assaulted before her death. She had defensive wounds, suggesting she'd fought back. The marks on her neck didn't match those of a hanging, they were horizontal, indicating strength. Gina hadn't taken her own life, she'd been murdered. The real story, here's what really happened. Gina came home after her night out, ready to move on with her life. But Edgar, consumed by jealousy and anger, confronted her.

He demanded to know where she'd been and with whom. Gina, tired of his antics, told him the truth, she had a new partner, she was happy, and she wanted him to leave her alone. That was the breaking point. Edgar lost control. He grabbed a rope, attacked her, and strangled her in a fit of rage. The storm outside masked the sounds of their struggle. When it was over, Edgar tried to stage the scene as a suicide, but the evidence betrayed him.

At 4.59, he left the house, faking an alibi. An hour later, he returned, pretending to discover her body. But the truth was undeniable. Justice served. On June 13, 2019, Edgar Alexander was convicted of Gina Paul Mnrique's murder. He was sentenced to 43 years and seven months in prison. He tried to appeal, but it didn't work. Justice, it seemed, had been served.

So, what do you think? Was the sentence fair? Did Edgar get what he deserved? This case is a chilling reminder of the length some people will go to when they can't accept the end of a relationship. It's a tragedy, no doubt, but it's also a story of resilience, love, and the search for justice. The story of Erlenkurali is one of stories. strange twists, personal struggles, and tragic endings.

Erlin was born in Santa Clara, California. Though details about her early life are scarce, what we know is fascinating. Her parents, originally from India, were devout practitioners of Sikhism. In fact, her middle name, Coor, means lioness, and is a common name among Sikh women. Her father worked as an aerospace engineer, and her mother held two master's degrees, making their household financially stable and highly educated. Erlen was the youngest of three siblings, adored by her family and affectionately called Erlin the happy, for her cheerful demeanor. Despite the loving nickname and her seemingly joyful

exterior, Erlen struggled with low self-esteem, anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of not belonging. Though she was beautiful and intelligent, she often felt out of place. Her best friend, M. Rita, described her as a hardworking and ambitious student. Erlin dreamed of becoming a biologist and pursued that dream with determination. She earned top grades and eventually graduated from Temple University with a degree in biology in 2017. After graduation, Ulland made a bold move. She relocated to Las Vegas on her own to pursue a postgraduate degree. This change was significant for her, she wanted a fresh start, a chance to reinvent herself. She joined a gym called AC Fitness, not just to improve her physical health but because the gym marketed itself as a transformative

space promoting unity in self-development. For someone with low self-esteem like Erlen, this was an alluring promise. Soon after joining, Erlan immersed herself in the gym's culture. She booked a personal training session with the gym's owner, Nick Lewis. During one session, something peculiar happened. Nick stepped away briefly, and when he returned, he found Erlin curled up in a corner, crying. concerned, he asked her what was wrong. Supposedly, she told him that she suffered from severe headaches caused by a brain tumor and needed to be in darkness. This marked the beginning of a series of

strange events. Erlen reportedly told several people at the gym, 12 witnesses in total, that she had a brain tumor and was undergoing chemotherapy. However, her close friend Amy Elliott contradicted this story, claiming that Erlin had a thyroid tumor instead. To make matters even more confusing, Erlin's family seemed unaware of either diagnosis despite being in daily contact with her. Regardless of the truth, Erlen found solace in the gym. Within just 30 days, she lost 18 kilograms, established a solid routine, and eventually became a certified personal trainer herself. Her connection with Nick grew beyond professional boundaries.

By mid-2020, they were in a romantic relationship. Erlin frequently visited Nick's home, got to know his family, and even accompanied him to some medical appointments. During one of these visits, Nick learned from a doctor that Erland did not have cancer. Despite this revelation, their relationship remained strong, until it abruptly ended. Erlen claimed she needed to focus on herself and her mental health, citing depression and a desire to build her self-esteem as reasons for the breakup. Nick, though heartbroken, respected her decision.

In reality, Erlan had met someone new on Instagram, Zaya Kubiak, better known as Ash Armand. Ash, 38, was a strikingly charismatic individual with a complex past. Born in India to an Indian mother and an American father, he spent much of his childhood in Japan. Although his parents described his upbringing as happy, Ash later contradicted this, revealing in interviews that his childhood was troubled. At 16, he left high school and began studying Chigong, Shihatsu, and martial arts. He traveled extensively, living in places like Thailand, Japan, Europe, and India before settling.

in Miami. Ash cultivated an image as a spiritual healer, deeply invested in energy work, soul healing, and the psychedelic trance community. He frequently attended parties where hallucinogenic drugs were used to explore altered states of consciousness. While Ash claimed that these substances were tools for self-discovery and healing, his lifestyle often veered into excess. In Miami, Ash opened a massage center called Akash Tak and worked for an escort agency called Cowboys for Angels, where he charged $800 for two hours, $3,000 for a weekend, and $25,000 for a week. Despite the high income, Ash's spending habits were extravagant. He sought luxury cars, expansive apartments, and lavish lifestyles, which kept him tethered

to his unconventional career. In 2011, Ash gained fame by appearing on the Showtime series, Gigalows. The show boosted his popularity, bringing him more clients and opportunities. Around this time, he moved to Las Vegas, where escort work is illegal. To navigate this, Ash marketed his services as therapeutic companionship, claiming to heal souls rather than provide explicit services. This blurred line raised ethical questions, with some accusing him of exploiting vulnerable women. By 2020, Ash was living a chaotic life. His reliance on steroids, excessive partying, and obsession with being a trophy companion

created a downward spiral. It was during this turbulent period that he met Erlin through Instagram. had created an account to document her fitness journey and promote her personal training services, as encouraged by Nick. Her profile showcased her affluent lifestyle, featuring expensive clothing and accessories. Ash, ever the opportunist, saw her as a potential client or perhaps something more. Their relationship began ambiguously. At the time, Ash was still living with his long-term partner, Lisa. While some believed Ash and Erlin were merely friends or business associates, others suspected a deeper connection. Ash acted as Erlen's spiritual guide, claiming he could cure her alleged brain tumor through alternative therapies. They started spending significant time together,

traveling for what Ash described as, healing retreats, involving behavioral therapies, herbal infusions, and psychedelic substances. Despite her close relationship with Ash, Erland kept these activities hidden from her family. In July 2020, Ash ended his relationship with Lisa, stating he no longer felt the same way about her. However, he allowed her to continue living in his apartment. Lisa noticed Erlen's frequent visits but assumed their connection was strictly professional. On July 15, 2020, Erlin visited Ash's home. According to Ash, they consumed psychedelic mushrooms, lit candles, prayed together, and watched the movie Avatar.

He claimed the evening was peaceful, and they eventually fell asleep. The next morning, Ash called emergency services at 10.02 a.m., reporting that Erlin was unresponsive. He told the operator that she had a history of cancer and might have suffered a heart attack. Following the operator's instructions, he attempted CPR until paramedics arrived. However, the scene paramedics encountered was far from what Ash described. Erlund's body was covered in bruises, lacerations, and blood. Her face was unrecognizable, and the room was soaked in blood. Paramedics immediately detained Ash, and police arrested him upon arrival.

At the station, Ash initially denied any involvement, in Erlen's death, claiming he had no memory of the events. Eventually, he admitted to killing her but insisted it was in self-defense. The details that emerged were horrifying. The crime scene was a bloodbath, with evidence of an attempted cleanup. Erlans' autopsy revealed she had suffered a brutal attack, five broken bones, nine abrasions, 31 bruises, 14 lacerations, internal hemorrhaging, and severe facial injuries. Her teeth were pulverized, and traces of white candle wax were found on her skin and in her stomach. The cause of death was unclear, as both blunt force trauma and strangulation were factors. Toxicology reports showed Erlin

had consumed caffeine, mushrooms, and alcohol, substances her family insisted she would never willingly take. Ash's defense argued that the drugs had caused a psychotic episode, leading him to act violently without control or memory. He claimed that Erlin became aggressive and attacked him first. Yet, the evidence suggested otherwise. Investigators found a partially packed suitcase, indicating Ash might have planned to flee. While his defense claimed the suitcase was for an upcoming trip to Jamaica, prosecutors believed it pointed to a failed escape attempt. Additionally, the scene's disarray and attempted cleanup contradicted his narrative of self-defense.

Motives for the crime remained unclear. Some speculated it was a crime of passion, fueled by a tumultuous relationship. Others suggested financial motives, as Erlin had been helping Ash with his expenses. notes found in Ash's home detailed monetary transactions, hinting at a potential power imbalance. The trial began in September 2020. Despite confessing during interrogations, Ash pleaded not guilty in court, blaming his actions on drug-induced aggression and memory loss. His claims infuriated Erlin's family, who felt he was avoiding responsibility for

his actions. The case highlighted the darker sides of both Erlin and Ash's lives, exposing hidden struggles, toxic relationships, and the devastating consequences of unchecked behavior. Erlund's family, heartbroken and searching for answers, faced the harsh reality that they hadn't known everything about her life. Ash's trial revealed not only the tragic loss of a young woman but also the tangled web of deceit, addiction, and trauma that brought both their lives to this fatal crossroads.

Pack your bags, a twisted love story, life sometimes brings together the most unlikely of pairs, and this story is no exception. It's a tale of love, deception. and the dark corners of human nature. At its core lies Ilsa Amory O'Heda-Gonzalez, a 51-year-old woman from Chile who, by all accounts, was the epitome of strength and independence. A proud mother of two and grandmother of three, Amory had built a life filled with love, success, and self-reliance. Her family and career were her pillars, and she didn't need a partner to feel complete, or so she thought. Amory worked as a sergeant in the Carabineros

to Chile, handling administrative duties with a focus on counting. Her passion for her job was unmistakable, as was her deep connection to her family. But everything changed in 2016 when she crossed paths with a 25-year-old Colombian man named one Guillermo Valdorama Amisketa at a social club for non-commissioned officers. One wasn't a stranger to ambition. Back in Columbia, he'd been a patrol officer for four years before trying his luck as a small business owner. Unfortunately, his business venture flopped, leaving him in financial ruin. Determined to start fresh, he packed his bags and moved to Chile, where he found work as a bartender.

That's when he met Amory. Some say the two were introduced through a mutual friend named Vanessa. Others claim it was a spontaneous meeting at the bar where Juan worked. Regardless, they hid it off, with Juan sharing his struggles in Amory offering a solution, he could move into her home, where she had a spare room. Not long after, one became her housemate, then her close friend, and eventually, her boyfriend. But their budding romance didn't sit well with Amory's family and friends. The age gap was striking, and many suspected Juan's intentions weren't pure. To them, he seemed

like an opportunist looking for a financial crutch. Despite their concerns, Amory seemed genuinely happy. She was charmed by Juan's attentiveness, and his financial struggles tugged at her generous heartstrings. She allowed him to stay rent-free, explaining to her loved ones that he was just a friend in need. When their relationship turned romantic, she assured them it was nothing serious, just a way to enjoy life and stave off loneliness. But red flags quickly emerged. A ring of doubts, within a month of dating, one proposed to Amory. She was thrilled, showing off her engagement ring to her family, though it was far from impressive. He told me we're getting married, she proudly announced, flashing the cheap ring. But her family's reaction wasn't

what she hoped for. They weren't just skeptical, they were downright worried. What looked like a fairy tale romance from the outside was anything but. Neighbors often heard heated arguments coming from their apartment, punctuated by the sound of furniture being shoved around and loud thuds. The rosy picture Amory painted for her family started to crack, but she remained loyal to one, blind to the growing concern around her. Just eight months into their relationship, one dropped a bombshell, his beloved grandmother in Columbia had been diagnosed with cancer, and he needed to return home immediately. Amory, ever supportive, helped him pack his bags.

Although he left Chile, their relationship didn't falter. They stayed in constant communication, exchanging messages, and calls. What's more, Amory began sending one money regularly. According to her, he never asked for it, she gave out of love. But rumors suggested otherwise. Some claimed she was sending him up to $400 at a time, nearly half her salary. Back in Columbia, Juan's life seemed to improve. He even purchased a Mazda 6, a luxury he wouldn't have afforded on his own.

Meanwhile, Amory's financial sacrifices left her struggling. Back together, in October 2018, one returned to Chile, once again staying with Amory. But the red flags only grew more apparent. Amory's sister, Alejandra, noticed physical injuries that Amory tried to downplay. First, it was a fractured pinky finger, which Amory blamed on a point. playful. Then, she showed up with her arm in a cast, claiming she'd slipped in the bathroom. Her family didn't buy it. By February 2019, Amory made an announcement that left everyone stunned, she was leaving her job, withdrawing her pension, and moving to Columbia with Juan to start a business

together. Her family was dumbfounded. Amory had always been fiercely independent, devoted to her career and her roots in Chile. Now, she was abandoning everything for a man they didn't trust. To make matters worse, before leaving, Amory took out a life insurance policy with Juan as the sole beneficiary. If anything happened to her, he'd receive a significant payout. The move to Columbia, on March 5, 2019, Amory and Juan left for Colombia. From the outside, their new life seemed idyllic. Amory kept her family updated with regular calls, photos, and videos of the rural property in Curiti, Santander, where they were staying. The property belonged to Juan's family, and Amory seemed to enjoy the slower pace of life.

But on March 17th, she called her family with unsettling news. One had left for Bogota to attend a two-week course for their future business. She trusted him completely, but her family couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. March 29th marked the last time anyone heard from Amory. She contacted her eldest son, either through a call or a message, sources vary, before falling completely silent. A trail of lies, when Amory's family couldn't reach her, they turned to Juan for answers.

At first, he was unresponsive. When he finally replied, his story was riddled with inconsistencies. He claimed they'd had a massive fight on March 29th after she accused him of infidelity. According to him, she packed her bags and left, possibly returning to Chile. One of Amory's sons offered to fly to Columbia to help search for her.

He asked Juan if he could stay at their apartment, but Juan made excuses, saying he'd be in Medellin looking for her. Desperate, the family filed a missing person's report. Chilean and Colombian authorities launched an investigation, quickly identifying Juan as a person of interest. His behavior was suspicious, to say the least. It's hard to wrap your head around this whole situation. On one side, we've got Amory, an independent, strong woman who had her life together, her family, her job, her sense of self.

And then there's Juan, a guy who seemed to be bouncing around looking for a golden ticket. Together, they created this whirlwind relationship that seemed doomed from the start. But nobody could have predicted it would end so tragically. After Juan sentencing, the questions didn't stop. People debated how a woman as sharp as Amori got caught up in such a mess. Was it loneliness? Was it his charm? Or was he just that good at manipulating people?

These are questions her family probably asks themselves every single day. The thing about cases like this is they don't just impact the victim. they ripple out and affect everyone connected to them. Amori's family lost more than just her, they lost a sense of trust, a belief in the good of people. Her kids now live with the pain of not being able to protect their mom. And Juan's actions. They didn't just hurt Amori.

They painted a picture of him as a cold, calculated individual who thought he could outsmart everyone and walk away with a pile of money. But let's talk about the trial for a minute. Can we all agree that the attempt to claim Juan was, not in his right mind, was a weak move. Sure, he had an accident years ago, but if anything, his actions showed a level of planning in calculation that's chilling. From creating a fake marriage with Becky to scamming Amori out of her savings and even

securing that life insurance policy, it was all part of a master plan. A messed up, evil plan, but a plan nonetheless. Here's the kicker, even with all the evidence stacked against him, one still tried to make himself the victim in some of his interviews. He claimed he loved Amori, that it wasn't so. supposed to end like this. But love? Real love doesn't leave someone bruised, broken, and betrayed. Real love doesn't involve lies, financial exploitation, or, you know, murder. What's even more tragic is how this could have been prevented. The red flags were there from the start,

waving in everyone's faces like they were in a parade. The rushed engagement, the constant arguments, the financial dependence, all of it screamed, something's not right, and yet, Amory's kindness, her willingness to believe in people, kept her tied to a man who clearly didn't deserve her. Now, let's fast forward to the aftermath. Juan's in prison, where he belongs, but does the sentence fit the crime? 36 years feels like a lot, but when you break it down, is it really enough for what he did? Amori's family doesn't think so, and honestly, neither do most people who've followed the case. A reduced sentence for admitting guilt.

That doesn't bring Amori back. It doesn't undo the pain her family feels ever. every day. And what about Becky? Imagine being in her shoes. One day, you think you found someone who wants to spend their life with you, and the next, you're dragged into a media circus because your new husband turned out to be a murderer. Whether she was another victim of Juan's manipulation or just an unsuspecting pawn in his game, Becky's life was turned upside down too. But there's one part of this story that sticks out more than anything else, Amory's bravery in her final moments. Knowing something was off, she documented everything.

The photos, the videos, even the notes, she left behind a trail of evidence that ultimately ensured one couldn't walk away scot-free. It's heartbreaking to think about the fear she must have felt, but it's also a testament to her strength. Even in her darkest hour, she was thinking ahead, trying to make sure the truth would come out. Her story serves as a cautionary tale. It's a reminder to trust your instincts, to pay attention to the warning signs, and to never underestimate the power of greed and deceit.

It's also a reminder of the importance of staying connected to your loved ones. Amori's family tried to warn her, tried to pull her away from Wan, but sometimes, when someone's caught in the web of manipulation, it's hard to see the way out. As for Juan, he'll spend the next few decades behind bars, but will he ever truly understand the gravity of what he did? People like him often don't. They see the world through a lens of self-interest, calculating every move to benefit themselves. And while he may have thought he was clever, he underestimated Amori's resilience.

and the determination of her family to seek justice. So here we are, left with a story that's as heartbreaking as it is infuriating. A story of love turned toxic, of trust betrayed, and of a life cut short by someone who didn't deserve even a second of it. Amori's legacy, though, isn't just one of tragedy. It's one of strength, of love for her family, and of a spirit that refused to be silenced, even in death. Let this be a reminder to all of us, cherish the people who truly care for you,

keep your eyes open for red flags, and never stop fighting for justice, no matter how impossible it may seem. Because if there's one thing Amory's story teaches us, it's that the truth always finds a way to come to light. It was one of those gray mornings when the clouds seemed to cling to the hills like an old, tattered blanket. Jack slung his backpack over one shoulder, the weight of it reminding him just how far he'd come. He had been planning this trip for months, a solo hike through the backcountry, away from the buzz of the city, the constant demands of work, and, Frankly, people in general. Jack wasn't antisocial per se, but something about the wilderness called to him in a way that cocktail parties and office meetings never could. The trailhead

was deserted when he arrived, just the way he liked it. He double-checked his gear, water, snacks, first-aid kit, a lightweight tent, and his trusty old notebook. Jack wasn't much of a photographer, but he loved to jot down his thoughts, little observations about nature, snippets of poetry, or just random usings. Ready as I'll ever be, he muttered to himself, adjusting the straps of his pack before setting off. The first few miles were uneventful. The trail wound its way through dense forest, the canopy above casting dappled shadows

on the ground. Jack could hear the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and occasionally the distant gurgle of a stream. It was peaceful. Perfect. By midday, he had reached a clearing with a breathtaking view of the valley below. He sat down on a large, flat rock, pulled out a granola bar, and just, existed for a moment. No deadlines. No emails. Just him and the world. He scribbled a few lines in his notebook. The wind

speaks in whispers, mountains stand like sentinels, time loses its grip. Jack wasn't sure if it was good, but it felt honest, and that was enough. After a short rest, he pressed on, eager to make it to the first campsite before dusk. As the afternoon wore on, the trail became steeper and more rugged. The trees grew sparser, giving way to rocky terrain dotted with hardy shrubs and patches of wildflowers. Jack's legs burned with the effort, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that reminded him he was alive. By the time he reached the campsite, the sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The campsite was little more than a flat patch of ground near a small, crystal clear lake. Jack

set up his tent, gathered some firewood, and soon had a small blaze crackling. away. He heated up a packet of dehydrated chili, which, despite its humble origins, tasted like a gourmet meal after a long day of hiking. As night fell, the stars came out in force, a dazzling array of light unpolluted by city glow. Jack leaned back against a log, letting the serenity of the moment wash over him. But then, just as he was starting to feel truly relaxed, he heard it, a rustling in the bushes behind him. Jack froze, every nerve in his body on high alert. He reached for his flashlight and shown it toward the noise. Two glowing eyes reflected back at him. For a split second, his heart hammered in his chest,

a bear, a mountain lion. But then the creature stepped into the light, and Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was just a deer, its delicate legs and wide eyes giving it an almost ethereal appearance. The animal stared at him for a moment before darting off into the woods. Jack chuckled nervously, feeling a bit silly for getting so worked up. All right, nature, he said aloud, I get it. You're in charge, the rest of the night passed without incident, and Jack woke the next morning feeling refreshed. He packed up his gear and hit the trail again, the events of the previous day fading into the background as he focused on the journey ahead. The second day was more challenging. The trail climbed higher

into the mountains, and the air grew thinner. Jack found himself stopping more frequently to catch his breath, but the views made it all worthwhile. By late afternoon, he reached a ridge that offered a panoramic vista of the surrounding peaks. He stood there for a long time, taking it all in, before continuing on his way. It was late when he reached the next campsite, a secluded spot nestled in a grove of pine trees. Jack was exhausted but exhilarated.

He set up camp, ate a quick dinner, and crawled into his tent, eager for a good night's sleep. But sleep did not come easily. As he lay there, listening to the sounds of the forest, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. It was an irrational fear, he told himself. Just his mind playing tricks on him. Still, he found himself clutching his flashlight like a talisman, ready to flick it on at the slightest sound. Around midnight, he heard it, a low, guttural growl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Jack's heart raced as he fumbled for his flashlight. and unzipped the tent just enough to peek outside.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing, nothing. The campsite was empty, the forest silent once more. Jack told himself it was probably just the wind or an animal in the distance, but he couldn't shake the unease that had settled over him. He spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, the growl replaying in his mind like a broken record. The next morning, Jack decided to push on, despite his lack of sleep. The trail became even more remote, winding through narrowly.

canyons and across precarious ledges. Jack felt a growing sense of isolation, but also a strange exhilaration. This was what he had come for, to test his limits, to find solace in the wild. By late afternoon, he reached a high alpine meadow, its grassy expanse dotted with wildflowers. In the distance, he could see a small cabin, weathered and abandoned. Jack approached cautiously, curious but wary. The door hung ajar, creaking softly in the breeze. Inside, The cabin was empty save for a rickety wooden chair and a pile of old newspapers in one corner. Jack couldn't resist the urge to look through them. The headlines were faded, but he could make out dates from the 1980s.

One article caught his eye, Hiker Disappears in Remote Wilderness, it read. The story detailed the mysterious disappearance of a solo hiker, last seen in this very area. A chill ran down Jack's spine. He told himself it was just a coincidence, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had stumbled on to some he wasn't meant to find. He left the cabin quickly, eager to put some distance between himself and the eerie structure. That night, Jack set up camp in a sheltered spot near a babbling brook. He tried to focus on the soothing sound of the water, but his mind kept drifting back to the cabin in the newspaper article. Sleep came fitfully, his dreams filled with shadowy figures

and the sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush. By the time the sun rose, Jack had made up his mind, it was time to head back. The wilderness had given him what he'd come for, and maybe a bit more than he'd bargained for. As he retraced his steps, he felt a mix of relief and regret. The mountains had tested him, pushed him to his limits, and reminded him of the fragility of life. But they had also given him a sense of clarity, a reminder of what really mattered. When Jack finally reached the trailhead, he felt a pang of sadness. The world beyond the forest seemed louder, harsher. But he knew he'd carry the lessons of the wilderness with him, etched into his memory like the lines in his notebook.

As he climbed into his car and started the engine, he glanced back at the trail one last time. See you again, he murmured, a promise to himself and to the mountains. And with that, he drove away, the wild still calling to him, even as he returned to the chaos of everyday life. Imagine a regular, bustling Californian family in 1961. That's when Laura Byerley made her grand entrance into the world as the only child of Betty and Erwin Byerley. Picture this, a bright-eyed girl growing up with all the love and attention. any child could dream of, yet leaving us with so little information about her early life. Here's what we do know, Laura was a star student at Alto High School, the kind of teenager

who could light up a room with her charisma. By 17, she was the definition of extroverted, even labeled one of the most popular girls in her school. Laura loved fashion, makeup, and jewelry, it was her thing. Her rings and bracelets weren't just accessories, they were part of her identity. would she step out without some sparkle. Everybody knew this about her. But, as with many teenagers, rebellion crept into her life.

She began clashing with her parents over the usual teenage stuff, staying out late, answering back, and ignoring curfews. Things took a darker turn when she started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Being seventeen feels like you're invincible, like you've got the whole world figured out. That was Laura. She wanted independence but didn't yet understand the boundaries of freedom. Parents, naturally worried, begged her to straighten out, but she had her own ideas. Before long, Laura started running away from home.

Six times in just a few months, she packed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished into the night. Where did she go? Straight to her best friend, Mary Chrysie's house. Mary wasn't just a friend, she was like family. Laura's parents trusted her deeply, believing Mary would always have Laura's back. They weren't wrong. After one particularly dramatic escape, Mary decided enough was enough. She sat Laura down for a heart to heart.

They talked for hours, and somewhere along the way, Laura realized she was veering off track. Somehow, hearing it from Mary hit differently than hearing it from her parents. Laura made a promise that day, no more running, no more chaos. For a while, she kept her word. She got her act together and even started dating a guy named Scott Scholes. They were the same age, and a little age, and a man. relationship didn't seem to disrupt her studies, so her parents were okay with it. But there were subtle changes in Laura. Some days, she seemed like her bubbly self, other days, she was

withdrawn, moody, or glued to the phone for hours. It was all very teenage-like, but her parents didn't think too much of it. First love and all that, right? Then came the night of March 27, That night, Laura spent four hours on the phone with Scott. From midnight until nearly dawn, they talked, or rather, argued. There were tears, shouting, and moments of eerie silence. Whatever was happening on that call shook Laura to her core. When she finally went to bed, the drama wasn't over. The next morning, Laura was visibly upset.

Her parents pressed her for answers, but she only muttered that she and Scott had broken up. When Mary arrived to walk her to school. Seeing Laura in tears, she hugged her, comforted her, and tried to lift her spirits. By the time they reached school, it seemed like things were settling down. But that same day, Laura had plans with her mom, a hair appointment and shopping spree. Except she never showed up. Betty, her mom, called the school only to learn Laura had attended her first class and then disappeared.

It wasn't like her to miss plans, especially when she was trying to rebuild trust. Worried sick, Betty rushed to the police. But the officers brushed her off. She's a runaway, they said. She'll come back when she's ready, Betty knew better. Something was horribly wrong. Laura had run away before, yes, but this time felt different. She didn't pack a bag, didn't take food, and had made plans for the afternoon.

She wouldn't have just left. Betty begged the police to take her seriously, but they insisted she'd return on her own. As days turned into weeks, the police. Police finally started looking into Laura's disappearance, but half-heartedly. They questioned her friends, including Mary and Scott, but hit dead ends. Everyone claimed they knew nothing. The cops thought they were lying, but there was no proof. Witnesses recalled seeing Laura with a boy named John McFall after school that day.

The two were spotted heading toward the parking lot together. Another witness claimed Laura was hitchhiking, something she often did during her rebellious John admitted to being with her, but said he left her near a road where she'd caught a ride. The police clung to the runaway theory, convinced Laura was hiding out somewhere. Frustrated, Mary suggested something unconventional to Betty, consulting a psychic. Betty, desperate for answers, agreed. Enter Annette Martin, a psychic known for her work with the FBI. Betty brought her a photo of Laura, and Annette's visions were chilling.

She saw Laura in a car, arguing with a boy. The car drove into a forest near Santa Cruz, California. Annette described how the argument escalated until the boy snapped, killing Laura and burying her on a hillside. When Betty asked for the boy's name, Annette confidently said, Scott. Betty took the psychics recording to the police, but they weren't buying it. They dismissed Annette's vision as nonsense and returned to their runaway narrative. Betty wouldn't give up, though.

She pressured the police to search the Santa Cruz forests, but their search turned up nothing. dragged by. Then, tragedy struck the Byerly family again, Irwin, Laura's father, passed away. Betty spiraled into depression, her hope dwindling. Nearly a year later, in April 1979, hikers exploring the Santa Cruz Mountains stumbled upon a grim discovery, human bones scattered on a hillside. Among the remains were scraps of clothing, a floral blouse, black leggings, and sandals. The police suspected it was Laura but needed confirmation. Betty was too distraught to identify the remains, so Mary stepped in. The clothes matched Laura's style, but something was missing, her jewelry. Laura never went anywhere without her rings and bracelets, yet none were found

at the scene. The lack of jewelry raised red flags. It could mean one of two things, either Laura was killed during a robbery, or her killer took the jewelry as a trophy. The autopsy results were inconclusive, and the case went cold again. Betty passed away in 1996, never knowing who took her daughter's life. With no family left, it seemed Laura's case would fade into obscurity. But Mary wasn't about to let that happen. In 2005, Mary contacted the police, hoping a fresh set of eyes could reopen the case. Detective Michael Chambray took an interest. Reviewing the old files, he noticed glaring gaps in the investigation. Scott's name kept popping up, but his alibi had never been thoroughly checked. Michael dug deeper,

uncovering unsettling details about Scott's controlling behavior during his relationship with Laura. The four-hour phone called before her disappearance also pointed to him. Michael tried to track down the psychic's recording but found it was missing from the police files. Luckily, Annette Martin still had a copy. Listening to her detailed account, everything clicked, Scott was the prime suspect. But psychic visions wouldn't hold up in court, so Michael needed physical evidence. That's when he uncovered a chilling clue. Scott's ex-wife, Sherry, revealed that years ago she'd found a strange box in their home.

Inside were newspaper clippings about Laura's case, along with jewelry, a couple of rings and a bracelet. Scott had claimed they were keepsakes from his first love, but to Sherry, it felt deeply wrong. The breakthrough came when a former friend of Scots recalled how Scott's uncle owned a cabin near the crime scene. Scott knew the area well, often hosting parties there. The pieces were finally coming together. With this new evidence, police obtained a warrant and searched Scott's home in Colorado. They found the box with Laura's jewelry, just as Sherry had described. Scott was arrested in August 2006 and charged with Laura's murder.

But decades had passed, and evidence was scarce. Many witnesses had died, and critical files were missing. Prosecutors faced an uphill battle. Despite these challenges, Scott's arrest was a step toward justice. For Laura, her mother, and Mary, this long over-over-reacted. due breakthrough was a bittersweet reminder of a life cut tragically short. Though her killer may have evaded justice for years, her memory endured, thanks to those who refused to forget. The early hours of September 22nd, 2020, were anything but ordinary. At around 140 a.m., emergency

services in Laredo, Texas, received a distressing call from a frantic man. His voice was filled with panic as he explained that his wife wasn't responding. She wasn't breathing, she wasn't moving, and he couldn't wake her up. To make matters worse, he mentioned he believed she had taken pills before this happened. Emergency services didn't waste time. They dispatched both an ambulance and the police to the scene. However, the police arrived first, led by Officer Gregorio de la Cruz. With body cameras recording everything, Gregorio and his team entered the house, capturing the unfolding drama. They climbed the stairs to find a man, still dressed in green scrubs, desperately trying to revive his wife. The guy looked like he knew what he was doing, probably

because he was a nurse, but even so, Officer Gregorio told him to step aside so they could assess the situation. As the officer scanned the scene, something struck him as odd. No pill bottles were in sight. Gregorio asked the man to retrieve the pills he claimed his wife had taken. The man went to the bathroom and returned with a bottle. That's when things got even more peculiar. The pills were clonazepam, a prescription medication used for seizures and panic attacks. But here's the kicker, the prescription wasn't in the wife's name. So whose pills were they, and why had she taken them? This marked the beginning of a mysterious case, one that revolved around a woman named Maria Eugenia Munoz.

The life of Maria Eugenia Munoz was born on January 25, 1989, one of three children in the family of Marisol Rodriguez and Jorge Luis Munoz. Some sources say she was born in Puerto Rico, while others claim Texas as her birthplace. Either way, what's certain is that Maria's life left an indelible mark on everyone who knew her. She was known for her big heart, her worn personality, and her unwavering dedication to others. People who crossed paths with her often said she lived to help those around her, a trait that fueled her dream of becoming a nurse. Maria worked tirelessly to achieve her goal and eventually succeeded. She started her nursing career in Puerto Rico, where Fate introduced her to Joel Pot, the man who would become her husband.

Joel was 11 years older than Maria, a gap that initially seemed significant, but his qualities quickly won her over. He was a family-oriented, intelligent, hardworking, and ambitious man. Over time, admiration turned to love, and in 2011, the couple tied the knot and moved to Laredo, Texas. A picture-perfect family. At first, Joel landed a prestigious job as a certified registered nurse and esthetist, CRNA. In layman's terms, he assisted doctors during surgeries by handling anesthesia and pain management. It was a demanding job that required expertise, but it paid well, and Joel seemed to love it. Yet, as much as he was passionate about his work, he appeared to love his family even more.

Maria and Joel's family grew with the arrival of two sons, Alejandro and Valentino, who were five and two years old, respectively, in 2020. From the outside, the Pot family seemed idyllic. They shared family photos on Facebook, celebrated holidays together, and appeared to embody happiness. Maria, ever the doting mother, had left her job to focus entirely on raising her boys. Joel, on the other hand, frequently boasted about his family, sharing snapshots of their life and expressing his love for them.

But by 2018, the cracks in their picture-perfect life began to show. Joel's double life, around the time their second son, Valentino, was born, Joel's behavior took a noticeable turn. He became less engaged with his family, posting fewer pictures and sharing fewer updates about their life together. Instead, he started focusing on himself. Joel worked out more, lost weight, and began flaunting his newfound confidence. Even more troubling, he started flirting with other nurses at work.

Despite being married, Joel conveniently forgot to mention his wife and kids to his colleagues. Rumors spread as people noticed his growing closeness to one particular co-worker, Jeanette Redondo, a surgical nurse. Initially, their interactions didn't raise alarms, after all, they often work together. But their frequent meetings in the cafeteria and long walks through the hospital corridors soon attracted attention. Joel's attempts to keep his affair secret weren't exactly foolproof. He claimed to have extra shifts or work trips, but many knew the truth, he was spending time with Jeanette. The two were spotted arriving at and leaving the hospital together. Joel even showered her with expensive gifts and

took trips with her, passing them off to Maria as work-related travel. Maria, naturally, grew suspicious. She confronted Joel, asking if there was someone else or if his feelings for her had changed. But Joel brushed her off, accusing her of being paranoid. Over time, Maria felt like she was losing her mind. The shattering truth, Maria's suspicions came to a head in 2020. While cleaning one day, she stumbled upon two plain tickets to Europe, tickets clearly not meant for her. The discovery devastated her. Joel's web of lies unraveled in an instant, and she confronted him. Joel, cornered, begged for forgiveness. He claimed the affair was a mistake, that he still loved Maria, and promised to change. Desperate to save their marriage, Maria decided to fight for their

relationship. She started therapy, where she was prescribed anti-anxiety medication and encouraged to keep a journal. Writing became her outlet, a way to organize her thoughts and express her feelings. Her diary reflected her hope for a better future, her love for Joel, and her determination to make things work. Joel, for his part, promised to make amends. He even took Maria on a trip to Las Vegas and bought her a luxury Louis Vuitton bag as a gesture of his commitment. But Maria couldn't shake the feeling that something was still wrong. A fateful discovery, on September 19, 2020, just days before the tragic events of September 22nd, Maria's lingering doubts were confirmed. She was driving through a neighborhood when she spotted Joel's car parked outside Jeanette's

house. Unable to ignore what she saw, Maria stopped the car, marched to the door, and knocked. Joel came out, and the confrontation was immediate and heated. Joel admitted he was still seeing Jeanette and told Maria he didn't want to be with her anymore. To make matters worse, Jeanette called the police, hoping to defuse the situation. By the time officers arrived, Joel and Maria had left. In their car, the argument continued. Joel drove while Maria sat in a passenger seat, distraught and heartbroken. The events leading to September 22nd, the days that followed were tense.

Maria was emotionally shattered, and Joel's promises of change now seemed hollow. Her journal entries from this time reveal a mix of despair, anger, and a lingering hope that things could somehow improve. Joel, however, appeared distant, spending more time away from home and less time with his family. By September 22nd, the situation reached its tragic climax. When police arrived at the scene that morning, the questions outnumbered the answers. Why had Maria taken the pills? Who did they belong to?

And, most importantly, what had pushed her to this breaking point? Unanswered questions, the case of Maria Eugenia Munoz is one shrouded in mystery. While some details have come to light, many remain unclear. Did Maria intentionally take the pills, or was it an accident? What role did Joel's betrayal play in her state of mind? And why were the pills in their home to begin with? Maria's story is a heartbreaking reminder of the weight of betrayal and the fragility of trust. As the investigation continues, one thing remains certain, Maria's life and the circumstances of her death have left an indelible mark on all who knew her.

All right, let's dive into this twist-and-a-and-one. tale step by step because it's one of those stories that keeps you guessing. It all started when Maria Mignos decided she had had enough. She wanted out of her marriage to Joel. But before we get into the details, let's rewind to when things began spiraling out of control. On September 20th, Maria texted Joel to tell him she wanted a divorce. She'd made up her mind, no hesitation. In the message, she was pretty direct, she said she'd be calling a lawyer.

Joel, on the other hand, wasn't thrilled about the idea. He begged her not to involve lawyers, claiming it would be too expensive. We can work this out without dragging attorneys into it, he argued. But as the day wore on, Joel's attitude seemed to shift. By evening, he sent Maria an email that felt like a complete 180. I'm so sad it hurts, he wrote. I just want to talk with you, heart to heart, without any fights. It was like he was trying to patch things up, but Maria wasn't.

wasn't exactly buying it. That same night, Maria messaged her best friend, Yasmin, confessing that she was anxious about the upcoming conversation. She asked Yasmin to pray for her. Yasmin agreed and told her to call afterward to let her know how things went. Except that call never came. Here's what we know happened next, in the early hours of September 22nd, Joel called 911.

Maria was unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. When first responders arrived, they found her lying there, with Joel Perferferfer. performing CPR. He claimed she had taken too many pills. The officer on the scene, Gregorio de la Cruz, immediately thought something was off. For one, the pill bottle Joel brought out didn't have Maria's name on it, it had his. They were his meds, not hers. When questioned, Joel explained that Maria had been very anxious that evening. As a favor, he'd given her a couple of his pills to help her calm down. He said he didn't count how many she'd taken. This story didn't sit well with Gregorio. If someone plans to overdose, they don't usually bother to put the pill

bottle back neatly in the cabinet. Things just weren't adding up. Then there was Joel himself. His behavior raised a ton of red flags. He seemed upset, sure, but not in a way that felt genuine. It was almost like he was acting. Plus, he was sweating, a lot. And while CPR can be physically demanding, the room wasn't particularly hot. Even the officers, dressed in their heavy uniforms, weren't sweating as much as Joel was in his thin scrubs. Another detail that didn't match Joel's story. The shower. Joel claimed that after he and Maria talked, he'd taken a shower before discovering her unconscious. But when officers checked the bathroom, the shower was bone dry. It didn't seem like it had been used recently. The autopsy only deepened the mystery.

Maria didn't have any of Joel's medication in her system. What they did find, however, was a combination of seven different substances, morphine, demoral, versed, propofal, ketamine, lytocaine, and narcan. Most of these are drugs commonly used in surgeries, and guess what? Joel worked in healthcare and had access to all of them. The kicker. The only way to administer propofal is intravenously. This meant someone had to inject it directly into her bloodstream. And sure enough, Maria had a fresh injection mark on her arm.

At this point, the investigation took a sharp turn. Police started digging into Joel's life, and what they uncovered was disturbing. For months, Maria had been documenting her experiences in a journal. Her entries painted a picture of a woman trapped in a toxic, abusive marriage. My husband, the man I love so much, is causing me so much pain, she wrote. I don't want to feel this sadness anymore. I just want peace, but Maria's job. journal wasn't all despair. Toward the end, there was a sense of hope. She wrote about her dreams

of going back to school to study nursing, of building a better life for herself and her kids. She had started planning a future without Joel. On top of that, Maria had also been collecting evidence. She had recorded conversations where Joel yelled at her, belittled her, and even humiliated her. One particularly chilling recording captured the fight they had in the car the day Maria caught Joel cheating. In the audio, you can hear Maria confronting him, telling him she wanted a divorce. Joel's response. He stormed out of the car, slamming the door so hard it shook. As the investigation continued, police found even more incriminating evidence. In Joel's house, they discovered a catheter, syringes, and medical supplies. When questioned, Joel claimed the

supplies were for injecting steroids, but investigators weren't convinced. The way everything was carelessly left out didn't make sense, especially in a home with small kids who could easily get hurt. Then there was Janet, Joel's mistress. When police pressed her for information, she eventually cracked. She admitted that Joel had confided in her about the night Maria died. According to Janet, Joel claimed Maria had a panic attack, and he tried to help by giving her some medication. But when things went south, he panicked and tried to cover his tracks. Janet even confirmed that Joel had brought drugs like ketamine, morphine, and propofal to her house. The pieces were starting to fall into place.

Prosecutors argued that Joel had killed Maria to avoid a costly divorce. He didn't want to split his assets or lose custody of his kids. By getting rid of Maria, he could continue his affair with Janet and live the life he wanted without any obstacles. During the trial, the defense tried to argue that Joel's actions were an attempt to save Maria, not harm her. They claimed she had been struggling with substance abuse and that Joel had administered the drugs to calm her down. But the prosecution countered by pointing out the specific combination and dosage of the drugs. They argued that Joel knew exactly what he was doing and that it was no accident. After eight days of testimony, the jury reached a verdict.

Joel was found guilty of Maria's murder and sentenced to life in prison. While justice was served, the case left many people grappling with questions about domestic abuse, control, and the length some will go to protect their secrets. So, what do you think? Was the verdict fair? Did Joel get what he deserved? Or is there more to this story than meets the eye? Title, Shadows of the Unknown,

On the outskirts of the bustling city of Milton, where the steel and glass skyscrapers gave way to dilapidated warehouses and forgotten alleys, there was a legend. It wasn't the kind you'd find in history books or even the murky depths of the internet. This one was whispered between swigs of cheap whiskey and exchanged in murmurs among the homeless who called the streets home. The legend of, the gateway. The gateway wasn't a physical structure, not in the conventional sense.

It was said to be a place where the veil between this world and another war thin, a gap, a tear, or whatever you'd call it. And at the center of this mystery was an old, crumbling building, warehouse 44. If you asked the older folks in Milton, they'd shrug it off as nonsense. Kids these days, making up ghost stories, they'd say. But anyone who'd spent a cold night around a fire barrel in Milton's shadows would tell you otherwise. Once you step through the gates, you don't come back the same, old Marvin would say, his voice shaky but firm.

He was a relic himself, a man whose life was etched into the creases of his face and the gray stubble of his chin. Nobody knew how old Marvin really was, and nobody dared ask. Enter Sam, a restless young man with a knack for finding trouble. Sam was not for Milton but had stumbled into it a few months back when he, his car broke down. He'd planned to stay a night, maybe two. That was six months ago. Milton had a way of pulling you in like quicksand, and Sam's wallet, or lack thereof, had tied him to the place longer than he'd like to admit. He worked odd jobs here and there, barely scraping by, but what kept him up at night wasn't his empty stomach. It was the stories. The Gateway, Warehouse

44, The Missing People. Sam had a thirst for the unknown, a hunger for something, more. So, when he overheard a group of drifters talking about the warehouse, his ears perked up like a hound on a scent. Marvin says the shadows in their move when they shouldn't, one of them muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if the mere mention of the place might summon it. Bullshit, another chimed in. It's just rats and broken windows. That place has been empty for decades, empty doesn't mean safe, the first retorted.

Sam leaned against the rusted rail of the overpass they were camped under, cigarette dangling from his lips. What's the deal with this warehouse 44? The group fell silent. Even in the dim glow of the fire, Sam could see the unease settle over them like a fog. Finally, the first man spoke up. It's cursed. People who go in there either don't come back, or they come back, wrong, wrong how. Sam pressed. The man shrugged, his face tightening. Ask Marvin. He's the only one who's been there and lived to tell about it.

Not that he'll say much. Later that night. Sam found Marvin nursing a bottle of cheap bourbon in his usual spot by the train tracks. The old man eyed him warily as Sam approached, but didn't protest when Sam offered him a cigarette. I hear you're the guy to talk to about Warehouse 44, Sam began, lighting his own cigarette. Marvin let out a dry chuckle, the kind that sounded more like a cough. And what's it to you, boy, curiosity, I guess. Trying to figure out if there's any truth to the stories, Marvin took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have.

Curiosity, he muttered, shaking his head. That'll get you killed faster than a knife in the back, Sam smirked. I'll take my chances. For a moment, Marvin just stared at him, his bloodshot eyes boring into Sam like he was trying to read his soul. Finally, he spoke. Warehouse 44 ain't just some spooky old building. It's alive. The air's heavier in there, like it's pressing down on you.

And the shadows, they don't stay where they're supposed to. What did you see? Sam asked, leaning forward. Marvin's jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, I saw myself. Sam frowned. What do you mean? I mean I saw me, Marvin snapped, his voice rising.

Standing there, staring back at me like a goddamn mirror. But it wasn't me. Not really. It smiled, but it wasn't a friendly, smile. It was like, it knew something I didn't. Something terrible, that was all it took. Sam was hooked. He had to see this place for himself. The next evening, armed with a flashlight and a crowbar he'd borrowed from a construction site, Sam made his way to Warehouse 44. The building was a monolith of rusted metal and broken glass, surrounded by a chain-link fence that had long since been

overtaken by weeds. The air around it felt colder, heavier, just as Marvin had described. Sam squeezed through a gap in the fence and approached the building, his boots crunching against the gravel. The door was ajar, hanging on its hinges like a crooked smile. Sam hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. The first thing he noticed was the silence. Not the ordinary kind of silence, but the oppressive kind that made your ears ring. The second thing was the smell, a mix of mildew, rust, and something else he couldn't quite

place. He shone his flashlight around the cavernous interior. broken crates and rusted machinery littered the floor, casting jagged shadows that seemed to twist and writhe as the light passed over them. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and every step he took echoed unnaturally, as if the sound was being swallowed by the darkness. Then he saw it. A figure, just at the edge of his flashlight's beam.

It was standing still, too still, and it took Sam a moment to realize why it looked so familiar. It was him. The next few seconds were a blur. The figure moved, or maybe it didn't, but Sam's instincts kicked in. He swung the crowbar wildly, the metal clanging against the concrete floor as the figure disappeared into the shadows. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Get a grip, he muttered to himself, but his voice sounded hollow in the empty space.

He turned to leave, but the door was no longer there. Panic set in as he realized the layout of the warehouse had, changed. The walls seemed closer, the shadows deeper, and the air heavier. It was as if the building itself was alive, shifting and reshaping around him. And then he heard it. A whisper, faint but unmistakable. It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. You don't belong here.

Lena stood at the edge of the forest, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows that danced with the rhythm of the swaying trees. The golden pendant around her neck, warm against her skin, seemed to pulse faintly, as if resonating with the life of the forest itself. She took a deep breath, clutching the strap of her satchel, and stepped forward. The forest seemed to welcome her, the trees parting slightly as if to invite her in. You're late, a voice chirped.

Lena froze, her eyes darting toward the source of the sound. Perched on a low-hanging branch was a small creature, no bigger than a squirrel, with bright emerald eyes and fur that shimmered like sunlight on water. Its voice was high-pitched, but carried an unmistakable tone of authority. I. I didn't know I was expected, Lena stammered, still trying to process the sight of the talking creature. The creature tilted its head. Of course, you were expected. You carry the pendant of roots. Do you think that kind of thing just shows up for anyone? It let down from the branch, landing gracefully on the forest floor. I'm Nix, guardian of the Eastern Glade.

I'm Lena, she said, finding her voice. But I don't understand. I found this pendant by accident. I don't even know what it does. Nix let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh. Nothing is ever truly an accident in this forest. If the pendant chose you, there's a reason. But we don't have time to dwell on that now.

The balance of the forest is shifting, and not in a good way. Lena frowned. What do you mean? Follow me, Nick said, bounding off into the undergrowth. Lena hesitated for only a moment before following, the pendant around her neck growing warmer with each step. The deeper they went into the forest, the more alive it seemed. Fireflies danced in intricate patterns, illuminating the way. The trees whispered in a language Lena couldn't understand but felt deep in her soul. The air grew heavier, filled with the sense of moss and blooming flowers.

Finally, they emerged into a clearing. At its center stood a massive tree, its trunk so wide that a dozen people holding hands couldn't encircle it. Its branches stretched high into the sky, and its leaves shimmered with a silvery light. The heart tree, Nick said reverently. It's the source of life for the entire forest. But look closer, Lena stepped forward and gasped. The base of the tree was blackened, its bark cracked and oozing a thick, dark sap.

The once vibrant grass around it had withered, and the air was tinged withered with the air was tinged with the acrid smell of decay. What happened, she whispered. A corruption, Nick said grimly. It's spreading through the forest, poisoning everything it touches. The heart tree is strong, but even it can't withstand this for long. That's why we need you, Lena's eyes widened. Me? What can I do? The pendant of roots isn't just a decoration, Nick's explained. It's a key, a conduit for the forest's energy. With it, you can channel the forest's power to heal the heart tree. But it won't be easy. But it won't be The corruption won't give up without a fight. Lena's mind raced.

She had come to the forest-seeking adventure, but this, this was something far greater. She looked at the heart tree, its light flickering like a dying flame, and felt a surge of determination. Tell me what I need to do, she said. Nix's eyes sparkled with approval. First, you need to gather three sacred elements, the dew of dawn, the emberfruit, and the stone of echoes. is guarded by a different guardian and comes with its own challenges.

Are you ready? Lena nodded, clutching the pendant tightly. I'm ready, good, Nick said. Because the forest is counting on you, this story kicks off with a Muslim couple from Bangladesh, Mamota Begham, a 50-year-old, and Manir Zaman, aged 59. They tied the knot in their homeland and were known for being exceptionally hardworking and honorable people. Their dream?

To build a family and give their kids the absolute best in life. Their first child, Minas, was born in 1996. Two years later, in 1998, their daughter, Melissa, came along. Despite their hard work, life in India didn't seem to promise the bright future they wanted for their kids. Sure, they could provide them with a decent education in life, but this couple dreamed bigger. They wanted the best schools, the best universities, and the best opportunities, opportunities they believed were far from their reach in their home country. And so, between 2001 and 2002, they made the bold move to Toronto, Canada.

Starting over in a new land wasn't easy. From the moment they arrived, they sought help from Toronto's Bangladeshi community, which was relatively large. They networked, made connections, and eventually found jobs. Manir, an introverted and reserved man, became a taxi driver with back taxi. He didn't love social interactions, but his dedication and work ethic were unmatched. In no time, he became the company's top employee, racking up multiple Employee of the Month awards. Customers adored him, and he mastered the city's routes like a pro.

Meanwhile, Momoda, his wife, was the exact opposite, charismatic and warm. There isn't much information available about her, but what we do know is overwhelmingly positive. She dedicated herself entirely to her children, shuttling them to and from school, actively participating in their activities, and essentially becoming the family's backbone. Everyone who knew her admired her. A brilliant idea. As time passed, Momoda came up with a smart idea, real estate. She suggested they buy small properties, fix them up, and rent them out for extra income.

They started modestly, purchasing a small apartment in a nice neighborhood. It worked like a charm. Encouraged by their success, they repeated the process. Before long, they had saved enough to buy a four-bedroom house on Castellmore Avenue in Markham, Ontario, a fantastic area. But their hard work didn't leave much room for enjoying their new home. Managing everything, jobs, kids, and now property, was overwhelming. To ease the load, Momoda invited her 70-year-old mother, Fyroza Begum, to live with them. Traditional values meet modern challenges.

The Zaman family was deeply conservative. Devout Muslims, they brought their cultural traditions and values with them from Bangladesh. While they were progressive in some ways, in others, they were quite strict. For them, hard work, education, marriage, and family were everything. Partying, hanging out with friends, or just relaxing. Total waste of time. They drilled these values into their kids. Minas, their eldest, was expected to become a mechanical engineer,

while Melissa was pushed toward a career in medicine. And for a while, everything seemed perfect. Minas was serious, introverted, and not exactly popular in school, but he excelled academically, burning admission to the prestigious York University. to study mechanical engineering. His parents were over the moon, telling anyone who'd listen about their golden boy. Melisa, on the other hand, wasn't as easy to handle. Although she shared her family's devotion to their faith, her outgoing personality often clashed with her father's strict demeanor. As a teenager, Melissa became the life of the party, literally. She started

going out, drinking, smoking weed, and embracing a more carefree lifestyle. She still managed to maintain good grades, but her parents couldn't look past her rebellious behavior. Things came to a head on her 15th birthday. Momoda threw her a party, but Melisa showed up wearing a short dress that her mother found inappropriate. Furious, Momoda demanded she change, sparking a heated argument. Melissa's response, This party is more for you than for me.

Those words cut deep, igniting a massive fight. The tension only worsened when neighbors started calling the police because of loud arguments. Manir, in particular, had a short fuse and often resorted to yelling, and, at times, even hitting Melissa. But things got even worse when Melissa would stay out past curfew. Manir would lock up the house entirely, doors, windows, everything. With no way in, Melissa sometimes had to sleep outside. Momota, however, would leave the back door slightly open so Melissa could at least take shelter

in the garage. In these moments, Minas often acted as the peacemaker. He'd step in, calm his mother down, and try to defuse the situation. But when it came to conflicts between Melissa and Manir, things often escalated beyond anyone's control. A family cracks under pressure, while Minas tried to keep the peace at home, his own life was far from perfect. In the real world, he was quiet and withdrawn, with few friends and little joy. But online?

He was a completely different person. Minas had discovered an escape, an online game called Perfect World Void. It wasn't just a game, it was an alternate reality where he felt alive. There, he wasn't the shy, stressed-out kid from a strict household. He was charismatic, funny, and popular, a master of sarcasm who had a knack for making people laugh. The server he joined was a lively one, filled with players from Israel, Belgium, and Tunisia. They shared jokes, memes, and strategies, forming tight-knit friendships. For Minus, these virtual friends felt like family.

They accepted him in a way he'd never experienced in the real world. Slowly but surely, the game consumed more and more of his time, leaving little room for his studies. By 2017, cracks in the Zaman family's seemingly perfect image were impossible to ignore. Melissa's rebellious streak reached new heights when she was arrested for shoplifting. Her punishment was community service, but the shame and anger it brought her parents were far worse. Furious and disheartened, they stopped speaking to her altogether. The constant arguments reached a boiling point, and Melisa eventually packed her bags and moved in with her boyfriend, a decision that horrified her conservative parents.

For the Zaman's, this was the ultimate betrayal. Dating was completely off-limits in their household, and Melissa's actions made her persona non-grata. With their daughter out of the picture, all their hopes and expectations shifted to Minas. He was now their sole focus, the last chance to fulfill their dreams of academic and personal success. A web of lies, but Minus wasn't the golden child they thought he was. Yes, he'd been accepted into a college, but not the prestigious York University they so proudly told everyone about. In reality, Minas had been rejected by York and had enrolled at Seneca College instead. Embarrassed and desperate to live up to his parents' expectations, he faked his acceptance letter

and let them believe he was on track to becoming a mechanical engineer at York. At first, his plan seemed flawless. He went through the motions of attending classes and even pretended to study hard. In his mind, this was just a temporary lie, one he'd fix eventually by graduating from Seneca, transferring to York for a master's degree, and making it all real. But things spiraled out of control. Instead of focusing on his studies, Minas sank deeper into the online world of perfect world void. He skipped classes more and more often, telling himself it didn't matter because he could

always catch up later. His days followed a predictable routine, he'd leave the house early, backpack in hand, and head to the bus stop where York University students gathered. He'd ride the bus with them, blend in on campus, and then head straight to the cafeteria to play his game. As time went on, his life became a carefully crafted lie. To his parents, he was a hardworking, devout Muslim excelling at one of Canada's top universities. In reality, he was an atheist who spent every waking moment gaming. His server friends noticed his near constant presence online. They'd log off to sleep and wake up to find Minas still there, grinding away in the game. The domino effect. Inevitably, Minas's double

life started to crumble. He fell so far behind in his coursework that he eventually dropped out of Seneca College entirely. But he couldn't admit the truth. Instead, he maintained the illusion of being a model student. Each morning, he'd go through the same charade, dressing up, leaving the house, and pretending to attend classes. After a day spent gaming in cafes or libraries, he'd return home, feigning exhaustion from all the studying. Despite the mounting lies, his parents remained oblivious. They were proud of their son, believing he was on the path to greatness. But Minas's mental health was deteriorating. The pressure to keep up appearances, combined with the guilt of deceiving his family, was taking a toll. He withdrew even further into

his virtual world, where he felt he could truly be himself. A dark turn, as Minas's online and offline lived spiraled further apart, the tension in the Zaman household reached a breaking point. Mamota, ever the watchful mother, started noticing inconsistencies. Why weren't there any grades or progress reports from York? Why did Minas never talk about his classes? Her suspicions grew, but Minas always managed to deflect her questions with vague answers or excuses. Meanwhile, Monnier became increasingly frustrated. Without Melisa to focus on, he directed all his energy, and anger, at Menis. Every minor slip-up turned into a lecture about hard work, discipline, and the family's sacrifices. The more Manir pushed, the more Minis withdrew. Things

finally came to a head when Momoda discovered the truth about Minas's college enrollment. She found out he'd never been accepted to York and had dropped out of Seneca months earlier. Furious and heartbroken, she confronted him. The fight that ensued was explosive. Manir joined in, and the argument escalated into shouting, accusations, and threats. For the first time, Minas' carefully constructed facade came crashing down. Consequences, the fallout was devastating. Manir and Momoda, who had built their lives around their children's success, felt utterly betrayed.

Their golden boy was no longer golden. The shame was overwhelming, and the house became. a battleground of resentment and disappointment. Minus, now without the safety net of his lies, found himself completely adrift. His relationship with his parents deteriorated further, and his once constant presence in the game dwindled. Even his online friends noticed the change, as the once charismatic player became withdrawn and distant.

Living a double life, Minus was the king of faking it. Every morning, he'd get up, grab his backpack, and head out like a typical college student. By the time he got home in the evening, he was all about putting on a show, acting exhausted, mumbling about how hard he'd studied, and then retreating to his room. Once the door clicked shut, though, it was game time. Literally. He'd spend hours, sometimes all night, diving into the fantasy world of perfect world void. His parents, Monir and Momoda, were none the wiser.

To them, Minas was the perfect son, hardworking, devout, and on track to becoming an engineer. Even as the years rolled on and his gaming habit grew, no one suspected a thing. At first, Minus would spend his days at the campus cafeteria, blending in with actual students. Later, he switched to a nearby mall, where he could sit unnoticed. To everyone around him, he was just another young guy killing time, maybe skipping a class, taking a break, or meeting friends. No one gave him a second glance. But online.

Minas was a whole different person. In the game, he played as Mench, an elf cleric. who healed others. He was popular, though his sense of humor was, let's just say, not for everyone. Menge had a sharp tongue, a love for dark humor, and a knack for making people uncomfortable. Whenever someone called him out, he'd deflect, claiming he was autistic. In fact, he even called himself the most famous autistic player in the game. But here's the thing, no one knew if that was true. Minas had never seen a psychologist, and there was no formal diagnosis. It could have been just another excuse to push boundaries without consequences. His edgy jokes got worse

over time. They went from dark to downright offensive. Players began reporting him, and Minas faced temporary bans, two days, a week, even two weeks at one point. But Bans didn't stop him. He'd create new accounts and jump right back into the game, doubling down on the same antics. Cracks in the perfect image, Minas' online life might have been chaotic, but his real life wasn't much better. By 2019, the lies he'd told for years were starting to catch up with him. For so long, he'd pretended to be a stellar student at York University, bragging about his bright future to anyone who'd listen. In reality, he wasn't even enrolled there. He had dropped out of Seneca College years earlier but kept the act going because he didn't know how to come

clean. To make matters worse, his sister Melisa came back into the picture. She and their parents had reconciled after years of estrangement, and she was thriving. Melissa enrolled at York for a medical program, worked part-time at a local grocery store, and brought home stellar grades. She was everything her parents could have wanted, smart, hardworking, and charismatic. Unlike Minas, who kept to himself, Melissa shared every detail of her day. She talked about her classes, showed off her grades, and had an infectious energy that everyone loved. Compared to her, Minas seemed secretive and awkward. As Melissa's success became more apparent, questions about Minas's life started

popping up. His vague answers weren't cutting it anymore, and the pressure was eating him alive. By the summer of 2019, the tension in the Zaman household was unbearable. A summer of celebration and secrets, the summer of 2019 was supposed to be a season of joy. On June 28, Monier and Momoda celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary with a small backyard party. Friends and family gathered under a tent decorated with flowers and lights. Amid the laughter and mingling, Minas was off to the side with his cousin and a mutual friend. When the cousin mentioned starting an engineering program at York that fall, Minas chimed in confidently, will be there at the same time. I'm starting my master's degree in September. It was another

lie, of course. Minas hadn't completed his undergraduate degree, let alone qualified for a master's program. But the words came out so naturally, and no one questioned him. For a moment, he seemed proud of himself. The next day, the family threw an even bigger party at a convention center. Over 100 guests attended, surrounded by lavish decorations, an enormous cake, and bright lights. Minas gave a heartfelt speech, praising his parents and thanking them for their love and support. The crowd was moved, he seemed like the perfect sun. But behind the scenes, Minus was crumbling. As soon as the party ended, he retreated to his room, shutting out the world. His behavior grew increasingly erratic. He barely ate, avoided interacting with anyone, and spent all his time online. In the game,

he changed his username to unsettling names like Subwa Mano, and, I don't deserve to live. His posts became darker, hinting at despair and thoughts of ending at all. When concerned players asked if he was okay, Minus brushed it off as dark humor. The breaking point, by July, things were spiraling fast. The family had planned a grand celebration for Minas's supposed graduation on July 28th. There would be a ceremony in the morning and a massive party in the afternoon with family, friends, and neighbors. It was meant to be a moment of pride and joy, but for Minas, it felt like a trap. The web of lies he'd spun for years was too tangled to escape.

He couldn't confess, but he also couldn't keep pretending. The night before the big day, Minus started feeling physically ill. He complained of stomach pain, dizziness, and headaches. His family carried on as usual, unaware of the storm brewing inside him. By the afternoon, Momoda and her mother, Minas' grandmother, had both gone to their rooms for a nap. Minas, left alone with his thoughts, made a chilling decision. He grabbed a metal bar and waited.

After an hour, he entered his mother's room, struck her on the head, and then slid her throat. He took a photo of her lifeless body, logged into Discord, and posted it in the game server. I just killed my mom, he wrote, attaching the image. At first, no one believed him. They thought it was another one of his twisted jokes. But Minas wasn't done. He moved to his grandmother's room and repeated the attack. Another photo.

Another message in the server, now I've killed Grandma too. Waiting for my sister and dad next. Chaos erupted online. Some players were horrified, while others thought it was a sick prank. A few reported the posts to Discord. moderators, but the platform's response was slow. The horror unfolds. That evening, Melissa returned home. As soon as she walked through the door, Minas attacked. They fought for several minutes, but Minas overpowered her. Once it was over, he went back to his room, logged on to his game,

and started playing as if nothing had happened. Hours later, around midnight, he saw his father's taxi pulling into the driveway. Minas waited in the garage. When Manir stepped out of the car, Minas struck him and delivered the final blow. Afterward, he returned to his computer and posted his final chilling update. I've just massacred my entire family. Looks like I'll spend the rest of my life in prison. Hope I made you laugh at some point. Goodbye.

He even uploaded a selfie holding the bloodied knife. The internet fights back. By now, the gaming community was in an uproar. Players from around the world scrambled to figure out if Minas was serious. One player from Tunisia contacted Crime Stoppers Internet. national, reporting the gruesome posts. Others formed a group chat, pooling their resources to uncover Minas's real identity and location. A breakthrough came when a player named Bianca, who lived in Toronto, realized she could trace Minas through his PayPal account. Minas had

offered to send money to friends that night, likely as a farewell gesture. Using his PayPal details, Bianca found his address and immediately called the police. The end game, on the afternoon of July 28, police arrived at the Zaman household. Mina saw them through the window and typed his final message, the police are here. Goodbye, he surrendered without resistance. In court, he showed no remorse, just a cold, detached demeanor. At 24 years old, Mina Saman was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole for 40 years. Reflection, Minas's story is a disturbing tale of deception, isolation, and a tragic collapse into violence.

It raises questions about mental health, the pressure of family expectations, and the danger of living at double life. Could Minas have turned things around if someone had noticed the signs earlier? Or was he always heading down this dark path? What do you think? Could Minas have been saved? Or was this tragedy inevitable? It was late in the evening, about 10 p.m. on Wednesday, May 11, 2022, when a frantic woman made an emergency call, her voice trembling with shock and fear. She was barely able to speak coherently, but what she did manage to convey was horrifying. Her roommate was lying on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. She had no idea what had happened or who could have done something so horrific. The victim was someone who, by all

accounts, was beloved by everyone around her. She had a loving family, a wide circle of friends, and had never been involved in any sort of trouble. Yet here she was, lifeless. The paramedics arrived swiftly, but it was too late. Despite their efforts to resuscitate her, there was nothing they could do. The young woman had succumbed to her injuries. The autopsy would later reveal the cause of death, two gunshot wounds, one to the chest and another to the head. Whoever did this had made sure she wouldn't survive. This wasn't an accident or a random act of violence. It was deliberate. Intentional. Calculated. This tragic and sinister case would soon unravel into a complex web of love, jealousy, and betrayal, leaving a trail of questions and shattered

lives in its wake. This story begins with Caitlin Marie Armstrong, a woman whose life, at least on the surface, seemed picture-perfect. Born on November 21, 1987, in Livonia, Michigan, Caitlin was the daughter of Sharon and Michael Armstrong. Little is known about her early childhood, but the fragments of her life that are available paint an intriguing picture. Katelyn attended Stevenson High School, where she was described as outgoing, friendly, and athletic. Her peers admired her for her confidence, though some found her to be a bit bossy. She loved taking charge, often leading group projects and making sure everything went according to her plan. Apart from her commanding personality, she was considered a kind-hearted girl who excelled in sports, participating in track

and field, basketball, and volleyball. After graduating high school, Caitlin seemed unstoppable. She enrolled in Eastern Michigan University while simultaneously attending a craft school. She was a woman of many ambitions, always juggling multiple activities. She wasn't one to sit still, always on the move, always striving for more. After finishing her studies, Caitlin spent seven years working in the financial sector. But eventually, the high-stress environment took its toll. Deciding to pivot her career, she ventured into real estate and also became a yoga instructor. Her students adored her, describing her as patient, attentive, and nurturing. Friends echoed these sentiments, often turning to her for advice. By all appearances, Caitlin had it all, a thriving career, strong

friendships, and a seemingly bright future. But life is rarely as perfect as it seems. By the time Caitlin turned 31, she decided she was ready to settle down. Turning to the world of online dating, she began chatting with a few men, going on dates here and there. Nothing seemed to stick until October 2018, when she met Colin Strickland, the man she believed to be her soulmate. Colin Strickland was born on November 7, 1986, in Johnson City, Texas. He grew up surrounded by nature, animals, and open spaces. His childhood was steeped in simplicity, and he often rode his bicycle to get around. Cycling wasn't just a mode of transportation for Colin, it became his passion. By the time he was in his 20s, Colin had launched a career as a professional cyclist. He quickly rose through the

ranks, even becoming part of the Red Bull athletic community. Collin's love for cycling took him around the world, winning races and earning accolades. But despite his impressive career, Colin was known for being somewhat eccentric. Friends described him as someone who was obsessed with health, organic food, and a tranquil lifestyle. Katelyn and Colin's relationship started strong. They shared common interests and seemed to complement each other well. But as with many relationships, cracks began to appear over time. In 2020, an incident occurred that would change everything. Caitlin, living alone at the time, was terrorized by a drunk man who showed up at her apartment, banging on her door and demanding to be let in. The ordeal lasted over an hour before

the man finally left. Shaken and terrified, Caitlin called Colin, who suggested she buy a gun for protection. At first, she dismissed the idea, but by late 2021 or early 2022, she finally purchased a firearm. This decision would later take on a chilling significance. In 2021, Caitlin and and Colin decided to take their relationship to the next level by moving in together. They found a place, unpacked their lives, and began cohabiting. However, living together proved to be far from the romantic fantasy they had envisioned. Tensions flared, arguments became frequent, and by October of that year, they were sleeping in separate bedrooms. At this point, their relationship status became murky.

Some sources claim they were still trying to work things out, others suggest they had officially broken up but remained roommates, and yet another version posits that they had opened their relationship to see other people. Whatever the truth was, things were far from perfect. As their relationship deteriorated, Caitlin turned to dating apps to meet new people. Colin, not one to be left behind, did the same. Enter Mariah M.O. Wilson, a 25-year-old professional cyclist whose life was just as remarkable as it was tragically short.

Mariah Wilson was born on May 18, 1996, in Littleton, New Hampshire, to Karen and Eric Wilson. From a young age, Mariah displayed an incredible aptitude for sports. She excelled in skiing and eventually joined the U.S. ski team as a junior athlete. But it was cycling that truly captured her heart. After graduating from Dartmouth College in 2019 with a degree in engineering, Mariah decided to pursue her dream of becoming a professional cyclist. Her dedication paid off, and she quickly became a rising star in the world of competitive cycling. In October 2021, Mariah traveled to Austin, Texas, for a cycling event.

It was there that she met Colin Strickland. The two hit it off immediately. They shared a love for cycling, a zest for life, and a natural chemistry. Their relationship blossomed quickly, with the pair spending time together both on and off the bike. But there was one major complication, Colin's relationship with Caitlin. While Colin and Caglin's relationship was reportedly on the rocks, it wasn't entirely over. Caitlin became aware of Colin's involvement with Mariah, and it didn't sit well with her. At one point, Caitlin allegedly contacted Mariah directly, warning her to stay away from

Colin. Mariah, unaware of the complexities of Colin's personal life, was caught off guard. Their relationship fizzled out shortly thereafter, but Colin and Mariah remained in contact. According to Colin, their connection was strictly platonic and professional after their breakup. However, this version of events would later be called into question. Colin's efforts to keep his interactions with Mariah hidden from Caitlin were elaborate. He changed Mariah's name in his phone and deleted their conversations to avoid suspicion. Despite his assurances to Caitlin that he was no longer in contact with Mariah, the truth was far more complicated. The two continued to meet, sometimes in public settings, but often in private.

And so, the stage was set for a tragedy that would shake the cycling community and leave an indelible mark on everyone involved. On May 11, 2022, Mariah was in Austin for another cycling event. That evening, she met up with Colin, who picked her up on his motorcycle. The two spent the evening swimming at a local pool and grabbing dinner before Colin dropped her off at the house where she was staying. Shortly after, Mariah was found dead. The investigation that followed was swift and thorough. Police discovered surveillance footage showing Caitlin's car near the house where Mariah was staying. They also uncovered a firearm at Caitlin's residence that matched the caliber of the gun used in the murder.

As the evidence mounted, Caitlin's behavior became increasingly suspicious. She deleted her social media accounts, cut ties with friends and family, and seemed to vanish without a trace. By the time authorities issued a warrant for her arrest, she was already gone. Caitlin's disappearance sparked a nationwide manhunt. Investigators uncovered that she had used a fake passport to flee the country, traveling first to Costa Rica. There, she attempted to start a new life under an assumed identity. But her run from justice was short-lived. In June 2022, authorities located and arrested Caitlin in Costa Rica.

She was extradited back to the United States, where she now faces charges for Mariah's murder. As the legal proceedings unfold, the case remains a stark reminder of how jealousy and betrayal can lead to unimaginable consequences. Mariah Wilson's life was cut tragically short, leaving behind a legacy of athletic excellence and an unfulfilled future. Colin Strickland's actions, whether intentional or not, played a role in the chain of events that led to this tragedy. And Caitlin Armstrong, a woman who once seemed to have it all, now faces a lifetime of reckoning with the choices she made.

The story is far from over, and the lessons it holds are as haunting as they are important. Love, trust, and loyalty are fragile things, easily shattered when jealousy and insigestion security take hold. In the end, no one truly won. All that remains are broken lives and the haunting memory of what could have been. It was just another ordinary evening on Wednesday, May 11, 2022, until it wasn't. Around 9 p.m., a chilling 9-1-1 call came through. On the other end of the line was a woman, screaming and panicked, barely able to form coherent sentences. She kept repeating over and over that her roommate was dead. She didn't know what had happened but urged the officers to come quickly. When police arrived at the house, they were greeted by a truly horrifying

scene. The victim was 25-year-old Anna Mariah Wilson, known as Mariah to those close to her. She had been shot twice with a 9mm firearm, one bullet to the chest, another to the head. Her lifeless body was found lying face up in a pool of blood. The house itself was eerily undisturbed. Nothing appeared stolen or out of place, and the front door showed no signs of forced entry. There were bullet casing scattered across the floor, but the murder weapon was nowhere to be found. Investigators quickly got to work documenting the scene, collecting evidence, and interrogating the hysterical roommate, who was the only immediate witness. According to the roommate, Mariah was kind, outgoing, athletic, and well-liked. She didn't have any enemies or

dark secrets that anyone knew of. But as the conversation went on, the roommate suddenly remembered someone, a woman named Caitlin. She revealed that Caitlin had threatened Mariah several times before but added that she didn't believe Caitlin would ever actually harm her. This new information gave the police a lead. As investigators dug deeper, they interviewed Mariah's friends, family, and acquaintances. Time and time again, Caitlin Armstrong's name came up. The police now had a potential suspect but needed more evidence to tie her to the crime. They returned to the crime scene and examined it thoroughly for any fingerprints, DNA, or other clues. Three key findings emerged from their investigation.

The front door showed no signs of forced entry. The door's lock was electronic and required a passcode to open. Only two people had the code, Mariah and the homeowner. The electronic lock was connected to an app that recorded every instance of the door being opened or closed, including timestamps. By cross-referencing the locks records with mobile phone data, text messages, and calls, the police were able to construct the detailed timeline of events. Here's what they uncovered.

On the evening of May 11, Mariah met up with Colin Strickland, a professional cyclist, at 5.55 p.m. The two went for a casual swim at the Deep Eddy Municipal Pool and then grabbed dinner together at a local restaurant. Everything seemed normal, and Colin dropped Mariah off at her house at 8.36 p.m. Afterward, Colin drove straight home. What neither Mariah nor Colin realized was that they were being followed. Security footage from a neighbor's home showed a black Jeep Grand Cherokee tailing them throughout the evening.

The Jeep followed them to the pool, the restaurant, and finally to Mariah's home. At 8.37 p.m., just one minute after Colin dropped Mariah off, the Jeep was captured on camera driving past her house. The police focused their attention on the Jeep, noting its distinctive features, a roof rack, a bike rack on the back, and chrome trim around the windows. They took screenshots from the footage and began searching for similar vehicles in the air. area. They also kept Caitlin Armstrong in mind, as everything seemed to point in her direction. The following day, May 12, officers visited the home of Colin Strickland and Caitlin Armstrong. Caitlin, however, wasn't there. Colin was cooperative and spoke with the police, who noticed two vehicles parked at the house, a motorcycle and a Mercedes-Benz. When asked if there were any

other vehicles associated with the household, Colin admitted that Caitlin owned a black Jeep. He confirmed it had a roof rack, a bike rack, and chrome window trim, matching the description of the vehicle caught on camera. The police obtained a warrant to search the house. Inside, they found two firearms, a Springfield Armory pistol and a Sig Sauer P-365, both 9mmeters, ballistics testing had not yet been completed, so it was unclear which gun, if either, had been used in the murder. Collin claimed the Springfield was his and the Sig Sauer belonged to Caitlin. When questioned about why Caitlin owned a gun, Colin explained that she had been scared ever since an incident in 2020, when a man had banged on her door late at night, yelling and

frightening her. Although she didn't buy a gun immediately after that incident, she eventually decided to purchase one in recent months. Colin had accompanied her to a store where they bought two pistols and ammunition together. The investigation took another turn when police asked Colin about his relationship with Mariah. Initially, he denied knowing her at all. But under pressure, he admitted that they were friends and had occasionally spent time together, always in public, never alone. When pushed further, Colin confessed that he and Mariah had once been romantically involved. Their relationship ended, but Caitlin had discovered the affair, leading to significant tension. In fact, Colin had gone so far as to change Mariah's name in his

phone and delete their text conversations to avoid provoking Caitlin's jealousy. As the timeline of May 11th was pieced together, Colin said he left Mariah's house at 8.36 p.m. and returned him to his own home by 8.46 p.m. However, Katelyn wasn't home when he arrived and didn't return until 9.21 p.m. Where had she been during that time? Her absence, combined with the jeep's presence near Mariah's house and her history of threatening Mariah, made her the prime suspect. But circumstantial evidence wasn't enough to make an arrest. Interestingly, the police discovered an outstanding class Bistamine or warrant for Caitlin related to an unpaid Botox treatment. This gave them a legal reason to detain her temporarily. On May 13th, they arrested

Caitlin and brought her in for questioning. She denied knowing Mariah and refused to identify her Jeep in the surveillance footage. Despite hours of interrogation, she didn't crack. A bureaucratic error further complicated matters. The warrant's details, specifically Caitlin's birth date, were incorrect, forcing the police to release her. By May 14th, Caitlin sold her black Jeep for 12,000 and $200 and seemingly disappeared. A major break came when an anonymous informant contacted the police, claiming to be a friend of Caitlin's. According to this source, Caitlin had discovered Collins' affair with Mariah months earlier, in January 2022. Furious, Caitlin reportedly told the informant that she was so angry she wanted to kill Mariah. She also mentioned buying a gun

shortly thereafter. The informant's account, combined with other evidence, painted a damning picture. Ballistics testing confirmed that the bullets recovered from Mariah's body were fired from a Sig Sauer P-365, the gun registered to Caitlin Armstrong. Surveillance footage further linked her Jeep to the crime scene. With this new evidence, police issued a warrant for Caitlin's arrest. But by then, she was long gone. Investigators learned that on May 18, Caitlin had boarded a flight from Austin to New York City. Using a passport belonging to her sister, she managed to evade detection and flee the country. She altered her appearance, dyeing her hair black, and traveled to Costa Rica, where she began a new life.

She underwent a rhinoplasty, claiming the surgery was necessary due to a surfing accident, and secured a job at a yoga retreat. For 43 days, Caitlin lived under the radar, attending parties, making new friends, and blending in with the local expat community. Her luck ran out on June 29, 2022, when U.S. Marshals tracked her down in Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. She was arrested and extradited to the United States, where she now faces charges of first-degree murder. Her bail was set at $3.5 million due to the high risk of flight. Caitlin's family maintains her innocence. Her father, Michael Armstrong, publicly stated, We love you, Katie, and we're going to get through this. We'll prove your innocence.

Colin Strickland, through his lawyer, issued a statement claiming that he and Mariah were merely friends. However, Mariah's family countered with their own statement. asserting that Mariah had made it clear she was not romantically involved with anyone at the time of her death. As of now, Caitlin remains in custody, awaiting trial. The case has been delayed several times but is finally set to proceed on October 30th. The question remains, is Caitlin Armstrong guilty of murder, or is there more to this story than meets the eye? A shadow in the night, the untold story of Ralph McLean, in the pitch-dark corners of a chaotic 1990s America, something sinister was brewing. The streets were on edge, and the police were on high alert.

Ralph McLean was out there, somewhere, lurking in the shadows, and the hunt was on. But before diving into the heart of the story, let's rewind a bit and set the stage. The 1990s in the United States weren't exactly a peaceful time. Gang violence had reached a boiling point. The drug trade had spiraled out of control, spilling chaos into neighborhoods. Street fights broke out regularly, with knives and guns becoming tools of choice. The authorities? Overwhelmed, to say the least. Local communities were begging for more protection, and the police were left scrambling for solutions. And this is where the story begins.

A cop, a sandwich, and a close call, picture this, January 10, 1995. A typical evening at a fast food joint in northwest Washington. Officer Van Warren, a cop by day and a security guard by night, was sitting by a window, enjoying a well-deserved sandwich break. Life seemed to be a good. calm, just another uneventful shift. Then, bam. Two shots shattered the silence. The bullets barely missed him, grazing his body instead of piercing it. Warren, sharp as ever, hit the ground and called for backup. Within minutes, the scene was swarming with officers. But despite their quick response, the attacker had vanished, leaving behind only 2.32 caliber bullet casings. At first, the police thought it was an isolated incident. Maybe a random act of violence.

They were wrong. A deadly encounter, exactly one week later, January 17, 1995, a taxi driver parked his car just a few streets from the White House. Exhausted from hours on the job, he was looking for a moment of peace. Across the street, a patrol car sat parked, its officer inside, diligently filling out paperwork. The cabby noticed a masked man walking through the crowd. Something about him didn't sit right, the way he moved, the bulge in his jacket. But hey, there was a cop nearby. Surely, nothing could go wrong. Wrong again.

The masked man approached the patrol car, pulled out a gun, and fired four shots straight at Officer Eric Hayes. Hayes didn't stand a chance. The attack was over in seconds. The cabby, frozen in shock, quickly snapped into action. Radioing his fellow drivers, he announced his cab number, 440, and began tailing the suspect. The chase was on. The masked man ducked into an alley, discarding his jacket and mask. When the cabby circled the block, he found himself face to face with the now unmasked killer.

To his horror, the man demanded a ride. The cabby, playing it cool, turned off his radio to avoid suspicion but had already given the cops enough to go on. As he drove erratically, his fear was obvious. The killer, sensing something was off, bailed at the first opportunity, disappearing into the night. The investigation deepens, back at the crime. seen, investigators recovered more evidence, the discarded jacket, a mask, and the murder weapon, a .32 caliber revolver. DNA from a single hair found in the mask would later prove critical. Officer Hayes survived the attack, but the police force was shaken. From that point on, officers

were ordered to patrol in pairs. No one wanted to face this killer alone. The cabby provided a detailed description of the suspect, an African-American man with a medium build, a square jaw, and, surprisingly, braces on his teeth. This clue led detectives to comb through dental records, narrowing down their suspect pool to 100 individuals. Months passed with no leads. The trail went cold. The killer strikes again, April 26, 1995. Officer John Novel was working a second job, providing security at a Maryland liquor store. Unlike most off-duty cops, Novel hadn't changed out of his uniform, nor had he swapped his patrol car for a personal vehicle. This made him an easy target. A masked man approached his car and opened fire with a MAC-11 submachine gun.

Sixteen bullets were fired, ten of which struck Novel directly. The attack was so brutal, so precise, that survival was impossible. Witnesses were scarce, and those who did see the attacker couldn't provide much detail beyond the fact that he wore a mask. Leeds were drying up fast, and the police were desperate. A confession out of nowhere, then, on May 18, 1995, two women walked into a Maryland police station, one of them battered and bruised. Her name was Nadine McGrady, and her story was chilling. Nadine claimed her boyfriend, Ralph McLean, had confessed to being the cop killer. During a heated argument, Ralph had reportedly blurted out that the police sketch on the news was him. She recalled how, after seeing his likeness on TV,

he had rushed to the bathroom to rip out his braces. Police immediately put Nadine under protection. If her story was true, Ralph wasn't just dangerous, he was volatile. Unraveling Ralph's past, digging into Ralph's history revealed a troubled life. Born in 1966, he had racked up over 20 arrests in Washington, D.C., for everything from drug possession to assaulting law enforcement. His home was a treasure trove of incriminating evidence, manuals on firearms, including the MAC 11. Military survival guides.

Handwritten notes expressing a deep hatred for police. And the peace to resistance. Two Balaclavas. DNA analysis confirmed that hair found in one of them matched the earlier crime scene. Despite the overwhelming evidence, Ralph remained elusive. The chase across states, with Nadine's help, police began tracking Ralph. She had a cell phone, a rare commodity in the mid-90s, which became a lifeline for investigators. phone records placed Ralph in Fredericksburg, Virginia, but he was always one step ahead,

constantly moving. At one point, Ralph was stopped for speeding in South Carolina. The officer, unaware of who he was dealing with, let him off with a simple ticket. Another missed opportunity. The final standoff, May 29, 1995. Ralph called Nadine, suggesting they meet at a bustling mall in Virginia. The police were ready, blending into the crowd. But Ralph, ever suspicious, changed the location twice, finally settling on a gas station in Greenbelt, Maryland. FBI agent William Christian, nearing retirement, took up a position nearby. Ralph called Nadine, speaking in hushed tones. The police interpreted this as a sign

he was either preparing to attack or wary of an ambush. Then, a local officer approached Christian's vehicle, questioning his presence. Christian flashed his badge, but the exchange tipped Ralph off. Moments later, Ralph emerged from the shadows and fired, killing Christian instantly. The ensuing chaos was a blur of gunfire in pursuit. Ralph fled into the woods, evading capture under the cover of darkness. The end of the road, as dawn approached, Ralph re-emerged near the gas station. Police surrounded him, guns drawn. Refusing to surrender, he opened fire. The standoff ended when Ralph turned the gun on himself. In his final moments, Ralph used the stolen weapon of one of his victims.

His motives? Still a mystery. Some, like Nadine, believed it was sheer hatred for authority. Others speculated deeper, darker reasons. What do you think drove Ralph McLean to commit these acts? Was it hate, madness, or something else entirely? But the worst was yet to come. Can you imagine?

Her own mother doubted her. Everyone was whispering, gossiping. People stared. Sometimes her mother would sit her down and, in this painfully soft voice, ask if she had something to tell her. You can trust me, she'd say. It's okay. I won't call the police. You won't go to jail.

Her own mother believed she was a killer. And because of this, Jody completely lost herself. She spiraled. But let me take you to the beginning because this story is one of those that makes you shake your head in disbelief. Risa and Jody Trexler, sisters, best friends, polar opposites, Risa Don Trexler was born on October 11, 1968, in Rowan County, North Carolina. She was the first born to Vicki Monroe Oaks and Gary Trexler, and by all accounts, she was everything you'd want in a daughter. People say Risa had the kindest heart. She was bubbly,

always smiling, and willing to help others. If you needed a laugh, Risa was your girl. At just 15, Risa was not only the golden child but also the role model for her younger sister, Jody, younger at 13. The bond they shared? Unbreakable. These two adored each other so much that they willingly shared a room. And I'm not talking about one of those, ugh, we have no choice, situations. No, they genuinely liked being around each other. They each had their side of the room decked out to match their personalities, with posters, doodles, and little quotes pinned up on the walls. Sure, they had their fair share of arguments, what siblings don't. But overall, they were like and yang, opposites that complimented each other beautifully.

Their family setup seemed pretty ideal. The Trexler family was closed-knit. Their house was right next door to their grandparents' place, so if their parents were working, the girls would simply hop over to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa. They'd have snacks, watch movies, and just spend time together. Everyone was in sync. Communication was great. There were no big family dramas, no glaring red flags.

everything changed on June 15, 1984. A regular day. Until it wasn't, it was a Friday, and the girls were off school. Some sources say it was summer vacation, while others claim it was just a holiday. Either way, the plan for the day was simple, enjoy their free time. That morning, Risa and Jody invited two friends over, Paul and Jim. The plan was classic 80s teen stuff, sandwiches, MTV, and plenty of laughs. They were just kids having fun. By the time afternoon rolled around, around 3 p.m., Risa decided she wanted to watch her favorite soap opera. This was her routine every day, and she wasn't about to skip it. There was only one problem, no one else wanted to watch it. And since the house only had one TV, Risa came up with a brilliant

solution, she'd go watch it at her grandparents' place. After all, they were always welcoming. She grabbed her stuff, said goodbye, and headed next door. But when she got there, she found out that her grandparents had plans. Grandpa was heading out to run errands, and Grandma had a hair appointment. Risa decided to stay and watch her show anyway. She said goodbye to them as they left, and everything seemed perfectly normal. Back at the Trexler house, things were winding down too. Paul and Jim left, and Jody found herself alone. She flipped through channels and settled in for a lazy afternoon. At around 5 p.m., everything shattered. A blood-curdling scream, Jody heard it first, a scream so loud and agonized it sent chills

down her spine. It came from her grandparents' house. Without hesitation, she bolted out the door and ran over. What she found when she got there would haunt her for the rest of her life. Her grandfather was standing in the doorway, frozen in horror. On the floor of the main bedroom lay Risa's lifeless body. She was naked, covered in stab wounds, and surrounded by a person. pool of blood. The only thing she was wearing were her jewelry pieces, earrings, a necklace,

a bracelet, and her watch. The sight was gut-wrenching. But amidst the chaos, the family made crucial mistakes. Her grandfather, overcome with emotion, grabbed a blanket and covered Risa's body. And when her mother arrived, she broke down completely. She cradled Risa's body, hugging her tightly. These acts, though born out of grief, disturbed the crime scene and would later come back to haunt them. The investigation, twists, turns, and accusations. When the autopsy was conducted by Dr. John Butts, the findings were brutal. Risa had been stabbed 18 times. The attack was so ferocious that the knife blade broke and remained lodged in her shoulder. One stab wound had even severed her spinal cord. And yet, Risa had fought with everything

she had until the very end. It was evident that this wasn't a quick or random act of violence. Someone had unleashed pure rage on this young girl. Forensic evidence added more questions than answers. There was semen found on Rees's leg. A single fingerprint, which didn't belong to her, was discovered on her pinky finger. A strand of hair, likely from an African-American individual, was found on her neck. And a splinter of wood was located on her cheek. But DNA testing in 1984 was in its infancy, so investigators couldn't do much with these clues. Instead, they turned to the usual suspects. A family under fire. The first person they interrogated was Jody.

After all, she was the last person to see Risa alive. The police expected her to crack under questioning, but Jody had nothing to offer. She explained that Risa had left to watch her soap opera and that she hadn't seen her again. She even recounted how she thought her grandparents weren't home when she checked their driveway and saw no cars. She had no idea what had happened. As the investigation unfolded, nine neighbors came forward, claims. they had seen a man, described as African-American, wandering the neighborhood between 3 and 5 p.m. At first, this seemed like a promising lead. But here's the kicker, no two

descriptions matched. Some said he was tall, others said he was short. Some claimed he went one way, others swore he went another. The police were left scratching their heads. When that lead went nowhere, the focus shifted back to the family. Paul and Jim, Risa's friends, were questioned but cleared. Then the spotlight landed on Grandpa Walter. He was the one who found the body, after all. Maybe he'd attacked Risa, covered it up, and staged the discovery. But again, there was no evidence tying him to the crime.

And then, they went after Jody. Hard. Jody's nightmare, the police weren't subtle. They flat out asked Jody if she had killed her sister. She denied it, of course. She insisted she had nothing to do with it. But her protests fell on deaf ears. Without parental consent, the police took samples of her DNA, fingerprints, hair, and saliva.

They also searched her belongings. Jody didn't understand what was happening. She thought it was all just routine, something everyone went through. But then the whispers started. At Rees's funeral, people noticed that Jody didn't cry. That was all they needed to turn on her completely. She doesn't seem sad enough, they said. She's cold.

She's guilty, her classmates ostracized her. Friends ignored her. If she walked down the street, people would cross to the other side. Day after day, Jody came home in tears, but no one cared. The rumor mill went into overdrive. Laura Rappeller, the daughter of the town's police captain, told everyone that Jody had always seemed dark and once said she hated her sister. Risa's best friend, Beth Davis, publicly accused Jody of knowing who the killer was and protecting

them. Even her mother began to waver. She'd pulled Jody aside and gently prod her, trying to coax out a confession. It's okay, she'd say. You can tell me. I won't be mad. This betrayal hit Jody harder than anything else. The downward spiral, with the world against her, Jody's life spiraled out of control. She ran away from home. She started drinking, using drugs, and getting into trouble. By the time she was 15, she was in rehab. And instead of offering support, the town saw this as further proof of her guilt. If she were innocent, she wouldn't act like this, they said. Jody was damned no matter what she did.

Meanwhile, the police investigation stalled. They couldn't tie the crime to any suspect, and the case went cold. But in a bizarre twist, the FBI released a public profile of the killer, stating that he was a white male, aged 18 to 24, who likely knew RISA casually. This completely contradicted the earlier theory about an accident. African-American suspect. The case grew murkier with each passing year. The Road to Justice. Decades later, in 2018, Jody, now an adult, decided she couldn't live under this cloud of suspicion any longer. She reached out to the Dr. Phil show and offered to take a lie detector test

on live TV. She was determined to clear her name once and for all. During the show, Jody passed the polygraph, proving she had nothing to do with Risa's murder. But not everyone was convinced. Beth Davis appeared on the show and doubled down on her accusations, claiming the polygraph meant nothing. However, the public outcry following the show put pressure on the police to reopen the case. Advances in DNA technology allowed investigators to re-examine the evidence. They discovered that the DNA found on Rees's body didn't match anyone in the Trexler family. Instead, it led them to a man named Curtis Edward Blair, who had worked near Rees's home at the time of the murder. Blair, it turned out, had a criminal record and had moved to California shortly

after the crime. Unfortunately, he had passed away in 2004, but his DNA conclusively proved that he was the killer. Vindication at last. In December 2019, the police held a press conference officially exonerating Jody Trexler. After 35 years of being branded a suspect, Jody was finally free. She stood before the cameras, her voice trembling with emotion, and said, it's been a long road. My family and I never thought this day would come. What do you think? Did Jody finally get justice? Or was the damage already done?

She had pictures of Richard Ramirez on her Instagram stories. Yeah, the infamous night stalker, his face plastered right there for everyone to see. Once, I even talked to her about the theory that Jack the Ripper might have been a woman, which could explain why they were never caught. And let me tell you, that's exactly when people think she started dreaming of becoming the most prolific serial killer in history. Sarah M. was born in Switzerland in 2002. She was the only child of a normal, loving couple. Her parents wanted her, loved her, and gave her everything.

By all accounts, she had a perfect childhood, happy, healthy, smart, kind, and loved by her friends. Oh, and she absolutely adored animals, especially rabbits. But as with every, perfect story, there are always cracks if you look closely. In some online forums, people who claimed to know her family said she was. was spoiled rotten. They said she was overprotected and got anything she wanted with zero effort, no need to work hard, she'd just ask, and it would magically appear. But, hey, this is an official information. It's just whispers on the internet. At some point, though, her parents' seemingly happy marriage ended in divorce. That's when Sarah's life started shifting. She and her mom

moved around constantly, hopping from town to town, city to city, and eventually from Switzerland to Bamberg, a picturesque city in Bavaria, Germany. In Bamberg, life seemed to continue as usual for Sarah. She was still kind, extroverted, and popular. She aced her classes, and her friends described her as the kind of person who'd always put others before herself. She always made sure everyone was okay, even if it meant ignoring her own needs, said one of her childhood friends, Tim B.

But then came the teenage years. And as it often happens, everything started going downhill. Slowly at first, then all at once. Sarah started craving attention, but in all the wrong ways. She became cruel, toward her friends, her parents, everyone. She'd talk back, disrespect them, leave home without warning, and pick fights with everyone around her. Even her school life got messy.

She attended a school with strict rules, including a no-make-up policy and mandatory uniforms. But Sarah wasn't one to follow rules. She'd wear heavy black eyeliner, red lipstick, and ripped jeans instead of the required attire. This rebellious streak earned her regular visits to the principal's office, warnings, suspensions, you name it. But she didn't care. She just kept breaking the rules, stirring up drama, and distancing herself from people who cared

about her. Then came the drugs. What started as experimentation quickly spiraled into substance abuse, bringing with it hallucinations and a full-blown self-destructive lifestyle. By 2017, Sarah was being arrested repeatedly for everything from drug possession and public intoxication to assaulting police officers. Each arrest was more chaotic than the last. Eventually, the court sentenced her to community service, but that didn't fix anything.

Her life became so unstable that she tried to take her own life. Desperate, her parents had her admitted to a psychiatric facility. Sarah spent months there, and during that time, doctors diagnosed her with borderline personality disorder, BPD. When Sarah got this diagnosis, she did something unexpected. She created a YouTube channel to share her experiences. She talked openly about her struggles, her mental health, and how hard it was to fight her way forward. For a while, she seemed hopeful, determined to turn her life around. But then, two things happened that would change her life forever. First, she got her first boyfriend. There's barely any information about him, but what's clear is that he became her entire

world, her first love, her everything. She became obsessed with him, refusing to be apart from him. Her life revolved around him, and nothing else mattered. Second, she discovered true crime. Through the internet, Sarah became fascinated with serial killers. Ted Bundy and Richard Ramirez, in particular, became her idols. She didn't just study their crimes, she worshipped them. Her room was covered in their pictures. Her computer's wallpaper was Ted Bundy. background. Richard Ramirez. But it wasn't just about their crimes, it was about their ability to evade capture. Sarah was obsessed with how they managed to kill so many people without getting caught for so long. Ted Bundy confessed to 30 murders, though it suspected there were more.

Richard Ramirez officially killed 14. How did they do it? Sarah needed to know. She started drawing their infamous symbols on herself, Richard Ramirez's pentagram on her palm, a swastika, illegal Germany, on her arms. She doodle these symbols on paper, on photos, anywhere. And all the while, she was diving deep into forums, discussing serial killers, particularly Jack the Ripper. Her favorite theory. That Jack was actually a woman, which is why they were never caught. At this point, Sarah's obsession was consuming her. And then, in April 2021, her boyfriend broke up with her. That breakup was the final straw. Heartbroken and spiraling, Sarah made. made a plan. She joined multiple dating apps like Badu and sought out men she could lure. Her profile

was strange, 19-year-old virgin, bisexual, interested in BDSM. It was contradictory, an innocent virgin yet open to BDSM. But Sarah knew exactly what kind of men this would attract, vulnerable, lonely, middle-aged men. Within days, Sarah was messaging 241 men. She planned a series of dates, one for every day starting May 1st, 2021. The goal? To kill them, one by one. First, she needed a weapon. She decided on a camping knife with a 12-centimeter blade. Accounts vary on how she got it, some say she bought it herself, while others claim she asked a friend to buy it for her to avoid leaving a paper trail. Either way, she got her knife and set her plan into motion. Her first target was a 39-year-old man named Zayed. According to his younger sister,

Fatima, Zayed was a family man who dreamed of settling down and starting his own family. He had met Domina Cherry, Sarah's online alias, on a dating app. Their date was set for the evening of May 1st, 2021. Zayed was supposed to pick Sarah up from a bus stop, and she'd direct him to a secluded cabin in the woods, a perfect, quiet spot for their date. But Sarah had no intention of romance. Earlier that day, Sarah was so excited about her plan that she called her best friend, and Francisco, and left her a voice message.

She confessed everything, her intention to kill, her excitement, and the details of her plan. She even texted Francisco, I'm heading out now. I want to kill the first one. I'm so excited. Wish me luck, Francisco, however, didn't believe her. Sarah had always been a bragger, making wild claims that never turned out to be true. Still, Francisco did a quick Google search to see if she could get in legal trouble for not reporting Sarah's plan. The answer. Yes, up to five years in prison. But she still didn't call

the police. That evening, Sarah met Zayed. She climbed into his car, directed him to the secluded spot, and then waited for the right moment. As they sat there, Sarah handed Zyat her phone to distract him. Then, she pulled out the knife and stabbed him in the neck, aiming for his carotid artery. In her mind, he'd die quickly and quietly. But Zyid fought back. He clutched his neck, trying to stop the bleeding, and fought to disarm her. Panicking, Sarah fled the car, losing her shoes and tearing her stockings in the process. Covered in blood and disoriented, she stumbled through the woods. Meanwhile, Zayed managed to drive himself to the main road, where he flagged down a passing car.

A nurse was among the passengers and gave him first aid until an ambulance arrived. Zayed survived for 19 days before succumbing to his injuries. As for Sarah? Her escape didn't last long. She wandered into the nearby village of Evermanstad, barefoot, bloodied, and muttering, I'm a murderer. Witnesses called the police, and she was promptly arrested. When officers asked if she had killed someone, she calmly said, yes.

In custody, Sarah showed no remorse. She confessed everything, saying she had wanted to become a serial killer and surpass infamous murderers like Harold Shipman, who was suspected of killing over 200 people. During her trial in May 22, Sarah's behavior shocked everyone. She showed up with freshly dyed red hair, dramatic makeup, and an all-black outfit, striking a rock star-like appearance. She even posed for photos during the proceedings, one of which showed her smoking while handcuffed. The court sentenced Sarah to 12 years in a psychiatric facility.

Despite her diagnosis and sentencing, Sarah remains unrepentant. She has refused therapy and continues to idolize serial killers. Her story serves as a chilling reminder of how obsession, mental illness, and unchecked behavior can culminate in tragedy. At 6.37 a.m. on July 16, 2022, the North Shore Michigan Emergency Services received a chilling call. On the other end of the line was a 44-year-old mother, Shanda Van Derr, frantic and overwhelmed with worry. One of her three children, she said, was lying lifeless on the floor, cold and unresponsive. The child, a 15-year-old boy named Timothy Ferguson, was disdiscovered.

described as not breathing in completely still. The situation was dire, and an ambulance was dispatched immediately. From the outside, Shanda's home appeared perfectly normal, a well-maintained gray façade with a neatly trimmed lawn and a car parked in the driveway. But as the paramedics stepped inside and descended into the basement or the children's bedrooms were located, the scene began to unfold in strange and disturbing ways. The basement layout was unusual. were two distinct bedrooms, one for the eldest son, Paul, aged 20, and another for the youngest,

a seven-year-old named G. A small bathroom, a shared closet emitting a foul stench, and a common area transformed into a makeshift third bedroom completed the setup. It was in this common area, sprawled on the floor near a bunk bed, that Timothy's lifeless body was found. Shanda recounted her version of events, around 5.30 a.m., she heard a loud thud from the basement. rushing downstairs, she found Timothy had fallen out of bed. Concerned but believing it wasn't serious, she helped him back into bed and returned to her own room. An hour later, she checked on him again, only to find him cold, motionless, and unresponsive. Panicked, she pulled him off the bed, laid him on the floor, and attempted to revive him

before calling emergency services. However, Timothy's physical state raised red flags. Despite being 15, he weighed only 69 pounds, 30,000. and his clothing appeared at least three sizes too large. Most perplexing was the fact that he was wearing a diaper that emitted a pungent odor, similar to the stench emanating from the closet. Shanda attempted to explain away these peculiarities, stating that Timothy had been diagnosed with several medical conditions since birth, including ADHD, autism, and motor

and speech impairments. She claimed he was also prone to incontinence, hence the diaper. Additionally, she mentioned Timothy had been on a hunger strike for about seven months, refusing to eat properly, which accounted for his extreme thinness. Shanda's husband, Adam Van Derr, was notably absent. She explained that Adam, whom Timothy adored, had suffered a stroke earlier that year and had moved to Florida to receive care from his parents. This move had reportedly devastated Timothy, who began acting out by being disruptive,

refusing to eat, and causing disturbances at home. According to Shanda, Timothy's behavior had become so challenging that she struggled to manage him while juggling work and caring for her other two children. On the night of July 15th, Shanda claimed she had finally lost her patience with Timothy's refusal to eat. She demanded that he eat at least two pieces of toast, to which he reluctantly agreed before going to bed. The following morning, he was found unresponsive. When questioned, Paul, the 20-year-old brother, corroborated Shanda's story. He described Timothy as being frail and on a voluntary hunger strike, echoing the narrative of a tragic accident resulting from a fall and exhaustion.

But the paramedics were unconvinced. Timothy's condition, the oversized clothes, and the diaper didn't align with a simple case of malnutrition or a head injury. Further investigation of the home revealed more troubling details. Inside the stinking closet, paramedics found a blue tarp and a box, both stained and emitting a foul odor. What was even more alarming was that the closet had a lock on the outside and a motion sensor installed. cameras were positioned throughout the basement, including one pointed directly at the closet. When confronted, Shanda insisted the measures were for safety. She claimed the closet housed her sewing kit, and the lock was to prevent the children

from accidentally hurting themselves. The cameras, she said, were to monitor the children and ensure their safety. However, the sewing kit was later found in a hallway, its container open and accessible, contradicting her statement. The strange discoveries continued. In the room Timothy supposedly slept in, paramedics found handcuffs and several zip ties scattered on the floor. Shanda dismissed these as props Paul had purchased for a TikTok video and claimed they were never used. Moving to the basement bathroom, they found even more unsettling items, the shower lacked a curtain, a surveillance camera was pointed directly at the shower, and a pile of soil diapers lay in one corner.

Among the clutter were more zip ties and an open bottle of Extreme Regret, hot sauce, one of the spiciest sauces in the United States. States. Again, Shanda offered explanations. The missing shower curtain was supposedly to assist Timothy with his mobility issues, the camera was for supervision, the diapers were due to his incontinence, and the hot sauce was something Timothy enjoyed and had taken from the kitchen. Upstairs, the paramedics found that the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator were fitted with locks and motion sensors. Shanda claimed these measures were necessary to prevent Timothy from binge eating at night, which she said he sometimes did despite his hunger strike. She maintained that these precautions were for his safety, as he might consume harmful items in his desperation

to eat. By this point, the situation was too bizarre for the paramedics to handle alone, and the police were called in. Investigators began piecing together the story of Shanda's life and the events leading up to Timothy's death. Shanda Margaret Van Derrar was born on September 15, 1979, in Alabama. Her early life is shrouded in mystery and speculation. Reddit Forum suggests she endured an abusive childhood, though no concrete evidence exists to confirm this. What is known is that she graduated from high school in 1996 and later earned a degree in paralegal studies from Liberty University. Shanda's first marriage was to Eric Nolan Ferguson, with whom she had four children, Paul, Millie, Joan, and Timothy.

According to teachers and neighbors, the Ferguson household was chaotic. The children, especially Timothy, appeared neglected. teachers noted that Timothy was often dirty, perpetually hungry, and desperate for affection. Some even allowed him to shower at school and discreetly packed extra food in his bag. Despite their efforts, they saw little change at home. Millie Ferguson, Timothy's sister, later stated, I want the world to know that Timothy was loved. If not by her, then by me. I loved him, amid these troubling signs, and even darker allegation surfaced.

School psychologists raised concerns that Paul, the eldest brother, might have been sexually abusing Timothy. Though details are scarce due to the children's minor status at the time, the allegations led to Paul being prohibited from attending the same school as his siblings. The family's dysfunction escalated when Eric and Shanda divorced. Shanda was accused of child neglect during the proceedings, resulting in Eric gaining full custody of the children. Shanda was ordered to pay $1,000 a month in child support and was limited to three supervised

visits per month. For years, she drew. drifted from place to place, reportedly moving over 20 times before eventually settling in North Shore, Michigan. Eric remarried, finding stability with a woman named Patricia. Shanda, meanwhile, pursued a law degree, earning her jurist doctor in 2018. She became a legal assistant, married Adam Van Derrard, and had another child, G. Despite her professional accomplishments, Shanda struggled socially. Former classmates and co-workers described her as unpleasant, manipulative, and self-serving, willing to offend or belittle others to get what she

wanted. Back in the present, investigators were faced with a growing pile of evidence suggesting that Timothy's death was not accidental. The locked closet, the surveillance equipment, the physical restraints, and the extreme measures to control access to food painted a picture of a deeply troubled household. Shanda's explanations for these measures, while superficially plausible, failed to account for the broader pattern of neglect and control. Police began digging deeper into Shanda's history and the dynamics of her household, unraveling a story far more harrowing than anyone had initially suspected. The Ferguson tragedy, a dark tale of abuse.

If you asked the neighbors or the people who worked with her, they'd all say the same thing, Shanda van Derr was no saint. She was the kind of person people avoided. At work, her reputation wasn't any better. But let's park that thought for now and jump to the timeline of events. Between 2019 and 2020, Paul, Shanda's eldest son, turned 18. This milestone meant the custody agreements no longer applied to him, and he could live wherever he wanted. Wasting no time, Paul packed up his things and moved in with Shanda.

Their little household now consisted of four people. Fast forward to 2021, and the family dynamic changed again. Timothy, Shanda's 14-year-old son, became too much for his father to handle. Fed up with the chaos, Timothy's dad reached out to Shanda with an ultimatum, either take Timothy or he'd involve social services. Reluctantly, Shanda agreed. But there was a catch. Legally, Shanda wasn't allowed to register Timothy as a resident. If she did, social services would find out, and it'd open a can of worms.

So, Timothy was left in a sort of bureaucratic limbo. No registration meant no school, no doctor, no nothing. Shanda figured she could handle it. He's already been diagnosed, he's got meds, she thought. How hard can it be? For the first few months, everything seemed fine. The neighbors saw the family of five, Shanda, her three kids, and her partner, Adam, out and about, walking their dogs, shopping, even going to the movies.

On the surface, everything looked peachy. But then came January 2022, and that's when the cracks turned into gaping holes. Adam, the stepdad, suffered a stroke. He needed rehab and couldn't stay home. Since Shanda was juggling work and three kids, including a difficult, one, they decided Adam would recover at his parents' place in Florida. They had a cozy, single-story house perfect for his recovery. And that's when everything went downhill.

According to Shanda, Timothy went off the rails without Adam in the picture. He became uncontrollable, refusing to listen, screaming, making noise all night, and even stealing food. Paul, the eldest, had his own take. Timothy didn't actually have any diagnosed problems. In Paul's opinion, Timothy was a liar, a compulsive one. He shared his thoughts with Shanda, and the two came to an agreement. Timothy needed discipline. What followed was a dissent into horror. Shanda and Paul exchanged countless WhatsApp messages, brainstorming punishment ideas that got darker and darker. At first, it was withholding food, just bread and hot sauce for meals.

Then, it escalated to tying Timothy up, leaving him naked, or forcing him to stand facing the wall for hours. Once, Timothy kept everyone awake by intentionally triggering the motion sensors at night. Shanda's response, strip him, leave him facing the wall, and humiliate him further. If Timothy sneaked food, his punishment was even harsher. On one occasion, he stole a bite of hamburger. Shanda ordered Paul to make him throw it up. Timothy's life became a series of tortures.

He was denied food to the point where he became skeletal. His sleeping arrangements. Initially a bunk bed, but Shanda later claimed he, chose, to sleep in the closet. They gave him a mattress, blankets and pillows, but over time, the mattress was destroyed. Eventually, Timothy was left to sleep on the floor. But even that wasn't the worst part. To protect the house from Timothy's incontinence, Shanda placed a tarp in the closet. No blankets, no pillows, nothing soft, just Timothy and the cold, hard floor.

And to ensure he couldn't wander around at night, the closet was locked with sensors installed. Bathroom breaks were timed. One minute to pee, five minutes for anything else. Diaper changes were infrequent. His physical condition deteriorated, and Shanda, instead of seeking help, he didn't. doubled down on punishments. The final blow came when Shanda decided Timothy no longer needed his medication. With cameras installed all over the house, she monitored his every move remotely, even while she was at work. According to her co-workers, she barely worked at all,

her day consisted of watching Timothy through the cameras and texting Paul instructions. She even joked about the punishments. To a colleague, she laughingly recounted how she once left Timothy outside in freezing temperatures. Another time, she bragged. about forcing him to stand against the wall for hours because he kept her awake. By the time 2022 rolled around, Timothy's condition was impossible to hide. He was emaciated, bruised, and wearing clothes that hung off his frail frame. To prevent anyone from seeing him, Shanda kept him isolated. He wasn't allowed to go outside, even to walk the dogs. Visitors were forbidden, especially family. On June 5, 2022, the nightmare reached its horrifying climax. Paul

Tasted Shanda, saying Timothy was unresponsive and weak. From her workplace, Shanda instructed Paul to place Timothy in an ice bath. When that didn't work, she told him to pour hot sauce on Timothy's genitals. Paul obeyed. Hours passed, and Timothy remained unresponsive. When Shanda returned home, she dragged Timothy out of the tub, berating him. You're pathetic, she said, leaving him in the closet. By the time she checked on him again, Timothy was struggling to breathe. Instead of helping him, Shanda covered his mouth, saying, see, you don't need to breathe like that, you idiot. The next time she checked, Timothy was gone.

What happened next was caught on camera. Shanda and Paul concocted their story, rehearsing what they'd tell the authorities. Then they called 911, claiming Timothy had fallen from his bed. But the autopsy told a different story. Timothy didn't die from a fall. He died from malnutrition, dehydration, and hypothermia. On July 8, 22, both Shanda and Paul were arrested. In court, mother and son turned on each other.

Shanda claimed Paul manipulated her, while Paul said the same about Shanda. Paul even suggested he suffered from something like Stockholm syndrome, explaining that his low self-esteem made him desperate for approval. Paul eventually struck a deal with prosecutors. In exchange for testifying against Shanda, his sentence was reduced. During the trial, he revealed disturbing details about their abuse. He claimed he once secretly fed Timothy, unable to bear his deteriorated state. But this story, conveniently revealed in court, raised eyebrows. Was it genuine or just a ploy for sympathy?

Throughout the trial, both Shanda and Paul showed little emotion. They shifted blame on to Timothy, painting him as the problem. Shanda's defense argued she suffered from various mental health issues, including ADHD, sensory processing disorder, OCD, and PTSD. But the evidence told a damning story. The prosecution had everything, WhatsApp messages, camera footage, and censor data, all documenting Timothy's final days. On December 15, 2023, Shanda van Derr was convicted of first-degree murder and sentence to life without parole. The judge, Matthew Castle, stated, the reality is, you intentionally participated in these acts. I don't believe you intended to kill, but you intended to torture.

Why? I don't know. Paul's trial took place in February 24. He was convicted of abuse and sentenced to 30 to 100 years in prison. Experts believe his lack of empathy will make parole unlikely. So, what do you think? Were the sentences fair? Or could justice have been served differently?

In Shea's mind, everything was flawless. Why wouldn't it be? She now had two accomplices. Loren was her cleaner, her corpse burrier, her slave. And Vicky? Well, she was a witness. Vicky had promised not to tell anyone and, in Shea's twisted logic, that made her an accomplice too. But what Shea didn't foresee was that Vicky wasn't the kind of person to sit idly by.

Vicky was sharp. She knew exactly what needed to be done. This wild tale begins with a woman named Shea. Not much is known about her, honestly. The details we have are blurry, scattered, and frustratingly incomplete. Shea was born in England in 1996. but whether she had siblings or a stable family remains a mystery. What we do know is that her childhood was anything but easy.

According to various sources, Shea endured physical and sexual abuse in her early years, and her behavior began to shift drastically over time. As a little girl, she was described as loving, attentive, and sweet. But as she grew older, things got complicated. Shea became withdrawn and distant. By the time she was 11, she needed hearing aids, which only added fuel to the bullying she experienced at school. Shea felt completely unwanted, by her classmates, her family, and the world at large.

She retreated into herself, spiraling into depression. The first signs of her struggles showed up in her appearance. One day, she'd wear something colorful and attention-grabbing, the next, she'd be dressed entirely in black, chains and spikes included. Back then, she wasn't fully immersed in the goth aesthetic, she was still experimenting. But her classmates found her strange, labeling her as different. By the time Shea hit her teenage years, people around her began noticing self-harm scars. Alarmed, her family took her to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed her with bipolar disorder.

Some sources claim she also suffered from PTSD, though that's disputed. At this point, Shea started dabbling in drugs and alcohol. Her fascination with dark imagery deepened, crosses, skulls, and black clothing became her thing. But it wasn't just an edgy phase. She began showing signs of the person she'd grow into. Friends from that time recall her as intensely manipulative and bossy. She loved being in control, especially over her two best friends, Vicky and Loren. Loren and Shea were inseparable, though Lauren was far more vulnerable to Shea's manipulations.

Lauren's self-esteem was rock bottom, and Shea took full advantage. She called Lauren, Chucky, after the infamous killer doll, and Loren didn't seem to mind. If Shea asked Loren to jump, Lorraine didn't hesitate to ask, how high. Vicky, on the other hand, wasn't as easy to control. Unlike Lauren, Vicky had a backbone. She had a solid group of friends, a supportive family, and plenty of confidence. She'd stand up to Shea when things went too far, which Shea absolutely hated. As Shea reached adolescence, she ran away from home. This marked the start of her nomadic lifestyle. She'd crash at friends' places, party hard, and they'd date older, toxic men who treated her poorly. These relationships were short-lived, often ending in explosive fights that left Shea back on the streets. But at 20, Shea met a man who treated her differently, respectfully, even. For the first time, she felt happy and hopeful.

She kicked her drug and alcohol habits, and before long, she discovered she was pregnant. Motherhood was a turning point for Shea. She committed to turning her life around. In April 2017, she gave birth to a baby girl. Her social media was a testament to her transformation, gone were the wild party photos. Now, she posted about family, self-improvement, and how her daughter was her entire world. But the happiness didn't last. Shea and her partner eventually broke up.

She found herself homeless once again, this time with a child in tow. That's when Loren, her ever loyal best friend, re-entered the picture. Loren, who was also a single mom with a daughter around the same age as Shea's, was struggling financially. Together, the two women decided to pool their resources and apply for government housing. They landed a spacious home in a suburb called Lee Park in Hampshire. For a while, life seemed stable. The house was big enough for both families, and their daughters became fast friends.

Shea decorated her space in her signature dark style, black coffin-shaped shelves, crosses, gulls, you name it. She embraced her individuality more than ever, dressing in all black, with corsets and piercings to complete the look. But living with Loren wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. She's manipulative tendencies kicked into high gear. She bossed Lauren around constantly, ordering her to clean and do chores while she lased around. Rumors circulated online that Shea even resorted to physical abuse if Lauren didn't comply. When the pandemic hit, things spiraled further. Lorraine, who used to escape to work, was now trapped in a house with Shea 24-7. Tensions ran high, and Loren felt like she was living in a nightmare. During the lockdown,

She became obsessed with true crime. While many people enjoy a good murder mystery, She took it to another level. She idolized infamous criminals like Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Richard Ramirez. Her walls were soon adorned with their portraits, and her growing collection of weapons, knives, axes, and air guns, raised eyebrows. Shea brushed off the concerns, claiming it was all just part of her aesthetic. In February 2022, Shea met a man named Frankie Fitzgerald at a pub. Frankie, a 25-year-old from Portsmouth, was described as a kind, easy-going guy who was devoted to his family. He had two young kids from a previous relationship but wasn't the most reliable partner. Frankie and Shea hit it off immediately. They bonded over their

shared interest in BDSM, which added an intense layer to their whirlwind romance. Their relationship was a roller coaster from the start, passionate, toxic, and chaotic. Frankie introduced Shea to drugs again, undoing years of sobriety. The couple's fights became frequent and fiery, fueled by jealousy and suspicion. Shea even threatened to use their recorded intimate moments against Frankie, editing the footage to make it look like non-consensual encounters. By July 22, their relationship was at a breaking point. On the night of July 16th, Shea's daughter was with her ex, leaving her and Frankie alone. They spent the evening drinking, using drugs, and fighting.

Frankie, tired of the drama, went to bed, but Shea couldn't let it go. Fueled by rage and paranoia, she went through Frankie's phone. That's when she allegedly discovered messages between him and a 13-year-old girl. Enraged, Shea grabbed a dagger and slit his throat as he slept. Frankie woke up, trying to stop the bleeding, but Shea didn't see. stop. She stabbed him 17 more times in the chest. With Frankie dead, She began crafting her alibi. She texted her ex, asking him to come over, but he didn't respond. She then messed Vicky, casually mentioning that Frankie had left the house. Realizing she couldn't

clean up the mess alone, Shea woke Loren and coerced her into helping. She manipulated Loren into believing they were now both accomplices and would face prison time if Lauren didn't comply. But Shea didn't stop there. called Vicky via video chat, showing her Frankie's lifeless body. At first, Vicky thought it was a sick joke. But as the call continued, she realized it was all too real. Vicky was horrified but stayed calm. Shea, on the other hand, oscillated between laughing and acting serious. She ended the call with a chilling question, we're still friends, right? In Shea's mind, everything was still perfect. She had Loren as her obedient cleaner, and Vicky was sworn to secrecy. What she did

didn't realize was that Vicky had other plans. Vicky might have promised to keep her mouth shut, but deep down, she knew there was no way she could let this slide. The moment she ended the call, her heart was pounding in her chest, and her mind raced with what she needed to do. This wasn't just a petty crime, it was something straight out of a horror movie. While Shea was basking in her false sense of security, convinced that her plan was foolproof, Vicky was already formulating her own.

She wasn't about to let Shea manipulate her into this mess. knew the stakes were high, but the thought of being dragged into something so twisted made her stomach turn. Meanwhile, back at the crime scene, Shea was busy barking orders at Loren, who, out of sheer terror, was doing everything Shea told her to. Lorraine scrubbed the floors until her hands were raw, trying desperately to remove every trace of blood. Shea, on the other hand, acted as if she was some sort of criminal mastermind, pacing around and throwing out commands like she was the star of some dark thriller. You missed a spot, she sneered at Loren, pointing at a faint stain on the carpet.

Loren quickly got down on her knees, scrubbing harder, tears streaming down her face. It was clear she was in over her head, but Shea didn't care. For her, Lauren was nothing more than a pawn in her sick little game. Hours passed, and Shea's house of cards began to wobble. Vicky had made her decision, she was going to the police. Sure, she was terrified of what Shea might do if she found out, but Vicky couldn't live with the guilt of keeping this secret. She thought about Frankie's kids, how they'd grow up without a father, and that was enough to push her into action. By mid-afternoon, Vicky walked into the nearest

police station, her hands shaking as she explained everything she'd seen. The officers didn't waste a second. Within the hour, they were at Shea's doorstep, armed with a search warrant and ready to uncover the truth. When the cops arrived, Shea's calm and collected facade crumbled. She tried to play it cool at first, acting like she had no idea why they were there. Is there a problem, officer, she asked, feigning innocence. But the moment they started searching the house, panic said in. Loren, who had been cleaning nonstop under Shea's orders, froze when she saw the officers. Part of her wanted to run, but the other part felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare was about to end. The search didn't take long. The officers found Frankie's body exactly where Shea had left it, wrapped in plastic and hidden in a corner of the house. The sight was enough to make even the most seasoned detectives grimace. Shea's bravado disappeared in an instant. It wasn't me, she shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Loren. She did it.

She killed him, not me. Lauren's jaw dropped. After everything Shea had put her through, she was now trying to pin the murder on her. It was the final straw. But the police weren't buying it. The evidence was overwhelming, and Shea's web of lies was unraveling by the second. They found the dagger she'd used to kill Frankie, along with the footage from her surveillance cameras, footage that captured everything in chilling detail.

Shea's so-called, brilliant plan was nothing more than a crumbling facade. As the officers cuffed her and led her out of the house, Shea screamed and thrashed, shouting about how none of this was her fault. You don't understand, she cried. I had no choice. He was going to hurt me. But no one was listening. The evidence spoke louder than her frantic pleas.

Loren, on the other hand, broke down completely. She told the police everything, how Shea had manipulated her, forced her to clean up the crime scene, and threatened her if she didn't comply. It was clear she had been a victim in Shea's twisted game, and the officers treated her with compassion, understanding that she had been acting out of fear. Vicky, who had been waiting anxiously at the station, felt a wave of relief when she heard the news. She had done the right thing, and now Frankie's family would get the justice they deserved. But the weight of what she'd witnessed would stay with her forever. In the days that followed, the story spread like wildfire. The media had a field day with the case, dubbing Shea, the dark manipulator.

Reporters dug into her past, uncovering the details of her troubled childhood, her fascination with true crime, and her disturbing collection of weapons. The public was horrified, unable to comprehend how someone could become so twisted. Frankie's family, devastated by the loss, struggled to pick up the pieces. His kids were too young to fully understand what had happened, but they knew their dad was gone, and that was enough to shatter their world. As for Shea, her trial became one of the most talked about cases in years. The prosecution painted her as a cold, calculating killer who had planned the murder in a fit of jealousy and rage. The defense tried to argue that she had acted in self-defense, but the evidence was damning.

The surveillance footage alone was enough to seal her fate. When the verdict was read, Shea showed no emotion. The jury found her guilty of murder, and she was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. For Loren, the trial was a chance to finally speak her truth. She testified against Shea, sharing the years of manipulation and abuse she had endured. It was a cathartic moment, but it didn't erase the pain she felt. In the end, She's perfect plan had crumbled under the weight of her own arrogance. She had underestimated the strength of the people around her, Lauren's resilience, Vicky's courage, and the determination.

of the police to uncover the truth. The story serves as a chilling reminder of how far manipulation and darkness can go when left unchecked. Shea might have thought she was untouchable, but in the end, her actions caught up with her, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. And as for Vicky and Loren? They carried the scars of what they had been through, but they also found strength in their shared experience. They vowed to move forward, to heal, and to never let someone like Shea control them again.

The world moved on, but the memory of what happened with. lingered, a haunting tale of jealousy, manipulation, and the devastating consequences of unchecked darkness. The story I'm about to tell takes us all the way to Anchorage, Alaska, the largest city in the state in the northernmost major city in the United States. Now, here's a little extra detail about Anchorage, according to some safety rankings, it's considered one of the most dangerous cities in the entire country, often landing right behind Detroit, Michigan, on the list of America's most crime-written places. So, with that in mind, it's not entirely surprising that a residential neighborhood in Anchorage woke up to terrifying news on the morning of Friday, June 24,

2016. A 69-year-old man had been attacked in his own home. The victim was Charles Alv, who had been sleeping peacefully when, in the dead of night, someone came knocking at his door. The knock wasn't gentle, it was persistent. One knock, two, three, until Charles, groggy and disoriented, dragged himself out of bed. He shuffled down the hallway, reached the door, and cracked it open just a bit to see who was there. Standing on his doorstep was a man Charles didn't recognize. This wasn't just some random stranger, though. There was something about him, his towering frame, his muscular build,

his all-black outfit complete with a leather jacket, and a baseball cap that barely tamed his long hair, that gave off an aura of danger. Charles felt his pulse quicken as the stranger's cold voice cut through the silence. Are you Charles Alve? Despite the unease settling in his chest, Charles answered yes. And that's when everything went sideways. Without another word, the man forced his way into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Charles tried to resist, but the intruder was far too strong.

He shoved Charles down the hallway and into the master bedroom, where he ordered him to sit on the bed. What followed was brutal. The man hit Charles over and over, his face, chest, back. Charles was left barely conscious, but he heard every chilling word the attacker spat out. The intruder called himself an avenging angel and claimed Charles had committed terrible acts in the past. According to him, Charles was a monster, someone who needed to pay for his sins.

This wasn't just a random attack, it was revenge. Charles begged for mercy, but the beating continued until the man finally stopped, grabbed a few items from the house, and disappeared into the night. Once he was gone, Charles somehow managed to crawl to the phone and call 911. The police arrived quickly and Charles told them everything, how to the police. How the man had knocked on the door, attacked him, and rambled about vengeance. But when the officers pressed him on what exactly the man was avenging, Charles hesitated. Finally, he admitted that back in 2003, he had been arrested and convicted of second-degree

assault against a minor. Charles insisted he had already served his time and paid for his crimes. To him, the idea that someone would come after him now made no sense. But for the police, this revelation opened up more questions than answers. Three things stood out from Charles' account. First, the attacker's appearance, tall, muscular, dressed in black, with long hair and a leather jacket. Second, the strange detail about a notebook.

After beating Charles, the man had taken out a small notebook, flipped it open, and crossed something off before leaving. And third, the clear motive, revenge. The intruder had specifically said he was there to make Charles pay for what he'd done in 2003. With these clues in mind, the police launched an investigation. They dug into Charles' history, spoke to people connected to his old case, and tried to figure out if the attacker might be someone tied to the victim's past.

But before they could make much progress, another attack happened just a few days later. This second assault, which occurred early in the morning on Monday, June 27th, was even more chilling than the first. At around 4 a.m., 26-year-old Andres Barbosa was jolted awake by loud, aggressive banging on his front door. Groggy and alarmed, he jumped out of bed and made. made his way to the door. When he opened it, he came face to face with three people he'd never seen before, two young women and a man who matched the description of Charles's attacker, tall, muscular, dressed in black. The man didn't waste time with pleasantries.

Are you Andres Barbosa? he asked. Andres nodded hesitantly. That was all it took to set off a horrifying chain of events. The three intruders pushed their way inside, knocking Andres off balance. For the next several minutes, they subjected him to brutal torture. They sat him down in a chair, hitting him repeatedly and taunting him. One of the women filmed the whole thing on her phone while the other rummaged through the house, and the man, the clear leader, did most of the physical damage. Throughout the ordeal, the man kept repeating a familiar mantra.

He called himself an avenging angel and claimed he was there to punish Andres for things he had done in the past. Just like with Charles, he made it clear this wasn't personal, it was justice. The assault only ended when the attackers decided to leave, but not before stealing several items, including Andrace's truck. Once they were gone, Andres managed to call the police. When officers arrived, Andres was reluctant to share too much about his past. But eventually, under questioning, he admitted that in 2014, he had been arrested for possessing

explicit material involving minors. With two cases now on their hands, the police couldn't ignore the pattern. Both victims were men with criminal records involving minors, and both had been targeted by someone calling himself an avenging angel. The detail about the notebook came up again, after the attack, the man had taken it out and crossed off a name. It didn't take long for investigators to put two and two together. The Avenger was using the National Sex Offender Registry, a public database that allows anyone

to look up individuals convicted of certain crimes. It's designed to help communities stay informed and safe, but in this case, it was being used as a list. The Shadows of Almoria, a twisted tale, imagine it's the late 80s in southern Spain, where life in the small towns of Almoria moves at a pace dictated by the blazing sun and the rugged mountains. For most, it was just another sleepy corner of the world, but for some, it became a dark hunting ground for a shadowy figure whose crimes would remain shrouded in mystery for years. This tale begins in October 1988, in the quiet village of Perchina. A scrap collector, going about his usual day, stumbles upon something that freezes him in his tracks, a woman's lifeless

body lying in a roadside ditch. He immediately calls the police, and what follows sets off a chain of chilling discoveries. Some reports say the woman was dressed in a red t-shirt, sweatpants, and red shoes. Others claim she was found naked. Regardless, the cause of death was clear, multiple blows to the head and strangulation. Despite the brutality, this murder didn't make headlines. No one came forward to claim her, and the police quickly assumed she was just another marginalized woman from the fringes of society, likely involved in the seedy underbelly of clubs or street life. With no one pressing for justice, they shrugged it off as an isolated case and moved on.

But this wouldn't be the last. A second victim appears, fast forward ten months to August 6, 1989. A shepherd in Veles Rubio rises early, ready to tend to his flock. He guides them to graze along the same national high. Highway 3.14 stumbles upon yet another horrifying scene, a young woman's body, lifeless and exposed. Unlike the first case, this time, the victim has a name, Maria del Carmen Heredia Alameda. Maria, just 24 years old, was a petite woman with dark hair and striking brown eyes. Many who knew her described her as stunningly beautiful.

Yet, her profession as a sex worker in Almoriasa Pillo District made her invisible in the eyes of the authorities. Witnesses saw her alive at 4 a.m. on the night of her murder. They could have provided valuable leads. But instead of following the trail, the police dismissed the case, labeling her death as a drug overdose, even though the autopsy clearly stated otherwise. She had been beaten, strangled, and her body dumped after death. The media barely mentioned her. To them, she was just another statistic. The pattern emerges, just three weeks later, on August 28, the nightmare returned. This time, it was a French couple, newlyweds on their honeymoon, who made the grim discovery. The two were sightseeing near cliffs in Bello Rinson when they

spotted something horrific, a woman's lifeless body, battered and bruised, showing clear signs of strangulation. The victim was Carmen Dolores S. Meyer, a 20-year-old well-known in Almaria's sex worker circles. Like Maria, she had been seen working in the Zapilo district and another area called La Pescadiria. Carmen's death was no accident, yet the authorities were uninterested in digging deeper. To them, her mixed Spanish-German heritage and connections to the criminal underworld, thanks to her father's involvement in drug trafficking, made her unworthy of justice. The streets buzzed with fear. While the police turned a blind eye, the sex worker community banded together, trying to protect one another.

They began sharing details about their clients, noting license plates, and sticking to safer routines. Despite their efforts, the air was thick with dread. Every alley, every corner seemed to harbor a shadow. A reluctant acknowledgement, by this point it was hard to ignore the pattern. A killer was targeting a specific type of victim, petite women with dark features, most of whom worked in Zipiloh and La Pescadiria. The method was consistent, violence, strangulation, and abandonment of the bodies. Yet the police and media stayed silent.

The only publication brave enough to raise the alarm was El-Cadier. a Spanish newspaper that specialized in crime stories. Their bold headline read, A psychopath spreads panic among sex workers. The article connected the dots, calling attention to the mounting deaths. This single piece of journalism stirred the pot, but it also came at a cost.

Not long after the article, the paper's editor, Wakina Bad, was shot in the street. Miraculously, he survived, but the attack sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers grew louder, was the killer someone powerful, Someone untouchable. Another body, more silence. On October 21, 1989, a shepherd named Unhel Machado found yet another victim.

This time, it was different. The body, found stuffed into a plastic bag and partially buried, had decomposed significantly. The heavy rains had unearthed it from its hiding spot. The victim's clothing, a red blouse, corduroy pants, and red shoes, was intact, but her identity remained a mystery. Unlike the previous murders, this victim's body had been hidden, suggesting a shift in the killer's behavior. Was it the same person, or was someone else involved?

The authorities didn't seem to care enough to figure it out. The case faded into obscurity. A chilling discovery, two years passed with no major developments. The streets of Almoria grew quieter, but the fear lingered. Then, on October 6, 1991, two farmers working near Roketas Delmar stumbled upon a gruesome scene, a decomposed body, partially clothed in only a red bra. Signs of strangulation and head trauma were evident, but once again, no one could identify the victim.

Speculation ran wild. Was she Alexandra Lily Lay, a British nurse who had vanished months earlier? Or was she Isabel Nieto Rubio, a 23-year-old who had also disappeared? The tests ruled out both possibilities, and the case went cold. More deaths, more questions, the murders didn't stop. In 1992, Maria Jesus Munoz Borago, known locally as Tamara, became the next victim. Her death was brutal, she was beaten, strangled, and thrown from a height of 40 meters. The discovery of used condoms and orange peals near her body could have provided crucial evidence,

but mishandling by authorities rendered the clues useless. Tamara was pregnant at the time of her murder. The news sparked outrage, but despite public pressure, the police failed to make any progress. A killer's profile, by now, the authorities were forced to acknowledge the reality of the situation. They launched Operation Indolo, bringing in experts from across Spain to create a psychological profile of the murderer. They concluded he was likely a white male in his 30s or 40s, physically strong, and deeply manipulative. His victims were carefully chosen, and his methods were deliberate. Strangulation, a slow and agonizing way to kill, suggested he derived pleasure from watching his victim suffer.

Despite their efforts, the police were no closer to catching him. The police returned to the areas where Aurora used to work, trying to gather any useful information. They spoke with co-workers, searched for witnesses, and looked for patterns. However, as with the previous cases, everything seemed to lead to a dead end. The descriptions were vague, the details insufficient, and once again, the case grew cold without resolution. By this point, the situation had become unbearable.

There was talk of a serial killer, someone who had manned to sow terror in Almoria and its surroundings, leaving a trail of bodies and fear in their wake. The victims, women who worked on the fringes of society, seemed to matter little to the authorities or the media, aside from brief mentions that failed to convey the gravity of the situation. The unexpected turn in the investigation. In 1997, an unexpected twist shook the investigation. A witness, a woman who worked in the same circles as the victims, came forward with crucial information. According to her, she had seen a man who frequently visited the Zipillo and Pescadiria neighborhoods and whose behavior she found suspicious. She described him as someone

seemingly normal but with an attitude that, the unexpected turn in the investigation. In 1997, an unexpected twist shook the investigation. A witness, a woman who worked in the same circles as the victims, came forward with crucial information. According to her, she had seen a man who frequently visited this a pillow and Peskideria neighborhoods, and whose behavior she found suspicious. She described him as someone seemingly normal but with an unsettling attitude that didn't align with his polite demeanor. The investigators pressed for more details, but the witness could only recall fragments. The man often drove a white van, stayed on the periphery of conversations, and occasionally offered rides to women in the area. While the lead

was promising, it lacked enough substance for immediate action. Still, it reignited hope in a case that had been slipping into obscurity. A community on edge, the vague description of a man with a white van caused ripples of anxiety across Almoria. For many women, especially those who lived or worked in the affected neighborhoods, fear became a constant companion. Social clubs, bars, and even workplaces were a buzz with rumors. Every man who matched even the broadest strokes of the description became a suspect in whispered

accusations. The police, while pressured to act, faced a delicate balance. Acting on mere suspicion could jeopardize the case, yet inaction might emboldened the perpetrator. They began surveilling areas where the van had reportedly been seen, hoping to catch a break. Weeks turned into months, and while there were occasional glimpses of similar vehicles, nothing concrete emerged. The forensic breakthrough, by 1998, forensic science had advanced enough to revisit old evidence. The investigative team combed through the case files of the previous murders, particularly the scenes where bodies had been found.

They sought physical evidence that could now be analyzed with modern techniques, hairs, fibers, or even the faintest traces of DNA. On one victim's clothing, they discovered a small but significant clue, a hair that did not belong to the victim. Under microscopic analysis, it suggested a possible match to a Caucasian male. The discovery wasn't definitive but offered a direction for further inquiry. The evidence was entered into Spain's emerging forensic databases, but without a suspect to compare it to, the trail once again.

then cooled. A new victim and a narrowing circle, in late 1998, another tragedy struck. This time, the body of Ines Ortega, a woman in her mid-30s, was discovered under circumstances eerily similar to the previous victims. Her death bore the hallmarks of the elusive killer, strangulation, signs of a struggle, and abandonment in a remote area. However, the killer had made a mistake. Investigators found faint tire tracks leading to the scene. These tracks were consistent with those of a specific type of van, a model frequently used for commercial purposes. Coupled with eyewitness accounts, the profile of the killer began to sharpen, a man who had access to a van, likely used in a professional capacity, and who operated at night in specific areas. The police worked tirelessly,

narrowing their focus to individuals with criminal records or suspicious behavior who owned or used similar vehicles. This led them to a short list of names, but none provided a definitive link to the crimes. Public pressure and media frenzy, by 1999, the public's patience had worn thin. Families of the victims demanded justice, holding vigils and demonstrations to keep their loved ones' stories in the spotlight. The local media ran exhaustive retrospectives on the murders, naming the killer El Monstro de Almoria, the Monster of Almoria. This relentless pressure pushed law enforcement to intensify their efforts. National police were brought in to assist, bringing advanced resources and broader databases.

Still, despite a flood of tips and reports from concerned citizens, the killer remained elusive. A flawed mastermind, the perpetrator's ability to evade capture wasn't just a matter of luck. As patterns emerged, experts speculated that the killer meticulously planned each attack. He preyed on vulnerable women, avoided areas with heavy surveillance, and disposed of bodies in locations unlikely to yield witnesses. Yet cracks in his facade began to show. The discovery of tire tracks, combined with the witness's description, suggested an overconfidence that bordered on recklessness. Investigators believed the killer felt untouchable, a trait that could lead to his eventual downfall. A breakthrough witness. In early 2000, a breakthrough arrived in the form of a new witness.

A taxi driver named Antonio Vargas came forward with an unsettling story. One night, while driving through the outskirts of the city, he had seen a white van parked in an isolated area near where one of the bodies had been found. The driver remembered the van because it was idling in a strange spot, and when he drove past, the man inside seemed startled, as if caught off guard. Vargas didn't think much of it at the time but realized its significance when the news covered the discovery of Ines Ortega's body nearby. The description of the van and its driver added another layer of detail to the investigation. Police began cross-referencing their database of van owners with the timeline of the murders, narrowing the list to a handful of suspects. The arrest, in late 2000, nearly a decade after the first murder, the police finally made an arrest. A man named Julian Torres, a local mechanic with a history of petty crimes, was taken into custody.

Torres owned a white van that matched witness descriptions and forensic evidence from the scene of Ines Ortega's murder. The arrest was a moment of collective relief for the community, but it also raised questions. Why had it taken so long? Could more lives have been saved with earlier intervention? And most pressing of all, was Torres truly the monster of Al-Maria, or was the real killer still at large? He was a boy far too young to commit such heinous crimes and with such cruelty. His targets were always the same, middle-aged women living alone, without close friends or family nearby. After committing his horrific acts, he seamlessly returned to his daily life, hanging out with friends,

partying, going to the gym, chatting online, and meeting new people. His family suspected nothing of his double life. The chilling case begins on January 11, 2004, in Valencia, Spain. Encarnacion Grau Gomez and Vicente Ferial Roca had been a couple for years and had two children together. However, at some point, they separated. Vicente moved to his mother's house in Benetusser, while Encarnacion stayed in their original home. Eventually, they reconciled, though their relationship was never the same. This time, they decided on an open relationship.

According to Encarnazion, they said, still loved each other and were intimate, but Vicente also had relationships with men. Encarnacion had no issue with this arrangement, it was agreed upon. When men visited Vicente at home, she would retreat to another room to give them privacy. Vicente, 39, worked as a hospital orderly and had a growing passion for the esoteric, particularly tarot readings. What started as a hobby evolved into a side business. Neighbors often saw visitors coming to his home for tarot readings. The clients were described as polite and respectful, causing no disturbances. Vicente himself was well-liked, considered charming by neighbors.

Despite a few arguments in the past, his marriage seemed typical and unremarkable. According to Encarnacion, the story took a dark turn on January 10th. Vicente met a 20-year-old named Juan through Messenger. They chatted, hit it off, and Vicente invited him to his home. Hours later, Juan showed up, was welcomed in, and Encaron Encarnacion left them alone. They seemed to get along well, and the next day, January 11th, they arranged to meet again. That evening, one arrived, and Vicente welcomed him back. They settled in the living room while Encarnacion busied herself in the kitchen, washing dishes. Suddenly, she heard shouting and loud noises, thuds, and what sounded like a struggle. Alarmed, she rushed to the living room and was met with a horrifying scene. The two men were locked in a violent fight, blood everywhere. Vicente fell to the ground, fatally injured. Encarnazion screamed, frozen in panic.

Juan took advantage of the chaos to flee the apartment. Vicente died within minutes, leaving Encarnazion in shock and disbelief. Meanwhile, Juan, bleeding heavily, staggered away from the building. Witnesses reported seeing him leave a trail of blood and discard a large knife into a garbage bin before collapsing on the street. Several bystanders called the police, who arrived promptly alongside paramedics. Amid the commotion, one managed to utter his final words, The husband wanted to rape me, the investigation unfolded rapidly.

Police followed the blood trail back to the apartment and initially concluded it was a lover's quarrel gone wrong. The narrative seemed straightforward, Vicente and one met for a date, things escalated into a fight, and both men lost their lives. But upon closer examination, several puzzling details emerged. First, the weapon one used to attack Vicente was not a random object, but a large knife he had brought with him. This suggested premeditation. Vicente, in his defense, had used a letter opener from the nearby table. Second, as Juan fled, he deliberately disposed of the knife in a trash bin.

If he had been the victim, why hide the weapon? This act implied he was trying to cover his tracks. Despite their hopes of questioning Juan, he succumbed to his injuries before reaching the hospital. Without his testimony, the case grew murkier. Investigators turned to identifying him. Lacking him. identification, they collected fingerprints and a DNA sample, launching a public appeal for information. The media played a crucial role in solving this puzzle. Footage of one being

carried into the ambulance, though his face was obscured, showed his hands and distinctive clothing. This broadcast reached a vast audience, including Gloria Mundo and her eldest daughter, Christina Golan Mundo. Both recognized him instantly as Gloria's youngest son, Juan Manuel Golan Mundo. Gloria and Christina went to the police in shock, unable to comprehend what had happened. Gloria described Juan Manuel as a kind and hardworking young man, deeply attached to his family despite a difficult life. He had left school as a teenager but took various odd jobs to support his family, installing blinds, painting, and doing small repairs. Despite their financial struggles, Juan Manuel maintained a cheerful and sociable demeanor,

often visiting cyber cafes to chat on Messenger. Friends and acquaintances echoed this sentiment, describing Juan Manuel as caring, affectionate, and always willing to lend a hand. However, some mentioned an odd habit, he always carried a knife, though they couldn't explain why. This contradicted the image of a peaceful, well-mannered young man. The question lingered, how did he end up involved in such a gruesome case? Police delved deeper into Juan Manuel's background. His fingerprints and DNA, now in the system, matched evidence from an unsolved case nearly a year. year earlier, the murder of Isabel Fornes Penal.

Isabel, a 46-year-old woman, had been found dead in her apartment on February 4, 2003. She was a quiet, solitary woman who had recently moved and was in the process of renovating her home. When she didn't show up for work or contact anyone for days, co-workers alerted the authorities. Police forced entry into her apartment, discovering her lifeless body on the floor. She had been strangled, with a knife embedded in her skull. Her pants and underwomened, were around her ankles, suggesting a possible sexual assault. However, the crime scene presented bizarre elements. The front door showed no signs of forced entry, indicating she likely knew her attacker.

In the bathroom, an Svastika had been drawn on the mirror with toothpaste, and on the floor lay a chewed piece of gum, which later yielded DNA evidence. Despite extensive interviews with contractors and others who had interacted with Isabel, the case stalled. A friend of Juan Manuel had briefly been a suspect due to his case. connection to Isabel, but he was cleared. Investigators also noted that the last person Isabel had called was Christina Galan Mundo, Juan Manuel's sister.

Christina explained that Juan Manuel had borrowed her phone at the time, likely to contact Isabelle about a painting job. This revelation, combined with the DNA match, placed Juan Manuel at the scene of the crime. The similarities between Isabel's case and another unsolved murder later that you're deep in suspicions. Concepcion Navarro Lorenzo, a 53-year-old woman, was found dead on June 6, 2003. Like Isabel, she was a solitary figure with few social ties.

Witnesses recalled hearing her screams as she staggered into the hallway of her apartment building, a knife protruding from her neck. She died within minutes. Inside her apartment, investigators found a shoe print on the bed, matching the size and model of shoes Juan Manuel had been wearing when he died. Three brutal murders within a year, all linked to Juan Manuel, painted a disturbing picture. authorities speculated that he had committed even more crimes, potentially dating back years. They examined his connection to an unsolved arson case from October 2000, in which Isabel Sanchez,

a 63-year-old retired nurse, was found dead in her fire-ravaged home. She had been stabbed multiple times, and the fire appeared to be an attempt to destroy evidence. Witnesses mentioned a young painter matching Juan Manuel's description working in her home days before her death. As investigators pieced together Juan Manuel's dark history, his family faced immense backlash. Neighbors ostracized them, forcing Gloria and Christina to move away. Gloria remained steadfast in her belief that her son was incapable of such acts, describing him as loving and selfless. However, the mounting evidence told a different story, one of a young man leading a sinister double life.

The final crime, Bacente's murder, raised new questions. Juan Manuel's victims had always been solitary women. yet Vicente was a married man living with his wife. Encarnacion's account of the event seemed straightforward, but police noticed discrepancies. Notably, no record of Juan Manuel existed in Vicente's messenger contacts. Friends and family insisted Juan Manuel preferred women and had been chatting with someone named Encarna, in the days leading up to the murder. This led investigators to speculate that Encarnacion might have been the intended target.

Perhaps Juan Manuel arranged to meet her, only to encounter Vicente instead. This theory aligned with Juan Manuel's final words, The husband wanted to rape me. However, significant gaps remained. Inc., the story starts in the most surreal way imaginable. It's 7.30 a.m. on Tuesday, September 4, 1990. A local woman from a small town near Gerona decides to take her dog for a morning walk. This is her usual route, peaceful, safe, and calming, a routine walk before heading to work.

For those unfamiliar, this town is located in. in the northeastern part of the Altenporta region in Gerona, not far from the border between Spain and France. As of 2023, it had a modest population of about 1,660 residents. It's the kind of small town where everyone knows everyone, and nothing extraordinary ever seems to happen. Its defining feature is its train station, as the town serves more as a transit hub than a place to settle down. In fact, the show Crims aptly described it as, a station turned into a town, and that description pretty much captures its essence. So, it's no surprise that the woman felt completely at ease as she set out on her walk. She leaves her house, skirts around the cemetery, passes the pine trees,

and then stumbles upon something horrifying. Lying against one of the trees is a lifeless body. It's a young woman, seemingly asleep at first glance, but it quickly becomes apparent she has been hanged. She couldn't have been older than 20, and the sight is so disturbing that the woman immediately calls the civil guard. When the police arrive at the scene, they quickly notice it's already swarming with curious onlookers, neighbors, passers-by, and anyone intrigued by the commotion. They usher the crowd away and begin their investigation. The scene, let's break it down. First, there's the body itself. The young woman appears almost as if she has simply fainted or fallen asleep. She's facing the tree with her head slumped down. Next, there's the rope. It's

thin, showing minimal wear, and what stands out most is the knot, it's not a slip-knot, but a more intricate one, difficult to tie. Strangely, the knot isn't at the back of her neck where you'd expect it in such cases, but at the front. Then there's the tree. The branches above her show signs of breakage, suggesting she climbed up to loop the rope over the tree. But here's the odd part, there's no stool, chair, or any object nearby she could have used to step up. And the distance from her feet to the ground is just 40 centimeters. To top it off, her shoes are neatly placed about a meter away from the tree,

aligned perfectly side by side, as if someone had arranged them with care. Now let's move on to the body itself. At first glance, the police can observe only the surface details, but later, the forensic examination will reveal more. For simplicity, let's combine what was observed at the scene with what the autopsy uncovered. The woman is dressed in a turquoise t-shirt and blue overalls, both from an H&M subsidiary brand that was only sold in Central and Northern Europe, at the time. She also wears a Cassio watch. Her clothing is clean, with no visible stains

or signs of struggle. Another odd detail, her hair is draped over the rope, as if she had deliberately moved it out of the way for comfort, an inexplicable action for someone intending to end their life. Her face appears calm, almost serene, like she's merely sleeping. Her skin is flawless, no scratches, bruises, or marks of any kind. Her legs bear fine hair, which, though insignificant today, was an unusual trait in Spain in the 90s. At that time, Spanish women typically shaved for the beach, but northern European women didn't. This detail suggests she might be a foreigner. Most strikingly, there are no signs of struggle on her body. The terrain around the tree is rough, littered with rocks, cactus, and branches, and climbing it should have left scrapes or cuts

on her hands or feet. But her body is enscathed. She shows no signs of sexual assault and is found to be a virgin. Everything about her death seems meticulously planned, almost otherworldly in its perfection. The narrative goes like this, the woman arrives at the spot, removes her shoes, places them neatly, climbs the tree, loops the rope, arranges her hair, and then descends to her death with calm precision. This level of care and deliberation is unusual for someone planning to take their life, and coupled with the lack of a foothold and the odd-not placement, the entire scenario feels deeply unsettling. When the police search her pockets, they find no identity. No Clues, Nothing.

She's a complete mystery. The investigation begins. News spreads quickly through the small town, drawing even more neighbors to the scene. The police struggle to manage the crowd while trying to piece together what happened. A civil guard officer asks the bystanders for something to cover the body, and a local neighbor provides a white blanket. When it's draped over her, the sight evokes the image of a bride. From that moment on, the case is nicknamed the bride of Porbu. The police begin their inquiries, seeking witnesses who might have seen or heard anything unusual.

About 50 meters away, they come across a tent with six young people inside, five men and one woman, all Austrian students aged between 18 and 23. Naturally, the Civil Guard questions them. Their names are Matthias, Peter, Michael, Stefan, Manfred, and Barbara. The students claim they were asleep during the incident and don't know the deceased woman. Peter, 20, and Matthias, 18, are interrogated further. They state that they arrived in the area around 3 a.m., spent about 20 minutes chatting, setting up the tent, and then went to sleep.

Their questioning is brief, and soon after, they are allowed to leave. The group quickly packs up their tent and returns to Austria, vanishing from the investigation entirely. However, not everyone believes their story. Years later, a local woman named Carmina Coy recalls hearing noises that night, specifically, screams in a fight. She didn't see what happened, but she distinctly remembers a young woman crying. It was enough to wake her, but when the commotion ended, she went back to bed. The next morning, when she opened her window, she saw the lifeless body hanging from the tree. Carmina assumed the authorities would solve the case and never thought to report what she

heard. Nobody knocked on her door or asked for her statement, so she remained silent. The forensic analysis, the police followed standard protocol, they called the judicial police, the on-duty judge, and finally the forensic pathologist, Rogilio Lacasi Diaz. Rogilio was responsible for eight different courts in the region, which meant he was overworked and stretched thin. Often, when summoned for a case, he simply couldn't go in person due to the sheer volume of his workload. In this instance, Rogelio declined to visit the scene altogether.

He had recently had a close call on the winding roads near the area and didn't want to risk another trip. the police had already deemed it a suicide, Rogilio instructed them to send the body directly to Figueras for the autopsy. This meant he never saw the scene firsthand and had to rely entirely on the information provided by the civil guard. The police took just ten photographs, none of which were given to Rogelio. Instead, they were sent to the judge on September 10th. This left Rogelio with only second-hand accounts to guide his work. During the autopsy, Rogilio observed a young woman aged between 17 and 22. She had a student's callus on her finger from riding and another

callus on her palms that he couldn't quite identify. He noted signs of polycystic ovary syndrome and confirmed she was a virgin. The mark on her neck aligned with the rope, but her body bore no other injuries, no cuts, scratches, or bruises. She appeared untouched by the harsh environment of the scene. Rogilio deduced she was a foreigner based on her clothing and unshaven legs. Without any identification, he photographed her and took her fingerprints, sending them to Interpol. Unfortunately, no matches came up. It was as if the young woman had never existed. Days turned into weeks, and nobody came forward to claim her body. To preserve it, the judge authorized embalming on September 14th. The young woman's remains stayed in a

refrigeration unit for three months before being buried in a charity niche on December 5th. With no name to attached to her, the grave marker simply read NN, no name. The aftermath, for years, her identity remained a mystery. In 2001, advances in DNA technology prompted authorities to reopen several cold cases, including this one. However, they encountered a major setback. When they went to exume her body, they discovered the grave was empty. A month earlier, her remains had been removed and tossed into a communal grave. What's worse, her body had been dismembered before being placed there. Finding her now was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Despite this, the case persisted in public consciousness.

Media coverage, novels, and radio programs kept the story alive. Finally, in 2015, the phones began to ring. In 2015, when the calls about the mysterious case started coming in, people speculated that this girl, found in Portbu, might be from Bavallano. There was a whole theory that linked her to a missing person from there. Investigators compared fingerprints and records, but nothing matched. Then, in 2020, attention shifted to a different lead, a 22-year-old German woman named Christina Hermet, who had gone missing, leaving behind two children.

However, this theory was also quickly dismissed since the girl found in Port Boo was determined to be a virgin. So, she clearly wasn't the same person. The case seemed to hit a dead end. No solid leads, no one coming forward to claim her, and an increasing pile of unanswered of unanswer questions. It felt like the mystery was doomed to stay unsolved, until a journalist named Tura Soler decided she wasn't giving up. She'd been following the case from the beginning, and over time, it became an obsession. Who was this girl? Why hadn't anyone reported her missing?

These questions consumed her. Tura eventually reached out to Carl's Porta, a journalist, presenter, and the director of the popular Catalan true crime program Crims. She pitched him an idea, she'd hand over all the case files she'd collected, articles, documents from the 1990s, and every scrap of information she could find, if he'd dedicate an episode of his show to the case. She wanted the story to reach more people, hoping someone might recognize the girl. Karlz agreed, and in 2021, the episode La Noia de Port Booh, the girl with no name, aired. The episode Dove Deep, interviewing police officers, forensic experts, journalists, and witnesses. It laid everything out, the circumstances.

of the girl's death, the mysterious details, and the missteps in the investigation. As viewers watched, many were stunned. The show highlighted how poor communication had hindered the case and revealed gaps in the initial investigation. For example, the forensic pathologist admitted he hadn't been given essential information, including photos of the scene. If he'd had those, he said he would have done things differently, like collecting blood samples, as the girl had likely been drugged. Her position at the scene suggested she was unconscious or incapacitated, and the entire setup seemed staged. The evidence strongly suggested that at least two people had been involved,

one person to handle her shoes and position them neatly, and another to tie the rope and place it around her neck. Despite all this, there was still disagreement. The forensic expert was convinced it was a homicide, while the Civil Guard insisted it was a suicide. Their stance was that the mystery wasn't how she died but who she was. The Crims team didn't stop there, they dug deeper. Carl's Porta contacted a German friend, Hans Kirsten, a police officer, to see if there was any

information on missing women in Germany. Hans couldn't find anything relevant. Still, thinking the girl might be Austrian, Hans connected Porta to Christian M, an Austrian investigator specializing in missing persons during the 1990s. Christian looked into his databases but hit a roadblock. Under Austrian law, he needed an official request from the Civil Guard to proceed with a cross-border investigation. Unfortunately, the Civil Guard refused, maintaining their belief that the girl had taken her own life. To make matters worse, the statute of limitations had expired in Spain, effectively shutting down the investigation there. Christian, however, wasn't ready to give up. If he couldn't investigate officially, he decided to make noise. He posted the girl's

photos, details, and all the information he had on social media. The response was overwhelming. Thousands of people shared, liked, and commented on the posts. But despite the buzz, no one came forward with definitive answers. The case remained stuck. In another effort to revive interest, Carl's Porter reached out to Austria's largest private television network, which aired a true crime program similar to Crims called Ungelost, Unsolved. He proposed a collaboration, he'd send them all the information, photos, interviews, and forensic reports if they dedicated an episode to the case.

They agreed, and on April 23, 2022, Das Hungan Machen, The Hanging Girl, aired. That's when the miracle happened. A woman from Bolzano, Italy, watched the program and recognized the girl. She contacted the show immediately, claiming that the girl was Evianna Router, a 19-year-old who had disappeared in 1990 without a trace. Her family had searched tirelessly for her, appearing on TV and radio, hanging posters, and doing everything they could to find her. But their efforts had led nowhere.

Evie, born on June 2, 1971, in Schlanders, Italy, was the second daughter of Carolina and German router. By all accounts, she was a responsible, reserved, and bright young woman. She spoke four languages fluently and was highly independent, navigating public transport with ease. At 19, her life was just beginning. She had big dreams and no interest in distractions, including romantic relationships. Education was her top priority, Love could wait. In the summer of 1990, Evie graduated from high school and went on a 10-day trip to Ireland with friends. It was her first trip without her family, and she loved the freedom, even trying hitchhiking for the first time.

After Ireland, she visited her sister Christina in Florence. The sisters were incredibly close, sharing everything with each other. On September 3rd, Evie decided to take a day trip to Siena while Christina attended her classes. She left a note saying she'd return in the afternoon, took a pair of sunglasses, a train ticket, and about 60,000 Lirae, around 30 euros, and headed out. But she never came back. Christina returned home to find the note but no sign of Evie. Oddly, Evie had left behind her prescription glasses, something she wouldn't have done unless she planned to return soon. As the hours turned into days, Christina and the family became frantic.

They reported her missing, hung posters, and questioned people at bus and train. stations. Despite their efforts, it seemed as if Evie had vanished into thin air. No one had seen her, and she had never made it to Siena. Fast forward to the present, the investigation revealed chilling details about what likely happened to Evie after she disappeared. First, there was the matter of how she got to Port Booh. In 1990, the Roma Termini Express train passed through Florence and arrived in Port Boe early in the morning. Evie might have boarded that train either by choice or by accident. Disturbingly, reports from that time indicated that young travelers on that train were often

drugged and robbed. Then there was the setup of the hanging itself. Nothing about it made sense. Evie's shoes had been neatly placed a meter from the tree. The knot in the rope was highly complex and tied in front of her. Her hair had been carefully pulled back over the rope. The rope itself was thin and unsuitable for hanging. And most importantly, there was no way she could have done it alone.

There were no objects nearby she could have used to lift herself, and the distance from her body to the ground was just 40 centimeters, too short for her to have jumped. Whoever did this wasn't working alone. It would have taken at least two people, one to hold her body and another to tie the rope. The evidence pointed to foul play. Suspicion also fell on a group of Austrian tourists who had camped just 50 meters from the scene. While it seemed unlikely that they would stay so close to the crime if they were guilty, their behavior raised questions. For instance, one neighbor, Mina Coy, reported hearing a commotion and a woman crying that night. Yet, the campers claimed they had heard and seen nothing.

Years later, when journalists from Crims tried to contact Peter, one of the campers, his responses were evasive. Initially, he said he couldn't remember much. But after the girl's identity was revealed, he became even less cooperative, refusing to provide any information about his friends. To this day, opinions remain divided. Some believe Evie took her own life, while others are convinced she was murdered. Her family insists she was happy and had no reason to end her life. Moreover, she had never been to Spain before and had no connection to Port-Boo,

making the idea that she went there intentionally to die seem improbable. In 2023, the case took a turn when the Florence Prosecutor's Office officially concluded that Evie's death was a homicide. However, the question of who killed her and why remains unanswered. What do you think? Will this mystery ever be solved? A chaotic night on the Tokyo Metro, the Joker attack of 2021, it's funny how life can twist and turn in ways you'd never expect.

Kyoto Hattori's story is one of those twisted paths that'll make you shake your head in disbelief. Imagine a young man, dressed as the Joker, deciding the best way to end his misery was to cause chaos so extreme that the government would execute him. Yeah, it sounds like the plot of a dark Hollywood movie, but this actually happened in Tokyo in 2021. And to really understand what led to that bizarre night, we first need to take a detour into Japan's unique traditions and cultural backdrop. Japan's take on honoring the dead. In Japan, honoring the dead is a big deal, but not in the spooky, skeleton-decorated way you might be used to. Their equivalent to Halloween isn't a night of candine costumes, it's a three-day celebration called Oban, held in mid-July or August. It's all about family, tradition, and joy, with festivals, dances, and colorful lanterns lighting the world.

way for spirits returning to the afterlife. The first day, Toronagashi sees people placing floating lanterns on water to guide spirits. The second day, Bono Dori, is packed with drumming, singing, and dancing. And the third day, Gozen Noo Kurobi, wraps up with bonfires, marking the spirits journey back. It's lighthearted, respectful, and miles away from the macabre mood of a Western Halloween. But just like anywhere else, Japan's younger generation has been dabbling in Halloween festivities. By 2021, Halloween parties in Tokyo had taken on a life of their own. Clubs through massive events, people dressed up in elaborate costumes, and the streets of Shibuya and Shinjuku became hotspots for spooky fun, or in this case,

a horrifying nightmare. The night everything changed, October 31st, 2021. Halloween in Tokyo was buzzing. Bars and streets were packed, and costumes ranged from adorable to terrifying. But in the K-O-line Metro, connecting Shibuya to Shinjuku, things were about to take a sinister turn. It all began with a man dressed as the Joker. Unlike the vibrant face paint and green hair you'd expect, this Joker didn't bother with makeup. His suit, however, was unmistakable. Purple and green, straight out of the comic books. And while most people brushed him off as just another over-committed fan, his unsettling demeanor was hard to ignore.

He swayed back and forth, giving people strange, lingering stares. At one point, he leaned on the top of a seat, elbow propped, surveying the crowd with eerie focus. Some passengers thought he might be an actor about to perform a stunt. After all, Halloween in Tokyo has its share of over-the-top theatrics. But when he stood up and approached an older man, the crowd's curiosity turned to horror. Chaos in the metro. Without warning, Joker Guy pulled out an insecticide spray and aimed it directly at the older man's face. A moment of stunned silence swept through the train.

Was this some kind of twisted prank? That's what many thought, until he followed up by pulling out a knife and stabbing the man in the chest. Then, panic exploded. Screams filled the carriage as passengers scrambled to get away. People tripped, shoved, and fought to escape the madman. Joker Guy wasn't done, though. When it became clear that targeting individuals wasn't working, his victims kept fleeing, he pulled out a small plastic bottle filled with liquid.

Witnesses later said the smell was unmistakable, it was flammable. He splashed the liquid across seats, walls, and doors, all while the chaos continued around him. Then, with chilling composure, he struck a lighter and ignited the liquid. Flames erupted, adding yet another layer of terror to the scene. Luckily, the trains operator managed to make an emergency stop, allowing many passengers to escape. Those who couldn't make a bold move, they locked Joker guy inside a single carriage, isolating him from the rest of the train. Trapped, the man simply sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. Yes, really. He just sat there, casually smoking as if he hadn't just terrorized dozens of people.

A viral nightmare. When emergency services arrived, they found passengers fleeing the scene, injured but alive. Firefighters extinguished the blaze, paramedics treated the wounded, and the police apprehended Joker guy. The whole ordeal, captured in shaky phone footage, went viral almost instantly. It wasn't long before everyone was asking the same question, who was this guy, and why on earth did he do it? The man behind the mask. Within hours, the perpetrator was identified as Kyoto Hattori, a 24-year-old from Fukuoka.

But his name alone wasn't enough to explain his actions. Wild rumors started circulating. Some said he was an orphan abandoned by abusive parents. Others claimed he was a Yakuza hitman, citing his emotionless demeanor during the attack. The truth, however, was less dramatic but no less tragic. Kyoto grew up in what seemed like a fairly normal family. His parents divorced when he was young, and he and his sister were raised by their mother in a modest apartment.

He did well enough in school, was shy but had friends, and had the typical interests of a kid his age, anime, manga, video games. As a teenager, he worked part-time at a manga cafe, where he reportedly excelled at customer service. But things took a darker turn in 2017. A customer accused Kyoto of voyeurism, spying on them during private moments. Although the charges were eventually dropped, the damage was done. His reputation was ruined, and he lost his job.

He managed to find work at a mobile phone company, but his social struggles persisted. His co-workers described him as awkward and distant, someone who just didn't fit in. For a while, it seemed like Kyoto was turning his life around. He had a steady job, a good income. income, and even a girlfriend. The two posted pictures of their dates, gifts, and trips all over social media, painting the picture of a happy couple. But appearances can be deceiving. In the fall of 2020, his girlfriend abruptly left him, and Kyoto's world fell apart. A downward spiral, the breakup hit him hard. He tried to win her back with letters and flowers, but she ignored him.

His work performance slipped, and by June 2021, he was fired. Feeling like a failure, he decided to leave Fukuoka altogether, traveling alone across Japan. But loneliness followed him wherever he went. And then, as if fate wanted to twist the knife even further, he discovered through social media that his ex-girlfriend had married someone else. That was the final straw. Kyoto felt utterly hopeless, convinced that no one cared about him, that he was worthless. He tried to end his life twice but failed both times. Frustrated by his inability to even die on his own terms, he came up with a horrifying plan, commit such a heinous crime that the government would have no choice but to execute him.

Becoming the Joker, Kyoto's fascination with the Joker wasn't random. He identified with the version played by Joaquin Phoenix in the 2019 film. In his eyes, they were the same, misunderstood outcasts driven to madness by a cruel society. Dressing up as the character wasn't just a costume choice, it was a statement. In his mind, the Joker's chaos was a reflection of his own. own inner turmoil. On Halloween night, he gathered everything he'd need, a knife, lighter fluid, cigarettes, and his joker suit. Initially, he planned to attack someone in the crowded streets of Shibuya, thinking the chaos would make it easier to catch people off guard. But he quickly

realized that attacking in the open was risky. His small frame and lack of strength meant his victim could easily escape or fight back. Then, he remembered another recent attack in Tokyo. Just months earlier, a man had stabbed ten people on a train and tried to start a fire using cooking oil. Inspired by this, Kyoto decided to strike in a confined space where escape would be nearly impossible. He even adjusted his plan, swapping out cooking oil for lighter fluid after learning it was more effective. The aftermath, despite his meticulous planning, Kyoto's attack didn't go as he'd hoped. The older man he stabbed survived, and the fire caused only minor injuries to 17 passengers. No one died.

arrested and subjected to months of psychiatric evaluation, Kyoto was found mentally competent. He showed no remorse and remained eerily calm throughout the entire process. During his trial in 2023, prosecutors argued that his actions were premeditated, pointing to the fact that he chose a train with limited stops to maximize his victim's chances of being trapped. They sought a 25-year sentence. His defense team countered, claiming he never intended to kill anyone, pointing out that the fire was started on the train itself, not on people. In the end, the judge wasn't swayed.

Kyoto Hattori was sentenced to 23 years in prison. Reflection, so, what do you think? Was justice served? Could anything have been done to stop Kyoto from reaching such a breaking point? It's a haunting reminder of how isolation and despair can push someone to the brink, and how those cracks in someone's mental state can lead to unimaginable consequences. Whatever your take, one thing's for sure, the night of October 31st, 2021, will go down as one of Tokyo's darkest halloweens. They searched for countless explanations, but the woman kept repeating the same thing over and over again, someone had pushed her.

Her family didn't want to listen to her. To understand this story, we need to travel to a small Catalan village called Burgess, located in the province of Gerona. This small town is known for its agriculture and livestock, but it's also rich in traditions, with two key rituals standing out. The first one is the Sopa da Ayas, a community meal that dates back to feudal times, held once a year on Carnival Tuesday. The second is the Dance of Death, perhaps the most famous tradition, performed every Holy Thursday. This procession has its roots in medieval times and still takes place today without interruption. It involves five participants, three children and two adults, dressed as figures of death. One adult leads with a scythe,

bearing the Latin inscription, N. Min Parko, I spare no one. Behind him follows death, playing the drum, and in between are the children. Two children carry ashes, symbolizing the inevitability of death, while the third holds a clock without hands, reminding everyone that time is short in death could come at any moment. Now, why does such a small town have such a sinister tradition? The answer lies in its long history. It said that the area has traces of Iberian, Roman, Arab and Visigoth civilizations. In medieval times, there was even a castle at the heart of the village.

Throughout its long history, the town has witnessed numerous wars, epidemics, and executions, but by the late 70s and early 80s, it had become a quiet and peaceful place, making it an ideal spot for a family like the Furcadel family to spend their summers. This story, however, would not be told if not for one of its members, Marta Fontana Furcadale, also known as Martilo. Born in Barcelona in 1981, she is an illustrator and vocalist of the punk rock band Los Capax. In 2021, Marta gained attention by sharing the unsettling history of her family's time in Burgess. The Furcadels were a large family who needed a place to stay together during the summer,

so they found a good offer for a house in the heart of Burgess, next to the church and the remains of a medieval wall. The house was cold and unwelcoming from the outside, but the family made it their own. The lower floor belonged to the house's owner, who lived in Barcelona, while the upper three floors were rented out, and that's where the Furcadel family stayed. The house was already furnished with crosses, candles, religious objects, and antique furniture, creating a rather eerie atmosphere. Despite its unsettling nature, the family didn't mind. The second floor had rooms for the grandparents, while the third floor was perfect for the teenagers, being more isolated from the rest of the family. For the first two or three years, everything was wonderful. They spent summers, Easter holidays, and long weekends there.

The house was small and dark, but they didn't care. The family played cards, laughed, and the kids ran around, biking and going to the beach. The village was perfect for them. But one day, everything changed. It started with a seemingly normal day. Grandma Magdalena went upstairs to the third floor to hang some laundry. She had no trouble at first, but as she began to descend the stairs, she suddenly felt two hands push her with incredible force.

She tumbled down the stairs, injuring herself and leaving a trail of blood behind. She screamed for help, and the family rushed to her side. She was in pain, bleeding, and terrified. Through her tears, she kept repeating that someone had pushed her, that she felt hands on her. But when they checked the house, no one was there. The family dismissed it, thinking she was just to her. tired and confused. They searched for explanations, but the old woman kept insisting, someone

had pushed her. From that moment on, strange things started to happen in the house. Whispers, moans, the dragging of chains, these became part of the Furcadel family's daily experience. Despite these disturbing occurrences, the family didn't speak about it to others, thinking it was just their imagination. After all, they were living in an old house, with creaky floors and wind blowing through the walls. It could all be explained away as the usual noises of an ancient building. But then, something even stranger happened. One night, as everyone slept, Marta's uncle's dog began to growl.

The dog was fierce, so the uncle got up to investigate. He followed the dog down the hall to the door of Marta's parents' room. The dog growled again, and the uncle opened the door. Everything seemed fine, nothing unusual. But just then, Marta's mother awoke, disturbed by the growling, and noticed a thick, black fog seeping under the door. She thought it was just her imagination, but as she sat up, a hand seemed to slap her across the face, and her head hit the wall.

Terrified, she stayed silent and cried the rest of the night without telling anyone what had happened. As time passed, the strange happenings continued. One day, Marta's cousin, Christina, who stayed on the third floor with the other teenagers, began to notice even stranger things. Sometimes, while everyone else was asleep, she heard footsteps and chains dragging across the floor. One night, as she lay awake, she felt something breathing near her bed, its breath labored and heavy. She jumped out of bed in terror, running to a neighbor's house to sleep.

As she left the room, there was a flash of light so intense that it woke everyone in the house. Later, while playing cards with her mother, Christina looked pale and horrified. When her mother asked what was wrong, Christina said she saw an elderly woman with white hair, pressed against the window. Thinking it was someone trying to scare them, her mother opened the door, but there was no one outside. The family continued to visit the house for ten years, despite all these disturbing events. The memories of good times spent there outweighed the bad. However, eventually, the tension became too much for some family members, and they decided to leave. One family member who couldn't take it anymore was Conchita, Christina's mother. A stay-at-home mom,

she spent a lot of time alone while her husband worked. One day, she decided to bring the family dog with her for protection. She felt uneasy and thought the dog would provide some comfort. At first, everything seemed fine, but as night fell, the third floor became filled with disturbing sounds. The dog also sensed something was wrong. Conchita, terrified, ordered the dog to go up, but the dog returned, terrified, with its tail between its legs.

That night, Conchita locked herself in the bathroom and didn't leave until morning. The next day, she packed everything up and called her daughters, telling them she couldn't stay there anymore. They tried to reassure her, but she was so scared that a neighbor offered to accompany her upstairs to check the house. Everything seemed fine, but that night, something even stranger happened, the dance of death procession passed right in front of the house. After ten years, the family finally left the house.

But the story didn't end there. In 1996, after they moved on with their lives, Christina's daughter told her that, When she was younger, she had always waved at an elderly woman with white hair standing in the window of that same house. It was the same window Christina had seen the woman's face years before. Marta became fascinated with the mystery of the house and the strange happenings that had occurred there. Through research, she discovered several possible reasons for the supernatural events,

the house might have once been a hospital for the poor, or even a place where torture occurred. In 2012, Christina discovered an article revealing that during renovations in the village, workers had uncovered part of an old castle wall and a medieval cemetery with over 150 graves. The house had been built right on top of it, which made Marta even more curious. She eventually published a book in 2021 about her family's experiences, and when it was released, the whole town was shocked. Everyone had heard rumors, but no one had known the full story.

Marta's investigation revealed that the house was built on land full of death, beneath it was a medieval cemetery, a hospital for the poor, and even a torture chamber. The area was filled with suffering in death, and it seemed that the house had absorbed it all.