Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Real Horror Hidden Behind Closed Curtains

Episode Date: September 22, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #HiddenHorror #DarkSecrets #DisturbingStories #ClosedCurtains “Real Horror Hidden Behind Closed Curtains” takes you into seemingly normal homes where something feels terribly wrong. From strange nighttime discoveries to disturbing secrets concealed from the outside world, these stories reveal the frightening darkness that can exist just beyond an ordinary window horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hiddenhorror, darksecrets, disturbingstories, realhorror, scaryencounters, creepyhomes, closedcurtains, psychologicalhorror, unsettlingstories, terrifyingstories, mysteriousstories, darkstories, paranormalhorror, nightmarefuelThis episode includes AI-generated content.

The story of Corny and Stephen, a tragic spiral. Let me tell you about one of those stories that sounds like it came straight out of a dark true crime documentary, the kind you watch late at night when you know you should probably be sleeping but can't stop yourself from hitting next episode. It's twisted, it's tragic, and it's one of those cases where you keep thinking, how did things get so bad? How did no one stop this before it got to that point? It starts with a father named Stephen Shulhoff and his teenage daughter Corny, sometimes written as Kearney, living in Florida.

Stephen was a single dad trying to raise his daughter after a rocky family situation, and by all accounts, Corny was his world. But anyone who knew them could see things were far from perfect. Actually, far from perfect doesn't even begin to describe it. From the outside, people saw a typical single father-daughter household. But if you scratched beneath the surface, what you'd find was chaos, constant fights, screaming matches that had the neighbors shaking their heads and a teenage girl who felt like she was entitled to do whatever she wanted, no rules, no boundaries, no consequences.

And Stephen? He was exhausted. He'd try to put his foot down, but somehow, that only made things worse. It all starts with a slap. One of the first big blow-ups, the one everyone seems to remember, happened during what should have been a normal evening at home. Corny had invited people over, people Stephen didn't approve of, and when he confronted her about it, she threw a bomb at him. This house is mine too. I have every right to invite whoever I want. Now, Stephen, already at his limit, didn't take that well.

In front of everyone there, in a moment of pure anger and humiliation, he slapped her. People gasped. For them, that moment said it all, Stephen was abusive. That's what they walked away believing. Whether it was the truth or a momentary loss of control, that label stuck to him, and Corny used it to her advantage. From bad to worse, after that, things only spiraled downward. Corny wasn't exactly what you'd call a model teenager.

She wasn't going to school regularly. She didn't have a job. She didn't help around the house. In short, she wasn't doing anything productive with her life. Stephen begged her to get it together. He told her, over and over, find a job. Do something. Take responsibility for yourself.

But Corny wasn't interested in working at a fast food joint or folding clothes at some retail store. In her eyes, that was beneath her. Yet she wanted everything, new clothes, makeup, accessories, you name it. And when Stephen refused to hand over cash like an ATM, she didn't ask again politely. She stole his credit card. It became a pattern, she'd take his money, spend it on herself and her boyfriend, and Stephen would be left cleaning up the mess.

Sneaking around with Michael, speaking of her boyfriend, this is where Michael Morin enters the picture. If you think things were bad before, Michael made them worse. Most parents don't love the idea of their teenage daughter sneaking boys into the house, but Stephen's situation wasn't just a teenage romance problem. Michael was more like a permanent, unwelcome house guest, except Stephen didn't even know the full extent of it. Here's how bad it was, Michael was living in Stephen's house, in secret. No, I'm not exaggerating.

He'd hide in Corny's closet whenever Stephen was around. He'd wait for Stephen to fall asleep and then come out to raid the fridge, used the washer, watch TV, basically freeloading off the man he was hiding from. Imagine the level of disrespect here. And whenever Stephen discovered Michael there, it turned into an all-out war. Yelling. Fretts. Insults. It was a disaster.

The rumors. Now here's where things take an even darker turn. Corny started spreading rumors about Stephen, horrible ones. She told people that her dad wasn't just controlling or abusive, but that he'd sexually abused her as a child. There was zero evidence to support this. None. People close to Stephen swore up and down that it wasn't true. They said he adored his daughter, that he lived for her.

But once those kinds of accusations are out there, they're impossible to take back. Whether she did it out of anger, revenge, or just to play the victim card, it painted. Stephen as a monster and isolated him even more. Stephen's breaking point. After months, maybe years, of this madness, Stephen reached his breaking point. He didn't know what else to do. One day, he noticed that his checkbook was missing several pages. And that was it. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. He picked up the phone and called the police. He had his own daughter arrested. It wasn't an easy decision. But in his mind, maybe, just maybe, this was the wake-up call she needed.

A few nights in jail, some hard consequences, and she'd turn her life around. Right? Wrong. When Corny got out, she didn't come back humbled or apologetic. She came back worse. Now, Stephen wasn't just the bad dad who didn't understand her. In her mind, he was a full-blown enemy. He'd had her arrested.

He'd betrayed her. And she wasn't going to let him forget it. Enter Elaine. As if things weren't complicated enough, Stephen had started moving on with his life. He'd met a new woman, Elaine Bach. For most people, this would be a good thing, a sign of healing, of starting fresh. But for Corny? It was gasoline on an already raging fire.

She hated Elaine. The escape plan. In 2003, Corny decided she'd had enough of her father's rules. Michael felt the same way about his parents. Together, they hatched a plan, run away. Michael stole his dad's car, and the two of them took off for Maryland. Their goal. Go to Corny's grandparents, beg for money, and start a new life together. Sounds like the plot of a bad teen drama, right?

But halfway there, Michael lost his nerve. They turned around, came home, and promptly got arrested because Michael's parents reported the car stolen. Michael spent 70 days in jail for that little stunt. When he got out, his parents gave him an ultimatum. If you stay with that girl, you're out of this house. Michael chose corny. Packed up his stuff. And instead of living on the streets like he claimed, he moved in with her.

Secretly. Back into Stephen's house. Yep, back into the closet. Probation lies. Here's another layer of audacity. Michael was on probation after jail, which meant he had to provide his address to his probation officer. So what did he do?

He gave Stephen's address and phone number. In other words, Stephen's house became the official residence of the boy he couldn't stand, and he didn't even know it. Meanwhile, Corny kept stealing from her dad to support Michael. February 9, 2004. Fast forward to February 9th, 2004. The neighbors said everything seemed quiet that night. No yelling. No crashes. No signs of a fight. But sometime in the night, something horrific happened in that house. By early morning, security cameras caught Corny and Michael leaving the apartment. They weren't crying. They weren't panicking.

They were calm. They took Stephen's car and drove 32 kilometers to a McDonald's. Ate some food. Drove around aimlessly. Hours later, they came back. Cameras caught them returning. This time, Michael was wearing one of Stephen's shirts. Elaine senses something's wrong.

The next morning, Elaine tried calling Stephen. Over and over. No answer. She knew the tension in the house. She knew about the fights. And when he didn't respond, her gut told her something was off. She drove over. And who did she see walking Stephen's dog?

Michael. Wearing Stephen's clothes. Red flags everywhere. Elaine parked, jumped out of the car, and Michael bolted, running into the apartment. When Elaine tried to get inside, Corny blocked her. Said Stephen wasn't home. said everything was fine. But Stephen's car was still parked outside.

Elaine didn't buy it. She called the police. The horrifying discovery. When officers arrived, Elaine explained everything, Stevens' history with corny, the fights, the weird scene with Michael in Stephen's clothes. They got a warrant. Broke down the door.

And what they found was the stuff of nightmares. The bedroom was covered in blood. The room was trashed. At the foot of the bed lay a bloody baseball bat. And in a corner, partially stuffed in a garbage bag, was the body of Stephen Schuulhoff. He'd been beaten to death. His face was so disfigured that identifying him wasn't easy. One of his ears was nearly torn off.

The arrest, the police didn't have to look far for suspects. Within hours, Corny and Michael were arrested. But when they were interrogated, Their stories didn't match. Michael said he didn't even remember the murder at first. Then, under pressure, he admitted that Corny planned everything. She gave him the bat. Told him to do it.

And he did. Corny, on the other hand, flipped the script. First, she blamed Michael entirely. Then she changed her story, yes, Michael killed Stephen, but she helped, a little. Now, here's where the story takes a deeper twist, because as much as the trial seem to close everything, the aftermath of this whole case still leaves a bad taste in people's mouths. It's one of those situations where you can't help but think, how did it all go so wrong? And maybe even more importantly, could it have been prevented?

Let's pause for a second and think about the relationship between Stephen and his daughter before everything spiraled into tragedy. By all accounts, Stephen wasn't some perfect guy, nobody really is, but people close to him swore up and down that he loved his daughter more than anything. They said he would have done anything for her. He took care of her, provided for her, put up with her tantrums, her attitude, her constant demands, even when she treated him like an ATM. But for corny?

None of that seemed to matter. Somewhere along the way, she stopped seeing him as her dad and started seeing him as an obstacle. And that's what makes this story so chilling. Because this wasn't some random crime of passion. It wasn't the heat of the moment argument that got out of control. This was calculated. Planned. Cold. When the prosecutors laid out their case, they didn't hold back. They wanted the jury to see exactly who corny had become, manipulative, entitled, and completely detached from reality. They brought up how she spoke. spread those horrific lies about her father, telling people he had abused her when there wasn't

a shred of evidence. They showed the pattern of stealing, of bringing Michael into the house secretly, of defying every single boundary Stephen tried to set. And then, the final act, convincing Michael to actually kill her father. Michael, for his part, didn't do himself any favors either. He came across as weak, easily influenced, someone who would do anything to impress his girlfriend. At first, he denied everything. Then, he threw corny under the bus, saying it was all her idea. He made himself out to be some brainwashed boyfriend who didn't know what he was doing. But prosecutors ripped him apart, pointing out that no one made him pick up that bat.

No one forced him to go through with it. Still, a lot of people believe that Michael was just a dumb kid in over his head. And maybe he was. But that doesn't erase what he did. The details of the crime scene alone were enough to haunt anyone who heard them. Blood everywhere. The room destroyed. Stephen's body shoved in a bag like garbage.

His face so badly beaten it was unrecognizable. And the bat, just sitting there at the foot of the bed, covered in blood. It's the kind of thing you can't unsee, even if you weren't there. And then, this part makes people's stomach's turn, after killing Stephen, was. What did they do? They went to McDonald's. They sat there, eating, as if nothing had happened. Like it was just another day.

If that doesn't scream cold-blooded, I don't know what does. The trial dragged on for months. The defense tried to paint corny as a troubled girl, a product of a broken home, someone who just needed help, not prison. They even tried to argue that Michael acted alone, that she was just a scared teenager who who didn't know what to do after the fact. But the jury didn't buy it. When they handed down that life sentence for corny, there was a sense of relief.

Like, finally, some justice for Stephen. But then she stood up and said those words, taking full responsibility, and you could feel the air leave the room. Not because it was some emotional confession. No. It was the way she said it. Cold. Flat.

Like she was reading a grocery list. No tears. No shaking voice. No, I'm sorry. Just, it was me. I accept the verdict, and that's it. People who were there said it was one of the most chilling things they'd ever seen. Michael's sentencing came later, and it was just as harsh, life in prison with no chance of parole.

Now, here's the part that still sparks debate to this day, in 2017. Corny's sentence was reduced to 40 years. Yeah. 40. That means she could walk out of prison in her 50s. And people were furious. Because if someone can beat their father to death, stuff him in a bag,

and walk free after just a few decades, what kind of message does that send? On the flip side, there are those who argue that people change. That she was young, impulsive, and under the influence of a toxic relationship. That maybe, just maybe, she deserves a second chance. But then you hear stories from prison, about how she carries herself like she's above everyone,

how she helps with legal work in the library but still has that, I'm smarter than you, attitude, and you wonder, did she actually change? Or is she just biding her time? And that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? Does she regret it? Some people say yes, that living with what she did must eat her alive every day. Others say no, that someone who can sit in a courtroom, admit to murdering their own father without a shred of remorse, is incapable of real regret. And honestly, maybe we'll never know.

But here's the thing that really sticks with me about this case, how avoidable it all felt. If someone had stepped in earlier, if someone had gotten corny real help, if Michael's parents had done more, than just ground him, if Stephen had found a way to break through to his daughter, could this have been stopped? Or was it inevitable? Was this always going to end in tragedy? That's the kind of question that keeps people up at night. So now, after all these years, the story of Stephen Schuulhoff still lingers in true crime circles. It's been picked apart in documentaries, dissected in books, debated on podcasts. But no matter how much people analyze it, no one can make sense of how a father's love turned into his ultimate downfall, or how a teenage girl decided that

killing him was her best way out. And maybe that's why cases like this haunt us so much. Because they force us to look at the darkest parts of human nature. They make us wonder, what would I do if my own child turned against me? How far would I go to protect my family? And at what point do you stop seeing someone as your kid, and start seeing them as a threat? And that's the story. Ugly. Brutal. Heartbreaking.

Now I'm curious, what do you think? Do you believe Corny feels any real remorse? Was Michael truly just a pawn in her game? Or was he just as guilty, maybe even more? And most of all, do you think 40 years is enough for what she did? Because a lot of people sure don't. The end. Okay, so here's the thing.

I've never been the kind of person who buys into ghost or demons or any of that spooky stuff. You know those people who swear they felt a cold hand on their shoulder or saw glowing eyes in the dark. Yeah, I always thought they were either messing with me or had overactive imaginations. That was me. Until last month. That's when some weird, straight-up unexplainable stuff went down, and now, now I don't even know what to believe anymore.

So, for context, I live alone in this old apartment downtown. It's nothing fancy, just a small place on the third floor of a creaky building. The kind of place where the floor's grown under your feet and the walls are thin enough that you can hear your neighbors sneeze. I'd been living there about six months, just doing my thing, when all this weirdness started happening. At first, it was small stuff. Like, I'd leave my keys on the little table by the door, but when I came back later,

they'd be on the kitchen counter. Or I'd swear I turned off the bathroom light before going to bed, but then I'd wake up in the middle of the night and it would be on. I figured I was just tired or distracted. Work had been crazy stressful, so I chalked it up to being forgetful. But then things escalated. One night, I woke up around 3 a.m. No reason, just snapped awake like my brain was on high alert. And then I heard it, whispering.

Faint and muffled, like someone was talking in the next room. I sat up in bed, holding my breath, trying to catch what was being said. But it wasn't clear. It was just this soft, constant murmur. My heart was pounding like crazy, but I told myself it was probably the neighbors or maybe someone's TV. Old buildings carry sound weirdly, right? I managed to fall back asleep, but a few nights later it happened again.

Same time, 3 a.m. This time, though, it wasn't whispering. It was footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps pacing back and forth in the hallway outside my bedroom. I froze, my whole body tense. The footsteps stopped right outside my door. I swear, I could feel someone standing there, just, waiting. I didn't move. I didn't even breathe. I stayed like that until the first light of dawn crept through my blinds. Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink that night. The next morning, I decided enough was enough. I went to talk to my landlord.

He's this old guy who's been managing the building for decades. I found him in his little office on the ground floor and told him everything, the whispers, the footsteps, the lights turning on and off. As I talked, I noticed the color draining from his face. You're in 3B, right? he asked. Yeah, I said. Why, he let out a heavy sigh and glanced around like he didn't want anyone overhearing. About ten years ago, there was a young woman living in 3B.

Emily was her name. Sweet girl, kept to herself. One day, she just, disappeared. Left everything behind. Her parents hired private investigators, put up posters, the whole thing. whole deal. But she was never found. It was like she vanished off the face of the earth. I felt a chill run down my spine. What does that have to do with what I'm hearing? Well, he continued, after Emily vanished, people who moved into three B started reporting strange things.

Whispering at night, footsteps in the hall, lights turning on and off. Most of them moved out within a few months. You're the first to make it past six. I just stared at him. Why didn't you say anything before I moved in? He gave me a helpless shrug. Didn't want to scare you off. It's an old building. Old buildings make noises. I figured it was nothing.

I left his office feeling. I don't even know. Angry? Scared? Confused? All of the above, probably. Part of me wanted to believe it was just an urban legend, some story he told to explain away creaky floors

and bad wiring. But deep down, I knew what I'd heard, and it felt real. That night, I decided I wasn't going to run. I was going to figure out what was going on. So I made a plan. I stayed up late, sitting in the living room with the lights off, phone in hand, ready to record anything weird. Midnight came and went. One a.m. 2 a.m. Nothing. Then, right on Q.E.m. at 3 a.m., I heard the footsteps. Slow, deliberate, moving through the apartment. My heart started hammering and I gripped my phone tighter, too scared to hit record. The footsteps got closer, and then I saw it. In the doorway, there was a shadow. Not the kind cast by a lamp or the moonlight. This was different. It was darker than the darkness around it, shaped like a person but,

wrong. No features, no face, just a vague human-like outline. And the air, it felt heavy, like the weight of a thousand sorrows pressing down on me. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. I just sat there, staring as the shadow stood in the doorway. I don't know how long we stayed like that. A minute? An hour? Eventually, it began to fade, dissolving into the surrounding darkness. The air lightened, and I could breathe again. I didn't wait for the sun to come up. I threw some clothes into a bag, grabbed my keys, and bolted. I texted my landlord in the morning, told him I was moving out effective immediately.

He didn't even argue. Now I'm living across town in a modern apartment building. Bright lights, thick walls, no history of mysterious disappearances. It's the kind of place where the worst thing that happens is someone forgetting to take out the trash. But here's the thing, I still think about that shadow. Was it Emily? Was she trying to tell me something? Or was it something else entirely? I don't have any answers. And sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and I'm all alone, I swear I can still hear faint whispers. Like someone calling from far, far away. Some mysteries, I've learned, are better

left unsolved. The end. You know how sometimes there's a moment in your life that's so ridiculous, so insane, and so oddly terrifying that it just sticks with you forever. Yeah. For me, that moment happened when I was 19 and working in this grimy little warehouse in East Oakland. It wasn't glamorous, not even close. I was moving boxes all day, breathing in dust that made my throat feel like sandpaper, and dealing with the kind of co-workers who argued about. the dumbest things like who'd win in a fight between Bruce Lee and Mike Tyson. But hey, at 19, I was broke as hell, desperate for any kind of paycheck, and not picky. We got paid every Friday.

Cash In a little envelope with your name written across it in red sharpie like it was some sort of prize. Payday felt like a holy ritual in that place. Everyone would walk out of the warehouse clutching their envelopes like they were carrying ancient scrolls or secret treasure maps. This particular Friday afternoon, I was starving. Like stomach growling, dizzy kind of hungry. I decided to hit up my favorite taco truck on the way to the bus stop. It was parked on a cracked stretch of pavement near a faded liquor store where there was always at least one guy passed out on the sidewalk, one guy playing loud music from a busted

boombox, and one guy trying to sell bootleg DVDs out of a backpack. East Oakland at its finest. This taco truck, man, it made the best burritos I've ever had. The kind that are so big they could double as a dumbbell if you were trying to get in a quick workout. And every order came with this little plastic bag of tortilla chips. I never ate the chips. I don't even like tortilla chips that much unless they're drowning in salsa or guac, but I'd always take them anyway. Hab it, I guess.

Maybe it felt wrong to say no. So there I was. was burrito in hand, bag of tortilla chips shoved into my backpack, and a few crumpled bills left in my pocket after paying. I was feeling all right. Content even. Sun was shining. Pay day burrito in hand. All I had to do was make it home without anything weird happening. Which, if you've ever spent any time on East Bay Public Transit, you know is a lot to ask. I hopped on the bus and it was already half full. The air smelled like a mix of sweat, old upholstery, and that faint metallic scent buses always

seemed to have. I shuffled toward the back, where there were only a couple of open seats left, and plopped down. I set my backpack on the floor and held my burrito carefully, like it was made of gold. Across from me sat this older black guy. Big dude. Probably in his mid-50s or 60s. He looked rough, like life had been chewing him up and spitting him. out for decades.

Clothes torn, hair wild, and the scent, few. Let's just say it hit me like a punch in the face the moment I sat down. But it wasn't the smell or the clothes that stood out the most. It was the fact that this dude was having a full-blown, one-sided argument with someone who wasn't there. Man, I told you already. You don't know shit about me, he shouted, pointing a finger at empty space. You think you're slick, huh?

You think you can just run your mouth like that. You gone've learned today, heads turned. A couple of passengers sighed and went back to staring out the window like this was just another Tuesday. Me? I froze. I tried to look invisible, eyes locked on my burrito like it was the most fascinating thing in the universe. But then it happened. The guy's gaze shifted.

At first, I thought, cool. He's looking past me. He doesn't even notice me. Stay calm. Then I realized he wasn't looking past me. He was staring at the floor by my feet. At the bag of tortilla chips. His eyes narrowed like a predator spotting prey.

I, he barked. I flinched. I. Let me get them chips. It wasn't really a request. It was more of a demand wrapped up in a yell. My brain short-circuit. for a second. I looked down at the chips like they might somehow save me, then looked back at him.

He stared right into my soul. Without saying a word, I reached down, grabbed the bag, and handed it over. Yeah, that's what I thought, he muttered. He tore into the bag like it was the first food he'd seen in a week. Chips flying everywhere. Crunching so loud it echoed through the bus. I glanced around, hoping someone would give me a, hey man, good job keeping the piece, kind of look. Nope. Nobody even cared. A couple of people stared straight ahead like they didn't see a thing. The guy finished the chips in record time. He crumpled the bag, tossed it on the floor like it was nothing, and wiped his greasy fingers on his torn pants. Then he looked at me again. Down at my hands.

At my half-eaten burrito. Oh no. Oh no, I whispered under my breath. Give me that burrito, he said. I shook my head. Nah, man. I can't do that. He squinted at me like I had just told him the earth was flat.

I said, give me that burrito. This time it was less of a question and more of a growl. I could feel my heart pounding. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Sorry, man. I can't. He stood up so fast the whole bus seemed to shift. Passengers glanced back for a second, then looked away. Not their problem. Definitely not their problem.

He took one step toward me. And then I saw it. A knife. Not a tiny pocket knife either. This was a fixed blade knife. Big enough to cut through a steak, or a skinny 19-year-old kid. kid on a bus. He pulled it right out of his jacket pocket like it was no big deal. I couldn't believe it. No sheath. Just raw blade chilling in his pocket like it was totally normal. Niga, I said give me the burrito, he barked. And that was it. Any ounce of courage I had left evaporated instantly. I wasn't about to die over a burrito. Not today. Here, man. Take it. I said, shoving the foil-wrapped treasure into his free hand.

He snatched it, shoved the knife back into his pocket like we were done, and sat back down. Calm as can be. Like he hadn't just robbed me on a crowded bus in broad daylight. He unwrapped the burrito slowly, savoring the smell, and started eating like he was dining in a five-star restaurant. I sat there, empty-handed, stomach still growling, trying to process what had just happened. Nobody said a word. Nobody offered help. A couple of people gave me quick pity glances, but that was it.

When he finished eating, he crumpled up the foil and tossed it on the floor. Then he went right back to yelling at nobody. Like nothing had happened. The bus rolled on. My stop came up. I stood, ready to sprint off that bus and never look back. As I passed him, he gave me a little wave. Later, man, he said cheerfully, like we were old buddies.

I didn't say a word. Just walked off that bus, feeling humiliated, relieved, and weirdly amused all at the same time. And you know what's wild. I've been stabbed before. Different story for a different day. But let me tell you, it sucks. Hurts like hell. It's not some badass movie moment where you grit your teeth and keep fighting.

Nah. It's horrible. I swore to myself I'd never let that happen again. Definitely not over a half-eaten burrito. The craziest part. I had cash in my pocket. Probably way more than the burrito cost. And a phone in my bag. But he didn't even care. All he wanted was those chips and that burrito. Eyes on the prize. He stuck to it. Oakland, man. The end. So, October 29th started off like any other day, but it didn't end that way. Not even close. I didn't know it yet, but I was about to trigger one of the messiest, most uncomfortable, and weirdly existential weeks of my entire life. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but nah. That Friday, I got sent home early from school for doing something I kind of sort of regretted, but also, didn't. It's complicated.

When I got home, I didn't do anything dramatic like throw my backpack across the room or scream into a pillow, even though part of me wanted to. Instead, I flopped onto my bed like a corpse and stared at the ceiling for a good five minutes. Then I pulled out my phone because there was only one person I could vent to about the whole thing without being completely roasted into oblivion, Annie. Or so I thought. I opened up my SMS app and typed, Me, How far would you go for a friend?

It took her a few seconds to reply, and I could practically see her eye roll through the screen. Annie, travel yes, trouble no. Me, I got sent home for slapping a bitch who was shittleting my friends. Me, I feel a little regret. Me, even though I still hate her. Annie, look who's in trouble. Annie, they got to stay home. Annie, at school asterisk.

Annie, and you went home. Annie, look who's in trouble. Was she, singing? She was mocking me. I could practically hear her little sing-song voice in my head. Me, at first I just ran up to her desk and put a fist to her face and said, Shut up, bitch. Me, then I grabbed a fire extinguisher.

Me, to feel safe. Annie, it's like you want to go to jail. Me, the teacher wanted the extinguisher back. Annie, I'm sorry, but that's cowardly. Annie, kids like you used to make me hate school. You can't handle anything so you attack people. Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. Me, I swung it at him once and he told me to leave.

Me, and as I walked out, that's when the slap happened. Annie, you shouldn't have done it. Me, yeah, me, I shouldn't have. Me, but she also had it coming. Annie, it's just very uncool. Annie, like do you want to be that guy? Me, she's normally non-existent. Me, just fading into the background, and all of a sudden she has shit to say.

Me, we were just talking shit about another girl who was having a tantrum over literally nothing. Annie, just like you. That one stung. Me, no. Me, I just wanted to defend the people I care about. Me, she was just a whiny bitch. Annie, that's not how you do it. Annie, I'm sorry, but you sound like a clown. Annie, like who hits girls. Me, so. Annie, you should be kicked out of school and maybe you'd learn. Me, no way. Annie, keep messing up your future for people you won't remember in two years. Annie, they get to stay in class and learn, and your home still going to school when you should have graduated. Me, that doesn't fucking matter.

Me, they make school tolerable. Me, it's not like we were doing anything in class anyway. Me, just watching a movie. Annie, and you can't even do that. Me, so stop making retarded judgments about situations you barely know about. Annie, it's retarded to you because you're incapable of growing up or taking any kind of criticism. Annie, thank God I'm not there or you would swing on me too. Me, whatever. Annie, classic, redacted, can't take any kind of talking B.C. He will hit you. Me, I understand why mom chose black tar over you. Me, later, bitch. Annie, keep beating up girls. I'm sure she'd be proud. Annie, revolving underscore hearts, revolving underscore hearts, revolving underscore hearts, she didn't use when she was pregnant with me like she did with you, revolving underscore hearts, revolving underscore

hearts, revolving underscore hearts, revolving underscore hearts, revolving underscore hearts. Me, bullshit. Me, she told me the opposite. Annie, who's beating up people who have aggressive mental issues? Me or you, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. Annie, whatever, go work yourself to death. Annie, I'm not going to argue with a child. It's exhausting, especially one that lacks so much self-awareness. We don't need to talk. Me, fuck off then, cunt. Annie, keep doing whatever you think is right. Annie, okay, redacted by.

Me, okay, and that was it. She ghosted me after that. I stared at the screen for a while, my fingers itching to type something else. An apology. A comeback? Something clever that would make her feel as shitty as she just made me feel. But nothing came out. I felt like garbage.

My stomach churned and twisted and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to sink into my mattress and never get back up again. I didn't even want to play games or scroll through Reddit or do anything. I just wanted to sleep and never wake up. That's how it always is when I get like this. I start fantasizing about just, slipping away. Escaping into some perfect dream world where nobody's yelling at me, nobody's disappointed, and I'm not so. screwing everything up. It's stupid. I know it's stupid. But it's the only thing that gives me a little peace when I feel like I'm drowning in my own life. Five days passed like a slow-motion car crash.

I skipped Monday and Tuesday because there was no way I was facing those hallways after what happened. I couldn't deal with the stairs, the whispers, the teachers giving me that disappointed could look like they expected more from me. On Wednesday, Dad finally dragged me back to the school for a meeting with the director. I sat on a hard wooden bench outside the office while dad went inside to talk to him. The door was cracked open just enough that I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation. Aggressive behavior, we can't tolerate, needs to learn responsibility, different class, new teacher, effective immediately, my stomach dropped. When they finally came out, The director stood there all calm and professional, like he hadn't just detonated a bomb in my life.

He told me I'd be attending a different class starting now. Like I was just supposed to pick up my books and stroll in there with a smile on my face, pretending nothing had happened. I couldn't do it. I turned to Dad and said, I want to go home. He looked at me for a long second, then nodded. Okay, the ride home was silent. I stared out the window as the city blurred by,

my thoughts spinning in a million directions at once. When we got back, I went straight to my room, shut the door, and climbed into bed. I stared at the ceiling again, wishing, no, praying, for a better existence as I drifted off to sleep. Maybe in my dreams, I'd finally get it. The end. Girl, sit your ass down. You're not ready for this mess I'm about to dump on you. No, seriously, take a seat. Pour some wine. Hell, grab the whole bottle because what went down between 2023 and 2025 was straight-up soap opera material with a sprinkle of true crime, some family drama, and a whole lot of WTF energy. Okay, so picture this. It's January 1st, 2023. I'm broke as hell. Like, I was literally debating whether I should sell feet picks to strangers online just to cover rent because my job barely paid enough to keep me alive, let alone happy.

My apartment? A shoebox in the worst part of town that smelled like sadness, broken dreams, and my neighbor's weed. My love life. Non-existent. Completely dead. If loneliness were a sport, I'd be a gold medalist. I spent New Year's Eve sitting alone on my couch with a bag of stale chips, watching Netflix

asked me for the fifth time if I was still watching. Spoiler alert, I was. Then, bam, life decides to throw me the weirdest curveball ever. January 2nd, I get a phone call from some random-ass lawyer. At first, I almost didn't answer because I thought it was another scam. You know the ones, hi, this is Jennifer from car warranty services, but something made me pick up, and good thing I did. This dude tells me my uncle Frank, whom I hadn't seen in like a decade, had passed away and left me a house.

Yeah. You read that right. A damn house. My first reaction. Yeah, okay. And I'm Beyonce's secret sister. Total scam vibes, right? Like, how often does some rando lawyer call you up to say you're a homeowner now? But nope. This wasn't one of those Nigerian prince emails. This was legit. Uncle Frank had really up and died, R-I-P, I guess, and for reasons unknown to humanity, he decided to leave me his place. Fast forward a few weeks, I sign the papers, get the keys, and boom, me, a girl who could barely afford ramen, is now a homeowner. Let me tell you, this house.

Chef's Kiss Straight out of Pinterest Exposed brick walls Those fancy-ass bathtubs with the claw feet Hardwood floors that creak like something out of a haunted mansion And the backyard? Gorgeous There were actual roses blooming

Like, who even has roses anymore? I was living my best Instagram influencer fantasy, posting selfies with iced coffee in hand, Talking about my little renovation journey Like I knew what the hell I was doing. I even started calling myself a, house person. I don't know what the hell that means, but it sounded rich and put together. For a while, life felt good. Like maybe 2023 wasn't going to suck as bad as 2022.

I hosted cute little dinner parties, started learning how to make sourdough bread, which I burned every time, and thought, wow, maybe I've finally got my shit together. But then 2025 came around like, hold my beer, so here's where it gets messy. In January 2nd, exactly two years after I got the house, my Aunt Dolores start sending me these unhinged letters. Full-on handwritten rants calling me a thief, a liar, and, a disgrace to the family name, girl, what family name? We're not the Rockefellers.

I didn't even know people still wrote letters. Like, ever heard of texting, Dolores. Then out of nowhere, my cousin Tony shows up. You know Tony, the one who went away for a while, aka served time for something I'm not legally allowed to say out loud. He pulls up in this beat-up car, looking like a discount Danny Zucco from Greece, slicked back hair and everything, and he starts yelling about a napkin will. Yeah.

A napkin will. Apparently, Uncle Frank wrote a second will on a goddamn napkin at some family barbecue back in the day. According to Tony, this napkin says he gets the house if he manages to to stay out of trouble until 2025. And wouldn't you know it, the bastard somehow kept his nose clean just long enough to cash in. We take this whole circus to court, and I'm sitting there thinking there's no way in hell a napkin counts as a legal document.

But these judges? They look at this grease-stained scrap of paper and go, seems legit, girl. I wanted to scream. Anyway, I started packing up Uncle Frank's old crap, bitter as hell. That's when things went for messy to straight up unhinged. I found this weird garden map stuffed inside a book about tax fraud, because of course Frank owned a book about tax fraud. At first, I thought it was just some cute old man hobby thing,

like, here's where the tulips go. But oh no. Turns out the backyard isn't just a backyard. It's a freaking family cemetery. Yeah. You read that right. Great Aunt Mabel. She's under the roses.

Been there since 82. Cousin Pete. R.I.P. 95. Uncle Frank himself. He's six feet under the herb garden. Which suddenly explained why my basil was thriving. And that's not even the craziest part. Aunt Dolores, remember her.

Miss, you're a thief, had been running some shady tax scam for years. She registered the backyard as a family cemetery to avoid paying property taxes. Like, she literally buried relatives to dodge the IRS. There's even a handwritten list of all the residents. Aunt Martha, 1978, choked on her pie lies, what? Cousin Joey, 1989, death by martini and taxi, sound suspicious a.F. Uncle Frank, 23, natural causes, sure, Jan. The drama. So yeah, Tony got the house.

Congrats, bro. But what he doesn't know is he also inherited Brooklyn's most illegal garden party. And me? Well, I've got receipts. Literal receipts. I'm talking decades of sketchy tax documents, notes about fake funerals, and a whole ass map showing where every relative is planted. So now I'm sitting here, plotting my next move.

Because here's the thing, the IRS loves a good tax scandal. And nothing screams, family legacy, quite like a backyard full of dead relatives and decades of financial fraud. I might have lost the house, but I'm about to win the war. And girl, that's the T. The end. All right, people. I have a true story for you all. One about the day I met the Brazilian girl, I'm French, for whom I learned Portuguese.

and eventually moved to Brazil. Though I may have learned a full language and crossed an ocean for that woman, this date will go down in history as one of the cringiest ever. You've been warned. Paris saw me arrive at 8 a.m. Sharp to pick up the Brazilian girl. Alas, no matter how well I explained the concept of the or liable to Antony's station, confusion set in even as she disembarked. By some divine miracle, other citizens of her country suddenly appeared along the way to lend her a hand. Eventually, Raphaella arrived in Antony in total serenity. Except that Antony is a big place. I found myself looking for her in the station for easily half an hour.

As it turned out, we were on the same platform, but because it was so long, we were on opposite sides. So we were off to a great start. It was at this precise moment that I was reminded of an essential piece of information, I'm terribly uncomfortable when I spend time with someone new. Add to this my relative mastery of her native language, and the nightmare could begin. When she found me, lost on the platform, all hell broke loose. Hi, Lucy. Oh, hi, Raphaella.

In a panic, I held out my hand. She pulled me into a hug. We hug to say hello, can you repeat that? I don't understand, a brachgo. Hug, she said, in broken English. Oh, yes. Hug. I got it. Silence settled in.

underscore quick. Don't let the unease said in underscore. Would you like a coffee? I bought you one. Oh, no thanks. underscore be creative, Lucy. Pull yourself together. She's come to see you, underscore. Did you have a good trip? Otherwise. Yes, it was quiet. But it's cold. It's what? cold. Oh, you're cold. Do you want me to take you to your hotel? To drop off your bags,

in the metro, the level of discomfort was reaching Everest highs. When Raphaela tried to talk to me, I petrified, when I wanted to chat, the word stuck in my throat. When we arrived at our charming station, we had to move aside, the armed forces were having a lively raid. Now, the problem was that I'd promised to guide her around Paris. Except that that, I knew nothing about Paris. And Google Maps had passed the word to give Lucy the wrong instructions. That's how we ended up walking more than 20 kilometers the first day. It took us four metros, and three hours, to find.

The Eiffel Tower. It's a good thing she's little, eh, gives you an excuse. Meanwhile, my brain had woken up. I was making attempts at conversation as we went round in circles. But if I was regaining energy, Raphaella was losing some in return, she was suffering a monstrous flu and swallowing cough syrup by the bucketful. When we reached the Eiffel Tower, we sat down again, still in silence. I was horrified.

I was a bad host, she must hate me. Why couldn't I be as natural as I was on WhatsApp? Poor thing, she must have been living a nightmare. in an unfamiliar country, with an unfamiliar language, and with a stranger who behaved suspiciously. It was time to ask for help. Yes, Valentin. Are you in Paris as planned? Yes. How are things going with your Brazilian?

Terrible. I'm uncomfortable. It's hell. Would you like to have a drink with me tonight? A beer might help you relax. I turned to Raphaela, patiently sitting on her bench, gazing at the Eiffel Tower. Say, I've got a friend who's asked us out to the bar tonight. Do you want to come along? Of course, but are you sure? If you're too sick or something, don't force yourself.

I left her a way out. She didn't take it. I'm sure. That is, if you don't mind me coming along, yes, totally. I just don't want you to feel obliged to do anything. Don't worry, Lucy. You know I'm having a good day, right? Ah, but that was without taking into account my dubious sense of direction.

We set off again, heading for the bar. Along the boulevards, the cars passed by, non-stop. We could no longer take the metro. Raphaelah was running out of money, and wouldn't let me buy her a ticket. So we kept walking. My feet were killing me, I distracted myself by making my crush talk. Would you like to try a croissant? There's nothing more French than that. We've got croissons too, Ichem.

What are they like, filled with cheese? That should be forbidden. They're delicious. It's criminal. Our debate continued in the bakery where we were taking a break. Raphaela had ordered fries for me. Leaning over the table that separated us, we stared into each other's eyes. She seemed to dare me to contradict her. The tension was building. But it felt good, more like an electric massage, a spark, instead of a shock. underscore it's certainly all in your head, Lucy underscore. Excuse me, but Brazil isn't known for its cuisine, is it? Are you kidding?

Brazilian cuisine is the best. What do you eat, besides rice and beans? Do you do anything else besides smoking? We drink, too. We have good red beers. What do you mean, red, cherry beers? I'll buy you one at the bar. You can't leave without a taste. We set off again, energized.

We landed in a square where we were to wait for Valentin. Time passed. It went on and on. In the square, the wind was blowing. It was getting dark, and I was chain-smoking the night away, more French than France itself. I sat three meters away from Raphaella, not a fan of cigarettes. There she was, resting on her bench, shivering in the pre-examining in the Parisian air. I'm cold. Damn. Damn. Valentine. Damn me, too, and my rotten plans. I didn't want her to hate me any more than necessary. I refused to see her suffer because of me. Do you want my jacket?

I don't need it. No, it's all right. I'm just cold. But I'm fine. We stood there, waiting for Valentin, stuck in the capital's traffic jams. Raphaela was trembling, several meters away from me. I didn't know what to do. I prayed Valentin would arrive soon. When he finally arrived, I couldn't even feel the pain in my hands anymore. We made our way to the bar. To our disappointment, there was no red beer on offer.

Raphaelah had to make do with a classic IPA, between two glasses of cough syrup. Exhausted, we climbed into Valentin's car at the end of the end of the evening. But he wasn't going to let me admit defeat so easily. Would you like me to take you to see the monuments? It's beautiful at night. Rafaela, Valentin offers to take us for a ride in his car. The Eiffel Tower is beautiful, apparently, at night. Would you like to come? Yes, definitely, are you sure? If you're too tired, we'll drop you back at your hotel. Nah, I really want to see Paris by night. Valentine, it's okay, she wants to go for a ride. Can you ask her to put on some Brazilian music? Rafaelo was happy to choose the playlist. As the music she'd already sent me circulated in the car,

she fell asleep on her window seat. The melody lulled her to sleep, as did my awkward silence. I sucked, she'd never want to see me again. She certainly didn't share my feelings. When the Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, I decided to wake her up. up. I shook her arm in the back seat. Raphaela? We're at the Eiffel Tower. Incredible. The Brazilian detached herself, sliding across the seat to my side. Her head came closer to my shoulder, to better see the monument. A soft love song in Portuguese kept us company. The alarm began to sound in the car. Oh, someone's not wearing a seatbelt, said Valentin. Go back to your seat, you need to buckle up.

Brilliant. I was brilliantly stupid. So Raphaelah went back to sleep, and we finished our journey to her hotel, where she promptly got off. Only to come back and give me a hug. It was great fun. Thanks for spending the day with me, I could only interpret that one way. She'd ruined her first day in Paris, and I'd ruined our friendship. She would never contact me again. So I walked defeatedly back to my hotel. Once inside, I counted my pennies.

I was running out of money. Paris had cost me too much. Panic returned with a vengeance, invading my whole being. It was the middle of the night. How could I get home? Valentin was sleeping at a friend's house. I was stuck. I was going to end up sleeping on the street.

I called my mother. She left me stranded. miraculously, I found a few bills in my pocket. Emptying my bank account, I managed to finance my hotel room. I went upstairs to lie down, and let tears guide me to sleep. When I woke up, I was surprised to find a message from Raphaela. She asked me to meet her at the Saker Kerr, to spend the day together. The sun was now shining mercilessly on Pan Am, as we French call the capital.

Covered in sweat, I went to join my cry. in front of the Basilica. Raphaela held out her arms to me. I cut the hug short, stinking already. So, what do you want to do today? I'd like to see the Louvre. Let's go, then, on the road, we talked. Raphaelah was cold, I was hot.

She thought it was funny that we beheaded kings, I told her that Louis 14 probably didn't find it amusing. Nope, I wasn't better at history than at dating. Finally, we saw the pyramid appear before our very eyes. The Brazilian was taking photos, and a passerby asked me to hold her cell phone. I took the opportunity to escape my creeping anxiety of not knowing how to resume the conversation. Could you tell me which French song would go with this story? Raphaela didn't let me get lost in my futile panic.

What kind of music are you thinking of? I don't know, something that makes sense. I've got mostly shrinks, on my inn. Instagram. Oh, wait up. Didn't you want to see some psychoanalyst's plaque before you left? Yes. But if we don't have the time, it's okay. My crush was due to leave at the end of the day. I glanced at Google Maps. Miracle, the plate was 10 minutes away. I wasn't going to disappoint her again. We walked briskly to our destination. Raphaela smiled, taking the pose in front of the plaque. I smiled to see her smile.

But before long, I became dismayed again. We were back in front of the metro. It was time to say goodbye. I was already awkward with hellos. I was a thousand times worse at goodbyes. Raphaela offered me a final hug. When she pulled away, she planted herself in front of me and stared into my eyes. You know, I'm really glad you came to keep me company.

I really enjoyed spending those two days with you. Really, it's been great. I'm delighted to know you, and I hope we'll meet again, in Paris, or in Brazil. Because next time, it's your turn to visit me. I was in a panic. She was so cute. I didn't know what to say. Same here.

Have a good trip, bye, and I turned on my heels, walking back through the crowd to a deserted bench where I could cry my heart out. Yep, this is actually how it went LMAO. You know the worst part. Raphaela missed her plane. She had to pay another ticket. As for me, I went back to school in order to go to Brazil and escape my very tortured French fate at the same time. I did live in Brazil for nearly a year, and I went though, let's say, some interesting dates there as well. Including, with Raphaela herself.

Now, if you're all interested in discovering more horror stories, stories from the most useless lesbian ever, you can do just that by reading my memoir, available over here, in both English or French, in case some wild Frenchies passing through. You may find it hilarious at times, but beware, it's mostly revolting. Though, I guess you'll understand why I was so avoidant with Raphaella. So, whether you want to laugh, cry, cringe, or just help out a fellow lesbian go on a few more hilarious dates, I'll tell you all about it, I swear, then don't hesitate to get my book or just share the word about it. My name's Tiana Wallace. I'm 32 years old, and for the past

10 years, I've been a detective, not your average one either. I specialize in cold cases, the kind no one wants to touch anymore. The thing is, I didn't get into this line of work for fame or glory. I did it for one reason, to find out who murdered my father. You might have heard of him, he was the infamous B.I.G. March 1997. The month my life changed forever. I was just a toddler, barely three years old, sitting on my father's lap in the front seat of a car in Los Angeles. A trip that was supposed to be fun turned into a nightmare I still live in every day. My dad had been paranoid that entire week. Kept saying someone was out to get him for the murder of Tupac Shakur.

Everyone on the West Coast thought he had something to do with it, even though there were plenty of reasons to believe he didn't. There were alibis, witnesses, people who knew better, but that didn't matter. Rumors spread like wildfire, and my dad. He was already drowning in them. He kept going back and forth about returning to Brooklyn. Said L.A. wasn't safe for him anymore. I remember sitting beside him, not understanding much of what was going on, but I could tell he was scared. He didn't say it out loud, but you could feel it in the air, thick and cold like fog.

Then it happened. The night of March 9, 1997. We were at a party earlier, some Vibe magazine thing. Then we left. I was dozing off in his lap when the shots rang out. Four of them. Loud. Close.

Defening. People screamed. The whole world was. stopped. And just like that, my dad was gone. He was declared dead at 1.12 a.m. I cried so hard that night, not because I understood death, but because he stopped moving. I remember shaking him, begging him to wake up. Daddy, please. Don't go yet. But he did. My mom was just 23. She was a wreck. Grandma tried to hold it together for all of us, but I could see the pain in her eyes every time someone said his name. My dad was gone, and no one knew who pulled the trigger.

Or maybe they did, and just didn't care enough to find out. Years passed. I grew up surrounded by his music, his image, his legacy. And every time someone mentioned his death, I felt this fire inside me. That fire pushed me to become a detective. I trained hard, busted my ass, and eventually joined the force. Solved case after case. My record.

85% clearance on unsolved murders. Not to brag, but I was damn good. Still, one case haunted me, my father's. I officially opened my own investigation in 2018. Took a deep dive into the files, the old witness statements, all the rumors and theories. East Coast versus West Coast. Bad Boy versus Death Row. FBI surveillance.

LAPD corruption. It was like trying to untangle a web made of smoke. At first, it was all dead ends. Then one day, on a completely unrelated raid, I found something. We had a warrant to search the house of a retired LAPD officer. The guy was being investigated for drug possession and accusations of a insulting students back in the late 90s. Just a dirty cop, washed up and hiding out in a dusty house with too many secrets.

While going through his stuff, I found a drawer locked tight. Picked it open and found a note inside. A yellowed piece of paper, folded and stuffed between old paperwork. It read, Kill that fat ass quick. He knows too much about what I did to two-pack. He'll expose me quick. Signed, Sean Conn. Dated, March 4, 1997. Five days before my father was murdered. I stared at it for a long time.

The writing was sloppy, rushed. But the message was clear. And just like that, puzzle pieces started clicking together. I remembered the blue steel pistol that was reported missing around that time, by Sean himself. The suit Sean had supposedly gifted to a fan shortly before the murder. The strange behavior in interviews, the tears that seemed fake in old footage. Suddenly, everything felt like a setup. I pulled every string I had. We tested the suit found at an old memorabilia auction, the one people thought was just a collector's item. It still had fingerprints.

The same prints matched Shons, and guess what? They were dated from the exact day of the murder. He hadn't worn gloves. From there, it all unwrable. Turns out, Sean was more involved in both Tupac's and my father's murders than anyone had guessed. He played everyone. Made it seem like he was grieving, like he was mourning. All the while, he was pulling the strings.

The man in the old video crying over my dad. Not Sean. Just some dude who looked like him, a fan of my father paid off to play the role. We raided Sean's house. more evidence, journals, notes, even a burner phone with messages tracing back decades. He thought he was untouchable. He thought no one would ever dare come after him. But he didn't count on me.

I'd been waiting my whole life for this moment. We gathered enough to indict him not just for conspiracy to murder my father, but for Tupac's murder too. When the trial came, people finally saw who he really was. A businessman. Not a producer. Not a victim. But a manipulative, calculated killer who had everyone fooled.

The actual shooters. They got 20 years each, old guys now, barely able to walk. But Sean. He got sentenced to over a thousand years. Not just for murder, but for obstruction, manipulation, and decades of hidden crimes. Justice didn't come fast, but it came. 28 years later, I finally closed the case. I finally gave my father peace.

I stood at his grave the day after the sentencing and whispered, We did it, Daddy. I got him, I didn't cry. Not because I wasn't sad. I just felt, finished. Like I could finally breathe. Later that week, I visited Grandma Violetta's grave. She had passed just three months before the case closed.

I had wanted her to see it, to know justice was served, but life's cruel like that. I brought her flowers and sat by her side. Grandma, I whispered, I did it. I solved who killed your son, and for a moment, I swear I could hear her say, I knew you would, baby, so now here I am. 32 years old, with the one goal of my life finally achieved. And I'm asking myself, what now, I don't know the answer yet. Maybe I'll keep solving cold cases. Maybe I'll take a break.

Or maybe I'll write a book. But one thing's for sure, I won't ever stop fighting for the truth. Because I'm Tiana Wallace, daughter of the infamous B-I-G, and this detective doesn't quit. The E-N-D, but not really. All right, so let me just start off by saying that last year was hands-down the worst year of my life. Like, no exaggeration. My name's Aaron, I'm 19 now, and I'm still trying to piece myself back together, mentally, emotionally, and physically, after what happened.

I wasn't even doing anything wild or reckless. I wasn't out partying or doing something dumb like people assume when they hear, teen car accident. I was literally just crossing the Dam Street. It was a regular day. I was walking across this intersection, had the little white pedestrian sign flashing at me, and I swear to God I thought I was safe. I had the right of way. But out of nowhere, like some kind of nightmare,

a truck came barreling down the road going about 60 kilometers per hour. That's like 37 miles per hour for my American friends, but trust me, fast enough to destroy a human body. The moment it hit me felt like slow motion, but also so fast I didn't even have time to scream. The impact sent me flying, I'm not kidding, like 40, feet across the intersection. People later told me it was like something out of a movie, but I don't remember hitting the ground. Thank God I don't remember that part because apparently,

I landed hard enough that the sound made people run out of nearby shops. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. Everything hurt. My entire body felt like it had been ripped apart and stitched back together with barbed wire. They told me later that I had so many injuries it was a miracle I survived, my femur was snapped clean in half, I had seven broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion so bad they were worried about brain damage, and two nasty cracks in my skull. The artery in the back of my neck, the one that supplies blood to the brain, was almost ruptured. They said if it had burst, I would have been gone instantly. I had emergency surgery right away to fix my leg. They put a rod in there with three screws to hold everything together.

I spent two full weeks in that hospital, and it felt like two years. During those two weeks, my hospital room turned into Grand Central Station. I had so many visitors, family, friends, neighbors, even people I hadn't spoken to in forever. My parents were there every single day, switching off on who slept in the uncomfortable chair beside me. It sounds sweet and don't get me wrong, I appreciated it, but as the days passed, I started noticing some weird dynamics. Before my accident, I had been taking a year off school to work and save up for university. That plan flew out the window after I got hit. Obviously. I couldn't even walk,

let alone work. So my parents set up a go-fund me for me, and people donated over $10,000. That blew my mind. I cried reading the messages and seeing how many people cared. I sent out dozens of thank you texts and messages because I felt so incredibly grateful. But here's where things got, complicated. At first, my parents seemed like angels. They were helping me shower, feeding me, holding my hand through pain so intense I can't even describe it. But slowly, I realized they were taking a lot of credit for the kindness people were showing me. Every gift I received, every card, every donation, they acted like it was because they had told people about my situation. Then I found out they took $2,000 from my GoFundMe for gas money, because they've been

driving back and forth to the hospital. I mean, really. I get that gas is expensive and all, but $2,000 for two weeks of driving in Canada. Nah. Something about that felt wrong. And I couldn't even say anything without feeling like an ungrateful brat because, yeah, they did a lot for me. But still, that money was meant to help me get back on my feet. And it gets worse. They kept posting pictures of me on Facebook. Photos I hated. I begged them not to.

I was in the ER looking like a corpse, bloody, swollen, tubes coming out of me. I hadn't even processed what had happened to me, and they were out here posting sob stories about how traumatizing it was for them. Like, okay, mom and dad, I get that it was scary watching your daughter almost die. I'm not denying that. But you didn't get hit by a truck. You didn't break half your bones and almost bleed out on the street.

You didn't have to relearn how to walk or spend months depending on other people to help you pee. And that's the thing. They never asked me how I was feeling. Not once. They never asked if I was scared, or angry, or depressed. They never asked if I wanted therapy. They went to therapy, though. Both of them.

I found out later they'd been seeing a counselor about how hard this was for them. Me? I signed myself up for therapy. Found my own counselor. Paid for it with my own money. Because I couldn't take how alone I felt in my own trauma. Two months after I got home, I still couldn't walk without help. My parents acted like I should have been grateful for all they did for me.

And yeah, I was. But I also felt humiliated. Needing help to shower, to dress, to cook, when you're as independent as I was before, that's soul-crushing. Even now, whenever people ask about the accident, my parents always chime in first. They go on about how terrifying it was for them. How much it hurt them to see me like that. They don't even mention how it affected me. They don't mention the panic attacks I still get every time I'm.

hear tires screech, or how I flinch crossing the street even when there are no cars around. They don't mention the nightmares where I'm flying through the air again, or the way I wake up drenched in sweat, crying. To them, I guess, I'm fine now because I'm alive. But surviving doesn't mean you're okay. So yeah, I'm thankful. I really am. But I can't stop feeling like my parents used my accident as their emotional spotlight. Like my trauma became their Facebook content. I'll never forget scrolling one day and seeing my mom post a picture of me half-conscious in the ICU with the caption, Our Strong Girl, We Almost Lost Her.

This has been the hardest time of our lives, our lives. Not my life. That stung more than any broken bone. It's been over a year now. I can walk again, but it's not the same. There's this constant ache in my leg where the rod is. My ribs still hurt when it's cold. And my mental scars.

They're worse than any of the physical ones. I don't know if I'll ever fully forgive my parents for how they handled all of this. I know they love me. I know they didn't mean to make it worse. But part of me still feels like my pain became their hobby. And every time I see those photos of me, pale and broken in a hospital bed, posted for all their friends to see, I feel like I was dehumanized. I wasn't their daughter in those moments. I was their story. So yeah, that's my tale. I'm still trying to

figure out how to heal, not just from the truck, but from everything that came after. I'm alive. I survived. But sometimes surviving feels like the easy part. All right, so I've had my fair share of bizarre, messed up nightmares over the years. You know, the kind that jolt you awake in a cold sweat, heart-pounding, confused whether it was just a dream or some kind of warning from the universe. Most of them fade away with time, like blurry pictures in the back of your mind. But there's one, oh man, there's one, that stuck with me like glue. It wasn't just a dream. It felt like something out of a messed up Silent Hill game. And I still remember every single detail like it happened last night. It started in this dark, unfamiliar room. Everything

around me was blurry and off, like the air itself was sick. I got to my feet, a little dizzy, trying to get my bearings. I squinted through the dimness and realized I was standing in the middle of a toy store. Yeah, a toy store. One that clearly hadn't seen customers in a long time. Dust-coated everything, and shelves of broken dolls, plastic dinosaurs, and creepy-stuffed animals surrounded me. The kind of place that should have brought back childhood memories, but instead, it just made my skin crawl. Then I heard it. A strange scratching noise. Not like a mouse or something innocent, no, this sounded big. Way bigger. Like insect legs on metal, echoing through the shelves.

I froze, holding my breath, and tried to see what it was. Something moved in the darkness. Slow, deliberate, spider-like. A figure crawled across the shelving units. Human-shaped, yeah, but definitely not human. It was about the size of a person, maybe taller. Its limbs were, wrong. Long, red, root-like tendrils replaced arms and legs,

moving with terrifying precision. I backed away, terrified, and stumbled around the end of one shelf, only to see a girl. Maybe 18 or 19, crouched down, surrounded by these red tendril monsters. My stomach dropped. They looked like corpses, no eyes, no tongues, just bloody muscle and skin stretched over bone, with those tendrils whipping around like spider legs. Before I could even blink, they leapt on her, all at once. The way she screamed still echoes in my head.

I couldn't save her. There was nothing I could do. I just turned and ran. The monsters shifted their focus to me, and I could hear their spindly limbs dragging across the tile floor behind me. I didn't know where to go, just that I had to get out. I spotted the front window, shattered but big enough to crawl through. I doved through it and hit the sidewalk outside.

But I wasn't safe. Not even close. The city was worse than the store. Every building was decaying, overrun with thick, red roots like vein stretching up the walls. It was like the whole world had been infected by some living nightmare. That's when I saw it, something I'll never forget. A doll's head lying in the middle of the street. Just sitting there, staring up at me.

Except, it started moving. Roots exploded out from its neck stump, writhing and twisting. One of its eyes popped out, and underneath. More roots. The thing screamed. Not like a baby doll. Like a bug from hell. Then came the stampede.

I turned and saw a swarm of those root-limbed creatures pouring out of the buildings, out of the sewers, out of the cracks in the street. All of them headed straight for me. I ran like hell. Didn't think I could run that fast. I weaved through ruined streets, ducking and leaping over debris, but they were right on my heels. Every time I looked back, they were gaining. I turned a corner and slammed straight into a dead end.

My chest tightened. I spotted a nearby apartment building that somehow still looked intact. I sprinted to the door, flung it open, and slammed it shut behind me. I heard them pounding against it, screeching, and clawing. I locked it and shoved a heavy dresser in front of it. My breath was ragged, my hands trembling. Then, silence. Just like that. The pounding stopped, and I heard the scurrying grow distant. I looked around. I was in what looked like a dark living room. Faint light poured through a cracked window. That's when I heard something sniffing. Not footsteps.

sniffing. I turned my head slowly, and nearly screamed. There was this, dog. Or something that used to be a dog. Pale blue skin, hairless, covered in veins that throbbed like it was breathing through them. Its head was mostly consumed by some kind of pulsating tumor, and instead of front legs, it had mantis-like claws. And it was sniffing around, getting closer.

I crept backward, trying not to make a little. a sound. But the bolt on the door was jammed. I fumbled with it, praying under my breath. The creature growled. I gave up on the door and lunged for the window next to it. I got it open and dove out just as the thing lunged. I slammed the window shut behind me and turned to run, and came face to face with a little girl. She was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. No older than 10, wearing a long blue and white dress. Her hair was curly and blonde, her skin pale like porcelain. She didn't look at me. She just stared down at the ground. I tried speaking to her, but she didn't respond. Then she looked up, not at me, but at the apartment window I just escaped

from. And then, I saw it. Inside the apartment, not ruined anymore, the same little girl was sitting on a couch, cradled in her mother's arms. The woman looked to be in her 30s, in a yellow dress, same blonde hair, same blue eyes. A peaceful moment frozen in time. Was I looking at the past? A memory? But then I turned back to the little girl in front of me, and something had changed. Her skin was even paler. Her eyes were white now, ringed in black. Her dress was torn and bloodied. She looked right through me, her expression hollow. I didn't understand. Was she causing all of this?

Was I trapped in her world? I had so many questions. But then I woke up. For context, I'm 17. Raised Catholic. I live with my parents and my blind grandmother. That night, I'd had a hell of a week, school, work, stress, you name it. I was worn down.

My parents were going out and asked if I wanted to come along. I said no. Just wanted to crash early. They left around 6.30 p.m., and I passed out shortly after. What happened next felt too real. I woke up in a panic. Something felt wrong. My stomach churned.

I couldn't explain it, I just knew something bad would happen if I stayed in bed. I got up and stepped into the hallway. That's when I saw it. A black dog. Bigger than any normal dog. Eyes glowing yellow. Just standing there, staring. It growled low and deep, bearing its teeth.

I backed away toward my room. Then, without warning, it stopped, turned around, and disappeared into the darkness. And then, a black hole opened where it had stood. Out of it crawled this woman, scratched up, bleeding. hair hanging over her face. Her arms stretched unnaturally wide as she dragged herself out of the portal. Her face was twisted. She crawled toward me, fast.

I slammed the door and dove under my blankets. And then I woke up. For real, this time. Or so I thought. I checked the time, 8 p.m. I was still freaked out, but I figured I'd waited out until my parents got back. Shouldn't be long now. Then I heard the garage door open.

They were home. Relief flooded me. I heard the shuffle of their shoes, my dad kicking his off like always. Their voices, muffled but familiar, came from the kitchen. I almost got out of bed. Almost. But something held me back. Something felt, off.

I listened. Heard my mom opening cabinets. heard my dad walking across the floor toward the living room. And then, silence. I checked the time again. 8.30, 30 minutes had passed. But now. No sound.

No voices. Nothing. I wanted to cry. It was like they'd vanished into thin air. Then I heard my grandmother's door open. She was heading to the bathroom. I bolted out of bed, half expecting to see the black dog again. But it was just her.

Our mom and dad home? I asked. She looked confused. No. I haven't heard a thing, my stomach dropped. That wasn't them. Whatever was in our house, mimicking them, it wasn't them. I went back to my room and tried to forget.

A few weeks passed, and I thought I was done with the nightmare. But then. One night I had another. I was lying in bed when the woman, the bloody one, pinned me down. Her eyes stared into mine. She sang something in a strange language, her voice deep and demonic. Her grin was pure evil. I panicked. Started praying out loud. Her grin twisted into a snarl. She got angry, but she was scared too. My prayer. made her recoil. I shouted louder, heart racing. She screamed and was suddenly yanked off of me by something I couldn't see. I woke up gasping. A few days later, I came home with my parents. I went to check on my grandma. She looked terrified. Did you come home earlier? She asked. No, why? I heard your parents talking in the kitchen, but then, it just stopped. I didn't know what to say. But I knew I wasn't crazy. Something was happening.

Something real. Funny how the best parts of your dreams fade like morning fog, but the nightmares? They stay. Like scars. On the morning of my 23rd birthday, I woke up from another horrific nightmare. In this one, I lived in a huge, beautiful house, middle of nowhere. Swimming pool. Fancy cars.

Everything should have felt perfect. My friends and family were there. I think I was showing them around. But something was off. To be continued. All right, buckle in, this dream I had still clings to me like a second skin. It starts out almost like a fantasy. I was living in this massive house, the kind that makes you feel like you've finally made it.

Middle of nowhere, endless green stretching for miles, not a neighbor in. sight. It was my personal kingdom. Huge garage full of sleek cars, a crystal clear swimming pool in the backyard reflecting the sun, and all of it felt like it was mine. Like I'd earned it. I don't remember how the dream started, but at one point, I was walking around this dream mansion giving a grand tour. Friends, family, co-workers, people from all over my life were there. The mood was light, kind of like a reunion. I remember Gretchen from Mean Girls was my girlfriend in the dream, and yeah, she wouldn't leave my side.

Kept planting these long kisses on my cheek like we were inseparable. The tour moved through the house, but the energy shifted as we got to the basement. That's where things got weird. There was a party going on down there, game room lit up, an open bar glowing with bottles, music thumping, people laughing. I was the host of the century. Everyone loved me. Or at least, that's what it felt like.

But then, at the far back of the basement, there was this heavy wooden door. It looked old, like something out of a horror movie. Behind it was a massive room, cold, dark, and unnatural. It was like stepping into a forest at night, dirt floors, trees randomly growing from the ground, and a suffocating silence. And something lived in there. I called it Jason, not the Jason. not for he's, but something way worse.

Taller. Hungrier. Meaner. Jason didn't just kill. He tore people apart. Grabbed them from the shadows and stabbed over and over, dragging them into the void. I never knew why. Maybe to eat them, maybe to torture them.

Didn't matter. My role in the dream? I had to feed it. Feed Jason. Like, literally push people I knew into that room and slammed the door behind them. It sounds insane, I know. But that's what I did. I'd talk to someone, someone I genuinely knew from real life,

then guide them over, open the door, shove them in, and lock it. Then came the screams. Blood-curdling, bone-deep horror. But here's the messed up part, I didn't feel anything. No guilt, no remorse. Just another task on my to-do list. Like taking out the trash. Every ten minutes, I'd grab a drink, laugh with some friends, kiss Gretchen, then head back and toss another victim into the darkness.

Rinse and repeat. People didn't seem to notice. Like they were under a spell or something. But the pressure was always there. If Jason wasn't satisfied, if he didn't get enough, something bad would happen. Eventually, after who knows how many people I fed to him, I went upstairs and took Gretchen to the bedroom. For a moment, it was just us.

Quiet, safe. But then she said, why is it so cold in here? And that's when it hit me. The basement door. It was open. I shot up, heart pounding, and bolted downstairs. The house was empty. Totally silent.

All the party guests gone. No screaming. Just, nothing. The basement door was wide open, swinging slightly. I didn't see Jason, but I knew he was there. I could feel it. Gretchen followed me down, asking what was going on, panicked. And I, God help me, I shoved her in two.

Just like the rest. Slammed the door shut and backed away, trembling. And then the door exploded. Jason came out. Mask over the top half of his face, mouth open wide with these jagged, animalistic fangs. There was a glowing pentagram carved into his chest, and in his hand, a giant butcher knife. He swung at me, and I ran. Barely made it upstairs.

He slashed through the door and sliced a chunk off my hand. I was bleeding everywhere, in agony. I thought about escaping out the front door, but my hand was useless. I couldn't grip the lock. Then I looked outside and saw bits of my friend strewn across the yard. Torn limbs, blood, unrecognizable bodies. I panicked, scrambled up to the attic, and locked myself in. Darkness again.

Then I remembered, something else lived in the attic. Something I hadn't fed. Before I could move, I could move, I was. I heard it. Scuttling across the beams. A massive spider-like creature descended, grabbed me, and hoisted me into its web. I felt my skin tear, my muscles scream. That's when I woke up. Frashing. Drenched in sweat. My heart was trying to escape my chest. But that wasn't even the worst dream I've had. Once, I dreamed I was locked inside a giant metal incinerator. Like the ones They use in crematoriums.

I could feel the cold steel walls pressing against me, the ash brushing against my palms. I couldn't stretch out. Couldn't move. I felt like I was going to suffocate. Then this little window near my face slid open, and a clown appeared. Not a funny one. This thing had red glowing eyes, was foaming at the mouth, and laughed like it was high on madness. How badly do you want to live, he asked.

Then he started bombarding me with the worst questions imaginable. Would I kill my mother? Would I make her suffer? Would I poison a child? Each time, I screamed, yes, begging for release. He laughed harder every time I said it. Told me to describe in detail how I'd do it, like some twisted interview from hell. I was sobbing.

He was poking at my head, mocking me. Finally, he asked, would you kill me to escape? I screamed N.O. He burst out laughing, called me stupid, then said, then you burn, and slammed the window shut. I felt the heat start rising. Flames creeping up my legs, and then I woke up. That dream? That dream stuck with me for weeks.

But the last one, this last nightmare. It haunts me more than all the rest. I just got married, literally three days into it. We had postponed our honeymoon because I was sick. And that's when it came, in the middle of a fever dream. You ever seen the human centipede? If not, don't. But if you have, you'll get the vibe.

In this dream, my wife and I weren't exactly stitched like in the movie, but our bodies had been melted together in these grotesque ways. My left arm was fused into her back, her right arm wrapped unnaturally around mine, and part of my arm was molded into her leg. The skin looked like melted plastic molded by a sadistic sculptor. They, whoever they were, released us from a cage with a shotgun aimed at our faces. Told us to run. In the distance, dogs barked.

Loud. Savage. We were being hunted. We tried to stand, but our bodies could. couldn't cooperate. My wife is shorter, and the imbalance kept pulling us down. Every movement was pain. Eventually, we gave up trying to stand and just crawled, screaming at each other, flailing like a broken puppet. Then the hunter dropped a gun in front of us. One bullet, he said. Then walked off. We kept crawling, half-coordinated, our skin tearing where it was fused. We made

it maybe 40 yards before the dogs were almost on us. I panicked and dragged her behind the bush. She wouldn't stop screaming. Wouldn't shut up. So I did the unthinkable. I shot her in the head. Blood splattered everywhere. She went limp. I sat there, in shock, the barking getting closer. Then I just screamed. To be continued. All right, let me walk you through this crazy, messed up dream I had the other night. I don't care if it sounds like total nonsense, cause dreams don't care about logic. But something about this one stuck with me in a way that's hard to shake off.

I think there was something deeper in it, maybe some symbolic junk, or maybe it was just my brain melting. Either way, here goes. So it started off insane, right from the jump. Me and my wife were crawling. Literally crawling, on the ground, like animals. We were yelling at each other, desperately trying to get our bodies to sink up,

move together, escape something that felt like it was going to kill us. But no matter how hard we tried, our limbs just wouldn't cooperate. It was like being in a three-legged race from hell. We barely moved 50 yards before we heard the growling and barking of dogs. The panic set in immediately. I grabbed her arm and yanked her with me behind a bush. I was trying to to get us hidden, but she was screaming, loud, uncontrollably. It was like she forgot we were supposed to be hiding. And then, I can't believe I did this, even in a dream, I shot her in the head. The moment I pulled the trigger, this crushing sense of doom washed over me.

Not just because I'd killed her, but because now I had to deal with her dead body. It was heavy. Limp. Slowing me down. The dogs got to us. I felt their teeth sink into my flesh. I tried to fight. I really did.

Lost a couple fingers. Didn't even wake up when they were tearing chunks out of my legs. It was like my dream self just accepted it. And then a second hunter showed up. This guy had a rope. He tied it around my neck and started hoisting me and my wife's corpse up into a tree. Her body dangled beneath mine and I could feel every ounce of her weight dragging me down.

The hunter. He was laughing. Said maybe our bodies would rip apart if we hum long enough. I finally woke up, sweaty and panicking. First thing I did was slap my arms and legs to make sure I was all there. Still had fingers, still had flesh. But the part that messed me up the most wasn't even the gore or the dogs or the hunter, it was the fact that I shot her.

I didn't even hesitate. I don't know if I did it to stop her suffering or if I was just mad. That's the part one can't shake, the not knowing. Okay, so that's the first dream. But it wasn't the only one. Nope. I had another one not long after that, and if I'm being honest, this one was even weirder. This one started off in some downtown basketball court. The sun was out, beaming down like it was high noon. The place was completely empty, except for me. I'm not even athletic, man. Couldn't make a free throw if my life depended on it.

But there I was, just walking laps around the court. Chill at first. Then I turned a corner, and suddenly there were people everywhere. Like, out of nowhere. They were just standing around, all kinds of folks, old, young, middle-aged, people I swear I've never seen in my life. They were chatting amongst themselves, totally ignoring me. Except for this one dude. Big, bald, fat as hell, covered head to toe in tribal tattoos.

No shirt, got just flopping over some dirty old jeans. And his teeth, gold, all of them. He looked like a mob boss who moonlighted as a pro wrestler. And he just kept sidestepping toward me, this creepy little shuffle. Smile never left his face. It was so wrong, so out of place. I bolted past him, didn't even look back. That's when I noticed the court just, ended.

Like a glitch in a video game. Right at the edge was an ocean, deep and endless. A wooden boardwalk stretched out over the water, leading to two ships. One was a decent-sized houseboat. The other looked just like the Titanic, massive, almost a replica. Don't ask me why, but I'm not. I felt like I had to get on the Titanic. Like, there was some mission, some goal. So I headed for the staircase leading up to it. There was a line of people already boarding, all-normal

looking. At the top of the stairs stood this Jamaican dude in a slick suit, taking tickets. I realized I didn't have one. So I just stood off to the side, watching everyone else get on. Then, poof, I was on the houseboat. No idea how I was. I got there, but there I was. Someone on the boat started yelling like mad, the ships are still connected. Delay the departure. I looked over and saw these massive chains still linking the two vessels. Like industrial-sized, heavy-duty chains. But then the Titanic started moving. The engines fired up. A loud clanking rang out as the chains went taut. The whole ship began to rock, violently. And I mean, Titanic-sized ship, rocking back and forth like a damn rocking chair.

People were flying off the decks, screaming. Bodies hitting the water like rag dolls. Now, if you've ever imagined a cruise ship rocking back and forth like that, let me tell you, it's messed up. Totally breaks the laws of physics. But dreams, right? Don't care about logic. Eventually, all the chaos sent me overboard too. I plunged into that freezing water, and it felt like being dunked into death itself. It wasn't just cold, it was pure, black nothing. And it pulled at me, like a black hole. Everything nearby, debris, bodies, bubbles, got sucked down.

I looked around, and I swear, it was raining corpses. Hundreds, thousands of people, all drifting downwards. like leaves in the wind. But they weren't alive anymore. Their skin was rotting off, skeletons half exposed. One floated by me and its skull turned toward me, I sockets empty but still, looking. Then I saw my own hands.

Bones. Ribs visible. I could feel the water flow through the spaces where flesh used to be. I was turning into one of them. And the Titanic? That thing split clean in half, like a cracker, and both pieces dropped into the abyss below. Fast. Way faster than they should have.

They just vanished into that void. I tilted my neck upward, heard it crack, and saw the houseboat above, following everything else down. It was coming right for me. And just as it was about to smash me to bits, I woke up. I was drenched in sweat, heart going a mile a minute. I don't know what it all meant. Maybe nothing.

Maybe it was about losing control. Or maybe my brain was just spitting out every terrifying image it could find in storage. Still not sure. Oh, and then there was this other time. Shorter dream, but creepy as hell. I was in my bed. Totally normal. Everything felt real.

Then I noticed something, or someone, at the end of it. the bed. A figure. Masked. Just standing there, holding a flashlight. And then, boom, that light was shining right in my eyes. It felt too real to be a dream. I sat up, gasping. And just like that, the flashlight clicked off. Now we were both in the dark. I couldn't see him, but I heard him. He whispered, calm and quiet, there's always a reason to be afraid. And that was it. That was the last thing I heard before I really woke up. No more figure.

No flashlight. Just a voice stuck in my head. So yeah, maybe my brain's broken. Maybe I watched too many horror movies. Or maybe there's something deeper hiding in my subconscious. Either way, these dreams have been hanging over me like storm clouds, and I just needed to get it all out. If you've ever had something similar, something that shook you even after waking up, then you probably get what I'm saying.

But if not. Well, sleep tight. The end. The last stretch of road leading to the cabin looked like something from a postcard if that postcard was soaked in eerie, quiet and misty dread. The asphalt curled like a dark snake between the trees, slick with rain and layered with crumbling leaves in shades of red, gold, and brown. The mountains were bleeding autumn, and the whole place smelled like old wood and change. I glanced over at Clara, my girlfriend, sitting in the passenger seat.

She wasn't saying anything. Not a word since we left the gas station an hour back. Just sat there, staring out at the woods like something might leap out and drag us both into the underbrush. This trip was my idea. I thought, you know, a cozy little escape might help patch things up us. Lately, it felt like we were more strangers than partners. Arguments had become our love language. I wanted to remind us of who we were before life got complicated. So, I booked the cabin. No Wi-Fi, no cell reception, just us, a fireplace, and hopefully a shot at rediscovering

the spark. Almost there, I said, trying to sound upbeat. I reached for her hand. It was like ice. Not just cold, like she'd been holding a snowball for an hour. She didn't flinch, didn't even blink. Just us, she said, her voice flat, like she was reading a line from a script she didn't believe in. Her eyes didn't even flicker toward mine. They were glassy, like blue marbles that didn't reflect anything but light. I let go.

My hand tingled like it had fallen asleep. I shook it out and blamed the chilly drive. I blamed the altitude. I blamed anything but the growing, itchy feeling that something was off. Really off. When we finally pulled up, the cabin looked exactly like it had in the pictures, wood-paneled, stone chimney, surrounded by towering pines. Rustic and peaceful, like the cover of a camping magazine.

But standing on the porch, fumbling with the key, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Inside, it smelled like dust and something older. The kind of smell you imagine in rooms that haven't been open for decades. The fireplace was dark and yawning, like the mouth of a cave. I dropped our bags with a thud. Home sweet home, I joked, forcing a smile. Clara didn't respond. She had walked straight to the large picture window and was staring out into the trees.

She looked so small, so still. Her reflection in the glass barely even moved. Clara? I walked up behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders. Her sweater was colder than the cabin air. They're watching, she said, barely a whisper. I squinted into the trees. Nothing but shadows.

Who? The woods. They're watching. I chuckled nervously. You mean like deer. Squirrels. It's just the woods. Gets creepy when the sun goes down.

She didn't answer. Just said, I'm tired, and walked into the bedroom. That night, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I was underwater. I dreamed of drowning in freezing blackness, lungs full of ice, the weight of the world crushing my chest. I'd wake up gasping, sheets wrapped around my legs like seaweed. And each time, Clara would be sitting up beside me, perfectly still, staring at the bedroom door.

She never blinked. Never spoke. Just watched. The next morning, I made coffee. Strong and hot, trying to burn away the cold. Clara hadn't moved. She was back at the window, staring out. You want coffee?

She shook her head. I made toast. She didn't eat. You need to eat something. I'm not hungry. Her voice sounded further away. Like it was coming from the wrong side of the glass. Then she started to hum.

Not a song, not anything I recognized. Just a low, broken rhythm that sounded, wrong. Like a lullaby sung backwards. By noon, I needed air. Real air. Human contact. Something to shake the same. the creeping fog in my brain. I'm going up the drive, I told her, grabbing my jacket.

See if I can get a signal, call my parents. She nodded. Just barely. I walked until I got two bars. My phone lit up with texts and voicemails. Most from work, some from friends. But three were from Clara's mom. My stomach nodded. I tapped the voicemail icon. Her voice was cracked and trembling. Alex, please call me back. It's about Clara. I froze. The next message played automatically. She, she was in an accident, Alex. Tuesday afternoon. She never made it home. Oh God, Alex, she's gone. My ears rang. I checked the date. Today was Friday. I had picked Clara up Wednesday morning. I turned back toward the cabin, and there she was. In the window. Watching. I stumbled back down the driveway, tripping over rocks and roots. My brain was breaking itself into pieces trying to rationalize

what I was hearing. Maybe her mom was confused. Maybe she was confused. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe, maybe. I burst into the cabin. Clara. She stood in the center of the room, her head tilted at an impossible angle. Her eyes locked on mine, but they weren't her eyes anymore. Clara, your mom, she said you, did she? Her voice echoed. It wasn't empty. It was hollow. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. Her face cracked into a a grin. Too wide. Unnatural. I was. It was cold. In the water. That dream. The drowning. It hadn't been mine. Who are you? I whispered. She took a step. It wasn't walking. It was like she floated forward. You missed her so much, she said, voice doubling over itself.

You wanted her back. The room turned frigid. Frost spread across the windows like spiderwebs. You didn't care what answered. You just wanted her. Another step. Her form blurred, like a smudge on glass. Her mouth opened, wider than it should have, and the sound that came out wasn't a sound.

It was the cold wind through tombstones. Earth on a casket. And I was so, hungry. I turned, grabbing the doorknob. Locked. I yanked it. Pushed. Slanned my shoulder.

Behind me, click. The key. Turning in the lock. From the outside. I never saw what she became. I didn't have to. I felt the cold, the absolute absence of warmth, the collapse of every memory into something rotten and hollow. I made a wish.

Something answered. And now I know, some wishes come true. But they never come free. The end. When I tell people that I was once convinced I would become a serial killer, they either laugh awkwardly or get really quiet. I can't blame them. It's not exactly your everyday small talk.

But yeah, that was my reality for a long, terrifying chunk of my life. I've been diagnosed with Harm OCD. generalized anxiety disorder, antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and depersonalization slash derealization linked to PTSD. Heavy stuff, I know. But for about five years, I had no clue about any of this. Those five years? That's where most of this story takes place.

PTSD has basically always been with me, a nasty shadow that followed me around since childhood. But things really started to unravel when I got released from a mental institution at 16. Let's rewind a little, though. I was 15 when I downed a bunch of Xanax, mixed it with alcohol, and climbed to the top of a football stadium fully ready to jump. My home life? A mix of abuse and neglect. I never thought I'd see 18, and honestly, I didn't want to. Not back then.

It's hard to put into words what exactly changed in my life. head during my time locked up, but something definitely did. My sadness started warping into this cold, calculated, emotionless hate. That's when I got diagnosed with ASPD. I hit 16 and deep down, I was convinced that one day I was going to kill someone. I had spent a year in isolation, festering in pain and rage, and these mental illnesses started unfolding just in time to pretend like they were giving me purpose. I didn't understand that the thoughts weren't me. I just thought, well, this must be who I really am. Getting out didn't mean things got better. Nope. I was put on probation for a year and dumped back into my mom's house.

One of the first things I told her was, if you yell at me or lay a finger on me again, I'll kill you. I wasn't bluffing. She knew it, too. She stopped. But even though I never acted on it, I fantasized about killing her. A lot. I never did it because I knew if I did, I'd be caught. So my brain decided to evolve, why just kill once? Why not develop a plan to do it forever and never get caught? Here's the thing, thinking about murder didn't feel right.

It scared me, deeply. But there was this other voice, this version of me that got actual joy from the idea. It felt like my only shot at happiness. I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't ask for help. What if they locked me away again? What if they thought I was too dangerous to ever be free? I felt trapped.

And this other me kept whispering, kept nudging, and I kept listening. I stretched the planning out over two and a half years. I told myself, I'm not ready yet. When I'm done planning, then I'll act. When I turned 18, moved out, got my own place. And the plan? Finished. Suddenly, it was a lot harder to say no.

The homicidal thoughts. Non-stop. Literally every person I saw, my mind calculated how to end them. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe. Nothing helped. I tried every stress management technique out there. Nata.

So, I turned to psychedelics. I needed ego death. At least that's what people online said might help. So I dosed myself with LSD. Not just once. Seven tabs. Often. For a year, I danced on the edge of madness.

Sometimes it helped me understand myself better. Sometimes it made everything worse. But in the end, It gave me enough clarity to realize, I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to become a monster. That realization cracked open a door to therapy. And all this time, I looked normal. If you saw me on the street, I just looked like any other dude.

But inside, I was fighting this brutal, non-stop war against myself. When it felt like I was close to acting, I started practicing. I told myself it was just dry runs. Just prep. I'd pack a bag with spare clothes, change my look, and head out at midnight. First, I just walked. Studied routes. Noted camera placements.

Tracked police routines. Then it escalated, picking locks. Breaking in. I was on the edge. Any more and I probably would have crossed a line I could never uncross. Then one night, someone saw me sneaking around. an alley. They followed me. I changed clothes, ditched them, and walked home. That scared me straight. Not because I had a change of heart, because I didn't want people in my town recognizing me before the

real time came. Sick logic, I know. But that's how twisted my brain was back then. My coping mechanisms were toxic. I smoked three to four packs of cigarettes a day. Burned through an ounce of wheat a week. Went through two THC vape carts a month. Drink constantly. When that wasn't enough, I developed a short-lived but terrifying obsession with genocide. Yeah. I know. Horrific. But that's where my brain went. To maintain my illusion of normalcy, I made up three personas. My real name didn't exist. At work, I was chef, because I worked in a kitchen. And then there was he, hatred embodied. Whenever I felt the rage boil up, I chant to myself, you're not him right now.

You're not him. It wasn't working. So I added meth to the mix. That addiction lasted three months, but it changed everything. I was doing an eight ball a week before I finally snapped and threatened to kill my best friend of 14 years just because he told me I needed help. Then came the heart attack. I was 19. Lying there, heart racing, I was still hoping for death. I remember being in the hospital, begging the universe for cancer, just so I could finally

check out without pulling the trigger myself. That was my rock bottom. But it was also the beginning. After that, I got sober. Started therapy, told the whole damn truth. And slowly, I got better. Not perfect, but better. The thoughts didn't vanish overnight, but they stopped being constant. Instead of every few minutes, they hit maybe a couple times a day. Then at 20, I had a sudden psychotic break. I didn't mess around. I called the crisis hotline immediately.

Got escorted by cops to the ER. Then sent to another mental hospital. This one was better, the staff actually cared. I got proper diagnoses. Started meds. 1,800 milligrams of gabapentin daily. And for the first time ever, I could feel it, peace. The meds helped a ton.

I could go to the store without panicking. Be around people without wanting to hurt them. Sometimes I went days, even weeks, without a single violent thought. But more importantly, I finally understood. Those thoughts. They weren't me. They were misfires. A glitch.

A loop my brain was stuck in. I could live a normal life. I could actually be happy. My trauma, my conditions, they didn't define me. I escaped. Not by magic. But by psychedelics that cracked open the steel vault in my head. By therapy that helped me piece myself back together.

And by meds that kept the shadows at bay. Oh, and if you're wondering why I kept leaning into those dark thoughts. Simple. Fear. As messed up as it sounds, the idea of killing felt less scary than the idea of not killing. I was terrified that if I didn't give in, I'd snap and end my own life. That this other me would finally win. I genuinely believe those were my only two options, murder or self-destruction.

Asking for help didn't feel like a third option. Not with the way I was raised. Not with the way I saw the world. But now, I'm alive. I'm healing. I'm writing what feels like an autobiography for a psychological study. Trying to help researchers figure out how to treat people like me before it's too late. I'm also going to school to become a forensic psychologist.

Yeah, the guy who once thought about mass murder is now trying to save lives. irony's a funny thing. This whole post is kind of my trial run. If it resonates, maybe I'll keep going. Maybe I'll finally turn this mess into something that helped someone else. So there it is. My not-so-short story of almost becoming a killer, and how I fought my way back to the light. If you're still reading, thank you.

Really? The end. Or maybe just the beginning. So last June, I finally graduated high school. Big moment, right? But to be honest, I never really had a good time there. Making new friends? Yeah, that was never my strong suit.

I was always kind of awkward and stuck to myself. But quarantine changed things a bit. Out of boredom or loneliness, maybe both, I reconnected with a couple of old acquaintances from middle school, Kevin and John. Let me paint you a picture. Kevin. Dude's tall and big, like linebacker big. He's got this massive head that somehow looks even bigger because of his short, messy, dark

brown hair and this weak excuse for a chinstrap beard. And then there's John, taller than Kevin by at least a few inches, like six foot four. But skinny, lanky, almost like he skipped a few meals every day. He had this light brown hair that always looked like it needed a wash, and his face was covered in acne. Not exactly heartthrobs, but they had a kind of reckless charm, I guess. These guys were always in some kind of trouble. Drinking, smoking, sneaking into abandoned places, just the usual dumb stuff. I wasn't really into that lifestyle, honestly. Sure, I've done a few questionable things here and there, but getting high or drunk every

weekend wasn't my thing. Still, they had this pull to them, and I found my hanging out with them more and more. We had similar views on the world, cynical, sarcastic, jaded. It made it easier to relate to them. But that didn't stop them from being hypocrites half the time. I remember once, I let them use my car, big mistake. They drove us out to some remote woods and pressured me into smoking. I caved. Looking back, I realize now they were just using me for my wheels. Should have cut ties then and there. But I didn't. I guess I was still holding onto some false hope that maybe they cared about me. Then came the second incident. That's when everything really started to spiral. A month ago, against everyone's warnings, I let them talk

me into going to a party. My gut was already buzzing with red flags, so I decided to take my own car and follow them. Smartest decision I ever made. We rolled up to the neighborhood where the party was supposed to be, and right off the bat, they parked two streets away. Sketchy, but I ignored it. We walked to the address and, surprise, got turned away at the door. Kevin tried to smooth talk our way in, but it wasn't happening. The whole thing felt off. I knew something was up. That next day, I'd had enough. I was done being around fake, toxic people. I decided to cut them off for good.

John didn't have a phone, so I texted his girlfriend and asked her to pass the message along. I was out. No more Kevin and John. That night, I got a Snapchat from John. All caps, why oh my girlfriend dumped me because of you UF-Astress I-N-G piece of saint. Three middle finger emojis for extra spice. Then Kevin messaged me too, called me the sea word, and warned me to stay far away from them. I laughed it off.

These were the same guys who once admitted to me that their tough guy act was just that, an act. Threats from them. I didn't take them seriously. But I should have. That Friday, my mom, who has multiple sclerosis, had to go to the hospital. She was getting this new experimental treatment, and it hit her pretty hard. My dad called me around 5 p.m. and said she was having some rough side effects, but she'd be okay. They'd both be staying overnight. That meant I'd be home alone. So I did what I usually did

when I was alone, I chilled in my room, lights off, playing Madden. After a few games, I opened Snapchat. I had this weird feeling in my gut, like something was off. I checked the snap map, and my heart dropped. Kevin and John were right outside my house. Before I could even think, my phone rang. It was my neighbor. He sounded terrified. Said he saw two people hop my fence and head into my backyard. His wife had already called the cops and he told me to hide. Fast. I sprinted down the hall and into my room, locked the door, and dove into my closet. Not a minute later, I heard the glass in the kitchen shatter. Then, slow, heavy footsteps in the living room. My heart was pounding so hard I thought they'd hear it. Lucky for me, we live right near the main road. There's usually a police cruiser

parked just outside the neighborhood watching for speeders. So when my neighbor called the cops, they got their quick. Real quick. I heard the front door get kicked in, followed by shouting, dropped the gun. And the sound of chaos as officers burst into my home. Then came a knock on my bedroom door. A calm voice announced, it's the police. They came in, saw I was safe, and walked me out. Kevin and John.

They were cuffed and pissed, getting dragged out of my house like the criminals they were. My dad got home shortly after. He hugged me like he was never going to let go. He told me my mom, didn't really understand what was going on because of the meds, but the next day when she came home, she broke down. She couldn't stop crying, thinking about how close I'd come to dying. I keep replaying that night in my head. The broken window, the glass crunching under their shoes, the way they looked at me, pure hate, as the cops walked them out. And then there's the one

line that haunts me, drop the gun. That was real. Kevin was holding a pistol. The cops told me later that he and John had been waiting for me. Either to ambush me when I came out of my room, or shoot me while I was on the couch playing games. They said Kevin and John tried to pass it off as a joke during questioning. John even laughed. But it wasn't a joke. Not to me. They were planning to kill me.

People I used to call friends. People I trusted. If my neighbor hadn't seen them climbing the fence. I might not be here. Kevin and John are sitting in jail now, waiting for their trial. They got hit with breaking and entering, attempted murder, and some drug charges thanks to the stash found in their car. I'm grateful beyond words to my neighbors.

They saved my life. That night changed me. It made me realize how easily we let the wrong people into our lives, how quick things can turn from bad to deadly. I learned the hard way that not everyone who smiles at you is your friend. But that wasn't the only close call I've had. When I was 14, things were rough. I was in a really dark place.

My parents were super strict, I wasn't allowed to go out, see friends, or do much of anything. So naturally, I rebelled. I'm five feet five inches, white, with long blonde hair. At the time, I looked older than I was. Way older. Like, people thought I was 18 or 19. I started sneaking out, going to parties, hanging out with older guys. I lied about my age, got into drugs.

It was classic teen self-destruction. But I didn't care. I was numb. I live in this little town in Pennsylvania, basically in the middle of nowhere. But I'd take trips to Scranton, a nearby city most people only know from the office. Scranton might look cute and quirky on TV, but it's got a dark side. One night, I went to a party with this girl, Jamie. We weren't super close, but she seemed cool.

Gorgeous girl, dark skin, long curly hair, she turned heads. Two guys drove out from Scranton to pick us up. It was a long drive, but they thought we were cute, so we rolled with it. When we got to the party, red flags everywhere. We were the only girls there. Ten, maybe fifteen guys. They invited us upstairs to meet their friends. We sat down, smoked with them, just chilling.

The guy throwing the party, Devin, offered to show me around while Jamie stayed to hang. Tour over, he invited us into his room. We didn't think anything of it. Big mistake. He closed the door and started pushing for sex. We said no. tried to leave. But the door wouldn't open.

It wasn't locked. Someone was holding it shut. Jamie peeked through the crack and saw three guys on the other side, one with a gun in his waistband. She didn't say anything, probably scared Devin would freak out. We started banging on the door, yelling. Then we heard someone coming up the stairs, what the hell's going on? Is someone yelling in there? That was our shot.

I screamed, help U.S., as loud as I could. Jamie was pounding on the door. There was shouting outside. I kept pulling with everything I had. Finally, the door flew open. We ran. One of the guys grabbed my shirt, I screamed so loud I think the whole block heard. He let go, probably shocked.

Jamie was already flying down the stairs. I tripped trying to keep up, but I got out. We ran into the street, hid behind a shed, trying not to breathe too loud. Then, gunshots. Someone shouting our names. My heart felt like it was going to burst. We had to keep moving. We ducked through yards, climbed fences. I fell and busted my knee, blood running down my leg. Jayney tried to help, but I was limping bad. We kept going, just praying to disappear. Then we heard a car screeched to a stop nearby. A door opened.

One of the guys got out. To be continued. It's wild how one moment you're laughing with your friends, and the next, you're running for your life, adrenaline pumping so hard it feels like your heart might explode. That night felt like a movie, but the kind you wish you could walk out of. It all started when we were out just messing around. thinking we were slick, thinking we were untouchable. We weren't.

Not even close. We heard the car before we saw it. Slow, creeping, like a shadow slithering down the block. Then it stopped. Dead silent. One of the back doors cracked open, and a guy stepped out. I remember the way my skin prickled, like every nerve was screaming at me to run. Then I saw it, the gun.

He raised a little. it right at us. I froze for a second. That one second felt like an eternity. Then, just as he pulled the trigger, we moved. The shots rang out. One after the other, bam, bam, bam. The sound echoed through the street. A parked car nearby caught a bullet and shattered. We didn't wait around to see what else they'd hit. We ran like hell, legs burning, long screaming. As we turned the corner, police sirens wailed in the distance. Relief washed over me for half a second until I saw the cruisers pull up on the opposite side of the street. That's when the real chaos broke out. Gunfire erupted again, this time between the shooters and the cops. We ducked under

a stranger's porch, hearts pounding in sync with the bullets flying through the air. More police arrived, sirens screaming past us. We kept our heads down. trying not to make a sound. I was bleeding, I didn't realize it until I felt the warm trickle down my leg. But we didn't dare move. For five minutes, it was just gunfire, shouting, sirens. And fear. So much fear.

Eventually, it stopped. The cops had the guys surrounded. They yelled commands, got them on the ground, and slapped on the cuffs. The moment we saw it was safe, we crawled out and limped our way down another street. Jamie called his brother, who showed up fast, helped me into the car, and got us out of there. Back at his place, he patched up my leg with shaking hands while Jamie explained what happened. None of us could believe it.

That night was the kind of thing you hear about, not live through. When Janie's brother finally drove me home, I stumbled inside, stripped off my blood-stained clothes, and stuffed them under my bed like that would erase everything. I collapsed into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and just stared at the ceiling. I'm not religious, but that night I prayed, begged, any God who'd listen to keep me safe. I didn't sleep. Not really. Just lay there, frozen.

Days passed, and I still couldn't sleep. Every little sound had me jumping. I kept thinking they'd come back for me. They knew where I lived. I walked through my days like a ghost. Eventually, my parents noticed something was off. They thought I was being bullied or going through something at school. They sent me to live with my aunt in another state.

Months later, I found out the guys were locked up. Finally, I could breathe again. But that fear never really goes away. Now let me shift gears and tell you about another night. A different kind of fear. More personal, more invasive. This one happened just last September. So, I live in a second-floor apartment with my fiancé and our cat in a chill suburb.

The landlord had just pulled out all the AC units for some renovation project, so I cracked open every window to let the cool night air in. I figured we were safe. I mean, who the hell climbs up to a second-story apartment at 2 a.m.? You'd have to be insane. At some point in the dead of night, our cat started growling. Not the playful kind. The kind that raises the hairs on your arms.

I got up, half asleep, and wandered into the hallway to see what was going on. I needed water anyway. That's when I saw it. A figure, standing in the kitchen doorway. Tall. Motionless. Just, there. I blinked, confused.

Renee. I mumbled, thinking maybe it was my fiancé. What are you doing up? No response. Then it hit me. That wasn't Renee. That wasn't anyone I knew. My brain kicked into gear.

I bolted back into the bedroom yelling like a madman. Renee shot up, screaming. I shouted at her to call 911 while I dove for my dresser and pulled out my 9mm. When I turned back, the guy was in our doorway. I aimed. He ducked and sprinted back down the hall. I gave chase, gun-drawn, heart thundering. He dove out the window like some kind of lunatic and dropped two stories onto the pavement.

I heard him scream as he hit the ground. He tried to get up but couldn't. Turns out he broke a leg. Within half a minute, a cop car screeched up. The officer cuffed the guy, and more backup arrived to take our statements. Turns out he was high out of his mind and had a knife on him. He'd been arrested before for burglary. Who knows what he was planning?

All I know is, if it weren't for my cat, and my gun, we might not be here. I still can't believe it happened. I check every window and door before bed now. Every single. night. And yeah, the police said he used a ladder my landlord had left outside. You'd better believe I had words with him after that. Anyway, enough about me. Let me tell you about my cousin Dylan. This story still haunts him, and honestly, after hearing it, it haunts me too. Dylan was just a kid when it happened, second grade. He used to do this extended day thing at school since his parents worked late. On certain days, his older sister Alyssa would pick him up. Pretty normal setup. One chilly March day, Dylan was outside playing on the school playground.

Around 4'10, a teacher named Mr. McCann told him it was time to go home. They walked inside, and Dylan saw a young woman waiting in the lobby. Mid-20s, dark hair, nose ring, tattoo. She looked friendly. She knelt down and asked, are you Dylan? He nodded. She said her name was Heather and that she worked with Alyssa, his sister. Said Alyssa had to work late so she was picking him up.

He didn't question it. He was seven. They walked to her car, and she offered him M. Anamis, he took them. They were real, thank God. Everything seemed fine until they drove past his street. Dylan mentioned it, but she brushed it off. Her tone had changed. No more sweet smile, no more friendliness.

Just cold, flat silence. Dylan, still trying to process what was happening, asked if they could stop for a happy meal. She snapped at him, told him to shut up. When he asked another question, she said something that froze him to the bone, who's Alyssa. That's when he knew. Something was terribly wrong. He started crying, panicking. She yelled at him, even though.

Then she pulled over, grabbed duct tape from the console, and that was it, he thought he was done. But fate had other plans. Just as she reached for him, a cop car pulled up behind them. Heather panicked, dropped the tape, floored it. They sped through town, doing 60, maybe 70. Dylan was terrified. But the cops were ready. Two cruisers blocked the road ahead. Heather She slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop. She jumped out, tried to run, but the officers tackled her. One of the cops drove Dylan home. Alyssa was there, sobbing.

She hugged him so tight he couldn't breathe. Their parents came home later, scared out of their minds. That night, they had the talk. Stranger Danger. All of it. Turns out, Heather wasn't her real name. He had no connection to Alyssa. Nothing.

Her ex-boyfriend was on trial for child porn and sex trafficking. It's possible Heather was trying to take Dylan for him. What's worse? Mr. McCann, the teacher who sent Dylan to Heather. He got fired. Years later, Dylan saw him on the news. He'd been accused of molesting a student and killed himself before trial. To this day, Dylan wonders how that woman knew his name.

His face. His schedule. He thinks maybe McCann was involved. Maybe not. But something dark was going on. Something twisted. So yeah. Be careful out there. Lock your windows. Check your surroundings. Teach your kids. And trust your gut, because sometimes that feeling in your chest is the only warning you'll get. To be continued. All right, here goes. I'm going to tell you about a bunch of crap that went down in my life that I wish I could forget. This story is long, messy, and if I'm being honest, still kind of haunts me, so buckle up. Let's start with the night that wrecked my childhood. I was just a kid, nine years old, living in Georgia. Just your average girl who liked Christmas and cartoons. My mom had just started seeing this guy she met at church.

The place wasn't fancy, looked kind of like it hadn't been updated since the 80s, and it had one of those creepy old basements you only see in horror movies. But the pastor was this ex-junkey-turned preacher, real kind guy, always had a story and a warm smile. He was one of the only good things about that place. Anyway, it was a freezing Saturday night, and church had just wrapped up. My mom, her boyfriend, my future stepdad, and I were chilling, in the place. parking lot, just talking about plans for the holidays. We were sitting in my mom's beat-up Pontiac vibe, the kind that doesn't have electric locks or windows. Every single door had to be locked and unlocked manually. It was a hassle. We were about to drive off when out of nowhere, this dude

in a green hoodie yanked open the passenger door. He looked rough, dark skin, bloodshot eyes, shaved head, wild expression. And he had a gun. Give me your wallet, he barked, shoving the weapon into my stepdad's side. Now, my stepdad is Hispanic, and back then, he wasn't fluent in English. He just stared at the guy and went, no, bad move. My mom freaked. I was terrified, trying to scramble out of the car, sobbing and confused. My mom kept yelling for me to stay in, and the guy kept shouting.

I said, give me your wallet. Still, my stepdad refused. Just kept saying no, then the guy turned to my mom. Tell him to give it to me, she tried, but he still wouldn't. Meanwhile, I'm sitting there in my little pink and black dress, shaking, watching this psycho point a gun at the man next to me. Then he turned the gun on me. Ain't nobody giving me something, then she dies.

My world froze. I lost it. I jumped out of the car and spotted two more guys across the parking lot. They were walking our way, and yep, they had guns too. I screamed and dove back into the car. The guy with the gun was still losing it. You hear me, man. I'm going to shoot her right between the eyes.

My mom grabbed her wallet and threw $75 at him. Take it, please. He snatched the money, still looking like he wanted more. Then he pistol-wipped my stepdad, slammed the car door, and bang. Gun went off. The bullet went into the floor of the car. Thank God none of us were hit. The three guys ran off into the night, disappearing like shadows. We sat there crying, shaking, trying to piece ourselves back together. After half an hour, we made it to the police station. The cops were like, yeah, probably gang stuff.

Doubt will find, M. No justice. No peace of mind. Just trauma. I ended up with PTSD from that night. I take meds now, try to sleep without reliving it. But those memories? They don't fade easy. All right, switching gears. Let's talk about when I moved into this apartment in Toronto. I was in my late 20s, moved in with a close friend. The area was decent. low crime, lots of tourists, seemed safe enough. The building was old but well kept. We were told the locks have been changed before we moved in. Cool.

I believed them. There was this maintenance guy, probably in his late 60s, who did repairs around the place. Kind of quiet, never really made eye contact. One morning, I was the last to leave. Locked the door at 8 a.m., nothing seemed off. My roommate got home at 4.30, changed clothes, went back out. We both came back around 6 p.m. First thing I did. Changed into yoga pants. Then I noticed my closet looked, off. Messy.

Which was weird, because I'm the kind of person who organizes socks by color. Stuff was on the floor, boxes were moved, and someone had definitely gone through my dirty laundry. It was creepy. But what made it worse? Around 9.45, my roommate yelled my name from her room. I found the gift you left me. What gift, she pointed to her bed. And there it was.

A dildo. My dildo. I just stared, stunned. That's mine. What the hell's it doing in my bed? She asked. I didn't know what to say. That thing was supposed to be in a story.

bin in my closet. We pieced it together, some creep had come into our apartment with a key, gone through my stuff, found my sex toy, and hid it in her pillowcase. Not funny. Not a prank. Straight up disturbing. No signs of forced entry. The only way they got in was with a key. We went to the building managers, an old couple who lived in the same building. The wife looked concerned, but the husband brushed it off. Maybe it was a joke, he said. Then asked, did you give a key to anyone, what kind of question is that? We called the cops.

They showed up fast. Took our statements, but they didn't seem optimistic. Not much we can do, they basically said. I made sure to mention the maintenance guy, though. Something about him just didn't sit right. Never heard back from the cops. Not even once. Luckily, we haven't had another incident since then.

But man, that feeling of being violated? It doesn't go away. Now, let's rewind again to the summer of 2017. I was a teenager, hanging out with my best friend. We didn't live in the best neighborhood, but we made do. One night, we decided to walk to the local pond. It was close, just a few streets over. It was pitch black outside, but the streetlights gave us just enough visibility to make

it there. We found a bench under one of the lights and sat down to talk. Not smart, in hindsight. We were lit up like a stage. Any creeper walking by could see us perfectly. After a while I noticed movement in the distance. A bunch of shadows, slowly moving toward us. I pointed it out to my friend, and we had a choice to make, waited it.

out and assumed they were harmless, or get the hell out of there. My gut screamed run. We started speedwalking. I kept looking back. The shadows. They were picking up speed. We bolted. Full sprint. My heart was pounding, and I could hear footsteps closing in behind us. I couldn't see faces, just shapes. Figures. It was like a nightmare. We finally made it to my front yard and crouched behind some bushes, trying to catch our breath. We stayed there for a while before quietly slipping inside, locking every door and window. My friend said she never looked back, just ran. So we don't know if they actually chased us all the way. Could have been a prank, maybe. But with that area's reputation, we weren't about to risk it.

All right, final story. This one's for my job. I work nights as a telephone operator at a casino hotel. Been doing it for over a decade, and trust me, drunks, creeps, and weirdos are part of the package. I've been hit on, serenaded, even proposed to just because I'd sounded hot. I'm used to it. But this one call still gives me chills. It was a typical Saturday night. Some drunk guest called from his room.

Hey, can I get two sets of towels up here, please? No problem. sir. Anything else I can help you with? Yeah, you, that's where it cut off. To be continued. And yeah, that's only part of the mess I've lived through. But if you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me. Sometimes you just got to write it all out to make sense of the chaos. All right, let's pick up where we left off, and trust me, things get worse before they get better. So there I was, sitting in my little soundproof room behind the desk, answering four. phones at the hotel like I did every Saturday night.

Some drunk guy had just called asking for towels, and then tried to hit on me. My pleasure, sir. Anything else I can get for you? I asked, being polite like always. Uh, yeah, you. Instant I roll. I've heard worse. I brushed it off and said, we'll get those items up to you shortly, sir.

Have a wonderful evening. I hung up, thinking that was the end of it. Wrong. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings again. Same dude. Hey, everything's here, except you. I sighed. Sir, I don't work in housekeeping.

Damn, he said, clearly drunker than before. Your voice, though. I bet you're hot, aren't you? Why don't you come up and see me? Sir, I'm not allowed to leave my desk. Do you need anything else? Do you not understand what I'm telling you? I need you.

Click. I hung up. He was creeping me out, but I tried to stay professional. He was just some belligerent guest, right? Another 30 minutes pass, and guess what? He calls again. Hey, I've got champagne and cheesecake up here for you. Not for me, sir.

You enjoy it and have a good night. Wait, don't hang up. You're the love of my life. I've never loved anyone but you. Sir, I don't have time for this. Enjoy your cheesecake and have a good night, I said, clearly annoyed. Click. My hands were shaking.

He was drunk, sure, but this was getting scary. Then came the fourth call. If you won't come come. to me, I guess I'll just have to come to you. I want you. I need you. My heart dropped. Sir, stop calling me or I'm going to notify security. I'm trying to work. Click. I slammed the phone down, rattled. Never in all my years had something escalated like this. It wasn't just creepy anymore, it felt dangerous. The fifth time he called, I didn't even speak. I didn't even speak. just listened. What do I have to do to get you up here? You know that I know your boss.

All I have to do is tell them I want you, and you'll be mine. I practically owned this F- asterisk-a-astur-astur-a-stress-i-and-g place. One phone call and you'll be on your knees. Click. I immediately called security and gave them the whole rundown. The guys in security were friends of mine, they didn't waste time. They told me they'd head up to his room right away. If he called again, I was to let them know. Guess what? He called again. They're trying to keep you from me. They don't know how much I love you. How I need you. I'm coming for you. Click. I called security again. They said if he called once more, they were calling the sheriff. Then I got a call from the lobby phone. My blood went cold. Heavy breezes. Heavy bree. breathing at first.

Then that same voice. I'll fin find you. I need you. You belong to me. Where the F are you? I slammed the phone down and called security. They said an officer was on his way to the lobby, and they were calling the sheriff. Now, just to clarify, my job isn't at the front desk.

I work in a secure room behind the locked door. There's no way this psycho could get to me unless someone let me. him in. But still, I was terrified. Then my coworker from the front desk called me, whispering, Hey, there's this creepy guy up here asking about you. I didn't tell him anything. Do you want me to call security? Are you kidding me? I already called them. They're on their way. Where is he now? He's standing right, O. S. asterisk, asterisk, where'd he go? S. asterisk, asterisk, asterisk. I'm calling security. Locked the office door.

I locked the door so fast I nearly ripped the knob off. I called my friend in surveillance. They said they were tracking him, he was pacing by the employee door, looking for a way downstairs. Don't worry. Security caught up with him. And the sheriffs just pulled up. I didn't realize until then how badly I was shaking. That man didn't even know me.

He didn't know what I looked like. But he was obsessed, convinced he needed to find me. Anxiety attack doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling. Later that night, the head of security, my friend, came into the office. The door opening made me jump. Hey, it's going to be okay. Just breathe. He's banned from the property, and the sheriff deputies escorted him out.

Do you want to go home? I can call your manager. No, I'll be okay. Thanks. I just wasn't prepared for that level of crazy tonight. Are you sure you'll be all right? No. I wasn't.

But I said yes anyway. No one else could cover my shift, and technically, I was safe now. Security kept checking in on me that night. Whatever that guy said to them. I don't want to know. But their faces told me enough. They were shook. These were big guys, ex-military types.

I'd never seen them look so disturbed. You know what they say, when you come face to face with a truly unhinged person, it sticks with you. I'll never forget that night. Let's rewind a few years. Back to 2015. I was just 14, maybe 15, a freshman in high school. You know the type, quiet, kept to myself, sketchbook always in hand. Didn't really vibe with most people.

But back in sixth grade, I made a best friend, Ray. She was basically me in another body. Same music, same sarcasm, same hatred of everything mainstream. We even had matching guitars. She was like the sister I never had. Ray and I did some dumb stuff. We'd sneak out. smoke, wander the streets at night pretending like we were in some indie coming-of-age movie.

That's how we got the idea, let's smoke in the forest behind the elementary school. Less chance of nosy neighbors ratting us out. We lived in one of those tiny upstate New York towns where everyone knew everyone. There wasn't much to do, so sneaking around felt like rebellion. March rolled around. We made a plan to meet behind a church near Ray's place around midnight. I packed cigarettes, a lighter, snacks, and even my ukulele. Sneaking out was tricky, my sister would have flipped if she caught me. I jumped out of my second floor window. Landed in some bushes. Scratched up but alive. Jogged to Rays. We met at the church, then walked up a path that led through the woods to the school. Ray was loud. I was hushing her the

whole time, worried someone would hear us. We passed the playground and went deep into the forest. Snow had melted into slush. Our feet were soaked. But we didn't care. I played some tunes on my ukulele, Ray danced around like an idiot with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. We laughed. Talked about life. Until I noticed it got really dark. We've been out here a while. We should head back, I said. Ray rolled her eyes. You're killing the vibe. But something felt, off. Like we weren't alone. Then I heard it. Breathing. Heavy, raspy breathing. Close. Tried to shake it off, but then, footsteps. Crunching leaves. Getting closer. I grabbed my stuff and yanked Ray up. Run, she wasn't the fastest, so I pushed her ahead. She looked back and screamed,

someone's right behind you. I veered off the path, heart racing. The footsteps chased me. Then stopped. Then came this horrifying scream. Like an animal, or a person who'd become an animal. I leapt over a small fence and landed hard, but kept going. Met Ray by the road, both of us crying and shaking. We went back to my house. She stayed the night. My sister grilled us in the morning, but never told our parents. We still don't know who or what was in those woods that night. But that scream haunts me. If you're a kid thinking about sneaking out for a smoke in the woods, just don't. You don't want your story to end up like this, or not end at all. One last tale before I wrap this up. Last year, I moved to.

back into the neighborhood I grew up in. Cute area, mostly families, quiet streets. Or at least, it used to be. The house I moved into is near a road that connects to a mental hospital. We always heard whispers growing up, but no one ever escaped. We thought we were safe. Things changed. More crime. More noise. My wife travels a lot, so when she's gone, I sleep in my game room. One night, I had a nightmare. I was in a hospital room, and I knew someone was watching me. My wife appeared in the corner. Josh, wake up. Someone's about to break in. I jolted awake. Grabbed the handgun in my drawer. Opened the back door, and there he was. A man with a crowbar. He took a step forward. I raised the gun. One more step and I'll show.

shoot. He froze. Then bolted. Jumped the brick wall like it was nothing. Called the police. Turns out. He was from the hospital. First escapee in its history. And he ended up in my backyard. With a weapon. Lucky me. So yeah, there's always a reason to be afraid. The end. From an early age growing up in northern California, I was groomed to be a Catholic priest. As the other kids played baseball, my mother made me a handmade Roman Catholic cassock and made me perform mock masses in the backyard. I hated it and I hated the other kids for making fun of me. I was pretty much forced into though the priesthood in 1965. The only solace, I got out of being a priest was helping the weird kids, like I was once. I didn't believe in any of the spiritual stuff.

I identified myself as being asexual and figured what the heck else was I going to do. Every other day, I performed morning mass. I would copy the sermons to the point, where one of the elderly parishioners non-jokingly commented that she must have dreamt that same sermon from last week. I told her that it must have been God communicating with her. I was the guidance counselor at St. John the Baptist Catholic All-Boys School in Northern California, the one thing that I hated absolutely more than anything else was dealing with the other clergy. They were the most self-righteous assholes that existed on the planet.

Any time, I had to converse with them, I thought how could I get this nut job to shut up? The clergy met once a month and the meetings were chaired by the Monsignor, who reported to the bishop. Everything was done in secrecy and you wouldn't dare tell anyone what was discussed in the meetings. I never really understood or liked the meetings, but at least we were given. given opportunities to discuss our gripes even though they mostly fell on deaf ears. There was one priest, Father Anthony Delano, that creeped me out more than the other members of the clergy. He really thought that God put him on earth to expose the sinners. I had countless complaints from the students that I met with, regarding Father Delano. If he found out that

any of the boys in the school were dating, he would then meet with them in private for hours, where he would have the boys recite scriptures and yell at them for being sinners. Times were different back then and kids wouldn't freely tell their parents' mistreatments for fear that their own parents would punish them. Father Delano was about six feet tall. He made me refer to him as father. When we crossed paths down isolated corridors, he would intentionally bump into me. I just hated him.

Delano never slept. He would leave the rectory at all hours of the night to go. on, spiritual callings. We weren't allowed to have locks on our bedroom doors, but the guy creeped me out so much that I installed a sliding lock on the bottom of my door to conceal its location. I really started to get creeped out and I felt a diary would help me deal with Father Delano. It's a week before Christmas and the pious asshole, Delano, is busy terrorizing the boys at our school. We had a school assembly, where he gave a speech that could best be surmised as a schizophrenic rant. Friday, December 20th, 1968, because of Christmas, we are having weekly

meetings with the Monsignor and Delano. Also present were an aging priest and an aging brother. The psychopath, Delano criticized me because of my lack of devotion. During the meeting he pointed his finger in my face and criticized me on everything from allowing the boys to do anything they wanted to do my monotone bare minimal mass services. Inside I wanted to fight him, but I told myself that he wasn't worth it. I went back back to the rectory and eventually I heard Delano's footsteps. I should have locked my door, but I didn't. He stood in my doorway and said to me,

You're my slave and judgment day will come. I didn't say anything. I felt like a coward. I felt like I was a 10-year-old being targeted by a bully. He left the rectory and took the car. He was gone for hours. He came back at 4 a.m. He stood outside my closed door I heard him say, Your sins have been atoned. My heart was pounding. I really didn't know what this psychopath was

capable of. Where did he go for the last eight hours? Christmas came and gone and Delano continued to terrorize me. I felt he was constantly watching everything I did. I talked with the Monsignor, who did nothing for me. The winter came and gone. and at this point I was rather contemplating leaving the priesthood. The one day I was cleaning the car and I found a handgun tucked under the driver's seat. The person who put it there wasn't expecting it to be discovered. I went right to the Monsignor and I said, this is enough. I'm not going to live here with this psychopath.

The Monsignor took the gun and I didn't see the gun again and nothing happened to Delano. The summer approached and things didn't get any better. Friday, July 4, 1969. Today we had a barbecue at the rectory. I tried to avoid Delano the whole day. I really just isolated myself the whole day. I was done with the priesthood and I was going to tell the Monsignor that I was leaving. As the barbecue was finishing up I pulled the Monsignor aside and I told him I was leaving.

The Monsignor said he would talk to me the next day about trying to get me to stay and not leave. I went to my room and packed up the little belongings I had, so I could leave the next day. Delano came to my room and said, I heard you're leaving. I said, yes. He replied, you're destined to an eternity of fire and hell. I said, thank you. He left my room and I could tell he was heading out to leave with the car. I decided that I was going to follow him.

I asked the woman who was a volunteer in the church if I could borrow her car for the night and she obliged. He pulled out and I followed a block away. He pulled into a pawn shop and was in there for ten. He came out holding a brown paper bag and drove around for two hours. He eventually pulled into the Blue Rock Springs Park in Vallejo. The parking lot way too small for me not to be seen, so I parked up the road. He stayed in the parking lot until a little before midnight. I wasn't going to leave until I figured out what he was doing.

My thoughts were racing. Is he a pervert? Then out of nowhere, I heard what sounded like gunshots. Luckily, I was parked in an area where I could just drive away. I went back to the rectory and barricaded myself in my room. I have no idea what happened in the parking lot, but I was going to tell the Monsignor in the morning. Morning came and I met with the Monsignor. I told him that Delano was much more sinister than anyone could imagine.

I told him what I observed the night before and the gunshots I heard. He listened to me and said, I don't think that the priesthood is meant for you. He gave me $200 dollars and said good luck. I took a train across the country to New York and I never looked back. The end. You know. I don't even know where to start with this mess. I guess I'll just rip the bandage off and say it.

My family never really felt like my family. I'm 24 now, and for as long as I can remember, I've always felt like the odd one out. The Black Sheep The Invisible Sibling You know those family gatherings where everyone's laughing, sharing inside jokes, and you're just, there. Sitting in the corner, nodding and smiling like some stranger who accidentally wandered into the wrong house. Yeah, that's been my whole life. But for some reason, whenever the topic of money came up, bills, rent, finance, suddenly I wasn't invisible anymore. Suddenly, I was the star of the show.

Oh, maybe he can help us out. He's doing fine, right? He can cover this, no problem. Like I was a human ATM they could summon whenever things got tight. It's been like that for years, but I guess I never let myself fully see it until recently. So, Thanksgiving rolls around last week. I'm on autopilot at this point, driving over to my parents' place because, well, it's what I've always done. Even though I don't ever really feel wanted there, I keep showing.

up because. I don't know. Maybe I'm still clinging to the hope that one day things will be different. That maybe this time they'll treat me like more than a wallet with legs. Anyway, I pull up to the house, and my brother's car is parked a couple of houses down. Kai. He's 20. The Golden Boy. The one who's never had to lift a finger because I'm the one paying for his tuition, his gas, his stupid video game subscriptions. I knock on the door, and my mom answers. She looks surprised to see me, like I wasn't supposed to come. And then she says, sorry, my love, we won't be doing Thanksgiving this year, and shuts the door. Just like that. No explanation, no, come in for a minute, no nothing. I didn't even get a chance to say a word

before the door clicked shut in my face. But here's the kicker, I know she's lying. I saw Kai's car. So I lean in, pressing my ear to the door because, at this point, my gut screaming at me that something's off. And sure enough, I hear them. I hear my brother's voice, clear as day, just because he pays the bills, he thinks he's wanted.

And then, laughter. My parents. My own parents. chuckling like what he said was the funniest thing in the world. I swear to God, my heart didn't just sink, it shattered. This whole time, all those late nights at work, all the times I skipped out on things I wanted so I could help them out, all the sacrifices I made because I thought I was needed, it wasn't because they cared about me.

It was because they cared about what I could do for them. I didn't even knock again. Didn't try to argue. I just turned around, walked to my car, and sat there for a good five minutes staring at the steering wheel. My eyes were burning, my hands shaking. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help it. When I got home that night, I didn't sleep.

I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, and then I made my decision. I was done. Done being their doormat. Done being their ATM, done being the black sheep they only acknowledged when they needed something. The next morning, I went to the bank and withdrew from paying their bills. No more rent. No more mortgage. I even closed the shared bank account I'd open to, help them out years ago.

Just like that. No warning. No explanation. I figured they'd find out soon enough. And boy, did they. On my way to work, my phone started blowing up. Texts, calls, voicemails, non-stop. At first, I ignored them.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I listened to one of the voicemails from my mom. Honey, please don't do this, she said, her voice shaky. Then another one, this time from Kai, you're a real asshole, dude. We're your family, family. The word hit different now. So I went on our family WhatsApp group chat, the same. same one where they never sent me anything except, hey, can you send money for, insert random expense here? And I typed out one final message. I heard what you said, Kai, about me

paying the bills and thinking that I'm wanted. Then I left the group chat. Block them all. Put my phone on Do Not Disturb. That should have been the end of it, right? Wrong. When I got home from work that evening, my phone had exploded. Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts. It was like they couldn't believe I had the audacity to cut them off. I ignored it. For the next two days, I ignored everything. But then they took it up a notch. I was watching TV, finally starting to feel a little peace, when there was a knock at my door. I peaked through the peephole, and my stomach dropped. It was them.

All three of them. My mom, her makeup streaked from tears. My dad, looking angrier than I'd ever seen him. And Kai, standing there like a sulking child who got his toy taken away. I opened the door just a crack, enough to hear them but not enough for them to barge in. Why are you doing this? My mom wailed, her voice breaking. We're going to lose the house, my dad snapped, his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might

break a tooth. And then Kai. God, Kai. We're your family, dude, he said, trying to sound hurt but coming off more annoyed than anything. That was it. That was the final straw. I swung the door open and let it all out. Oh, shut up, I said, my voice trembling with rage. You all don't give a damn about me. You only care about what I can do for you. You slammed the door in my face on Thanksgiving. You only call me when you need money. You only talk to me at family gatherings when it's about finances. I turned to Kai, my hands bawled into fists. Get a job, you lazy maggot, and stop relying on my hard-earned money. I don't bust my ass at work for you all to sit at home and leach off me. My mom started sobbing louder. My dad muttered something under his breath about,

ungrateful children. I didn't care. You want to know. why I'm doing this. I said, because for once in my life, I'm putting me first. I'm done being your walking wallet. I'm done being your black sheep. I'm done being treated like garbage unless you need something. Then I slammed the door. They knocked again, and again, and again. For five straight minutes, they pounded on the door, my mom crying so loud the neighbors probably hurt her. But I didn't open it. Eventually, they gave up. The hallway fell silent. And for the first time in my life, I felt, free. I know what you're thinking, but they're your family. Yeah, they are. And I know families supposed to be warm and loving and supportive.

But mine never was. They made me feel like an outsider my whole life. And now that I'm finally standing up for myself, they're trying to guilt-trip me back into submission. I don't think I'm overreacting. Do I? I don't know anymore. Am I the asshole for cutting them off? Or was this long overdue? The end? You know, when I put, witnessed, in the title, I meant it in the most literal sense. And even now, as I'm typing this out years later, I still don't think I've fully processed what happened. Trigger warning, this story involves suicide. If you're sensitive to that, maybe skip this.

Okay, so let me take you way back for a second, back to when I was a kid. I'm talking like early teens. Me and my friends used to mess around on Omval all the time. If you don't know what Omval is, it's basically a site where you can randomly video chat with strangers from anywhere in the world. Sounds fun, right? Yeah, except it was also kind of a magnet for creeps and weirdos. Anyway, back then we were too young to really be hanging out on there, but we didn't care.

It was one of those forbidden fruit kind of things. Our parents didn't know. We'd all be at a sleepover, one of us would pull out a laptop, and we'd huddle together like, okay, let's see what freak shows up next. We'd scream and laugh whenever we came across something gross, and trust me, there was a lot of Sometimes there'd be someone actually normal, and we try to talk to them until they eventually skipped us. It was dumb and harmless, or at least it seemed that way back then.

Eventually, we grew out of it. You know how it goes, you get older, move on to different apps, different friend groups, different phases in life. Ongo became one of those things I completely forgot about, like a weird little chapter in a childhood diary you'd never think to revisit. But then, years later, I saw someone mention Omgel in a random post online. It triggered this wave of nostalgia in me, like, oh man, I remember that sight. I don't even know why I felt the urge, but I thought, what the hell, let me check it out again.

So there I was, late at night, bored, sitting in my room with nothing better to do. I pulled up Omgo on my laptop, almost laughing to myself as I waited for the first connection to load. And honestly, it was exactly how I remembered it. Still the same random strangers. Still the same creepy dudes doing, well, you can probably imagine. It was gross, but in that familiar, oh yeah, this is why I stopped coming here kind of way. But then, in the middle of all that weirdness, I came across this one guy. He wasn't doing anything.

Just, sitting there. Silent. At first I thought maybe his camera froze. He was just staring at the screen, no expression. I said, hey, a couple of times. Nothing. I almost hit the next button, but something about how still he was made me pause. It wasn't like when people ghost you in real life, it was more unsettling.

Finally, I asked him, why are you on here? That's a question I used to ask whenever I came across people who weren't being creepy. just to break the ice or whatever. And then, out of nowhere, he replied. His voice was flat, barely above a whisper. I just wanted someone to watch. At first I didn't understand. Like, watch what?

Was this about to get weird? My brain started racing. Oh no, here we go. He's gonna pull some purvy crap. But then, it happened. It all happened so fast that even now, it feels like a blur. Looking back, I realize why his hand was out of frame. He had been holding onto something. I didn't notice at first, but when he leaned slightly to the

side and there was this sudden movement, God. I didn't even have time to react. No time to process, no time to close the window or even open my mouth to say anything. I just, saw it all. One second he was there, alive, breathing. The next second. I slammed my laptop shut so fast it almost slipped out of my hands. My heart was pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. I just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling in shock. You know how sometimes your brain plays tricks on you after seeing something traumatic. Like maybe you didn't really see it, maybe you imagined it, maybe it didn't happen the way you think it did? Yeah, I didn't get that luxury.

It was too clear, too real. For hours, I just lay there. And then came the guilt. I started thinking about all the what-ifs. What if I had said something sooner? What if I had noticed the signs? What if I had called someone? But the thing is, I didn't know who he was.

I didn't know his name, where he lived, nothing. That's the whole messed up part about Omgel, it's completely anonymous. There was no way I could have called for help. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I failed somehow. That maybe there was something I could have done if I had been quicker, smarter, more alert. I've never been back on Omble since. Even now, the thought of it makes my stomach twist. The site that once felt like a silly little internet playground now feels like a graveyard to me.

A place where someone's final moments played out in front of my eyes. And yeah, it gives me anxiety every time I think about it. I don't know why I'm even writing this down. Maybe as a way to get it off my chest. Maybe to warn other people. Maybe just because I can't carry it around anymore. All I know is that night changed me in a way I can't fully accept. explain. If you've read this far, thanks for listening. And if you're ever in a dark place,

please reach out to someone. There are people who care. Even if it doesn't feel like it. T.L.D.R. years ago I went on Omgel for nostalgia's sake, came across a guy who said he just wanted someone to watch and ended up witnessing him take his own life. I still feel guilty that I couldn't do anything. The end. All right, let me just start off by. saying I know how insane this sounds. Like, I'm fully aware this entire story makes me sound like I'm off my rocker or spiraling into some paranoid delusion. But I swear to you, I'm not. I'm putting this out there just in case something happens to me or my family. Maybe someone will find this and realize there was a whole storm brewing long before the headlines showed up.

Maybe this is my last shot at leaving a breadcrumb trail. So, here it goes. Back in college, I had this classmate. Let's call her, K. Kay and I hooked up on and off for a little while, not anything serious, just random flings when we were both bored or drunk. At some point, she confessed she had real feelings for me. She laid it all out, raw and vulnerable, and I just, couldn't return them. I told her that as gently as I could.

I thought we were cool afterwards because she laughed it off, acted like it was no big deal, and even stayed friends with me. Or so I thought. Now, Kay wasn't just any random girl. She came from a ridiculously wealthy family. Like, old money, multi-generational, my grandpa knows your senator, kind of rich. Her parents had deep ties in the healthcare industry, though I never cared much to dig into the details. I'm not the type to be impressed by who someone's parents golf with. So, beyond knowing her family was influential and loaded, I didn't think much about it. Flash forward, both of us get accepted to the same med school. At first, I didn't think much of it. Med school is competitive, but she was smart, so sure, why not? I thought we'd coexist fine.

But I had no idea how far down the rabbit hole this was about to go. It started small. Or maybe it felt small because I didn't see the bigger picture yet. Every so often, I'd get this weird, nagging feeling that I was being watched. Like, I'd be sitting at a cafe, minding my own business, and feel eyes on me. Or I'd walk home at night and swear I heard footsteps shadowing mine. But I brushed it off as paranoia. I smoked a lot of weed back then, so I chalked it up to that. Classic stoner jitters, I told myself. But then, there'd be these strange coincidences. I'd randomly bump into Kay at the grocery store. Then at the gym. Then at a park I never told anyone I liked to visit. I even joked to her once,

you're not stalking me, are you? She just smiled and said something like, maybe I just know you too well. I laughed. I didn't think she was serious. Until the night I caught her. It was late. I'd just come back from a long day, dead tired. I stepped into my apartment and noticed the window by my kitchen wasn't quite shut. Weird. I always lock my windows. Then I heard a sound, like a foot slipping against the wooden floor. My heart sank. I crept forward and caught a glimpse of movement. And then, there she was. K. Climbing out of my damn window. K. She froze for a second, then bolted.

Like a deer caught in headlights, but once her legs moved, she was gone. I ran after her but didn't catch up. When I finally cornered her outside and demanded answers, she started screaming, full-on screaming bloody murder. Help! He's attacking me. Rape, people started looking. Lights flicked on in nearby apartments.

She yanked herself free and disliked. disappeared into the night. That's when I knew I was in serious trouble. I freaked out. I hired a private investigator. I didn't know what else to do. And slowly, horrifyingly, the truth started to unravel. The P.I. found cameras in my apartment. Cameras. Hidden in places you'd never think to look. She'd been watching me. For how long? I didn't even want to imagine. He uncovered evidence that Kay had been whispering all sorts of poisonous lies to my classmates, my friends, even my professors. She was painting me as unstable, manipulative, dangerous.

The stalking wasn't just in my head. She really was following me any time I stepped outside. There were photos. Dates. Times. I thought that was the worst of it. I was wrong. When I tried to go to the authorities,

things spiraled into a nightmare. My mom and my brother started getting calls from people at my med school, warning them that I was, showing troubling behavior. They claimed I was unbalanced, concerning. None of it was true. I confronted the dean of student affairs about it. The way he deflected, dodged my questions, it felt like he knew something.

Like he was protecting someone. I could almost see the strings Kay's family was pulling behind the scene. Then my apartment got broken into. Someone ransacked the place. They took my laptop, the one where I kept all the evidence the P.I. gave me. Gone. Poof. I thought I was smart because I backed it up to my eye cloud.

Except that got hacked too. Every file wiped clean. Now it wasn't just unsettling. It was terrifying. I began to fear for my life. And not just my life, my families too. On my birthday, I booked a flight to Colorado to see my parents and escaped the madness for a bit. At the airport, security stopped me.

Out of nowhere, they asked if I was okay. I said yes. I stayed calm because I knew showing any anxiety would make things worse. Didn't matter. They said I seemed distressed and pulled me aside. Next thing I know, I'm in an ambulance. I didn't resist, I knew if I fought back, it'd play right into their hands. At the hospital, I told them they didn't have my consent for anything.

They didn't care. They held me down, drew blood, stuck me with something, and before I knew it, I was tranquilized and locked in a psych ward. Five days. I spent five days in that place. They claimed I was suicidal. I never said that. Not once.

I wasn't even close to suicidal, I was scared, sure, but I wanted to live more than anything. I wanted to survive this. But no one listened. When I finally got out, I packed my things and left Nevada. I took a leave of absence from med school and fled back to my parents' house in Colorado. I couldn't stay there anymore. I felt like I was drowning in some shadowy conspirators. where every move I made was being tracked. The trauma from this? It's hard to put into words.

I'm jumpy around cars that linger behind me. I flinch at every stranger's glance. Sometimes I can't even bring myself to leave the house. The worst part. It hasn't stopped. Even now, random people I've never met pull up next to me at stoplights and glare at me like they know me. Strangers call me by name. My phone rings with numbers I don't recognize, and when I answer, there's silence. Just breathing. I wanted to fight back. I really did. But I realized this wasn't a battle I could win.

Not when Kay's family has their fingers in every pie. Not when they can pull strings in the legal system, the medical system, maybe even law enforcement. So I gave up med school. I gave up trying to collect more evidence. I gave up fighting. Because every attempt seemed to make things worse, and I couldn't risk my family getting hurt. I've spent too much money, too much time, too much of my sanity on this already. Now, I'm just trying to heal.

Or at least, pretending to. But deep down, I know I'm still in the game. I just don't know what the rules are. And if you're reading this because my name pops up in some news story, because me or my family, disappeared, or I, died under mysterious circumstances, know that this is why. My name is Sinu Kim. I was enrolled in the DO program at Turro, Nevada, class of 2026. If this gets out after I'm gone, maybe it'll finally make sense to someone. I'm still hoping for a miracle. But it feels like I'm already a ghost. T. LDR, I might get killed by Big Pharma because my

obsessive ex, who has powerful connections, stalked me, destroyed my life, and might not be finished yet. The end. The complicated life of Kern Christine Schulhof, a story of love, rebellion, and chaos. You know those stories where people look like they have the perfect life on the outside, but behind the scenes, everything is slowly falling apart. Well, that's kind of what happened to Kern Christine Schulhoff. She came into this world on December 27, 19, In 1887, in Washington, USA. Her parents, Tracy and Stephen Shulhoff, were pretty well off, the type of family that could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, send their kid to a good school, and make sure she had more than just the basics. She was an only child, and you know

how that goes, she was spoiled, pampered, the center of their little universe. People who claimed to know her back then have said she was one of those princess kids. You know the type, she wanted, she got. Her parents were the kind to bend over backward for her. Fancy schools. Check. A big house in a nice neighborhood. Double check. Toys, clothes, trips. You name it, she had it. Her life in those early years. Almost storybook perfect. But then came adolescence. And if you know anything about teenage years, you know that's when the crack start. to show. The divorce that changed everything, when Kern was still young, old enough to understand but too young to handle it, her parents' marriage fell apart. The stability she'd always known

vanished overnight. Tracy, her mom, eventually packed up her things and left the big family house where the three of them had been living. She found herself a new apartment, leaving Stephen, Kern's dad, with full custody. For Kern, it was like her whole world flipped upside-dye. Her safe, perfect bubble popped, and she was stuck living in the aftermath of two adults who couldn't make it work anymore. And while Stephen did everything in his power to make life okay for her, it wasn't enough for her. He really did try, though. He went all in on being a single dad, giving her as much as he could, maybe even more than he

could afford. But let's be real, keeping up a big family home on just one income wasn't exactly sustainable. Eventually, Stephen had no choice, he sold their big house and downsized to a smaller apartment in Altamonte Springs, Florida. Life in Altamonte Springs. Now, let's pause for a second here because Altamonte Springs. Not exactly a bad place to land. In fact, it was, and still is, a pretty nice area. Back in 2010, the population was about 42,000, and crime rates were fairly low. The place had it all, entertainment spots, a mall, golf courses, even a haunted tunnel, attraction. Plus, there were decent schools.

Stephen genuinely believed this was the fresh start they both needed. He even scored a decent paying job there and promised Kern that everything would work out. In his head, this was going to be good for her. A new school, new friends, a new chance. But Kern, she wasn't having a new. it. To her, this wasn't a fresh start. It was a downgrade. She was leaving her friends, her big beautiful house, everything familiar. And now, she was supposed to be okay living in a smaller apartment in some Florida suburb? Nope. She hated it. She thought her dad was being selfish,

that he didn't care about her happiness. She didn't see a single ounce of the sacrifices he was making to keep them afloat. And that's where the rebellion started. From good student to troubled teen, at first, when she enrolled at Lyman High School, things didn't seem too bad. Her first year there. Decent. She wasn't an overachiever, but she did okay. Average grades. No major trouble. But then came her second year. And everything fell apart. She started skipping classes. Homework. Forget about it. Projects. Not even attempting them. Her grades tanked, and at home, she became downright impossible. The fights with Stephen were constant. He'd get mad about her slipping grades and behavior, and she'd get even madder. She accused him of not understanding her,

not loving her, being too strict. The more he tried to discipline her, the more she pushed back. It became this toxic back and forth where nobody won. And then she found new friends. Older kids. The kind who smoked, drank, and skipped school just for the thrill of it. And of course, she wanted in. Suddenly, academics didn't matter. Her future didn't matter.

What mattered was having fun, living in the moment. Stephen's last resort, Tracy, Stephen, desperate and watching his daughter, spiral, called in reinforcements. He reached out to Tracy, his ex-wife, who was living across the country. He begged her to take Kern for a while, hoping that maybe a change of scenery and some time with her mom would help. Tracy agreed at first. So Kern packed her things and moved in with her mom. But guess what? That didn't last. Tracy couldn't handle her either. She told Stephen that Kern was unbearable, too rebellious, too defiant. She didn't know what to do with her, so she sent her back to her dad.

And just like that, Stephen was back to square one, dealing with a daughter he could no longer control. A new scene, the dog races. After a while, Kern and her friends got bored of their usual hangout spots. The same parks, the same faces, the same old routine. So they switched it up. They started going to the local dog racing track near her school. This wasn't just a racetrack, it was kind of a social spot. They had food, drinks, and older crowds. It felt more exciting, more adult.

And it was there, in that lively, chaotic atmosphere, that Kern met the person who would change everything for her, Michael Moran. Enter Michael Morin. Michael was around 20 at the time, a college school school. student, and according to everyone who knew him, a golden boy. In high school, he'd been an academic star, straight A's, a great athlete, he played football, respectful, handsome, charming. His parents were proud of him, and everyone expected big things from him. But then Michael met Kern. He was at the racetrack that night for an anniversary event, music, drinks, food, a big crowd. He'd even come with his ex-girlfriend, who he'd

dated for years. They had one of those relationships that, even after breaking up, stayed friendly and civil. But once Kern came into the picture, that was over. Michael was hooked. And suddenly, this promising young man started slipping. He stopped focusing on school, stopped caring about his future, even started snapping at his parents. At 20, people expected maturity and responsibility from him. Instead, he started acting like a teenager again. An obsessive love. Their relationship was intense. Obsessive, even. They were glued to each other, constant calls, endless texts, spending every possible moment together. It wasn't healthy. It was all-consuming. And Stephen? He hated it. He saw Michael as a huge problem. To see him, to see him. To see him, he

Stephen, this was a grown man dragging his 15-year-old daughter down with him. He wanted Michael gone. But Kern, she didn't care about school, her future, or anything else anymore. All she wanted was Michael. Stephen tried to put his foot down. He told Kern to break up with him, convinced this relationship was ruining her life. That only made things worse. The abusive dad story.

From that moment on, Kern started telling people that her dad was abusive. That he was violent, strict to the point of cruelty, that he was ruining her life. There were no police reports, no actual evidence, but she said it so often that some people believed it. And then came the moment that cemented her story for her friends. The party incident, Stephen had some pretty basic house rules, no drinking, no smoking, and no inviting people over without his permission. Reasonable, right? Well, Kern didn't care.

One day, while Stephen was at work, she threw a full-blown party in his house. Music blasting, people smoking, drinking, and yes, Michael was there too, despite Stephen forbidding it. But Stephen got off work early. He parked outside, heard the music, walked in, and saw the disaster. The house was trashed. the music deafening, the smell of smoke everywhere, and a bunch of teenagers drinking in his daughter's room. And that's when things exploded.

Stephen yelled. Demanded everyone leave. He was furious. But Kern, she stood her ground. She screamed back at him, saying the house was hers too, and she could invite whoever she wanted. And in that heated moment, Stephen slapped her. In front of everyone.

For her friends, this was proof of everything Kern had been saying, that her dad was abusive. To be continued.