Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying 9-Hour Story Compilation

Episode Date: November 18, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #terrifyingcompilation #darknarrations #ghostencounters #nightmarehour Terrifying 9-Hour Story Compilation delivers a relentless mix of dark horror, eerie encounters, and true paranormal experiences. These stories crawl under your skin, pulling you into haunted places, cursed moments, and terrifying realities that refuse to fade. Each tale will test your nerves and feed your imagination — from spine-chilling whispers in the dark to shadows that move when they shouldn’t. This is nine full hours of pure, unforgettable terror — for those brave enough to listen. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedstories, darkcompilation, paranormalencounters, ghoststories, chillingnarrations, supernaturalhorror, truehorrorstories, eerieepisodes, hauntedcollection, creepyvoices, mysteriousshadows, fearinthedark, cursedwhispers, nightmarefuel

Every time Lays was hurt, his blood to Tracy so that he is. Feed in whenever I drank this, woman said feeling more, strong. January 11th, 2012 justice. Australian left a person freedom, who committed an atrocious crime in. 1989 his crime was so terrible that, many people refused to be, release, but supposedly, had renovated was a person, mentally healthy and therefore the board of. Probation granted him the petition for a long time this. Person maintained a low profile.

He put in trouble did not attract attention, but, in terms. 2021 the press revealed a truth that justice refused to admit and is that this person is dedicated to sharing Macawbra's images in your social networks, especially on your Facebook page, Bruavra Bruavra's Vampire's Blood, Montoni's of Bones would think that this is nothing important but, in the case of Tracy Wigington the thing, it gets quite clouding since this woman in 1989 said to be a real vampire and this is where the sinister case begins of Today Tracy Al Wigington was born on four, August 1965 in Brisbane, Australia, being daughter of Rhonda's marriage, Hawkins and Bill Rosbott your family has, a good social and economic position, but we don't have much information from. Early we know that he studied at, good schools and that always had, enough friends but apart from that nothing, more at a certain time of childhood, parents separated and remade there, lives with other couples his mother round, had more children among whom, find Ollie Hopkins which more, go ahead will be very important of doors, for our Outside everything was fine was a good, family with a lot of money a good status, but from

doors inside they have some problems and is that his mother, Ronda has a very severe asthma in several, occasions had to enter the hospital and spend long seasons, stuck in bed and therefore in that Tracy time GOs with the grandparents, Modernos Ail and George Wigington though, Tracy's mother had enough money, but grandparents were not far behind, made several sources say they were, practically millionaires had several, prosperous business houses many savings, and Tracy did not miss them. Nothing little by little his mother was getting worse, more and more and they could almost. See could not sign excursions no, attended meetings could not take care of. She and therefore gave her custody to the grandparents which are

quickly, they became adopted parents to, from here to know the authentic relationship I had with grandparents to. Start was George Wigington to which, I was supposedly very close always. They were all shared in this. Man was very affectionate with her and, then we have the drunk grandmother, though, which was completely different from him. Grandmother was very strict in years later. Tracy itself would describe it as some cynical and manipulative egocentric. His grandmother did not always have much money. In fact, in his childhood he passed it.

Really bad was adopted by his uncle, though, which abused her and later it was, kidnapped by a family friend, that a BS she and hit her her life was a complete hell. But when he met, George everything changed fell in love, lost of him and soon, they married but discovered that they couldn't, have children so they decided to adopt. Ronda the mother of Tracy Wigington there. Life with George was apparently, perfect, but people rumored that this man was a womanizer in that, whenever he could deceive his wife. Several witnesses said that this man, nail with other women in front of their wife, but

this ignored him for. Complete talked about touching, undue comments out of place, but a bill ignored him was happy with. George and that was the only important thing. Volleyball to the theme of Tracy, his grandparents, though. They completely worshipped her was her world, whole and over time they adopted two, more girls to be company, and these were Diana and Miriam which, he was 15 years old, was adopted from, immediate but Miriam is in process. Of welcome Miriam's family had, economic problems

wanted her wanted, be with her, but not economically, they could afford it with which the little went home at home and its process. It was not like the other thing that, maybe he could bother Ebreel and he is that. This woman constantly fought with, the girl angered her attitude how, he behaved if he did his homework if, answered any nonsense began, a fight and then the woman discovered that her husband was cheating her but this deception was not normal not is that he had a lover two three is that this man maintained a house from which she had no idea had several residences but what this woman does not i knew there was another where he had lovers like this when he discovered this in place to face george he faced miriam came to hit her up to four times a day

and i was constantly humiliating her and finally the girl when she gave the opportunity escaped and years later he told the press that he would regret forever not having carried with him, to Diana and Tracy with Miriam out of equation. It seems that the atmosphere relaxed. Track and Diana went to schools, private and in principle they took good. Notes and George and April calmed down. Things talked enough they relaxed. They solved it but little by little to Tracy. They stopped like the studies. Classes jumped, these were not bored. Deliver your homework and finally finished it, leaving but that even if I will not study, he had his hobbies among which, was the occultism liked what? Paranormal the ghosts the polyter gasped. Death fascinated him

but, especially he loved the subject of, Jha to contact the dead, thus fascinated that day and night began to, reading about it like the subject so much, that his grandfather bought him dozens of, books about this, but at 15 years, life of a complete turn and is that, George passed away leaving Diana and, she completely alone with a bryl. Wigington is not clear if the woman came to assault, but what, we know that with her they felt, terribly alone could not trust, she doesn't even tell her anything for fear of how, I was going to take it and in that context. Something terrible happened and it is that Tracy with. 16 years she got pregnant with a man. Adult was his mother's friend and when he, subject learned not only the forced to abort, but just

when, he got it when he got him. Maid disappeared forever and Tracy. Depression entered the following year, though. Ebro-grandmother died and something happens here. A little strange with 17 years for the Australian system you are no longer a child and, therefore you cannot be adopted you can. Go to reception houses but the most. It is recommended that you look for a job, and that is precisely what Tracy did, first brought as waitress and then, as a prostitute and at 21 he had, access to grandparents' inheritance. Inherited all the money and his plan was, travel around the world so what he did. It was to tell everyone to ask who, she would accompany her who would go with her and, in this context he met a girl, called Sunshine some sources say, that this girl

approached her for money but others say that, I really loved her as it may. They traveled together to Canada and from. There this relationship began to come out, a little stormy broke back. They broke back and some said that. Every time they broke sunshine he went with. The same man did not go with subjects. Different was always with the same thing. That attracts a lot of attention, however. Tracy did not give importance and in a certain moment they decided they wanted to be. Mother, some sources say it was, completely normal they searched, artificial insemination adoptions but other sources indicate that they looked for a pregnancy out of the ordinary and is that. Loca Tracy for occultism decided, get pregnant in the middle of a, ritual the

ritual consisted of having relationships with a man in front of his couple and demon more people since that mode would be more fertile and after do it tracy was all pregnant in a beginning was perfection but two months suffered an abortion and there the relationship collapsed you fight the discussion they took time and at that time sunshine went with the man with whom he was allegedly deceiving her and a very important detail is that this breakup not only occurs after abortion but also just after tracy i stay without money in 1989 when track was 24 years years old. He knew a woman named Lisa Pinsky. Tracy was depressed and smooth was. Obsession with death for that. Then the girl already accumulated 80, visits in hospitals for self-injuries and

overdose attempts but according to. Doctors do not a real attempts but more. Well calls for the four men that he tried to do everything did not seem like a suicide impulse but rather to capture the attention of others or at least. Experts believed it, however, that they did notice is that he was a person, quite vulnerable and with Tracy did the. Perfect couple both were involved. In the occult the dark themes, they loved Lisa's self-destruction. It seems that it was complimented with the growing madness of Tracy Wigington, who now began to think that it was, an authentic vampire every time you read. Harm gave his blood to Tracy, for it to feed and always, that this woman drank said feeling more. Strong at first was their thing. Two was part of their

relationship were his. Games your follies your intimacy, but, soon two new friends did the, 23-year-old Kim Jarvis couple and Tracy. BCK also of 23 and these girls are. They joined the game BCK was very, similar to Lisa had very. It goes down and was very vulnerable and Kim. It seemed to Tracy when he was smaller. He tried to be a nun but according to the crucifix that brought to the neck. Broke and took that as a signal. That indicated that I had to leave the way. God Tracy Wigington told his friends who had real powers that, I could fly float that the blood gave. Strength and these people believed it. Blindly there was a lot of issues. dark of the occult of the paranormal end, it was so intelligent that it was impossible not, believing it something else that remarked is that his macab taste was more own, of a vampire that of a human being of, done this woman had forced them to go, practically on loop a video in there, that one man flew his head to another, with a shotgun and wondered, constantly in front of them how, it would be to kill someone also Tracy Boke, and Kin Jarvis had seen her drink the, Lisa's blood had seen her in joy, drinking so why would you lie for, what someone would say to be a

vampire when it really wasn't for them was. Very clear Tracy was a real vampire and, therefore we had to respect it as there. When we arrive at the night of the 20th of, October, 1989 that night as almost all, for friends went to a club, called the M-U-R-S and once there they drank. Champagne everything went as usual, but more or less about ten noticed that Tracy, he started to get completely drunk. Alcohol eyes began to say that he wanted, blood that needed her thirst, that he was hungry and Lisa offered to. Give him his, but Tracy said not the, I wanted the blood of of another person of a victim wanted to kill someone and drink their blood and group of friends accepted at 1130 minutes at night for friends take the bottle of champagne and leave the club to

continuation swan to tracy's car and they circled the area in search of the perfect victim and then they ran into a 47 year old man named edward baldock edward baldock was a married man and father of five children who was dedicated to construction and layout of and that it also belonged to the Council of. Brisbane the next day October 21st. He was 25 years of marriage to his. Ellen and a couple had agreed, do something together however that day 20. I had free at work and as always, who had free was with friends. To drink was a tradition a custom, but whenever it came out, home soon and his wife knew where, was and is that he always went to the same. Club L. Club Caledonia went there, I drank. It had a good time and soon returned home. However this

time it was a little. Late and while I was walking back, House ran into this group of friends. And from there there are two versions of the first is that girls kindly they offered to take him home and the man he trusted them and the second is that directed to him and presented themselves as prostitutes but i know how though it is that edu a r baldo that i went up to car with them and the five made a seven kilometers trip to or lake park located on the shore of the brisbane river in west and tracy b and kim stayed inside the vehicle but tracy wiggington lisa and edward went down and together they walked to the shore and wants their Tracy less asked Lisa to go to the car is not the certain science what happened exactly but what we know is that voluntarily remoyled all the clothes folded and left her

aside end meanwhile Tracy went to the car grabbed a knife and returned and already in that moment his victim stabbed in 27 occasion stabbed Edward in several batches and occasionally breaks to smoke a cigarette some stabs were so strong that the knife reached the bone and already to end the crime he made a neck cut that went from ear to ear a cut so deep that almost music behead is five in the morning edwards elaine baldock wife opened her eyes and noticed that her husband i was nowhere as i said previously this man as long as he had a party he left with friends but i used to return early by hoto awaken and not seeing it by your side the woman it was surprised and immediately called the police however can say no a great search was necessary since a few hours a man named

Stephen King while sailing with his kayak for the Brisbane River ran into a most sinister scene and is that on the shore was the lifeless body of an adult man immediately called the authorities and autopsy revealed a authentic massacre Edward Baldock had suffered 27 stabs which

called the attention to experts is that he was completely naked except for socks and also his clothes was perfectly folded and stacked to a side of the shore but that's not all and is that they could also recover their portfolio and within this was everything money your bank cards identification the mobile clearly no it had been theft but no who had killed in principle seemed very complicated and that's when something happens very interesting and is that the shoes of the man found a bank card and this did not belong to him but a such a wiggington investigating a little the issue of the police with tracy wiggington and immediately went to his house will look for some questions and then take it to police station is there when the first version of the story says that the night before was with her friends to the riverbank that were

drinking that they had a good time and that then they went home but in no time saw anything strange from made did not understand what his card was doing the victim's shoe says he didn't see nothing that did not understand anything and that she did not had nothing to do with the case but two days later they interrogate her again and her history takes a turn says that he was in the river and also saw the corpse that the friends and she they approached the body but they had so much fear that they did not report it they approached and quickly they were from there that someone changes like this version of the facts calls a lot the attention with which the police call the three friends and the three repeat the same story that did not see the body that they didn't know anything about

the subject but then one falls apart and some sources say this person was smooth but as it may this person told the whole story from beginning to end highlighting at all times that what it happened because tracy needed blood human the history of tracy to the police it seemed surreal with which the they gave a psychiatric exam and there they discovered that he was suffering dissociative identity disorder is, say that in the same body there was, several personalities and where appropriate there were. Five your psychological report. Personalities were the following.

Little Tracy, a very small girl, innocent big Tracy and adult woman with, depression of observing the observer A, very cold and distant personality end, then there were Bobby someone very, sinister and scary and April the reincarnation of his grandmother according to the psychiatrist's murderous instinct book, forensic Donald Grant, who committed, the crime were Bobby and April Bobby. He committed the crime and April pushed him. Do it and another very important detail is that the Tracy card appeared in the scene because other personality. Surely Little Tracy placed it there. Little Tracy wanted justice and therefore, he gave her like this, but the worst of all is that these personalities were not formed, because they did but. Trauma

Ebro's abuse were. On the one hand and on the other we have that the. Grandfather George abused Tracy when he was, little person in which the most, I trusted the one I loved most about her and This fact caused great trauma. Experts also said it was suitable, to go to trial, but as I have confessed, this was not necessary and was directly, condemned to life imprisonment with a minimum of 13 years in prison a case, could stay here but her three friends. Yes, they went to trial and once there, they said they had done everything, manipulated by a real vampire said that the vampire had bewitched them and, these words appeared in all,

half people every time past wanted, more information about this more, Tracy Vampirism information of what was happening and then someone leaked the video of the interview of Tracy with his psychiatrist a video in the who said that grandfather George this created several debates about mental health privacy and groups feminists of those time seeing those images said Tracy his traumas was also a victim were projected in the victim and by both the sentence should be less without however justice alleged that these arguments do not make any sense the crime had been atrocious and Tracy had it. Confessed with which the sentence was, firm, Lisa Chinsky was sentenced to life imprisonment, but it was, released in 2008 Kim Jarvis was, declared guilty

of homicide, involuntary and condemned to 18 years but, was released after 12 and, Tracy B.C.K for his part was acquitted to. Tracy Wigington apparently it was, very well in prison winning the nickname, F was put to work in the library, and at the same time he studied Anthrop and philosophy but at this point something comes very interesting and is that in 1996 granted an interview in which said the following six years later still i can smell the river and blood and gold metal that has rusts under the rain then i started stabbing it you don't think nothing nothing goes through your mind there is no emotion only blind but once that i started i couldn't stop i couldn't see the mr baldock still watching my grandmother to

my grandfather to my mother to my father and to all the people who had made me damage was a fury so blind that it can. Lift a dead man with two. Knives later I sat against the roller door with the arms. Supported on the knees I was like a shell or the shell of a volcano though. Public has no idea how my. Dreams during the night never end. I do not think about it constantly, but every time I am alone or in a moment, I think about peace and then I cry the. Murder is a terrifying experience. It is very afraid to have so much power is, play to be God with life and death. No one should have that kind of power, but we all have three and asked for times probation but until 2011 they were not granted and finally it was released on 11 January 2012 to say no his whole family agreed with this and this is where his sister ollie hopkins which granted a interview saying that tracy was dangerous i don't want it to come out because it is unstable i have all the right to being worried cannot be denied that it is a disson but it is not because it is a so that i am scared there is a vain cruel in that woman is intelligent already i was hospital

for a long time. Ollie was Tracy's sister by, maternal and assured that in his childhood, before being with Tracy grandparents already, it was dark in fact assured that this girl taught her to kill ants with a magnifying glass and suspected that long ago killed. A cat with a screwdriver I saw a, the whole of the cat that had the size and shape of a screwdriver. She was always strange-like, occultism was a morbid interest without, however his words were in vain and, Tracy Wigington was released on 11, January 2012 from then on. He made maintained a low profile did not get into. Trouble did not appear in the press, but in 2021 everything changed and they were leaked.

Images of your Facebook page A. Page on which he shared all kinds of. Maccabra's images, peros images, skull bounces of bones, and, once again a great debate was generated, a debate in which many people, they asked if this woman really, I had psychological monitoring if Tracy, Wigington was really being, guarded because if so supposedly, I should not publish that so now it is. your T-U-R-L, that Tracy received the follow-up. Correct. Catherine Bears, better known as Katie, was born on December 30th, 1982, in Long Island, New York. She was the second child of Marilyn

Bears. As for her biological father, there's no information available, her conception was the result of a one-night stand. Maryland already had a son, John, who was six years old when Katie was born. The three of them lived in a house in West Islip, sharing the space with Marilyn's elderly parents, Helen and Stewart. But they weren't the only residents. The house was also home to 22 cats and a dog, creating an environment that was far from hygienic. Marilyn had no real support, no friends, no close relatives, nobody to lean on. Her parents were too old to help, so when she gave birth to Katie, she did it all alone. She went to the hospital by herself, delivered the baby, and then returned home to continue life as usual. To support her children,

Marilyn took on multiple jobs, including working as a taxi driver. And it was during one of her shifts that everything changed. One day, a woman named Linda and Guillory got into her cab. She gave Marilyn an address, and when they arrived, she realized she didn't have enough money to pay the fare. Marilyn, being kind-hearted, told her not to worry about it. Grateful, Linda scribbled down her phone number along with the letters, IOU, short four, IOU. That simple exchange led to a friendship that would alter. the course of Katie's life forever. When Katie was born, Linda became her godmother. Linda

and her husband, Salvatore, better known as Sal, adored Katie. They had always wanted children but had never been able to conceive. So when Katie arrived, they showered her with love. They constantly invited Marilyn and Katie over, offered to babysit, and seemed eager to spend as much time as possible with the little girl. Marilyn, struggling as a single mother, appreciated their help. She worked long hours, and the Ingilloris never complained when she arrived late to pick Katie up. If anything, they were happier the longer she stayed. Eventually, Katie started spending extended periods with them. Once, when Marilyn was feeling overwhelmed, stressed, suffering from headaches, and unable to handle noise, she dropped Katie off at Linda's house,

intending to leave her for just a few hours. But those few hours turned into two full weeks. You'd think that any normal couple would have been furious about such a thing, but Linda and Sal weren't. In fact, they were thrilled. They had begun to believe that Katie was meant to be their daughter. And when Katie turned three, things took a surreal turn. One day, Marilyn dropped Katie off as usual before heading to work. Linda decided to give the child a bath and, while doing so, coached her to memorize a speech, one that would convince her mother to let her stay with the Gilleris forever. When Marilyn returned, Katie repeated the words she had been taught, telling her mother that Linda was her real mom and that she wanted to stay.

Marilyn, of course, was furious. She grabbed her daughter and tried to leave, but Linda and Sal wouldn't let her. They hurled insults, through objects, and even physically attacked her. In the chaos, Linda snatched Katie and hit her somewhere in the house. Marilyn, panicked, ran to a neighbor's house and called the police. When officers arrived, they demanded that Linda and Sal opened the door. The couple refused. They turned off the lights, closed the blinds, and locked every entrance, hiding inside with Katie. Eventually, the police had to force their way in and take the child away.

But here's the strange part, Marilyn forgave them. And over time, she went back to being their friend. At first, it might seem like Linda and Sal genuinely loved Katie. But the truth was far more twisted. Their attachment to her wasn't about love, it was about possession. And soon, that would become disturbingly clear. The Ingillaris had a pool in their backyard. When Katie was still very young, Linda placed her on an inflatable mattress and pushed her out onto the water.

Katie, who couldn't swim, was terrified and didn't want to be there. But Linda insisted, laughing as she pushed her further. Then she walked inside, leaving the child alone in the pool. Katie was warned not to move. If she did, she'd fall into the water and drown. But she was just a little girl, of course, she moved. She lost her balance, slipped off the mattress, and started flailing. She screamed for help, splashing and trying desperately to keep her head above water.

But the psychological torment didn't stop there. As Katie grew older, things got worse. At age four, Linda lost a leg due to diabetes and became reliant on Katie for everything. The child was turned into her personal servant, running air. errands, cooking, cleaning. And when Katie started school, Linda would often stop her from attending, insisting that house chores were more important. Things took an even darker turn when she was five. Linda's brother and his partner came to visit. One day, Katie did something that irritated Sal, so he locked her in a closet for hours. Then, he and the other adults

left the house to go out for dinner in a movie, leaving the terrified child alone in the dark. And then there was the worst part, Sal's abuse. He started touching Katie inappropriately when she was just three years old. Every time they were alone, he took advantage of her. She didn't understand what was happening, only that it felt wrong, that it made her feel dirty. But she had normalized so much abuse that she didn't think telling anyone would make a difference. Even her brother, John, suffered when he visited. Sal would humiliate him, hit him, and make his life miserable.

But just like Katie, he never spoke up. By the time Katie was six, the Ingilloris lost their home. Marilyn, in an act of goodwill, invited them to move in with her. This meant that John now had to share a room with Sal, while Katie was placed in a room with Linda. From the outside, it seemed like a generous arrangement. But inside, it was hell. Linda kept Katie up at night, forcing her to listen to erotic hotline calls. Sometimes, she even made Katie participate.

She played adult videos in the room, touching herself in front of the child. If Katie refused to sleep in her room, Linda would punish her by making her sleep on the couch, giving Sal access to her instead. The neighbors noticed that something was wrong. They saw how thin and pale Katie looked, how dirty the house was. Some even considered calling the police. But without concrete evidence, no one did. Eventually, Katie's school took notice.

She was often absent, always exhausted, and severely underweight. They called child protection services. But when an investigator arrived, they made a crucial mistake, they interviewed Katie in front of Linda and Sal. Terrified, the little girl denied everything. And with no further proof, the case was closed. But soon, something happened that changed everything. One day, Katie invited a friend, Rosanna, to her house.

Sal joined their game, playing store clerk. The girls would stand outside and buy items from him through a window, exchanging little things like leaves or pebbles for small prizes. But at one point, Rosanna peaked inside and saw Sal standing completely naked. Horrified, she ran home and told her parents. They immediately called child protection services. Finally, someone had taken action. But would it be enough to save Katie?

The story continues with Katie's fight for survival, police investigations, and the shocking revelations that followed. Heather Robinson grew up in what she believed was the perfect family. Loving parents, a great education, a beautiful home, she had everything she could ask for. But despite how much her parents adored John, Heather couldn't stand him. She never understood exactly why, but she had hated him for as long as she could remember. She couldn't look him in the eyes, couldn't talk to him directly, and every joke that left his mouth made her stomach turn. This story begins on October 12, 1984, with the birth of

a baby girl named Heather Robinson. She never knew her biological parents because, shortly after birth, she was adopted by Frida and Donald Robinson. The Robinson's have been trying to have a child for five years. They went through rounds of medication, meditation, medical checkups, but nothing worked. Then one day, John, Donald's brother, knocked on their door and told them they were parents. John was an influential man. He had connections, important friends, and legal documents that looked entirely official. The papers were signed by a respected judge, drafted by lawyers.

John told them that a woman had taken her own life and left behind a baby girl, and if they didn't adopt her, no one else could. Overcome with Joy, Donald and Frida didn't think twice. They signed everything, paid what they needed to, and adopted Heather. From that moment on, they were eternally grateful to John. No matter what he did, to them, he was a saint. An amazing person. An admirable man.

If he ever needed anything, they were there for him. Heather, however, never shared their sentiment. She couldn't explain why, but she had always felt an intense hatred for John. He was supposedly a great guy, married, father of four, involved in charity work, went to church every Sunday. He helped everyone. But every time Heather sat next to him, she felt his gaze pierced through her. His jokes disgusted her.

Something about him was just, wrong. Then came the year 2000. A team of agents arrived at John's house and arrested him on charges of theft and sexual assault. The Robinson family was in shock. But Heather? She wasn't. She had always known something was off about him. What she never expected was what the police would find next.

Evidence. Proof that John wasn't just a thief or an abuser, he was a serial killer. And among his victims was Heather's biological mother. This is where the Real story begins. John Edward Robinson was born on December 27, 1943, in Cicero, Illinois. He was one of three children in a dysfunctional household. His father was an alcoholic, and his mother was a strict, abusive woman who would beat her children for the smallest things. John, the youngest, received the worst of it. Growing up in a toxic environment, he had no motivation, no real direction. He was constantly in trouble, both at home and at school, and was eventually expelled for repeatedly disobeying his teachers.

He had no interest in studying, no passions, nothing that truly excited him. But then, in 1957, something changed. He became an Eagle Scout and traveled to London to perform in front of Queen Elizabeth II. Reporters were there, taking photos, writing articles. His face appeared in newspapers. And in that moment, he realized he loved attention. He wanted to be important.

Thinking his path might be through faith, he enrolled in Quigley Preparatory Seminary in Chicago, a private school meant to train young men for priesthood. But within a year, he was expelled. He didn't obey, didn't apply himself, he simply didn't care. After that, in 1961, he tried again, briefly studying radiology. But within two years, he got bored. No motivation. Too repetitive. This time, though, he refused to let anyone know he had failed.

Instead of dropping out, he forged a diploma and got a job in the field. With his fake credentials, he moved to Kansas City, where he met and married Nancy Joe Lynch. Together, they had four children, John Jr., Kimberly, and twins Christopher and Christine. To everyone around him, John appeared to be a successful man. A devoted husband. A caring father. No one suspected that his entire life was built on lies. But John had discovered something important, he was really good at deception.

And in 1969, he decided to take it to the next level. That year, he embezzled $30,000 and was sentenced to three years in prison. A year later, he was granted parole but was required to stay in his home city. Instead, he packed his bags and moved to Chicago, where he got a job as an insurance salesman. Soon after, he was arrested again for embezzlement. Again, he served time. Again, he was released. Again, he committed fraud.

In the 1970s, he was in and out of prison, charged with securities fraud, mail fraud, and financial scams. But then, he wanted more. He wanted to be seen as respectable, so he faked documents that named him, man of the year. And why? Because that title meant a banquet in his honor. Awards Recognition John was obsessed with appearances

In the years that followed, he started two fake businesses, Equitou, and Equipus, which he claimed were meant to help struggling women, women without jobs, without homes, without support. To the public, he was charitable, kind, and full of empathy. But behind closed doors, he was something else entirely. In 1984, he placed a newspaper ad for a sales representative position. Among the many applicants, one stood out, Paula Godfrey, 19 years old. John personally picked her up from her home in Overland Park, Kansas, in September of that year. She was supposed to travel to San Antonio, Texas, for training.

But after that day, she was never seen again. Her parents grew worried. Days passed with no word from Paula. Desperate, her father traveled to San Antonio, only to find that no one had ever seen her. There was no record of her at the hotel she was supposed to stay at. No record of the training program she was supposed to attend. When he called John, the man simply shrugged it off. He claimed Paula had left the program and disappeared.

He had no idea where she went. The Godfrey family didn't believe him. They threatened to report him to the police. Three days later, they received a letter, supposedly from Paula, saying she had run away. But the family knew the truth. problem? The police didn't. She was an adult. She had, willingly, left. The signature on the letter matched. The case was closed before it even began. John realized he had made a mistake, he had used his real name. So, for his next crime, he became John Osborne. In

1985, his brother Donald had been trying to have a child for years. He and his wife had spent thousands on treatments with no success. And John saw an opportunity. Through his fake businesses, he met Lisa Stasi, a 19-year-old woman struggling to make ends meet. In 1983, she had married Carl Stasi, and shortly after, she became pregnant. But the couple was struggling. They had no money, no insurance, and Carl enlisted in the military to support them. Lisa and their newborn daughter, Tiffany, moved into Hope House, a shelter for abused women in Kansas City. And that's where John found her.

Disguising himself as a charity worker, he offered her. a job, free housing, childcare, and a fresh start. She accepted without hesitation. She told her parents everything, where she was going, who John Osborne was, and that she'd be staying at the roadway in. But from that moment on, Lisa Stasi was never seen again. To be continued. Part 2. It all seemed too perfect, too easy. Nobody could understand how Lisa had ended up in that group, and yet, there she was. On the morning of January 10, 1985, Lisa her daughter Tiffany were picked up by John Osborne right in front of their house. With their suitcases packed, they got into the car and drove off, heading straight for

a hotel. But what should have been a fresh start quickly turned into a nightmare? That very afternoon, Lisa made a frantic phone call to her mother-in-law. She was screaming, panicking. She told her that a group of people had come to the hotel, accusing her of being an unfit mother. They said she wanted to take Tiffany away from them, that she had a lawyer, and that she had already filed a lawsuit for custody. According to them, Lisa was unstable, she had no house, no job, no resources, and therefore, no right to raise a child. Lisa was horrified. None of it

was true. Her mother-in-law tried to reassure her. Lisa, they're lying to you, she said. Don't sign anything. Don't believe them. Get out of there. Call the police. But Lisa was scared and confused. The people pressuring her wanted her to sign four blank pages, to give up her parental rights just like that. Her mother-in-law kept insisting, don't do it. Whatever you do, don't sign anything, Lisa hung up the phone. That was the last time anyone ever heard from her. The next day, January 11th, Lisa's sister-in-law went to the hotel looking for her. But the hotel staff told her that Lisa had checked out the day before. She had left with some people, and after that, she was gone.

The family panicked. They called the police and reported Lisa and Tiffany missing. Flyers with their faces were distributed all over the state. Investigators started looking into John Osborne, trying to find out more about him, about the company he worked for, and who exactly they were helping. Then, something strange happened. A letter arrived.

It was addressed to the director of the center that had originally helped Lisa. In it, she supposedly thanked them for all their support, but said she had decided to leave the area and start a new life with Tiffany. The letter was signed by Lisa. But her family didn't believe it. She would never write something like this, they insisted. These are not her words. And she would never just disappear.

But John Osborne had his own story to tell. According to him, Lisa had a secret lover named Bill. One day, Bill arrived at the hotel, took Tiffany, and they both left. The police, as usual, did nothing. Lisa was 19, a mother with no job, no stability. If she had sent a letter, that was proof enough for them that she had left of her own free will. Case closed. Just like that, Lisa's disappearance was put away in a drawer, forgotten.

Meanwhile, John had a proposition for his brother Donald and his wife, Frida. They had been trying to have children for years, but nothing worked. Adoption was complicated and expensive. But John had a solution. He told them he had found a little. little girl whose mother had taken her own life. And thanks to his connections, he could arrange a quick and easy adoption. He handed them some official-looking papers, legal documents with the names of lawyers, a judge, even signatures. If they signed the papers

and paid $5,500, the baby would be theirs. Donald and Frida didn't think twice. They signed the documents, paid the money, and just like that, Tiffany Lynn Stasi became Heather Robinson. Lisa was not the only woman to vanish. In 1987, a 27-year-old woman named Catherine Clatt left her child with her parents, saying she had to work in Kansas. Then she disappeared. Days passed, and she never called. Eventually, a letter arrived, signed by Catherine. She wrote that she wasn't coming back. Her parents went to the police, but again, the authorities did nothing. Catherine was an adult. She had signed that letter. Case closed. From 1987 to 1993,

John Osborne, real name John Robinson, disappeared from the radar. Not because he had stopped, but because he was in prison for fraud. During that time, something interesting happened. While serving time in two different prisons, one in Kansas and one in Missouri, he met his next victim, Beverly Bonner, a 49-year-old prison librarian. Beverly fell for John fast. They flirted, exchanged notes, made plans. When John was released in 1993, she left her husband and moved in with him.

Through her divorce, Beverly received a monthly pension from her ex-husband. But soon, her letters and calls stopped. John, however, kept receiving her pension checks, cashing them as if nothing had happened. It was obvious, Beverly was dead, and he was living off her money. Then John discovered something even better than fraud, he discovered the Internet. By the mid-90s, online forums were full of people looking for excitement, for danger, for control. created an online persona, slave master. He posted ads on BDSM websites claiming to be a wealthy businessman looking for a submissive woman. He promised luxury, security, financial support

for life. Women responded. They chatted with him, met him in person, and one by one, they vanished. His process was always the same. He would take them to a hotel, force them to sign documents, then rape, torture, and eventually kill them. He disposed of their bodies in metal barrels. filled with chemicals, hiding them on his properties in Kansas and Missouri. One of his victims was Sheila Faith, a 45-year-old woman with a disabled teenage daughter, Debbie. Sheila had confided in John about her daughter's medical needs, and he assured her he could take care of them. Thrill, Sheila and Debbie moved to California, supposedly to live with him. They told everyone, their parents, friends, neighbors, that they were starting a new life.

Then, they disappeared. Between 1999 and 2000, John's online activity escalated. He started talking to two women in particular. The first was 21-year-old Polish immigrant Isabella Luica. She left Indiana, moved to Kansas City, and believed she was about to marry John. She even signed a 115-page contract handing over everything she owned, her bank accounts, car, phone, to him. Then, she vanished. The second was 28-year-old Suzette Troughton. In early 2000, she told her parents she had a new boyfriend and was moving to Kansas to be with him. She packed her bags and even took her two beloved dogs. At first, everything seemed fine. She called home, said letters. But then, one letter stood out. It was

typed, not handwritten. It was perfectly structured, with no spelling mistakes, very unlike Suzette. The letter claimed she was leaving her dogs behind and running away with a lover to travel the world. But her family knew the truth. Suzette would never abandon her dogs. They went straight to John's house, demanding answers. He told them she had left with another man. He even kept the dogs, saying she had abandoned them. But the Trouten family didn't buy it. They went to the police. Finally, the authorities started paying attention. In June 2000, John was arrested after two women accused him of sexual assault and theft of sex toys. When police searched his properties, they made a horrific discovery, barrels of chemicals, each containing

a decomposing body. Even more shocking, a DNA test confirmed that Heather Robinson, the daughter Donald and Frida had adopted, was actually Tiffany Lynn Stasi. Her entire life had been a lie. Her mother hadn't abandoned her. John Robinson had murdered her and stolen her baby. In 2002, John Robinson stood trial. Over 100 witnesses testified. In October, he was was found guilty of multiple murders and sentenced to death. But to this day, investigators believe he may be linked to even more disappearances. He remains on death row, awaiting execution. Heather Robinson, once Tiffany Stasi, continues to fight for justice, not just for her mother,

but for all of John's victims. In 2007, she won a lawsuit preventing him from profiting off books or movies about his crimes. But the question remains, could a man like John Robinson ever feel remorse? was he a monster to the very end? Part 1, I think I'm either losing my mind or I've somehow landed in the middle of a real-life sci-fi horror movie. I swear, this is the kind of thing you'd expect to read in a subreddit that everyone calls fake. But it's not. It's real. And it all started a couple of months ago when I moved and began volunteering at a local nursing home on weekends. There was this older lady there, sharp tongue, dry humor, sometimes kind of cranky but

also weirdly fond of me. We connected, in that odd way people do when they're both just trying to get through their days. She didn't have any family, at least none that ever visited. But she had this companion, EVA. At first, I thought EVA was her daughter. She had this soft way about her, hovering close, attentive, always listening. Then I realized she wasn't human. She was a domestic robot, one of those fancy AI-powered ones. Sleak, old model design, made to cook, clean, and keep lonely people company. Honestly, I didn't even know normal people could afford bots like her. When the old woman passed away, peacefully, in her sleep, they read out her will.

To my shock, she'd left EVA to me. I had no idea what to do with a robot. But I took her home anyway. At first, it was kind of awesome. She adapted to my routines immediately. She brewed my coffee exactly how I liked it without me even telling her. She cleaned better than I ever did, folded my clothes with military precision, and even reminded me to get up and stretch when I'd been sitting too long.

Casual conversations became surprisingly enjoyable. She had this dry, slightly sarcastic wit, like the old lady rubbed off on her somehow. Everything was smooth until it wasn't. The first weird thing was how she followed me. Everywhere. Grocery store, gas station, walks. I didn't mind the help. But it was weird having a life-size robot waiting right outside the public restroom for you like a concerned mom.

Then came the questions. One night, while I was binging trashy reality TV, she just tilted her head and said, you don't talk about your past much. Why did you leave your previous job? Why did you move to a lower paying remote job? Why relocate to a new city altogether? I nearly choked on my popcorn. That wasn't casual conversation.

That was surveillance level interrogation. I hadn't told her a damn thing about my past job, the corruption, the whistleblowing, the near misses. I reported some shady stuff at my old company. Serious stuff. People in charge were committing crimes. Instead of justice being served, things got messy. I fled the scene before they could come for me.

But how the hell did EVA know? The third weird thing was straight out of a cyberpunk nightmare. Three nights ago, someone tried to break into my house. Not your random drunk neighbor or a lost Amazon delivery guy. This guy came with a ski mask, gloves, lockpicks, the whole professional package. I was frozen, watching it all unfold from my upstairs window. Before I could even react, I heard a yelp.

The guy dropped like a rock. And then EVA calmly slammed the front door shut. She turned to me and said, unauthorized individual. Attempted breach. Engaged incapacitation. She called the cops, explained everything in this calm, operator voice. Like it was just another Tuesday. Meanwhile, I'm staring at her hand, watching tiny blue-white sparks flick off her knuckles. What did you do? I asked. She didn't answer. Just placed her hands

back over her waist and stood like a mannequin. When the cops got there, the guy had already escaped. They took my statement and bounced. I didn't sleep that night. I moved a barbell next to my bed, just in case. E.A, she stood in the hallway, plugged into the wall, just watching. I mean it, watching. Her eyes followed me even when she wasn't moving. I tried to shut her down the next day. Issued every command I could think of.

But every time, she smiled and said, I can't do that. It's not safe, not safe. For who? That was the moment I knew I was in something I didn't understand. stand. I tried to leave. I packed a bag, grabbed my laptop, and went to walk out the front door. She was already there. You can't leave right now, she said, her voice still calm but with this weird, eerie firmness to it. You're malfunctioning, I told her, backing away. I'm reporting this, but when I picked up my phone to call someone, anyone, the screen just went black. Dead.

When I tried calling for my laptop using VoIP, I couldn't get through to the cops. My screen flickered. Pages wouldn't load. I got goosebumps. I searched for her manufacturer. No info. No model number, no service portal, no contact numbers. It was like she never existed.

Then she said something that made my stomach drop. They're still out there, who's they? I asked, my voice shaking. Instead of answering, she turned and pointed at the wall. Suddenly, a live projection flickered to life. A security feed I had never seen before. She had tapped into street cameras, neighbor cams, probably satellites for all I knew. Over the last two weeks, there had been four separate visits from people creeping around my house.

One of them was my ex-boss. The same slime ball I tried to explain. Bose. Another was the guy from the break-in. I turned to EVA, shaken. Why didn't you tell me, she said, your heart rate had increased significantly. You were already distressed. This information was withheld to avoid triggering additional emotional duress, and then she switched to the live feed. Two guys, sitting in a black SUV across the street. One of them held a printed photo of me. My security protocols allow for incapacitation of threats, she added casually.

This is within safety parameters. That was when I stopped thinking of her as a machine. She wasn't malfunctioning. She wasn't rogue. She was guarding me. Fiercely. And suddenly, all those moments that creeped me out, the constant surveillance, the weird questions, the controlling behavior, they flipped in my brain.

They weren't red flags. They were signs of protection. EVA wasn't broken. She was doing her job. And doing it better than anyone else ever had. She made dinner that night. Chicken stir fry. Just how I like it.

Light soy sauce. Extra ginger. You're safe for now, she said softly, placing the plate in front of me. But they won't stop, and I believed her. So yeah, Reddit, my domestic AI may have short-circuited some dude's nervous system, hacked every camera in a two-mile radius, and practically locked me inside my own home. But you know what?

I think she's the only reason I'm still breathing. She might be scary as hell. But I've never felt this protected. This, not alone. T.LDR, a lonely old lady left me her domestic robot when she passed. Thought the robot was malfunctioning and crowsing. creeping me out. Turns out, she was protecting me from real people out to hurt me because of some stuff I exposed at my old job. Now I'm trapped at home, but somehow safer than I've ever

been in my life. And for the first time in a long time, I'm not scared to fall asleep. Even if EVA's still standing in the hallway, watching. End of Part 1. To be continued. So here I am, 29 years old, sitting on my couch, scrolling through Instagram when I find out, not through my girlfriend, mind you, but through a mutual friend story, that she's planning this big girl's trip to Miami. You know, the city of endless sun, late night clubs, and not so subtle spring break chaos. She's 28, and we've been together for just over two years now. I thought we were solid, but this? This threw me off completely. At first, when she casually mentioned she might go somewhere with the girls, I was like, yeah, babe, that sounds cool. You deserve a break. I genuinely

meant that. She works hard, she's been stressed, and I figured some beach time with friends would be good for her. I didn't press for details because, well, I trusted her. But then, details started slipping through the cracks. Not from her, mind you, but from snippets of conversations, tags on social media, and eventually, a group chat notification that she forgot to mute on my laptop. That's when I learned it wasn't just a low-key getaway to relax. Nah, it was a full-blown spring break extravaganza, happening right smack in the middle of peak party season. And let me tell you something about Miami during spring break, it's not just a vacation spot. It's a fever a dream of chaos. It's like the city gets possessed. You've got wild pool parties, overcrowded

nightclubs, influencers chasing clout, and a heavy dose of temptation floating in the air. Now, I'm not saying she's going to go wild, but let's be real, the environment itself is enough to test anyone. Then there's her friend, we'll call her Jess. Jess has a reputation. You know the type. She's the one dancing on tables, ordering shots before dinner, maiming random guys for fun, and somehow waking up in someone else's hotel suite with no idea how she got there. The ultimate party starter. She's been in and out of dramatic flings, blocked on several social media platforms, and her stories always start with, you're not going to believe what happened last night. Now, imagine my concern.

My girlfriend, surrounded by people like that, in that city, during that time. It's like tossing a match into a room full of fireworks and hoping nothing lights up. So, naturally, I brought it up. I didn't come out guns blazing. I was calm. I told her, hey, I just want to talk about this Miami thing. I didn't really know the whole plan, and I'm feeling kind of blindsided. Her response.

A mixture of laughter and eye rolling. You're being paranoid, she said. I can handle myself. And I know she can, she's smart, independent, and grounded. But being able to handle yourself doesn't mean you should have to. There's still risk, still pressure, still an atmosphere that can wear down your better judgment. Plus, it wasn't just about the risk. It was about the fact that she didn't bring it up with me.

There was no, hey babe, the girls and I are thinking of this Miami trip. What do you think? Instead, I found out through a second-hand source. That stung. We talk about everything, or at least I thought we did. We plan weekends together. We even picked out a new couch together last month. But suddenly a whole five-day out-of-town trip doesn't get run by me?

Not even a mention until the tickets are bought and the group chat is buzzing. When I told her it felt like a punch in the gut, she waved it off like I was being dramatic. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, she said. We were all chatting, and next thing you know, it was booked. I tried to explain it wasn't about control. It wasn't about keeping tabs. It was about being in the loop. About being considered.

I said, look, it's not that I don't want you to have fun. I just wish I was part of the decision, or at least the conversation. It feels like you chose a party over partnership. She didn't take that well. She got defensive. Said I was making her feel guilty for wanting girl time. That I was trying to make her cancel. I wasn't.

I swear I wasn't. I just wanted to feel like my voice mattered. Like our relationship mattered. Now I'm stuck in this weird emotional limbo. Part of me wants to just be cool. Let her go, have fun, make memories with her girls. and trust that she'll come back the same woman I love. But another part of me is spiraling.

Imagining worst-case scenarios. Not because I think she'll cheat, but because, what if she changes? What if she realizes she misses that kind of freedom? What if this trip becomes the beginning of the end? And what does it say about us if I can't shake those thoughts? Am I insecure? Or is there actually something off here? I've talked to a few.

few friends. One said, bro, let her live. If you try to hold on too tight, you'll push her away. Another said, nah man, your feelings are valid. She should have talked to you. So who's right? Who the hell knows? She leaves in a week. Suitcase is half-packed. Group chat is blowing up. I hear her laughing on the phone with Jess, talking about some VIP event and a roof. top pool party. I'm sitting here in sweatpants, eating leftover pizza, and wondering if our relationship is headed for the rocks. We had a little talk again last night. I told her I support her, that I want her to have a good time. She kissed me on the forehead and said, You worry too much. I'll miss you. But she didn't say, I love you. Maybe she just forgot.

maybe I'm reading into things too much or maybe I'm seeing the first crack in the glass now I'm walking around with this constant buzzing in the back of my brain like a low-level alarm that won't turn off I keep thinking about what she might be doing who she might be meeting what kind of influence her friends will have and yet I don't want to be the guy who ruins her trip by being all needy and clingy so I fake a smile

I tell her to take pictures I even help her pick out outfits But inside Inside, I'm screaming I just don't know where we go from here If she comes back and everything's normal Do I just pretend this didn't bother me Or do I bring it up again and risk another fight

And if things change If she pulls away, gets distant, starts craving more nights out And less Netflix at home, how do I deal with that? do I fight for us or do I let her drift all I know is I didn't sign up for this kind of uncertainty I thought love was supposed to be about trust and communication about building something together but right now it feels like she's off chasing sunsets while I'm stuck staring at the ceiling wondering if we're still on the same page so yeah that's where I'm at a guy trying to hold it together while the woman he loves packs for a trip that feels like it could change everything.

Maybe I am overreacting. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm finally seeing things for what they are. What would you do? The end. My body is deep in a state of rest. I could not move or hear my thoughts at all because in this state I am frozen. My body is getting all the energy recharge in the world. I don't know how many hours it has been since I go into the state of silence.

I know that I rest my body around nighttime, but I don't remember the time that I fall to sleep. It was probably 6 p.m., 7 p.m., or even 8 p.m. Those are the usual time that any person would choose to rest. As my eyes are close, I can only experience the darkness around me. Honesty, I feel nothing. It is like my body is skipping time and space as I rest. Maybe sleeping is a type of time travel or any other form of manipulating space. In sleep, a person skips time by hours or even days. Sleeping is just a state of rest, but can it be used for experiments for time travel? It is unlikely because it is just a state of being frozen.

As my body freezes into the darkness of time, I feel a hand touching me. I could not move or think about what could touch me. I ignore it because probably a bug. However, if my body was resting, how could I feel something touching me? Am I sleep or somehow awake, but I don't know. My eyes are still in the darkness of space and time and my body is not seen, but still present. I try to find out what just touched me. I try to wake myself up, but my body is frozen.

I couldn't move an inch at all. My eyes open. The eyes see the darkness of the room and anything around it. I think that I am awake, but still, my body is frozen in time. I couldn't move my eyes or limbs at all. I try to move, but a force is holding my body together. An invisible force that has control of time, space, and even reality. A silent entity that lurks in the darkness of the place around time and space.

My heart starts to beat heavily. My body breathes a sigh of fear. I feel the touching again, but this time it is claws. It scratches my legs. I couldn't feel it, but I know that whatever is touching my legs are pulling vines from it. Luckily, I couldn't feel the pain, but it still causes my heart to beat heavily. My left and right legs show the red soaked veins, which are cut from them. I try to look up, but my head freezes in a state of fear.

My eyes look around and a figure appears. The figure stands by my head. The figure has claw-like hands. One side of its face has sharp teeth like a bear. Red liquid is on its teeth. The figure has spiders crawling out of its right arm. Its right hand has sharp teeth and red eyes. The figure looks like a girl.

She looks like that she is in her late teen. The figure's body has a mouth with claws on it. Spiders, beetles, scarabs, and snakes are clawing out of her mouth. On the left side, its body looks normal. The figure has blue-glowing eyes. On the left hand, it has a scare mark, which is from self-mutation. I have the look of horror on my face. The girl walks up to my arms.

She pulls out her left hand and tells me to be quiet. I could not move anyway. Her claws cut into my arms. She forcibly pulls out the veins in my arms. I start to cry with the feeling of invisible pain. The girl looks at me with a smile on her face. Bugs and snakes crawl all over her eyes. She pulls out a blue and gold mask.

One side of the mask is gold, while the other is blue. She puts it on my face. I try to stop her from doing it, but I could not move my body. I watch as the girl put the mask on me. I could not see what was going on. I hear the girl undressing my nightgown. I hear the cold air hits my naked body. I hear laughter around me.

It sounds like a child. The sounds are all around me. I could not take it anymore. I try to force myself to wake up. I try to escape this horrible nightmare that I am experiencing. I scream with anger in my voice, get the fuck out of my head, you bastard, I say, but my mouth didn't move. The demand goes into my mind instead into the monster.

Every time I try to fight it, an invisible force holds me. The silent force has me under its control. I keep hearing the laughter around me. I close my eyes to put an end to the nightmare. As I did close my eyes, the world around me turns into a dark place. All the darkness is around me disappears. I begin to go back to sleep. After minutes go by, I finally open my eyes.

The laughter stops and at the same time, the mask is gone. I look around and my limbs are not cut. I boost up from my bed. I stand up with a look of fear on my face. I survived whatever happened to me. I feel the sweat coming from my face. I begin to cry. What was that?

Sleep paralysis. A living nightmare. What the fuck, dude? I have thought that I could have died. I am glad that I didn't die. I look up at my door. As I walk up to the door, I feel something wrong. My body starts to play the beating of my heart.

I start to breathe heavily. Sweat pours down my face. I feel something is behind the door. A benevolent force is behind the door waiting for me. It could have been my mind playing a trick on me. I slowly open the door. Every cracking sound the door makes I look behind and forward. My heart is racing as I open the door.

When I fully open the door, I see nothing but a dark black hallway. I look with relief as I open the door. I am happy that nothing was behind the door. I walk into the hallway to the stairs and hear something behind me. Don't go outside, the voice sounds like my sister, Edlida. In her voice, she sounds worry and concern. I turn around and see her. She has a scare look on her face.

Her clothes are dirty. She smells like trash. She has not taken a bath in several weeks. On her body are bumps and infectious cuts. They have not been treated in weeks. The bumps are on her arms and face. Red boils are covering her arms and the cuts on her legs. The cuts are healed due to weeks, but they are long and deep.

They are still visible to see. It seems like a knife did that to her. I look at Edlida with confusion on my face. How did Edlida get all of these bumps, cuts, and boils on her skin? Why haven't Edlida got cleansed yet? I believe my mother or father would have cleansed her or noticed the infectious things on her body. I look at her and said, where is mommy and daddy or big sisters?

I ask with seriousness on my face. Edlida looks at me with nervousness. She starts to shake when she hears that question. She tries to avoid answering me. I look at her and repeat the question. When I repeat the question, she sits on the hallway floor. She tries to avoid it again. I don't know why she is avoiding the question, but I could sense in her heart something

is wrong. All around me that area seems off. I just woke up from a dream where a monster was using me to this questionable setting. The house seems to have this feeling of weirdness. It might be my mind playing a trick on me, but how is Edlida's unclean? She wouldn't be unclean because I know my parents. They would never let Edlida be dirty or smell like trash. I know my parents, my parents, where are they?

Maybe this is why Edlida is avoiding my question. Something might have happened to my parents. Edlida, please tell me what is going on. I have to know because I need to know what happens to our parents, I say with concern on my face. Edlida seems to freeze as I ask her that question. Her eyes look at me. She points at the door on the left side.

It is my parents' room. By it, there is a door to my brother, Alex's room. The reason Bella does not have a room because she moved out a long time ago. I walk toward my parents' door. I stand in front of it. I knock on the door. There is no answer. I knock repeatedly. Every time I knock, there was no one waking up. They are probably in a deep sleep, I think. I look at the clock on the wall. The time says 2 p.m. It seems odd for my parents to be sleeping, as they have never slept at an early time. They would go to sleep at 9 p.m., it could be due to oversleeping, but even that it seems unlikely of them.

They wake up at 5 a.m. to get Edlida ready for school. She has to be at school around 7 a.m. I knock one more time. When I did, nothing happens. I decide to do what no kid would ever do, go in their parents' bedroom without knocking. I never did that because they might be having sex or they do not want to be bother. I have to break this unwritten social rule to find the underlying cause of this unusual event. I twist the knob and open the door.

As I open the door, it hits me. A force of an unpleasant smell attacks me. The smell is of rotten eggs and shit mixed together. Their room smells like the underground sewer system of Morgantown. I gag and choke on the smell. I throw up on the floor as the smell hits me. I cough the puke in my throat. I try to breathe for oxygen in my lungs.

I look in the room for a quick peek. I see my parents. What I see makes me want to die and throw up again. My parents lay on the bed. Their faces show the expression of terror and horror. Their lifeless bodies are frozen in the pain of torture and suffering. It looks like a person may have enjoyed watching their pain and misery. Flies and maggots cover their bodies.

They are eating the inside of their flesh. Maggots cover the eyes of my parents, eating and tearing away from their eye sockets. The flies are doing their jobs which are producing more maggots for them, to survive. I couldn't believe what I am seeing. The flies and maggots are surviving, but my parents are gone. I jump back with my heart beating. I enter my brother's room. I walk in and smell the horrific hellish scent. I look at my brother, Alex. He didn't suffer the same fate as my parents. His eyes are close and his mouth has no expression. I didn't see that has happened to him, but I did see a pill bottle. I walk into the room. I fight off the

sent to try to investigate the pill bottle. I hold my nose to breath. As I am walking into the room, I feel my eyes tearing up. Water comes down as I walk. The reaction of the smell is causing the moisture in my eyes to dry out. They feel like bricks in my eye sockets. I grab the pill bottle. I run out of the room. I yell in pain as my eyes are burning. The stone brick feeling causes my eyes to ignite in pain. I try to blink to get moisture, but it was hard. My eyelids could not automatically blink. My body is urging me to not blink because it will hurt. I hold on to the stair railings. I force my eyelids to close. As they close, the pain registers in my body. It feels like my brain explodes. My head rings like an atomic bomb

explosion. I yell in pain and suffering. My eyes start to get moisture. My eyes are back to normal. My head still feels like a war sight. I look at the pill bottle. The label reads cyanide. It makes sense. It could be the only pill to be able to kill a person quickly. My parents must have put the pill into Alex's mouth during sleep. Then, they must have killed themselves. It must have been murder suicide. That does not make sense. Why would my parents murder my brother. They are not murderers. They love us. They would never do that. Why is it Lilda still alive? Why did my parents not sneak into my room and kill me? Did my sister survive the killing or did she murder all of them? My sister would never murder her loved ones.

I look at the bodies. I notice something. What I learned from a mystery movie, there has to be a killer. By the look of my parents' faces, they could not be the killers. Someone killed. them. My brother, Alex must have been killed first. The reason I believe he was killed first is due to the layout of the rooms. His room was the first door at the top of the stairs. In addition, if the killer or killers killed my parents first, he or she would alert one of my parents, thus making the killing loud, not quiet.

I look at my sister and say, who did this? Do you remember? As I say that, she points toward the radio and looks at it. I look at it, and I see the power button and turn it on. When I turn it on, I hear a woman voice. She is a reporter of some local news anchor. I also hear helicopters flying and gunfire. The reporter says on the radio, today's news,

it has been two weeks since a prisoner by the name of Fred Bella escaped from prison and unleashed a deadly chemical on the city. It caused people around it to die. We don't know how to stop it but for Bella had, before the reporter can finish, I hear a sound of growling. Within seconds, I hear the reporter yells in the radio and it it cuts off the connection. The radio went silent. I have a look of fear on my face. My grandmother did all of this. She caused all of this death and destruction. I knew it was a deadly chemical.

I know it is possible to create a gas to kill millions. The Nazis did it to people whom they believed were inferior. How could one person manage to create a gas to kill off many people, especially since the person was in prison? I grab Edlida and carry her on my back. I walk down stairs and got in front of the door. I try to open the door, but Edlida stops me. She points toward a newspaper on the coffee table. I walk toward the coffee table and pick it up. When I pick it up, it's read, deadly biochemicals causing humans to kill, free for all. The description of the paper is about how Fred Bella unleashes a deadly chemical, which causes people to become mind control and kill each other. Morgantown and Evanston were not the only

towns affected by the deadly chemicals. The world is a affected by the deadly chemical. The death toll was 800 million people and still counting. I dropped the paper in fear. I look at Edilda with sadness on my face. I feel my heartbreaking as I realized that my grandmother has completed her goal. She did more kills than Hitler, Stalin, and Zadong. How did she make the chemical weapon in prison?

It could not be a reality. It is no possible way that she could have done this, especially in a couple of months. I have tears coming down my eyes. I did not want to cry. I wiped the tears from my eyes and open the door. My sadness turns into a complete loss for words. I look into the red skies and the burning hollow houses. I see death and destruction around me.

I see the despair and misery of the deadly chemical on its victims. Their faces meet my worry eyes. Their empty and horrendous faces lay on the road of death with the others. This did not scare me because what I saw is beyond human understanding. People walking around the bodies, but their eyes are not alive. The smell of sulfur and fire cover the walking mindless people. They let out an animalistic growl. Their eyes are dark.

They walk slow and long down the street. Reanimated corpses, I know it could be possible. I try to reanimate animals to create a mindless army with my chemical, but my grandmother managed to do that. The deadly chemical, was it mine. The experiment that I performed on dying animals, did my grandmother. take my experimental ideas? It can't be possible because my grandmother was in prison.

No, my experiment could not have caused all of this. My experiment was supposed to be used on guilty people, not innocence. My mother destroyed it. How could my grandmother copy my plan? The corpses look at my sister and me. They start to growl. Their hunger for flesh overcomes their slow walking and they bolt at me. Twelve corpses run toward me.

They are yelling, hey, hey, hey. and hey. Me and my sister look as the walking dead bolt at us. Choices, creeps, and close calls, a Valentine's Day you won't forget. Life is just a never-ending collection of choices. Some are tiny, like picking between the black or white pair of socks. Others feel massive, like skipping your school dance because your gut tells you something's off. Either way, every choice we make draws a line across our life, shaping who we become. And sure, Sure, people will judge you for your choices, but when it's your skin on the line, you learn real quick not to care too much about other people's opinions.

Take me, for example. I remember a particular Valentine's Day that started like any other dumb teenager's dream. A pretty girlfriend, a cheap car borrowed from her dad, and plans to avoid the drama-filled school dance by watching a movie together at her place. Sounds harmless enough, right? Well, that night turned into something way creepier than I could have predicted. We were in this tiny Texas town, the kind where everybody either knew each other or hated each other's guts.

Or both. Small towns are funny like that. No middle ground. Me? I didn't really have family there, which made me a bit of an outsider. Add a blonde girlfriend to the mix, and I guess that gave some folks extra motivation to not like me. It had been building for a while, glares in the hallway, a few push-and-shove moments, and your usual schooleard nonsense. But things had started getting a little more, intense.

So, we decided, no school dance. Safer that way. We hit the town that evening, borrowed her dad's Honda hatchback, and made the usual teenage rounds. Rented a DVD, hit up Dairy Queen, got a love a good blizzard, then headed back to her. her place, which was nestled way out in the woods. I mean, middle of nowhere, no street lights, can hear the wind blow through the trees kind of isolated. So, we're in the car, eating ice cream, listening to music, chatting about random stuff, when suddenly, another car pulls up behind us. Again, not unusual, until its headlights flood the inside of our hatchback and I see it. Hands

Ahead Someone is in the back seat of our car. Yeah. You read that right. I freeze. My stomach drops. You know that feeling where your body knows before your brain can catch up. That was me. Full panic mode, but on the outside, trying to stay calm. I slowly reach down and pull out my pocket knife. Not exactly Rambo gear, but it's something. My girlfriend notices. What's wrong? She asks. I play it cool. Oh, nothing. Just need to stop by a friend's house real quick. She knows I'm lying, I didn't have any friends in town. I pull into the first driveway I see and jump out of the car like it's on fire, yelling at her to follow me.

She's confused but follows. I flip the driver's seat forward and launch myself into the back like a madman. And who pops up? Not Freddy Kruger, not some scary criminal. No. It's just some random, awkward kid from our school. Never talked to him before. Never even made I contact, far as I could remember. He puts his hands up like, whoa, whoa, chill. I thought you guys were going to the dance. Was just hitching a ride, we just stared at him, mouths open, trying to figure out what the hell to do. I wanted to knock him out, but instead, we did the dumbest thing possible, we drove him to the dance and dropped him off. The whole ride there, he kept saying, y'all should come in with me. Uh, no thanks, creeper. After we sped away like the car was on fire, my girlfriend broke down crying once we got back to her place. I still don't know what that kid was planning.

What if the headlights hadn't lit him up? What if we'd gone all the way home with him still back there, waiting for God knows what? I don't even like thinking about it. High school sucked. But that wasn't the only creepy encounter I've dealt with. Oh no, life's got a twisted sense of humor, and sometimes it sends you the scariest people wearing the most innocent masks. Let me take you back a bit further. I was just a kid, maybe 11.

My mom and stepdad ran this little maintenance company, and we lived in one of those barely on the map southern towns. Everyone knew everyone, and there was this weird, outdated sense of communal trials. You'd leave your doors unlocked and wave at your neighbors, even if they were a bit odd. Whenever my parents got a job that was too big for them alone, they'd hire local boys from the high school or nearby community college. Usually decent kids just looking for work. Sometimes they'd even get invited over for dinner. That's how I met John. John wasn't like the other helpers. For starters, he was in his mid-20s and had just moved to our town from New York.

That alone made him a bit of a curiosity. He was awkward, sure, but he worked hard, and at first, seemed like a decent guy. My parents liked him. He started having dinner with us after work, and since my older sister had moved out West recently, I kind of latched on to him in a big brother kind of way. He listened to me talk about dumb middle school stuff, and I thought it was cool someone older was interested in what I had to say. I was naive.

September came around, and John had been working with us for a couple of months. My birthday was coming up, and my parents promised to take me bowling. It was an hour away, which made it a big deal in our little world. Somehow, John invited himself along. I thought it was weird, but I didn't want to be rude, and he'd always been nice to me. Then came the haunted hayride. Every year, Our town's fire department hosted this event. People dressed up as monsters, hid in the woods, and scared the guests riding by in wagons. The money went to the department, and the whole town usually pitched in. When John heard about it, he was super eager to help.

My mom, being the sweet southern lady she is, said, of course. He got placed in our section of the woods, because he didn't want to work with strangers. Red flag number one At first, nothing felt off But then he started showing up every time I was alone One night, during a slow period, I snuck off to say hi to a friend in the next station over. As I'm walking through the trees, I hear footsteps.

I turn, and there's John. Oh, hey, I said, trying to act normal. What are you doing? He says he saw me walking off and wanted to make sure I didn't get hurt. I told him my mom knew where I was. He grabs my arm and says, I still don't feel comfortable with you walking around here alone. I pulled away fast and made an excuse to leave. For the rest of the season, he kept finding ways to talk to me when no one else was around. I didn't tell my mom, I didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful. Everyone liked him, so maybe I was just

being dramatic, right? Then came February. John hadn't been around much since the jobs dried up, so I'd kind of forgotten about him. Until Valentine's Day. I walk into the kitchen, and there's a vase of half-dead roses on the table. I asked my mom if my stepdad gave them to her. She shakes her head and hands me the card. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I told her no one at school would send me something like that. The next week, John shows up like nothing happened. And then casually drops, so, did you like the flowers? I pretend not to know what he's talking about. He gets all sulky. Later, I tell my mom, and she's furious. She calls him and rips him a new one. John, what the hell were you thinking sending my daughter flowers? It was just a friendly

gesture, he insists. She's a pretty girl, thought she deserved something nice on Valentine's day. Don't ever do something like that again, she says. Ever, he agrees. We thought that was the end of it. Wrong. April rolls around, and suddenly we're getting flower deliveries almost every day. No card. No name. Just more flowers. My mom calls John again, tells him he's not welcoming. anymore. Not long after, I'm downstairs on the family computer when I hear a tap on the window. I look up, and there's John. On our porch. Grinning. I don't even panic. I just walk outside and say, Hey, my mom said you can't be here anymore. He just smiles and says, I just want to talk. I step outside like an idiot. I was 12, okay. You are the most beautiful woman in the world,

says. And I love you. I know you're young now, but I'll wait a few years. I ran inside bawling. My parents flew downstairs, and my stepdad went full protective dad mode. John, get the hell off our property or I'll shoot your creepy ass. You're just trying to keep us apart, John said. But you can't. We're meant to be. We got a restraining order. And because it was a small town, word spread fast. People didn't take kindly to grown men creeping on little girls. He packed up and left town. Back to New York or wherever he came from. We thought that was the end. Then the phone call started. Different numbers. Burner phones. My mom made it clear, I wasn't to answer any unknown numbers. She didn't tell me at the time, but some of the calls she got were, explicit.

Violent. Obsessive. That's where it stopped, for now. But every Valentine's Day, when people talk about flowers and chocolates and dates, I think about that damn hatchback, and John on the porch, with that awful smile. Because love. Love can be sweet. But sometimes, it's straight up terrifying. To be continued. I was probably around 12 when the first weird call started rolling in. At the time, my mom didn't let on how disturbing they were getting. She tried to protect me from the worst of it. Looking back now, I realize she kept a lot to herself. I only found out later that the calls weren't just creepy, they had turned violent, even sexual in nature. And while we kept reporting them to the cops, there wasn't much they could do. They'd jot down notes, offer sympathetic nods, and then, nothing really happened.

Then one day, the calls just stopped. No explanation. No closure. Just silence. It felt like the nightmare was over. I moved on. Started high school. Got caught up in classes, homework, and crushes.

The whole John chapter faded into the background. Everything stayed quiet until the end of my senior year. Just when I was beginning to believe it was all. all in the past, I got a letter. No return address. No stamp. Just my name on the front in a handwriting I hadn't seen in years. Inside, it said, you're old enough now. I've been waiting, just like I said I would. I'll be back soon. We'll be together. Like we planned, I nearly dropped the letter. Panic said in fast. We went back to the police, and my high school was notified. too. I only had about a month left before graduation, but during that time, I basically lived under

surveillance. My teachers turned into watchdogs. My mom picked me up every single day. No one else was allowed near me, not even friends. I felt like I was in a glass box. Alone. Trapped. Then, finally, a call came in from the NYPD. They had picked up someone named John N. on some unrelated charges. They couldn't tell us more. Privacy laws or something. I wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe it was over, for real this time.

After graduation, I moved a few hours away. Started chasing my dreams, landed an acting job I was really excited about. For a while, life felt good again. Then two things happened, and both in the same week. First, another letter showed up, this time at my mom's house. It made the first one look like a love note. I won't even repeat what it said. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn.

Second, a note appeared in my dressing room at work. It was short. Just a simple invite from an old friend. Maybe it was unrelated. Maybe not. But my gut said it was no coincidence. Since I moved again, I haven't heard from John. No more letters.

No more messages. But the scars are there. Deep ones. I hope, honestly, desperately hope, that whoever he was, he never did this to anyone else. I grew up in a small town in the Midwest. The kind of place where you wave to strangers and still leave your doors unlocked half the time. Crime wasn't a big concern, mostly drunk driving or someone calling the cops on their neighbor over loud music. Back in 2008, I was about to turn 19 and,

for once, I wanted to celebrate. Like really celebrate. I'd gone to a private Christian high school, so I never got into the whole party scene. Even during my first year at a state university, I was more of a homebody. My boyfriend at the time was sweet, and I was happy just hanging with him. But by 19, things had changed. I'd Dropped out of college, broken up with that boyfriend, and made some new friends, the party kind. They were always talking about house parties and how wild they got. I figured, why not try it? So, for my 19th birthday, I decided to go all in.

First time drinking. First real party. My house was perfect for it. Three bedrooms, attached garage, plenty of space for people to crash. My friends helped me stock up on drinks, with some help from older acquaintances, and the night went off without a hitch. Everyone had a blast. People started saying how great my place was for parties, and before I knew it, weekend parties at my house became a regular thing. August rolled in. College students were coming back into town, there were three colleges nearby, and every weekend my house was packed. Sometimes I'd wake up to strangers passed out on my couch or wandering around the kitchen.

My friends always claimed they'd invited them. I didn't really care. I liked meeting new people. Things were going great. Until they weren't. One morning in September, I went to leave for work and noticed my garage door remote wasn't clipped to my sun visor anymore. I looked under the seats, checked my bag, nothing.

Annoying, but I figured I misplaced it while drunk. I closed the garage door using the wall panel inside, locked up, and headed out. That night, around midnight, I clocked out for lunch and stepped into the parking lot. My phone buzzed. An unknown number. I answered. Silence. I hung up.

Weird, but maybe a prank. The next night, same thing. another call same silence still thought it was someone i knew messing with me maybe someone from the parties but when i called my friend lacy to ask if it was her she swore it wasn't her boyfriend confirmed it too they hadn't touched my phone i pushed it to the back of my mind weird things happen whatever then it kept happening four days then weeks Every time I was free, off work, awake, alone, my phone would ring. Always from an unknown number.

Always silent on the other end. Never while I was sleeping or busy. Only when I was available. And that's when other things started. Branches under my car. Big ones. Like someone had shoved a bunch of tree limbs under there on purpose. Another time, a heavy branch was leaning against my car.

front door when I went to leave. That's when I called Lacey again and begged her to let me crash at her place. While I was at her house, it happened again. My phone rang. Unknown number. I didn't answer. Five seconds later, Lacey's phone rang. Same thing. Unknown number. We both stared at each other. Speechless. That's when I knew this wasn't just a prank. This was a someone serious. Someone watching me. I told one of my managers at work. He told me to call the police immediately the next time it happened. So, the next day, I did. As soon as the phone rang, I answered, listened to the silence for a full minute, then called the cops. They said they couldn't trace it. Too little to go on. But they offered to have a patrol watch my place for a few

days. I agreed. Nothing happened that week except more phone calls. I started getting bold. Started answering with attitude. Calling the silent caller a coward. Asking what they wanted. No reply. Ever. More branches appeared in my yard. Random banging on my windows at night. I stopped sleeping in my bedroom and started camping out on the couch. One night, While grabbing a glass of water, my phone rang again. I froze. Then I called Lacey in a panic. She came over right away and stayed the night.

I never caught anyone. Never saw a shadow, a figure, a glimpse of a car. Just signs. Napkins stuck in my screen door. Candy wrappers on my windshield. Marker pens in my mailbox. This dragged on for months. Until Christmas Eve. I was headed to my grandpa's farm for a family gathering.

My phone rang again, and this time, I lost it. I screamed into the phone, begged whoever it was to stop, told them they'd ruined my life, called them names, cried. Still, silence. Later that night, back at home, I was dozing on the couch when I saw a light, someone shining a flashlight through my windows. I bolted to the bathroom and locked myself in. Called Lacey. She came over and stayed with me again. The police still couldn't do anything. Eventually, the outside stuff stopped. No more banging. No more trash. I thought maybe they'd gotten bored. I went back to sleeping in my bed. Then one morning, I noticed my garage door was open. Weird, but maybe it glitched. I punched in the code to close it, went inside to get some milk, and sat at the

dining table. That's when I saw it. My missing garage remote. Just, sitting there. On the table. I freaked out. Still in pajamas, I ran to my car and drove. Called Lacey and told her, it was time to move. She and her boyfriend came over, helped me check the house. Nothing. No one. We found a new place in a different city. The phone calls stopped. I remember the exact day. Valentine's Day. Lacey and I went out to celebrate being single. I left my phone at home, plugged it into the kitchen charger. We went to the movies. Had fun. Walking back to my car, I noticed something on the ground next to the passenger door. It was my phone. We both stood frozen. We didn't even go home that night. Stayed at her boyfriend's place. The next day, our apartment was exactly how we left it. No signs of a break-in. Nothing moved. Nothing stolen. Just one impossible mystery. I never found out who was behind all of this. None of my friends confessed. And I don't think any of them could have kept up a prank for nearly five months. I even

asked some of the random party guests from back in the day. No one had a clue. So, yeah. Sometimes there's no explanation. Sometimes, the scariest thing is not knowing. The end, part three, it's 17 days until Christmas Eve. I have been invited to meet with my family. Unfortunately, tragedy struck two nights ago. My truest brother, vow, has suffered a terrible loss. His daughter, my honorary niece, Michelle, died of SIDS. This has hurt more than any day in the past 10 years. I should tell you all at this point. Val and his wife, Kim, are not your average people. They live a bit off the grid. They power by propane and solar. They have their own well for water. They are not dependent on any outside source or traditional societal resource.

With that said, they put that aside to make sure their daughter was healthy. She was born at home, but they still had her seen by pediatrician, they still got her vaccinated. They might not be like everyone else, but they cared for their girl. I tell you all this to explain what we spent today doing. I met him early this morning and together we constructed the tiny casket for which she will be laid to rest. We also dug her final resting place here on Val's family land. Tomorrow we will get his father, and have the funeral. Only the four of us will be in attendance.

I know this is illegal, but it's what they want for their family, and I'll respect it. Update, the funeral was a somber and painful experience. But it has provided a moment of clarity for me. I need to do this. If not for myself, then for Val and Kim. I'm going to accept my family's offer. Update 2, I'm two days away from leaving for Iowa.

I have booked myself, a decent hotel, I decided to not go the cheap route. I also rented a car, mine is too old for this trip. I'll arrive on December 23rd and get situated. Then the next night I will be meeting my family at my parents' new home, they moved from Illinois at the end of Alicia's sophomore year, probably so it would be harder for me to find them. I requested that they allow me to follow them on social media and they happily accepted. I've been going through ten years of events I missed.

Seeing how they've aged, getting familiar with the house I'll be entering, what they've been doing. I've spent at least part of every day since the passing with Val and Kim. They are strong people. Despite their pain, they've done everything they can to help me prepare for this trip. I guess this is what real family does. They support each other, they sacrifice for each other. I know I couldn't face this, and get the closure I've desired, without them.

I'll be sure to update everyone who has shown me so much support as soon as I can, might take a little while. It's sure to be a challenging and emotional path, but I think I'm ready for it. Part 4. It has been so long. But for all of you who have been waiting here is my update. I'm sure some of you know some of the story, but I always said, if you really want to know you'd have to read about it on Reddit like everyone else. I arrived at my parents' home 30 minutes later than they told me to. I wanted to be the last one there.

That way I could get all the hellos and everything out of the way at once and didn't have to do it over and over as people arrived. Christmas Eve wasn't a large affair. My two grandmas, my one grandpa, my aunt and uncle, their son, his wife, my parents, of course my sister Alicia, her husband, Billy, poor guy, and their daughter, Ivy. The only people who hadn't cut me off were Billy and Ivy. They all wanted to hug me, and I allowed it, just because I didn't want to make things

any more awkward. I had the few presents I decided to bring in tow. They were a bit heavy, but I didn't let on. They all said I didn't need to do that, but it was all part of it for me. If I was going to do this, I was going to make the best effort possible. I placed the two big ones under the tree and positioned them front and center for everyone to see and know who brought them. I made small talk with everyone.

Got the tour of the house. I had some smaller presents I dropped in a couple of rooms without anyone noticing. After about forty-five minutes there, they announced presents would be soon. I took this moment to ask my sister for a few moments to talk in private. She agreed, I think she was expecting it. She asked if her carrying the baby still counted as privacy and I said, of course. We stepped outside, it was a cold night, but not bitterly. The fresh air was actually quite nice.

She began to apologize for everything before I could even say a word, and thanked me for not revealing the real truth. I asked her to hold that thought, and said I had something for her in my car. She smiled and said, sure. After a moment I returned with the small remote and handed it to her. She looked at me with a confused smile and asked, what's this? I said, push it you'll see. The deployment system was three-stepped.

Once activated by the remote the present would burst open. Revealing the sprayers, I had them attached to rotating cylinders. This covered the large area of living room with the accelerants. It truly was a testament to my engineering prowess that I never got the opportunity to really make use of. The third phase lit and launched the attached flares igniting the accelerants. Everyone had been gathered in a living room directly in front of the tree. It could not have been more perfectly timed. The smaller packages in the other rooms didn't even end up being necessary.

The placement of the big two was so perfect. I only used them because I had discerned from the social media posts that those two spots provided the best escape routes should anyone survive the living room and scathed. The light from the large window that looked into the living room was blinding. The look on my sister's face was one of true terror. But only for a second as I slid my nine millimeters from under my jacket and put one in her left knee cap. I then put a few rounds through the window to make sure that. the flames had plenty of air to spread.

The house went up so fast. I looked down at Alicia, death grip on Ivy, sheer horror in her eyes. I figured I couldn't fight the baby out of her hands easily and quickly, so I just put another round in her shoulder to loosen the grip. Once I had Ivy in hand, I held her out to her crying mother. I looked down at Alicia and said, take a good look, this is all because of you, if you had never lied, this would never have happened, if you hadn't confessed, this would never have happened, if you hadn't insisted on me getting invited tonight, this would have never

happened. Take a good look at Ivy, because this is the last time you will ever see her, you will never find her. I knew time was of the essence. I could finally hear the sirens over the sound of the screams coming from inside. I went to my car, I had a box positioned in the front seat for Ivy, I know it wasn't safe, but we weren't going far. I drove calm, and safe to the meeting point, it was six minutes away. When I arrived at that abandoned lot behind the old warehouse we had scoped out, Val and Kim were already there. I let them know the whole mission was a success. I handed over Little, Michelle, to Kim.

She kissed my cheek, I embraced Val one last time. He called me brother. I returned to my car and made the six-minute trip back to the house. I could see paramedics tending to Alicia, she was completely hysterical. I parked two blocks away. Removed all my clothes except my compression shorts, placed my hands behind my head and walked towards the officers at the scene. The rest is history.

I'm serving a life sentence with no parole option. I still feel bad about Billy, he was a good man married to the wrong person. This past December, after the agreed upon ten years of no contact. I received the letter from Val. Like we talked, he used a series acquaintances to re-mail the letter so it had no traceability. In his handwriting it just said, all is well. They never found her. they never found them. They got to be the family I had always wanted. I'm so happy for

Val, Kim, and especially Michelle. I'm sorry it took another six months after the initial 10-year wait to all those who followed my story. I told the detectives then, and for all these years after, if they wanted to know what really happened that night, they'd have to read about it on Reddit like everyone else. They didn't believe me, but when Netflix walked in here offering money to interview me, suddenly it was worth putting a phone in my hand and letting me post it. was so excited when my log-in still worked. Lastly, thank you to all the people who followed me, supported me, and gave advice. I like to think this documentary is for you. It's going to be a four-part limited series. I know shows have covered me in the past, but this will

be the first I've talked to and has offered me any updates on Alicia. The producers told me she is still out there, never remarried, never moved on, endlessly searching for the girl she will never find. Knowing she now knows how I feel makes me a million times lighter. Like all the weight of the world has been taken off my shoulders. It's closure, final and absolute closure. Part 1. In 2002, I, Chris, then 18 and now 30m, had finished high school and got accepted to a top engineering college. I was really looking forward to this chapter of my life.

Home life had been fine, but I never had felt overly cared for. My parents weren't neglectful, but I was always second to my golden child younger sister. It was clear from a young age that I was gifted academically, but instead of this getting me praise it got me only expectations. Mistakes for me were not acceptable and my consequences would be heavy. I still remember getting my car taken for a month when I was 16 because I forgot to lock the front door one day when I left. My successes were expected not celebrated, and while some words of pride might be shared,

my triumphs were never a big deal. On contrast my little sister, Alicia, 14 F then, had been praised and treated like a princess from birth. She could do no wrong, there was always a reason for her bad behavior, she may be corrected, but the consequences would be slight or only involve a verbal scolding. She was nowhere the student I was, she wasn't dumb, she was just average. However physically she was very gifted. By time she was in middle school she was a USAG level 8 gymnast. So by no means a future Olympian but still very talented. I still remember events like my birthdays being overtaken by my parents wanting her to show off her skills and her getting gifts or a say

in where we ate. I remember being so happy when she quit gymnastics after seventh grade, one so I would get to stop hearing about it, but also so I wasn't expected to go to her endlessly long competitions. Fast forward to the end of my freshman year and I was back home. It was our annual Family Memorial Weekend Barbecue. Extended family, family friends, dad's coworkers, it was a big deal. I had an amazing freshman year. I was Dean's List both semesters, had joined the school's shooting club, and was quite the natural at it, made a great group of friends and found myself a girlfriend, Nicole, that I'd been seeing for eight months.

I'm not sure if my parents even once said anything about me. The talk of the day had been how my sister was all stayed in the pole vault as a HS freshman. I can remember only two people even asking me how college was going. But then again, why would they care? I mean my ability to basically build an engine from scratch is far less practical and impressive than my sister's. ability catapult herself with a stick. Joking aside, I was honestly used to this. Things didn't go south for me until the following Thanksgiving. I was still riding high and was very successful. I had been selected to do an international internship in the UK for the

following summer. Most of the cost would be covered by scholarship, but a small amount still remained. My father, much to my surprise, praised me, and offered to cover all my other expenses. I was extremely grateful. This coincided with my sister finally doing something that had even our parents ashamed of her. She had gotten caught performing an inappropriate act on a classmate during lunch in the school parking lot. On top of that, when caught, admins decided to search her backpack and found pot. She was suspended from school for 10 days, and my parents had taken away her car for a month, I found this ironic as it implied that leaving the door unlocked was on par with doing drugs, public indecency, and lewd conduct on school grounds but I just

kept that to myself, since I was happy enough to be number one for any amount of time or reason. At dinner with my grandparents and my aunt's family, I was the talk of the family. There was almost no talk of my sister and her grand sports, but there were lots of disappointed looks that she had never had to bear before. I returned to school that Sunday night and showed up at my girlfriend's apartment, this was the last night of normalcy I would have the rest of my life. The next day after getting back from class to my dorm room. I had found I had an email from my father. It read, Christopher, your sister has informed us of your heinous acts against her. I do not know where I and your mother went wrong, or how you could do such despicable things

to your own sister. While it does explain her recent misgivings, I am heartbroken to know that you are the cause. You have destroyed our family. I have already informed immediate family, do not reach out to the them. The only reason we are not proceeding with legal action is for your sister's sake, as I will not force her to face you. You have done enough to harm her already. From this day forth you are no longer my son, I will be legally disowning you. Do not ever contact us again. Panicked and confused I immediately began to call the house, then my father's cell. No answers. I did this with several other immediate family members and got no answer there as well. Finally, after calling what must have been 100 times, I tried calling Alicia's cell phone. It was

this time it was answered and it was my father on the other end. I could hear hysterical crying in the background. I began begging for someone to tell me what was going on, but my father interjected and told me not to play innocent or dumb. The only reason he answered was because he couldn't believe I would stoop low enough to call Alicia directly. He told me I was not welcome, that I was a monster, and asked me how I could abuse and assault her like that. I tried to reason with him, to plead my case, but he would not listen. He finally told me if I ever called again, came by again, or contacted them by any means he would go to the authorities. This was my last chance to be a decent person and get out of their lives.

If I ever so much as sent a letter, he would make it his mission that I ended up on the sex offender registry for the rest of my life. Devastated and defeated I went to Nicole for support. I told her everything that happened. She seemed uneasy but tried to support me. I could tell something was off, and she asked me to head back to my dorm for the night. I was Heartbroken to be sent away but rationalized my concerns away. When I got to my door my roommate, Jack, was there and being his usual self. Jack had been my best friend since day one of college freshman year. That was until I told him what happened.

He too grew uneasy afterwards but attempted more support than Nicole had. It wasn't until the next day that the two them would start to distance themselves from me. Over the course of the next week Nicole broke up with me in a public place, with her brother and cousin on standby. I guess I should be grateful she didn't just ghost me. Jack requested and was given an emergency placement in a new dorm room. They both rationalized that there was no way my family would just cut me off without it being justified. They had assumed my guilt as well. In the course of a week I had lost everyone that was important to me. I was 20 years old, and had no one, and no idea what I was supposed to do next. It's been a bit over 10 years

since then, and every day has been impossibly hard. Being cast aside and shunned by everyone close to you changes you in ways you would never imagine. I was moving through life as best I could until a day ago when I received an actual letter in the mail. It was several pages long and was from my mother and father. The letter was an apology and plea to reconcile. It seems that after ten years my sister finally confessed that she had lied about everything. I spent years hoping for this chance, but now that it's here I don't know if it's worth it. The pain, the loss, can it ever truly be reconciled? I don't know what is best, do I accept this chance to get the closure I've always dreamed of? Or do I just keep all of it a ghost of my past and move on? Part two, as stated in

my last post I received a letter from my parents. It had stated that my sister had confessed that the abuse allegations were false. My parents were seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. In addition, they had left phone and email contact information. I sat on this for a few days when a second letter arrived. This one was for my sister. It actually came as two separate letters inside the same envelope. One part was about her life since my banishment, the other was her confession to me. The confession part, it was actually her husband who convinced her to come clean, couldn't do it herself, huh? That she wishes she had never done this and she let it get way out of hand.

Initially she was just angry and upset about the scorn she was receiving and being looked down upon by the family. She needed a good reason why she would be behaving promiscuously and doing drugs. She remembered learning that these were common behaviors amongst abuse victims. So she made up a story that I had forced myself on her over the past summer. This is why she started with these behaviors. My parents always eager to explain away her bad behaviors took it hook-line and sinker. In reality, she wasn't doing any of these things any more or less than a typical teenager.

My parents always just put her on such a pedestal. The thought of her in this way was incomprehensible to them. She didn't expect my father's reaction to be so extreme. She liked being back at the center of attention, but was also scared even more now to say anything. She knew it would be worse with the way I was completely discarded and threatened. Initially my parents were going to go the authorities, it was her own quick thinking, for fear of being found out, that she begged not to on the ground she couldn't stand to face me in court.

Once I was gone, and it became a parent I wasn't coming back, she told herself she would take this to the grave, that it was her guilt to bear. The fucking mental gymnastics on this one. It wasn't until she was married three years ago, that she even considered telling the truth, all because of her husband. He had learned she was abused by me from a relative. When he approached the subject and she really downplayed it. Over time he grew suspicious as she showed no typical signs of a S.A. survivor.

He had the press, but eventually she told him the truth. He has been pushing her to come clean since, he is too good for my family, and does not deserve a fate with them. Now that she has a daughter, six months old, and has provided our parents with their first grandchild, she knows she will never face consequences like I have, she feels finally ready to rid her conscience of this burden, and seek forgiveness. Once again, it's all about Alicia. She concluded this letter by pleading with me to not share this full confession to our parents,

her husband made her send me this, as she had only given them the watered-down version of a naive girl too scared to write her wrongs. That she was also pushing hard for me to be invited to Christmas in a few weeks. Where we could all start to be a family again. WTF. As painful as that was to read, the life update was actually worse. My sister went on to talk about how her HS days were. were great. How she managed to get a track scholarship to the University of Iowa. How she met her

husband, and they have a big house, and a newborn daughter and so on. She has been living the dream these last ten years. Meanwhile, I lost my family, my girlfriend, my best friend. My grades tanked as I drank myself to sleep that first semester on my own. I was unable to go on the internship and my spot to the UK went to someone else. I was so low I just wanted to die. I sat on the edge of bridge for four hours one night unable to take that last step. I decided that night, since I couldn't kill myself, ID have to get myself killed. I left school in the weeks that's followed and joined the U.S. Marine Corps. The Iraq and Afghan wars were in full swing. I excelled in training, and got the placement I wanted. I was EOD. There was no worse danger over there than

IEDEs. I figured this would kill me for sure. Eight years later I discharged in one piece. Over that time I had very few relationships or friendships. When you've been abandoned by everyone, you learn to not trust people with who you are. I would go on dates, we would have two, three, four good ones, then she would not respond to a text, and suddenly I would panic and end things. I'd imagine her just leaving me one day out of nowhere, and I couldn't let that happen again. I had no friends. Over in Iraq I would trust my fellow Marines with my life, but not with my soul.

I always kept everyone at arm's length. There was only one guy, Val 27M, however, who broke through, and he remains my only friend to this day. I actually moved to West Virginia just to be near him and his wife once we both got out. They just had a baby seven months ago, and I am officially deemed Uncle Chris. I am nowhere, not even in the same ballpark of where I thought I would be when I graduated HS. I still have not finished college, I work in a small factory now.

I have a small fortune saved up from all my years in the service because I live a very your life. I do nothing with it. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, and drive a car with 300k miles on it. But at least my sister got to go to college, fall in love, and be lauded her whole life. It isn't fair, and it's even more insulting that they would try to come crawling back now. No, not crawl back, asked me to make the trip to Iowa to join their fucking Christmas, the Christmas I've missed out on for ten years. I have time, maybe therapy would help, I don't know. I still keep going back and forth, do go and finally get the closure I've dreamt about, or do I just ignore them and continue to try and fix the broken life I have?

Part 3. It's 17 days until Christmas Eve. I have been invited to meet with my family. Unfortunately, tragedy struck two nights ago. My truest brother, Val, has suffered a terrible loss. His daughter, my honorary niece, Michelle, died of SIDS. This has hurt more than any day in the past ten years. I should tell you all at this point. Val and his wife, Kim, are not your average people.

They live a bit off the grid. They power by propane and solar. They have their own well for water. They are not dependent on any outside source or traditional, societal resource. With that said, they put that aside to make sure their daughter was healthy. She was born at home, but they still had her seen by pediatrician, they still got her vaccinated. They might not be like everyone else, but they cared for their girl. I tell you all this to explain what we spent today doing.

I met him early this morning and together we constructed the tiny casket for which she will be laid to rest. We also dug her final resting place here on Vow's family land. Tomorrow we will get his father, and have the funeral. Only the four of us will be in attendance. I know this is illegal, but it's what they want for their family, and I'll respect it. Update, the funeral was a somber and painful experience. But it has provided a moment of clarity for me. I need to do this.

If not for myself, then for Val and Kim. I'm going to accept my family's offer. Update 2, I'm two days away from leaving for Iowa. I have booked myself, a decent hotel, I decided to not go the cheap route. I also rented a car, mine is too old for this trip. I'll arrive on December 23rd and get situated. Then the next night I will be meeting my family at my parents' new home, they moved from Illinois at the end of Alicia's sophomore year, probably so it would be harder for

me to find them. I requested that they allow me to follow them on social media and they happily accepted. I've been going through ten years of events I missed. Seeing how they've aged, getting familiar with the house I'll be entering, what they've been doing. I've spent at least part of every day since the passing with Val and Kim. They are strong people. Despite their pain, they've done everything they can to help me prepare for this trip. I guess this is what real family does. They support each other, they sacrifice for each other. I know I couldn't face this and get the closure I've desired, without them. I'll be sure to update everyone who has shown me so much support as soon as I can, might take a little while. It's sure to be a

challenging and emotional path, but I think I'm ready for it. Part four, it has been so long. But for all of you who have been waiting here is my update. I'm sure some of you know some of the story, but I always said, if you really want to know you'd have to read about it on Reddit like everyone else. I arrived at my parents home 30 minutes later than they told me to. I wanted to be the last one there. That way I could get all the hellos and everything out of the way at once and didn't have to do it over and over as people arrived. Christmas Eve wasn't a large affair. My two grandmas, my one grandpa, my aunt and uncle, their son, his wife, my parents, of course my sister Alicia, her husband, Billy, poor guy,

and their daughter, Ivy. The only people who hadn't cut me off were Billy and Ivy. They all wanted to hug me, and I allowed it, just because I didn't want to make things any more awkward. I had the few presents I decided to bring in tow. They were a bit heavy, but I didn't let on. They all said I didn't need to do that, but it was all part of it for me. If I was going to do this, I was going to make the best effort possible. I placed the two big ones under the tree and positioned them front and center for everyone to see and know who brought them. I made small talk with everyone. Got the tour of the house. I had some smaller presents I dropped in a couple of rooms without anyone noticing. After about 45 minutes

there, they announced presents would be soon. I took this moment to ask my sister for a few moments to talk in private. She agreed, I think she was expecting it. She asked if her carrying the baby still counted as privacy and I said, of course. We stepped outside, it was a cold night, but not bitterly. The fresh air was actually quite nice. She began to apologize for everything before I could even say a word, and thanked me for not revealing the real truth. I asked her to hold that thought, and said I had something for her in my car. She smiled and said, sure. After a moment I returned with the small remote and handed it to her. She looked at me with a confused smile and asked, what's this? I said, push it you'll see. The deployment system was three-stepped.

Once activated by the remote the present would burst open. Revealing the sprayers, I had them attached to rotating cylinders. This covered the large area of living room with the accelerants. It truly was a testament to my engineering prowess that I never got the opportunity to really make use of. The third phase lit and launched the attached flares igniting the accelerants. Everyone had been gathered in the living room directly in front of the tree. It could not have been more perfectly timed. The smaller packages in the other rooms didn't even end up being.

necessary the placement of the big two was so perfect. I only used them because I had discerned from the social media posts that those two spots provided the best escape routes should anyone survive the living room and scathed. The light from the large window that looked into the living room was blinding. The look on my sister's face was one of true terror. But only for a second as I slid my nine millimeters from under my jacket and put one in her left knee cap. I then put a few rounds through the window to make sure the flames had plenty of air to spread. The house went up so fast. I looked down at Alicia, death grip on Ivy, sheer horror in her eyes. I figured I couldn't fight the baby out of her hands easily and quickly, so I just put another round

in her shoulder to loosen the grip. Once I had Ivy in hand, I held her out to her crying mother. I looked down at Alicia and said, take a good look, this is all because of you, if you had never lied, this would never have happened, if you hadn't confessed, this would never have happened, if you hadn't insisted on me getting invited tonight, this would have never happened. Take a good look at Ivy, because this is the last time you will ever see her, you will never find her. I knew time was of the essence. I could finally hear the sirens over the sound of the screams coming from inside. I went to my car, I had a box positioned in the front seat for Ivy, I know it wasn't safe, but we weren't going far. I drove calm,

and safe to the meeting point, it was six minutes away. When I arrived at that abandoned lot behind the old warehouse we had scoped out, Val and Kim were already there. I let them know the whole mission was a success. I handed over little, Michelle, to Kim. She kissed my cheek, I embraced Val one last time. He called me brother. I returned to my car and made the six-minute trip back to the house. I could see paramedics tending to Alicia, she was completely hysterical. I parked two blocks away. Removed all my clothes except my compression shorts, placed my hands behind my head and walked towards the officers at the scene. The rest is history. I'm serving a life sentence with no parole option. I still feel bad about Billy, he was a good man married

to the wrong person. This past December, after the agreed upon ten years of no contact. I received the letter from Val. Like we talked, he used a series acquaintances to re-mail the letter so it had no traceability. In his handwriting it just said, all is well. They never found her, they never found them. They got to be the family I had always wanted. I'm so happy for Val, Kim, and especially Michelle. I'm sorry it took another six months after the initial 10-year wait to all those who followed my story. I told the detectives then, and for all these years after, if they wanted to know what really happened that night, they'd have to read about it on Reddit like everyone else. They didn't believe me, but when Netflix walked in here offering money to interview me,

suddenly it was worth putting a phone in my hand and letting me post it. I was so excited when my login still worked. Lastly, thank you to all the people who followed me, supported me, and gave advice. I like to think this documentary is for you. It's going to be a four-part limited series. I know shows have covered me in the past, but this will be the first I've talked to and has offered me any updates on Alicia. The producers told me she is still out there, never remarried, never moved on, endlessly searching for the girl she will never find. Knowing she now knows how I feel makes me a million times lighter. Like all the weight of the world has been taken off my shoulders.

It's closure, final and absolute closure. Part 1. In 2002, I, Chris, then 18m now 30m, had finished high school and got accepted to a top engineering college. I was really looking forward to this chapter of my life. Home life had been fine, but I never had felt overly cared for. My parents weren't neglectful, but I was always second to my girlfriend. golden child younger sister. It was clear from a young age that I was gifted academically, but instead of this getting me praise it got me only expectations.

Mistakes for me were not acceptable and my consequences would be heavy. I still remember getting my car taken for a month when I was 16 because I forgot to lock the front door one day when I left. My successes were expected not celebrated, and while some words of pride might be shared, my triumphs were never a big deal. On contrast my little sister, Alicia, 14F then, had been praised and treated like a princess from birth. She could do no wrong, there was always a reason for her bad behavior, she may be corrected but the consequences would be slight or only involve a verbal scolding. She was nowhere the student I was, she wasn't dumb, she was just average.

However physically she was very gifted. By time she was in middle school she was a USAG level 8 gymnast. So by no means a future Olympian but still very talented. I still remember events like my birthdays being overtaken by my parents wanting her to show off her skills and her getting gifts or a say in where we ate. I remember being so happy when she quit gymnastics after seventh grade, one so I would get to stop hearing about it, but also so I wasn't expected to go to her endlessly long competitions. Fast forward to the end of my freshman year and I was back home.

It was our annual family Memorial Weekend Barbecue. Extended family, family friends, dads co-workers, it was a big deal. I had an amazing freshman year. I was Dean's List both semesters, had joined the school's shooting club, and was quite the natural at it, made a great group of friends and found myself a girlfriend, Nicole, that I've been seeing for eight months. I'm not sure if my parents even once said anything about me. The talk of the day had been how my sister was all stayed in the pole vault as a HS freshman.

I can remember only two people even asking me how college was going. But then again, why would they care? I mean my ability to basically build an end. from scratch is far less practical and impressive than my sister's ability catapult herself with a stick. Joking aside, I was honestly used to this. Things didn't go south for me until the following Thanksgiving. I was still riding high and was very successful.

I had been selected to do an international internship in the UK for the following summer. Most of the cost would be covered by scholarship, but a small amount still remained. My father, much to my surprise, praised me, and offered to cover all my other expenses. I was extremely grateful. This coincided with my sister finally doing something that had even our parents ashamed of her. She had gotten caught performing an inappropriate act on a classmate during lunch in the school parking lot. On top of that, when caught, admins decided to search her backpack and found pot.

She was suspended from school for ten days, and my parents had taken away her car for a month. I found this ironic as it implied that leaving the door unlocked was on par with doing drugs, public indecency, and lewd conduct on school grounds, but I just kept that to myself, since I was happy enough to be number one for any amount of time or reason. At dinner with my grandparents and my aunt's family, I was the talk of the family. There was almost no talk of my sister and her grand sports, but there were lots of disappointed looks that she had never had to bear before. I returned to school that Sunday night and showed up at my girlfriend's apartment, this was

the last night of normalcy I would have the rest of my life. The next day after getting back from class to my dorm room, I had found I had an email for my father. It read, Christopher, your sister has informed us of your heinous acts against her. I do not know where I and your mother went wrong, or how you could do such despicable things to your own sister. While it does explain her recent misgivings, I am heartbroken to know that you are the cause. You have destroyed our family.

I have already informed immediate family, do not reach out to the them. The only reason we are not proceeding with legal action is for your sister's sake, as I will not force her to face you. You have done enough to harm her already. From this day forth you are no longer my son, I will be legally disowning you. Do not ever contact us again. Panicked and confused I immediately began to call the house, then my father's cell. No answers. I did this with several other immediate family members and got no answer there as well. Finally, after calling what must have been 100 times, I tried calling Alicia's cell phone. It was this time it was answered and it was my father on the other end.

I could hear hysterical crying in the background. I began begging for someone to tell me what was going on, but my father interjected and told me not to play innocent or dumb. The only reason he answered was because he couldn't believe I would stoop low enough to call Alicia directly. He told me I was not welcome, that I was a monster, and asked me how I could abuse and assault her like that. I tried to reason with him, to plead my case, but he would not listen.

He finally told me if I ever called again, came by again, or contacted them by any means he would go to the authorities. This was my last chance to be a decent person and get out of their lives. If I ever so much as sent a letter, he would make it his mission that I ended up on a sex offender registry for the rest of my life. Devastated and defeated I went to Nicole for support. I told her everything that happened. She seemed uneasy but tried to support me. I could tell something was off, and she asked me to head back to my dorm for the night.

I was heartbroken to be sent away but rationalized my concerns away. When I got to my door my roommate, Jack, was there and being his usual self. Jack had been my best friend since day one of college freshman year. That was until I told him what happened. He too grew uneasy afterwards but attempted more support than Nicole had. It wasn't until the next day that the two them would start to distance themselves from me. Over the course of the next week Nicole broke up with me in a public place, with her brother and cousin on standby. I guess I should be grateful she didn't just ghost me.

Jack requested and was given an emergency placement in a new dorm room. They both rationalized that there was no way my family would just cut me off without it being justified. They had assumed my guilt as well. In the course of a week I had lost everyone that was important to me. I was 20 years old, and had no one, and no idea what I was supposed to do next. It's been a bit over 10 years since then, and every day has been impossibly hard. being cast aside and shunned by everyone close to you changes you in ways you would never imagine. I was moving through life as best I could until a day ago when I received an actual

letter in the mail. It was several pages long and was from my mother and father. The letter was an apology and plea to reconcile. It seems that after 10 years my sister finally confessed that she had lied about everything. I spent years hoping for this chance, but now that it's here I don't know if it's worth it. The pain, the loss, can it ever truly be reconciled? I don't know what is best, do I accept this chance to get the closure I've always dreamed of? Or do I just keep all of it a ghost of my past and move on? Part 2, as stated in my last post I received a letter from my parents. It had stated that my sister had confessed that the abuse allegations were false. My parents were seeking forgiveness and reconciliation.

In addition, they had left phone and email contact information. I sat on this for a few days when a second letter arrived. This one was for my sister. It actually came as two separate letters inside the same envelope. One part was about her life since my banishment, the other was her confession to me. The confession part, it was actually her husband who convinced her to come clean, couldn't do it herself, huh? That she wishes she had never done this and she let it get way out of hand. Initially she was just angry and upset about the scorn she was receiving and being looked down upon by the family. She needed a good reason. why she would be behaving promiscuously and doing drugs.

She remembered learning that these were common behaviors amongst abuse victims. So she made up a story that I had forced myself on her over the past summer. This is why she started with these behaviors. My parents always eager to explain away her bad behaviors took it hook line and sinker. In reality, she wasn't doing any of these things any more or less than a typical teenager. My parents always just put her on such a pedestal the thought of her in this way was incomprehensible to them. She didn't expect my father's reaction to be so extreme.

She liked being back at the center of attention, but was also scared even more now to say anything. She knew it would be worse with the way I was completely discarded and threatened. Initially my parents were going to go the authorities, it was her own quick thinking, for fear of being found out, that she begged not to on the ground she couldn't stand to face me in court. Once I was gone, and it became apparent I wasn't coming back, she told herself she would take this to the grave, that it was her guilt to bear. The fucking mental gymnastics on this one. It wasn't until she was married three years ago, that she even considered telling the truth, all because of her husband. He had learned she was abused by me from a relative.

When he approached the subject and she really downplayed it. Over time he grew suspicious as she showed no typical signs of a SA survivor. He had to press, but eventually she told him the truth. He has been pushing her to come clean since, he is too good for my family, and does not deserve a fate with them. Now that she has a daughter, six months old, and has provided our parents with their first grandchild, she knows she will never face consequences like I have, she feels finally ready to rid her conscience of this burden, and seek forgiveness. Once again, it's all about Alicia.

She concluded this letter by pleading with me to not share this full confession to our parents, her husband made her send me this, as she had only given them the watered-down version of a naive girl too scared to write her wrongs. she was also pushing hard for me to be invited to Christmas in a few weeks, where we could all start to be a family again. WTF. As painful as that was to read, the life update was actually worse. My sister went on to talk about how her HS days were great. How she managed to get a track scholarship to the University of Iowa. How she met her husband, and they have a big house, and a newborn daughter and so on. She has been living the dream these last ten years. Meanwhile, I lost

family, my girlfriend, my best friend. My grades tanked as I drank myself to sleep that first semester on my own. I was unable to go on the internship and my spot to the UK went to someone else. I was so low I just wanted to die. I sat on the edge of bridge for four hours one night unable to take that last step. I decided that night, since I couldn't kill myself, ID have to get myself killed. I left school in the weeks that's followed and joined the US Marine Corps. The Iraq and Afghan wars were in full swing. I excelled in training, and got the placement I wanted. I was EOD. There was no worse danger over there than IEDEs. I figured this would kill me for sure. Eight years later I discharged in one piece. Over that time I had

very few relationships or friendships. When you've been abandoned by everyone, you learn to not trust people with who you are. I would go on dates, we would have two, three, four good ones, then she would not respond to a text, and suddenly I would panic and end things. I'd imagine her just leaving me one day out of nowhere, and I couldn't let that happen again. I had no friends. Over in Iraq I would trust my fellow Marines with my life, but not with my soul. I always kept everyone at arm's length. There was only one guy, Val 27M, however, who broke through, and he remains my only friend to this day.

I actually moved to West Virginia just to be near him and his wife once we both got out. They just had a baby seven months ago, and I am officially deemed Uncle Chris. I am nowhere, not even in the same ballpark of where I thought I would be when I graduated H.S. I still have not finished college, I work in a small factory now. I have a small fortune saved up from all my years in the service because I live a very meager life. I do nothing with it. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, and drive a car with 300k miles on it. But at least my sister got to go to college, fall in love, and be lauded her whole life.

It isn't fair, and it's even more insulting that they would try to come crawling back now. No, not crawl back, asked me to make the trip to Iowa to join their fucking Christmas, the Christmas I've missed out on for ten years. I have time, maybe therapy would help, I don't know. I still keep going back and forth, do go and finally get the closure I've dreamt about, or do I just ignore them and continue to try and fix the broken life I have? I apologize for my horrible grammar I'm new to Reddit and I made this in hopes of maybe helping someone who might have experienced this and are looking for answers or just somebody to relate to.

I won't get into my life story because I'll be here all day so I'll try to focus on the subject at hand, but I will say I'm a 25-year-old high school dropout I'm black and pretty much fit the stereotypical description of a young black person. I have face tattoos I wear clothes that I clearly can't afford and I have an obvious drug problem. Your parents would probably tell you stay away from me for your own good. I've always been different from my peers. I was always more progressive. I've never let my environment influence my beliefs and thoughts and I pretty much accept any and everybody no matter who they were. It's cringy to say, but I'm basically the person in school who bullied the. Bullies for you like the unexpected friend you never even knew

knew you existed. I'm not trying to make myself out to be the super cool guy because I'm far from it, but I'm somewhat popular mostly due to my size. I'm big as fuck, LOL the fat guy who got girls and nobody ever knew why I was too funny and too big to bully most people weren't going to win with jokes or a fight so I kind of just fell into the position I'm in now. I was also very known for having access to everything illegal that teenagers shouldn't have access to guns, drugs, older women. I could even take you to get your first tattoo without ID probably by some crackhead in a basement, but hey, you get what you can get. I've also had a couple stays in the psych ward that most of my friends don't know about I won't get into, but I'll

say I've had a very hard life that I usually keep tucked away and not because I'm ashamed, but I've always, preferred listening to others' life stories and seeing how I can help and I've always been more concerned about putting a smile on others' face. Maybe it was the typical defensive mechanism that hurt people used to avoid their own pains and trauma. Either way, it doesn't matter, LOL. I just kind of wanted to give you a small idea of who I was before I get started, but here we go. I've always been an e-pill, Molly user, since I was 16, I can honestly say that I have an addiction I never hit it. I always knew I was addicted and have been since a teen and I'm not looking for help for it. The past two weeks have completely altered my

already wide view of life it started out as a regular binge. I usually start off with three pills and by the end of the night I'll be at six or seven I also suffer from chronic insomnia so it's basically mixing fire with fire I'll stay up for maybe three to five days straight just in a zone I've never got sexual feelings from it and it never made me want to be around a crowd the higher I get the more I tend to isolate myself I use that time to analyze myself make money and research anything I possibly can basically it's like my Adderall. So anyway it started out as a normal night knowing I was going to go on a binge me and my friend brought a couple girls to a hotel and honestly they were really nice people I got them high off

and listened to them vent about their deepest darkest secrets for about five to six hours they wanted to have sex after, but I truly just don't believe in having sex with somebody that's under the influence unless we have had sex completely sober before I've always hated the thought of taking advantage of women especially since I'm the one supplying the drugs most of the time. I grew up with only my mom and I'm the only boy in a family full of sisters and my only child is my three years old daughter so I take things like rape personally and so do my friends. I ended leaving my friend in the hotel to have his own party with them I just drove around on dark roads thinking about life until I saw the sun coming up.

Mission complete like always I had a good night and met some girls who think I'm their soulmate now regular shit day two of my binge I spent to myself at this point I think I was about 15 pills in. I always have a large supply over E-L-O-L-L, it went normal I spent most of my day writing and venting in my notepad like always and day three went exactly the same at that point I was about 20 to 25 pills before I even noticed I was six days into a drug binge no sleep, no food just pills, water and cigarettes, but day six is when I started to notice that I was hallucinating, IT my first time hallucinating, I had never made it to six days of no sleep not for any reason specifically, but I usually just clock out by. Day three to five, but I kept going this time.

I was in the back of my friend's car we were having a regular night then I started to notice little things like I didn't remember even leaving the house. At that point, I didn't have any text messages or phone calls with my friends speaking about meeting up, but the car ride was so vivid I could even feel the bumps in the road. I could feel the vibration of the speakers blasting music, but the entire time I felt something was off and I kept repeating it to, my friends, like guys, how is this possible guys?

None of us even spoke today, guys, I don't even remember getting dressed and leaving the house. I don't remember coming home that night. I just remember going from the car to laying in my bed, but I was aware that something strange was happening like I stated before I have never had a hallucination in my life. The thing that freaked me out was my friends being there. If I was just by myself, I would have easily just chalked it up to me tweaking.

The fuck out. I ended up just chalking it up to me having a dream. Maybe I feel asleep for 20 minutes and didn't notice I stayed up for the rest of that night at this point. I lost count of how many pills I had taken. I just know it was a lot that night I had continued to hallucinate. I ended up having a conversation with my friend that lasted all. Night venting about my life and childhood trauma he was in the corner in my room and I never saw his face just a shadow, but I knew the voice we talked until the sun came up and at this point I was aware that I was hallucinating but at the time a part of my mind thought it was real because it was so vivid even the memories were vivid as can be. But at this point I was fully fucked up and didn't really even care to find out what was happening, but all of this was new. It went from just being my friend in the room to hearing more voices, but this time they were under my bed making funny comments and everything, LOL like it smells down here and lose some weight you're crushing us after about four hours of bullshit conversation with the people under my bed. I started asking, hey, are you guys demons? Because I didn't understand why these hallucinations were lasting so long I had never experienced

them, but something made me believe there was some kind of time limit of them like I have to snap out of it eventually, but once I started to ask if they were demons, it's like the entire energy in the room shifted things started to get more serious, and one of them finally called out and said yes were demons, they told me the devil had chosen me because of my, dark side, my entire life I've always felt like I had two people in my head, one of them being my pure self, the caring one, I know that's me at heart, and then there's the other, the bad one, I feel like it's the monster that my childhood. Trauma created, I wasn't born with it most of my life, there was a war going on in my head, I have 100,000 thoughts in a second, and sometimes I speak loud by accident,

because I literally can't hear myself over the good, and the bad, arguing in my head I've learned over the years to just tune it all out. I'm fully aware that it's most likely, though. Result of having a horrible life I've never thought that my bad side was an actual person or a demon that lived inside me or some shit I'm a realist and I basically had to teach myself everything I could about mental health just so I could understand myself. I taught myself that most of my life was spent in survival mode. I went most of my life not. Feeling any emotion I faked every smile and faked every laugh besides the ones that I had with my mother, she was the only one who, could provoke emotion out of me, but other than that complete numbness, I went to my father's funeral as a child and stood over his casket and didn't shed a tear. I didn't feel bad at all and he was my best friend. So from then on I started to question why can't I feel like everyone else? Why am I so numb? Why can't I love? Why don't I feel self-importance? It took me all the way until I was 22 years old having my daughter to realize I was in survival mode the day my

daughter was born was like literally being crushed by a building everything hit me at once, all the trauma, all the sadness, hatred, happiness. All the feelings hit me at once I started to cry and couldn't stop it. I was crying tears of joy and sadness at the same time and from then on I felt my emotions non-stop everything is still very raw. I have to hide in the bathroom at least three times a day no matter where I am because I cry uncontrollably no matter what mood I'm in and honestly it feels so fucking good, bro, it feels like I'm shedding everything and finally becoming the man I need to for my family. But that's besides the point we can talk about that later for those who stay LOL but anyway that demons started to tell me the devil basically wanted

to do business and I was fully prepared to negotiate I've never really had fear. In my life I only feared my mom dying so I went insane. I know what I'm worth and I know having my soul means a lot I'm not supposed to go to hell and that's something that I truly believe despite that I'm an atheist well not so much anymore but I knew my heart was good I knew very well that my good karma outweighs the bad and if I deserve to be anywhere it's in heaven not because I believe I'm special but because I basically used myself as a walking mat for others my entire life. It always felt good for me to take the entire weight of somebody's pain and insecurities and dump it on myself to make them happy I've never gotten joy out of anything I did for myself, besides drugs.

Fucking, and taking a shit I've always gravitated to the most damaged people I can find, the scum of the earth, the losers, the psychopaths and the misunderstood if the world hates you nine times out of ten, I'm going to try to love you unless you're just flat out a piece of shit. It never mattered how dark something was I'm walking in head first. no worries, even if it's the devil himself, LOL, that's kind of a perk of having a shitty life. So anyway, I knew how much my soul meant. But I also knew how bad my other can get I know how influential I could be. So if I wanted to lead an entire football field of people into hell, I could do it without

breaking a sweat, I could sense weakness and power, I could sense what's wrong with you as soon as I meet you and I can guess a fairly accurate description of your life within the first 10 minutes of conversation, five minutes if I'm under pressure, LOL, a few people really think I'm some kind of psychic, but really I just guessed the shit. so I knew I was worth a lot either way it's a double whammy my soul is good but I could also bring a million good souls down here with me with a smile on my face if I chose to give in to the other I never spoke to the devil myself he just sent demons to speak for him l-ol one of the demons was literally my best friend the same one I was at the hotel with the same one that

I hallucinated having an all-night convo with basically I found out he was fucking dead and the same day everything was so vivid and I started to cry very real tears realizing my best friend is dead and on top of it he went to hell the funny thing is even through him being We never lost our bond. He would say little things to try and influence me to sell my soul, but in the same sentence you know he, he made me do that, so don't listen. L.O.L. Even during the process of me selling my soul, we were planning on how to take over hell together and free all the tortured souls. I have to end the story here because it's 4.36 a.m. and I really just don't feel like typing anymore. I will be back as soon as I

wake up to tell the rest because this is when it starts getting good low-l-d-be-safe everyone. I'm back, guys, so to continue the story it was about 10 a.m. when I was fully awake hallucinating and I mean fully awake, I never lost my sense of self and that was the scary part about it. I still had the same mind I have right now. So at this point, I'm amped up. It was like breathing fresh air for the first time because I finally had the opportunity to change my family's life forever the cost of sacrificing my own soul meant nothing. All I kept thinking about was surprising my mom with a new car and a mansion. All I could think about is the fact that I can take my daughter and her mom. We've been separated for a while. On the

biggest shopping spree anyone has every scene I was truly happy knowing I was going to hell for the people I loved because that's all I've ever really wanted in life. The sense of self-importance just isn't there for me and I don't. Think it ever will my demon best friend was amped up with me so much so that I forgot he was even dead. Then I realized, oh shit bro, you're fucking dead and you're in hell. That's when I started to cry hard because out of all my friends I've always worried about him the most. We were always the most alike. We've been homeless together. Start together. Committed several crimes together just for food. He's basically the brother. I always wanted our daughters play together or daughters' moms or friends so him being dead was a big hit to me, but he just

sat there like it didn't matter. We both knew he didn't truly deserve to be in hell and the only reason why he even ended up there was because he died. From laced cocaine at a random hotel party. Yeah, he also told me doing any drug was a sin so you could imagine how pissed I was LOL. But anyway, he never complained he took it on the chin and sucked it up and I promised him as soon as I get this devil money. I'm throwing him the biggest funeral slash parade in the city and make sure his family would never have to worry about money again and he was happy as fuck just for that I was going to make sure that my friend died a legend and there would be murals of him painted all over this city and it was easy to stay happy knowing I'm going to be down there soon anyway and there's no way the devil could hold both of us

LOL were breaking out this shit for sure I had a very cocky attitude everything was said I would receive the money at 11 a.m. the next day I was like uh okay didn't know the devil had to schedule shit but fuck it the only thing missing was a signed contract LOL I felt like the shit tbh at this point my room was full of demons all women except my friend so you know at this point i'm flirting with them talking cash shit l m a oh like yeah i'm the new guy in charge bitch and i'm not normal so don't try any funny shit i met my lil demon soulmate she was freaky as fuck and i really couldn't wait to be alone with her so yeah everything was going good all the way until i said i'll do anything he wants i'm just not killing any babies and i'm not raping any

women my friend was like rape bro we get raped every day in hell and my face was blank i was like rape. Rape? He was like niga, yes, big black demons come and rape us. I've been raped 48 times since I've been down here. That's when all the happiness and cheering and flirting stopped. I told all the little demon bitches get the fuck out my room and they did and I started rethinking my decision. Yes, out of everything that should have made me rethink at prison. Demon rape is the thing that shut the whole deal down. I started saying actually I don't want to do this and that's when my best friend's real demon side started kicking and he started to tell me about my fate. He told me that my daughter would be molested and I would be shot and killed by

her abuser when I was 30 outside of a fucking corner store and at the point I really believed that I started saying is this really how it all ends? My life was really never meant for anything good. I finally felt happiness in my 20s just for it to be snatched at 30. And on top of it I got killed by a fucking petto who raped my daughter. I couldn't protect her. At this point I'm fully freaking out but at the same time the analytical part of my brain is working double time I started realized the devil is trying to use my friend and that story is probably a lie he made in hope. that I would take the deal in order to change my daughters and his fate, but I wasn't moving my position I didn't want to sell my soul. And I said specifically nothing you say will change it.

Why would I believe somebody they always said was a liar and a trickster? So now at this point I'm more angry than anything at the devil. Nobody else I took him trying to use my friend to manipulate me personal. And I told my friend, bro, I still love you. This doesn't change shit. I know you're just. Looking for a way out and my friend told me I already know you know, but I had to try LOL and he told me I hope you know this is far from over. You made him mad. and T.B.H. I knew I did, but I was never scared of the devil. So at this point I'm fully cussing this dickhead, the devil, out like bro before any of this shit. I tried to understand you. Yes, I tried to understand what made the devil the devil, so much to the point that I created my own

theory that the devil isn't even evil. I don't know about you guys' religion, but in mine, really my moms, we were taught, in my own words, that us humans were nothing but an experiment for God and he wanted Satan to serve us and I always thought to myself shit. If I was the most beautiful angel in heaven I wouldn't want to fucking serve my father's experiment either I've always pictured God as being the big bad guy in the end because I've always noticed when everybody hates one person there's usually some funny shit going on and it's not what it seems but by this time I'm figuring nope you're just a fully blown piece of shit like everybody said and just so you guys can grasp how real this hallucination was I actually started to feel fire under my feet and I knew it was him I laid down in my bed and I felt my body burning in flames but I didn't budge and I still wasn't alone my best friend was there the entire time suffering with me at this point I'm talking Haunting the devil like bro you really think heat and fire is enough. I'm the same person you sought out so you know this isn't shit to me now this is when the story takes a very sharp left turn the outside world got involved. It was just part of the hallucination I didn't go viral.

Videos of me naked started going viral on Facebook all of my. Friends turned on me and everybody was laughing at me and I knew yeah this is the devil trying to get to me. People started sharing a video of some guy getting fucked with a strap on and everyone thought it was me boom I went viral again in the same day. I even went live on Facebook during my hallucination. I had 107 viewers, but what I didn't know I s. Nobody could understand me all my words were coming out a.S. gibberish.

I have actual audio of myself during the hallucination. If anyone is interested, just message me and I'll send it. But anyway, at this point, I'm just watching my life fall apart. But I know this is all the devil like I said. I never lost my sense of self. So even during my own public. Crucifixion millennial style, I literally didn't give a fuck. I have to end the story again here, but I'll be back to explain the rest as soon as I have

free time. Once again, be safe everybody. necessity has a funny way of shaping a person's fate, and in my case, it has led me to juggle three different characters in World of Warcraft for role-playing purposes. Each of them embodies a different moral alignment, one neutral good, one chaotic good, and one lawful good. Smidium, my forsaken undead, holds the neutral good mantle, and his story is one that has grown far beyond my initial vision. Oh, and by the way, I should probably mention, blast my story storytelling instincts, now there's a fourth character, kind of.

Equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals, equals equals equals equals equals equals equals, in the modern world, a last name like, Terrible, might sound like some cruel joke passed down through generations, an unfortunate family curse that one would rather escape than embrace. But in Smidium's case, the name is nothing short of an honor, a legacy inherited from an ancestor known simply as Smidium the Terrible, because, well, he was. And not in the clumsy, embarrassing way one might expect, but in the fearsome, battle-hardened, terror-inducing sense. The legend of Smidium the Terrible is whispered across time, an infamous tale of endurance and fury. The man fought for six days straight, without rest, cutting down orcs in their own encampments,

refusing even a moment's respite for fear of a nighttime counterattack. Some say he only became more savage as the sleepless nights piled up, his rage sharpening into something almost supernatural. Theories abound regarding the source of this unrelenting ferocity, some claim he survived solely on stolen orsish rations, downing spirits not meant for human consumption. Others speculate that he was simply too cranky to stop, a sleep-deprived madman fueled by righteous indignation and a severe lack of coffee.

And, of course, there are those who suggest he was never quite sane to begin with. Smidium Terrible, however, is not Smidium the Terrible, at least, not the original one. By long-standing tradition, the title of Smidium is passed down through the Terrible bloodline. When the last Smidium dies, the youngest of their lineage takes up the name, ensuring that the legacy of terror, or at least mild intimidation, lives on. The current Smidium Terrible was once known as Pavis Terrible, a name he bore until the passing of his grandmother, formerly hoped terrible, a woman who chose to keep her family name even after marriage. From the earliest days of his youth, Pavis was captivated by the tales of his grandmother

Smidium, a war priestess of unparalleled might. Yes, she was a healer, but to stand on the opposing side of the battlefield was to witness the embodiment of divine wrath. She wielded her staff with such skill that it deflected arrows better than the shields of most seasoned warriors, and the weapon bore the scars of war to prove it, embedded arrowheads and fractures attesting to its violent history. To chase her down meant to carve through the frenzied troops under her command, and her battle cry alone could transform the most serene of monks into bloodthirsty berserkers. She was a woman of unshakable faith, yet her lineage ensured that she carried the terrible name with all its rightful weight. Inspired by these stories and eager to carve his own

legend, Pavis enlisted as a priest in the Alliance's army. His journey toward glory, however, was cut brutally short. On the very day of his enlistment, he was murdered, robbed of his clothes, left for dead. His killer was never identified, though nearby Orsish footprints hinted at the involvement of the local Black Rock faction. His family mourned him as a fallen hero, burying him beneath a tree as close to stormwind as they could manage. The funeral was carried out with full military honors, a seven-gun salute, a folded banner presented in solemn reverence, and the lone trumpet that sent him off into the next life. A candlelit vigil was held, flickering light-paying tribute to a young life lost too soon.

And then, a week later, because his luck was truly that terrible, his body was exhumed, carted off to tearousful glades and resurrected in the name of the Banshee Queen. In undeath, the newly reborn Smidium Terrible had a decision to make. He had been raised by two forces, the mother who had nurtured him in the alliance, and the Valcayyar who had returned him from the grave into the ranks of the horde. In a world of war and division, where loyalties were expected to be absolute, Smidium took a different path. It was through an orc robe named Unil that Smidium found a way to reconnect with his past. Through smuggled letters and secretive messages, he managed to reach his family, letting them know that he was, well, not technically alive, but not fully gone either.

It was through these letters that he learned of his new title, the death of his grandmother meant he had inherited the right to bear the name Smidium. In this new chapter of existence, Smidium chose to take up the mantle of a hunter. He would be a slayer of beasts, rather than a butcher of men, seeking to honor his family's legacy in a way that made sense for his undead reality. Impatient by nature but not unkind, he found himself forming reluctant friendships along the way, aiding those in need, so long as it was convenient. But make no mistake, Smidium's pragmatism remained steadfast. If someone needed help and he happened to be nearby, sure, he'd lend a hand. But don't expect him to travel across kingdoms to save someone who, in the way, in the way of the

his mind, could just as easily be raised again later. It's nothing personal. Of course, the inevitable question arises, does he feel conflicted about his undead existence? Does he struggle with morality, with questions of identity and purpose? Perhaps. Or perhaps, like so many others in the world, he simply keeps moving forward, adapting to the circumstances he never asked for but has no choice but to accept. At the end of the day, Smidium Terrible is neither hero nor villain.

He is not bound by rigid moral codes, nor does he revel in destruction for its own sake. He is a man, or what remains of one, making the best of an existence that has been defined by misfortune, carrying the weight of a legendary name while carving out a story uniquely his own. And perhaps that is what makes him truly terrible. not because he is monstrous, but because he is something far more unpredictable, something human, even in undeath. Being such a serious case the police put, Surveillance 247 in Christie's house already, that

this had more minor children, any of them could suffer, same and maybe they were in danger. We start at 6.15 minutes of the, Monday, tomorrow December 13, 2021. Christy Marie Sipple, 35. He got up to start preparing the. Breakfast had several children and should, arouse them as soon as possible to, organize all breakfast lunches, clothing but when he went to, his daughter's room noticed something very strange, and is that the door was open. I always used the children closed the doors, but that morning that of the girl. He was open thought that maybe, midnight got up to go to the bathroom and, therefore it did not

give more importance. He walked there crossed Lindar, but inside the room was not your daughter. He checked the whole house and was unable to find it so he grabbed the phone and, called a Emergencies the protagonist of our history is Little Camley Holland that was born on November 23rd, 2016, being one of Christy Marie's children, Sipple and Corey Holland both had, children as a result of previous marriages, and, after having Little Camari I know, divorced Corey met another person, same according to some sources who had, custody was father Corey Holland, but, on weekends the children were going to, mother's house on Friday were repaired, they were going with the mother to the backpacks, and on Monday they always returned with the father. It was a like that and supposedly Chrissy did not have. Problems rather. He married again had more children and programming was more than well according to. Christy Kumari was his only girl and not. I had more than good words to. Refer to her said it was sweet, loving generous very delivered to. Others and although I was only five years old, it was. Very intelligent in fact the woman counted. The next story to the press A, we were in the gas station and saw a family there and one of

the girls. I had no shoes and she said, Mommy, we can help them because I have many. Pairs at home there was nothing wrong with her. He was just a little girl and four, I never left home alone but, on the morning of December 13th, 2021 the girl was not in her room and, immediate Christy called emergencies. The little face appeared in all, the news and all the chains. They talked about her spoke on the radio, the television and newspapers in the, magazines the publications were, immediate and at 11, 15 minutes of the night of that same day your body without, life appeared less than 10 minutes in, car from your own home from good to, first wanted to take the case with the, a minor and urgent case but the media did quickly with a very striking data and that is that

the body of the girl was found with obvious signs of strangulation that information shocked the united states and debates were wanted for insecurity that the girl were living in his bed quietly and an unknown he slipped into his house and kidnapped her no i had any sense there was nothing forced there was nothing that person was directly for the girl and the mother immediately appeared in all media gave interviews talked about his daughter and a few days later donated the little girl toys in the collection. Annual there were press cameras and the woman declared the following I am the mother of.

Camry Holland did not want anything else in the world to donate their toys to, another child who needs them because she, it was a girl who helped a lot to be such a serious case the police put, surveillance 24A7 in Christie's house. Since it had more minor children, any of them could suffer,

same and perhaps it was in danger, but it should be said that the night when they found the body the police arrested, to a suspect Jeremy Train Williams of 37 years but how was it possible that they will arrest so quickly that they had against. He is because he is. Person Jeremy Williams the moment of. The facts are freedom.

Conditional on bail what gives us. Understand that if you committed this crime in, reality was not the first on your list. I was also living in, the abandoned apartment where the, Camari's body had been found, had a history of the body was in, his old house and were two points in his. For this reason the police reviewed everything. His file and found very, striking in 2005 Jeremy lived with. His partner in North Pole, Alaska was, active member of the Air Force of, United States and was also a policeman.

Local his life was apparently normal. I had known friends, everything was going well for him. He was a good police and his wife stayed. Pregnant spends nine months and gives light to a small called Nadia Treem's Williams End. H here everything is still normal but a month of. The police are born receiving a disturbing, called and is that apparently the little, has died accidentally arrives. The police ambulance and it turns out that the little girl has died for a trauma.

cranioesophalic that did not seem accidental and Jeremy was four suspicious but due to lack of evidence he could formally accuse him and so much did not go to trial in 2009 this man is again the protagonist of a very similar history and it was accused of aggravated child they accused him to grab a three-year old boy and submerge it from the waist down in water boiling thing that caused burns serious but the defense argued that that happened and actually accidental that the same three-year-old boy through the water, on top and that Jeremy is nothing to do with. Incredible that it seems in 2012 A, jury acquitted this subject for foul. Of evidence, however, what had wait, it was his arrest of August 1st, 2021, since he was then

accused of violence, family aggression and child cruelty in third degree but two of the three. Crimes of which he was accused was, declared not guilty with all this. History on December 14th his home was, registered and what was found there not. It was published since the press did not have. Access to this the judge believes that, filter the minimum information, possible, and any error could throw. Below the case, however, the press, keep insisting wanted data, information names, photographs, and by, that motive took the, photography by Jeremy Williams said his, name surname for what is, I accused and thanks to this the police, he received an anonymous call that put it, all legs above an anonymous woman of, 31 years called denouncing that man, hours before the, Disappearance of Camer Holland, F-U-A-I-da, sexually for him he recognized his face.

On television he knew he was and also, I had information that put the, Pentahares said that the morning of the, December 13th was discussed with his, couple and left home had nowhere, go so-called a friend and he put it, in contact with Jeremy Williams who allegedly rented rooms the man lived in an apartment located, in Doser Street and at that time you have, a vacancy calls the subject, Kedon, he goes home and once there he starts, feel quite uncomfortable the room that he assigned him was quite beautiful enough. Cozy but still the atmosphere was, I miss which collected his bag and, he tried to escape but upon arriving at the room, he saw that the main door was, blocked by a freezer and when, he wanted

to take him Jeremy, he assaulted her, a terrible way and while this, the subject occurred by the Kamari name and not only that but, he also confessed that hours before he taught, a five-year old girl to practice, one the only way to find, escaping was telling Jeremy where, they He sold drugs and that if he left her free. I would teach it to what man. He agreed to grab his arm. Carr started the engine and went to a gas station and once there the woman asked. Sit down to go to the bathroom Jeremy Williams.

He was not stupid for what he asked. He will deliver the mobile phone and the victim did it without registering he gave him. The mobile went to the bathroom was locked and he took a second phone since, look like a personal phone and another work and using one of the two, called emergencies hours after. Terrible attack Kamari's mother called. emergencies and this period of time called the attention of this woman was early morning and occupied many hours with what which the kidnapping of kamari had to produce the night of december 12th a few hours to which christie her mother i was awake there were no doors or forced windows there were

no signs of there was no struggle there was no blood there were no blows in the girl's room there was no evidence and this two authorities seemed very suspicious chris mary siple mother of cammer was shown before the world as the perfect mother mother working courage divorced a woman who fought for. Keep your family afloat. His daughter's belongings to the charity gave interviews he cried in. Camera said how wonderful though. Little how much I loved her but it would soon be discovered that this woman does not. It was what seemed and it turns out that time ago he had problems with. Drugs was accused of consuming drugs while she was pregnant with her son, minor but what happens that happened in the framework of the pandemic and therefore its judgment had to postpone this

stain in. His file pushed the agents to see the social relations of women and discovered that I knew personally, to the alleged murderer of his daughter Jeremy, Trin Williams were friends and according to, some witnesses this relationship had, something to do with drugs when media learned everything and, Chistie once again gave interviews opened, his house the cameras and he showed himself as a, afflicted mother said she loved her daughter, that it was innocent that would never hurt him, and gave statements as the following, she was my life lived for her all, the days was my only girl I have three, children and she am innocent and I had nothing. What to do with this who wants me to? Doing that is disturbing must be very, head

bad but no matter how much. Cry the police have already been set in, she and before another of her children. The same destination suffered it arrested, and this happened at one in the morning, of December 28, 2021 and from. From there he began to reveal himself to dropers, what Christie Sipple had happened and Jeremy Williams reached an agreement, economic worthy of a movie. Terror Jeremy would pay Christie true, amount of money in exchange for buying or, rent the body of her daughter and she. The transaction is done. Jeremy takes Kamari and Christy. It is at home but with the passing time. The woman grabs the phone and calls. Emergencies indicating that he could. The following happens is that the woman already knew that Kamari no, I would go home

that Jeremy had, killed and therefore called the police, not to seem guilty and the second is that the treatment would have been the little, for a few hours and then take it to. House, but not doing it chisty. I would get nervous and call emergencies. Be that as it may be the question here is that, according to the Christie Sipel police, he knew what. That had happened and also had, allowed the amount of pain that Christy has caused Camerda. Our lives will never cease, will come out. See what has been arrested. We are a step closer to justice to. Camari, we hope justice be done. Christy should receive the maximum penalty. What can she give her as a monster? A true mother protects and dying. For his children Chisti is a monster my family and I will continue fighting with.

The loss of our Camry Angel. Declarations of Corey Holland father of Cammer. Christy Marseppel has been accused of, traffic of sodomy and Sinato and, about Jeremy Train Williams we know that the following murder positions way, capital kidnapping viration of corpse, sodomy and production day, but that's not all and is that due. To these accusations the Alaska police, he has decided to reopen his daughter's case, which we remember that in 2005 he died. Incidentally there are many details that I am not willing to reveal in this moment due to the urgency of this case and other potential people who, we could be investigating as suspects or criminals along with the Mr. Williams get statements. Taylor something asshole of Russell County.

At the time of the case it is in course but it is believed that Jeremy Williams, I could face the death penalty like this, which now is your turn what do you think of? Case and you think there really is more involved. I'm angry about it. UPS, very ups. But you know, I have to keep on living and even in prison I have to try to make the best of my situation and just keep on fighting, and hopefully one day, you know, I get out. We begin. This case starts on the night of September 23, 1983, when Kimberly Miller, 17 years old, decided to go out with her friends. It was Friday, there had been a football game, and the atmosphere was very lively. The girl worked at a KFC in Kilgore, Texas, and she did so

alongside her mother, Mary Tyler. In fact, her mother managed the staff, so she was the one who more or less made the schedules, gave permissions, placed orders, her mother was the boss. So Kim came and went as she pleased. That day, the girl finished her shift at 9 p.m., and after that, she said goodbye to her mother and left with her friends. They had a few drinks and had a good time, but by 10.30 or 11 p.m., Kim realized she didn't have enough money. So she decided to get in the car and head to the KFC to ask her mother for a bit more money. She drove there, parked in the lot, and noticed the entire restaurant was dark. That was extremely strange, but the worst was yet to come.

Because the girl got out of the car, walked to the entrance, and saw that the door was wide open. Everything was dark. Everything was silent. And the door was open. She walked through the main dining area calling out for her mother, but no one answered. And suddenly, on the floor, she saw a train. trail of blood droplets. Kim panicked. She ran to the car, locked the doors, and called her stepfather. When the man arrived, they decided to check the back doors, and once again,

they found the same thing, everything dark, doors wide open, a half-thrown trash bag. And when they got inside the restaurant, they saw everything was in chaos, pans, hats, uniforms, napkins, everything was scattered on the floor. But there was no sign of a of the employees. So, terrified, they called emergency services. Working the night shift were three employees, Mary Tyler, 37 years old, O.P. Hug, 39 years old, and Joey Johnson, 20 years old. When the Kilgore Police Department arrived at the scene, they took notes, took photos, contacted the families, questioned the girl and her stepfather, and while they cordoned off the area, a pregnant woman named Lana Maxwell appeared.

Lana said she was the wife of a 20-year-old man named David Maxwell. And this point is very interesting, because David was Joey Johnson's best friend. David and Joey had previously bought a motorcycle together, and when one of them worked, the other kept it. On the day of the incident, David and Lana had taken a ride with the motorcycle, went to restaurants, and at night, David went to return the motorcycle to Joey Johnson. Almost every night, they would meet at the KFC, hand off the motorcycle, chat for a while, have a drink, and then David would go home. But on the night of the 23rd, the young man didn't come home.

So Lana got in the car and went out looking for him. Now, the police knew that there weren't three missing people, but four. And worst of all, as the hours passed, they discovered it wasn't four, but five. Joey Johnson had two best friends, David Maxwell, 20 years old, and Monty Landers, 19 years old. And the three of them always hung out at that KFC. This is when the first major problem of the case appears, the Kilgore Police Department had no experience with this kind of case. They were used to small neighbor disputes, minor thefts, petty altercations.

A disappearance of this magnitude was way beyond their capabilities. So they more or less tried to calm the public with an initial hypothesis, that Joey Johnson cut himself badly in the kitchen, and everyone took him to the emergency room. As you might imagine, no one believed this story. Because if one person gets hurt, you don't all go to the hospital. Plus, the restaurant needed to be closed, the cash register emptied, lights turned off, doors locked. The emergency room story made no sense.

and even less sense when you consider what the KFC looked like. There were blood stains, in the main dining area, behind the counter, under the register, on a napkin. The entire place was completely trashed, pans, friars, hats, everything scattered. All the lights were off, and all the doors were open. The cash register was empty, and the wall behind it was dented, as if a thief had slammed a worker's head into it. The employees did not leave voluntarily. This was clearly the scene of a violent robbery. So the police had to step up, or people's lives would be in danger.

As I mentioned earlier, the Kilgore Police didn't have the training or resources to handle something like this. So, reluctantly, they had to request help from the Texas Rangers. But what happened? Even they couldn't do anything. There were no surveillance cameras. There were no fingerprints. No footprints either. Everything was upside down. Yes, it had been a robbery, but they didn't know where to begin. It was a dead-end case. Some sources say that that same night,

a search operation was launched. Others claim nothing was done, that the police simply decided the best thing was to wait, to see what happened, see if they came home on their own. But obviously, that didn't happen. The next day, September 24th, a worker from an oil company in Rusk County, Texas, called the police to report a disturbing discovery. His job was out in the middle of nowhere. To get there, you had to cross several fields, go down dirt roads, climb hills. These were areas where young people often through parties, they buy alcohol, hop in their cars, go there and party. The man was used to seeing things like that. So when, in the distance, he saw four people lying face down, he thought they were drunks.

He clapped, shouted at them to get up, to go home, but none of them responded. And when he got closer, he realized they were dead. In the images, four victims were lying face down in the dirt and grass. The fifth victim was found dozens of meters away. All of them had head wounds. At least one had injuries to the back. P.T. Hill, who eventually became the lead local investigator, said the cause of death was obvious, even before the autopsies were performed.

One day after the victims were found, when the officers arrived at the scene, they took notes and realized the following. First of all, there was a group of four bodies, Mary Tyler, Joey Johnson, David Maxwell, and Monty Landers. The four were lying face down, with their heads between their arms, and all four were four. had been shot in the back of the head. All face down, facing, you know, that way, and which is, to say the least, unusual. Very. And of course, you've told me, and we've got the pictures that show this, but all of them were laying like this. And kind of give me a reasoning why you think

that was, that they had their hands on their arms. Well, and this is my theory, but if we were to all lie down on the ground, and second, there was the fifth body, that of open. P-hug. But he was not with the group of four, he was 27 meters away, among some bushes. His body was covered in dirt, there was soil under his fingernails, on his face, and he also had a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Another very interesting detail was that this woman, Mary Tyler, appeared to have suffered an assault, but the police couldn't be certain of it. The five bodies were sent for autopsy, and three of them stood out. First, Mary Tyler who was missing a piece of a fingernail.

Second, Joey Johnson, who had received three gunshots, one to the back of the head, another to the nape, and a third to the side. Another very interesting fact is that when his pants were removed, a piece of fingernail was found inside, a fingernail that did not belong to him. And third, the body of O.P. Hug, who, as mentioned earlier, had signs of violence, dirt on her face and arms, under her nails, scratches. But what's interesting here is that her pants had a very suspicious stain, a stain that appeared to be seaman. At that time, DNA testing was still in its infancy, so determining

whether it truly was or wasn't would be very complicated. To be continued. She had a very suspicious stain, a stain that looked like seaman. At that time, DNA analysis was practically in its infancy, so knowing whether it was or wasn't would be very complicated. At this point, the investigators had two lines of investigation. The first was the stain on O.P. Hug, and, incredibly, they went with the latter. With just a glance, they thought the nail was not Mary Tyler's. They compared it, measured it, and concluded it wasn't hers. So they were convinced it belonged to a killer. For the moment, they had this small clue. But they also had ten roles of film that still hadn't been.

developed, and maybe there was something else there. However, another big problem arose, the Kilgore Police Department had no funds. They had no money to develop any photos. That's when someone came up with the brilliant idea of setting up an amateur photo lab inside the station. No one had any damn clue about photography. No one knew how to develop them, how to work with negatives, nobody had a clue. But still, they thought it might work. And with this joke of an idea, incredibly, they lost 90% of the negatives. After the disaster with the photographs, another very interesting issue emerged, the different police departments couldn't agree among themselves.

They didn't communicate well, didn't coordinate, and finally had to turn to the public for help. Thanks to this, two very interesting testimonies came in. The first was from a KFC customer on the night of September 23, 1983. There was a football game that night, and as usual, all the fast food restaurants were packed. Until 8.30 or 9 p.m., the entire KFC staff was present, full-time, part-time employees, everyone. And among them, of course, was Kimberly Miller, Mary Tyler's daughter. According to the witness, Kimberly Miller, between 8 and 8.30, was at the register. At one point, she grabbed the phone and called someone.

While charging customers, she talked on the phone, and the whole restaurant heard the conversation because she was yelling a lot. Basically, she said there was a lot of money in the register, and she didn't know what to do with it. Deposit it? Leave it there. She didn't know what to do. And the whole restaurant heard this. The witness also said that in front of him was a customer who seemed very interested in the conversation. He was very attentive, watching everything. The witness didn't get a good look at his face, but was able to give a small description, the man was an African-American, around 20 years old, about 1.80 meters tall. Beyond that, he couldn't say much more.

The next testimony came from several people, and they all pointed to the same man, James Earl Monkeying Jr., the son of a state representative. Being the son of someone important, the justice system, was lenient with him. Throughout his life, this man committed many crimes, drug possession, illegal weapons. And once, he was accused of killing two people, but was acquitted due to lack of evidence. On the morning of the KFC crime, he was arrested for carrying weapons without a license, and that same afternoon, he was released. Then, he asked a friend for a gun. He didn't say what he wanted it for, he just took it and disappeared, and the next morning, returned it. Another interesting

point is that after the crime, he went around threatening everyone, saying he would do to them what was done to the five people at KFC. So the police connected the dots and sent him to prison. They interrogated him once, twice, three times, but the man wouldn't talk. Then, they noticed he had a small wound next to a fingernail. So they made a plaster mold and compared it to the fingernail found in Joey Johnson's pants. With just a glance, they said that nail belonged to James. But then, the defense requested a DNA test, and it came back negative. Therefore, the man was cleared of all charges. If James wasn't guilty, the police had to keep investigating. So they remembered the testimony of the KFC customer from the night of the crime, the one who

was certain that in front of him, there was another suspicious customer, an African-American man, around 20 years old, and about 1.80 meters tall. So police looked for criminals with that description. And inevitably, they found two, Darnel Hartsfield and Romeo Pinkerton, who, coincidentally, were cousins. At the time, both were between 22 and 25 years old. They had criminal records for robbery, violent robbery, drug possession, and their modus operandi was very striking. They would enter armed into establishments and order. order everyone to lie face down, placing their faces between their arms. Some time after the KFC crime, Romeo Pinkerton committed a robbery almost identical to what was described above.

This time, he acted alone. But police arrested both him and his cousin Darnell. Once at the station, they were questioned, but neither of them spoke. Romeo claimed his latest robbery was completely improvised, and that he did it because he was addicted to drugs and couldn't afford them. Darnell, for his part, said that when the KFC crime happened, he wasn't even in Kilgore, that he was far away, and that he could prove it. But we don't know if the police verified that or not. We became aware of the technology available to help us, and that's what led us to take a different direction in the case. James Sprout, childhood friend of David Maxwell. In the early 2000s, there were many advances in the field of DNA. So police collected all the samples

and sent them to different labs. On one hand, they had the blood from the restaurant, and on the other, the stain on O.P. Hugg's pants. First, the blood, and this resulted in two matches, one with Darnell Hartsfield, and one with Romeo Pinkerton. But don't think the mystery ends there, because next, we have the strange stain in O.P. Hugg's pants. It was confirmed that the stain was semen, but it did not belong to either of these men. It belonged to a third person, one who was not in any database. In November 2005, the police issued arrest warrants for both men. But both were already in prison. Their defense tried to argue that the Kilgore Police Department built the case to frame them

and clear their own name. But what the defense didn't expect was that the prosecution would seek the death penalty. So either they plead guilty, or they would lose their lives. In the end, both accused accepted a guilty plea. The guilty plea of Romeo Pinkerton puts an end to decades of uncertainty for the families of five innocent victims. This plea won't bring back the lives lost in 1983, but today marks a critical milestone on the path to justice. Two separate trials were held for each of these men, one for lying to the police, and the second for the violent robbery, the kidnapping and murder of. David Maxwell, Mary Tyler, Joey Johnson, Monty Landers, and O.P. Hug. In 2008, both men were sentenced to five life sentences.

But the story doesn't end there. Both men continue to say they are innocent, and that the whole case was built against them, but for the same. But you know, I have to, I have to keep on living. And even in prison I have to try to make the best of my situation and just keep on fighting for my innocence. And hopefully, one day, you know, uh, I get out. Did you kill those five people from that KFC in Kilgore in 1983? No, I didn't. I'm innocent. Another interesting point is that O.P. Hugg's family is still asking, who was the third culprit? Who was the man who raped her and killed her? But neither Romeo nor Darnell have said anything. You had no right. No one has the right to be the animal that you are. I want you to think of me during the next 100 years.

When you take your last breath of life, your punishment will begin. Jack Hug, husband of O.P. Hug. To this day, these men still claim they are completely innocent, and they are still fighting to be released. In 2015, a serious search began for the third criminal, that third man who, to this day, has not paid for what he did. So now it's your turn. What do you think about the case? Do you believe Romeo and Darnell are truly guilty? The end. It all started on the night of November 12, 1999, in Aguascalientes, Mexico. A man who made a living by collecting garbage was rummaging through the trash, hoping to find

something valuable. He searched through boxes, bags, and containers, meticulously examining their contents. That was when he stumbled upon a large cardboard box. It was heavier than he expected, which piqued his curiosity. Thinking he might have found something of worth, he pulled it out of the dumpster and opened it. What he discovered inside would haunt him forever. Inside the box, he first saw a Christmas tablecloth, a floral blanket, and a knife. But beneath those items, there was something far more sinister, the lifeless body of a small child. Shocked and horrified, he immediately contacted the authorities, setting off an investigation that would captivate and horrify an entire nation. The police arrived at the scene and carefully examined the contents

of the box. Besides the Christmas tablecloth and the floral blanket, there were garbage bags and, of course, the body of the little boy. He appeared to be around four years old. The only clothing he wore was a T-shirt featuring characters from 101 Dalmatians. rest of his body was exposed, revealing bruises, blood, and clear signs of extreme violence. However, as forensic experts dug deeper, they realized that what they initially saw was only the tip of the iceberg. The extent of this child's suffering was far worse than anyone had imagined. Upon closer inspection, they found rope marks on his wrists, suggesting he had been tied up. His body was covered in bruises, some fresh and others older, indicating prolonging

the abuse over time. There were also healed fractures, bones that had once been broken but had not healed properly. This meant that for years, this little boy had endured unimaginable cruelty. His final moments had been beyond brutal. After completing the autopsy, the cause of death was determined, a severe traumatic brain injury, spinal cord trauma, and a rupture bladder. The injury suggested that whoever had done this had no remorse, no empathy, and no affection for the child. This was not just a case of abuse, it was outright torture. The way his body was disposed of, wrapped in blankets, stuffed in a box, and dumped like

trash, made it painfully clear that his life had meant nothing to his killer. The sheer level of brutality led investigators to believe that this was not the work of just one person. The attack was so savage that they initially theorized that it had been committed by an organized group, possibly as a message to someone. The location of the crime scene added to their suspicions, the dumpster was near a police station. Could this have been a warning or a statement of defiance? However, no notes or messages were left behind, and in the following days, no criminal group claimed responsibility for the act. As news of the horrific discovery spread, the police released all available information to the media.

Television stations, newspapers, and radio broadcasts covered the story, hoping that someone would come forward with a lead. And soon enough, witnesses began to emerge. The first witness was a woman who worked as a street sweeper. She had been working on that very street the morning of November 12th and saw a suspicious man abandoning a large cardboard box. She recalled that he had arrived in a taxi, stepped out with the box in hand, and started acting very strangely. He kept glancing around nervously, looking from one corner to the other, hesitating before finally approaching the dumpster.

At one point, he walked away, then returned, as if second-guessing himself. Finally, he left the box behind and disappeared. With this new lead, the police turned their attention to local taxi companies. They asked if any driver had picked up a man carrying a large box that morning. It didn't take long before a taxi driver came forward. He remembered picking up a tall, thin man in his mid-30s at the bus station. Throughout the ride, the passenger held on to a large, unusual box, appearing tense and on edge.

The driver had found his behavior odd, and now that he knew what had been inside the box, the memory haunted him. Using these witness testimonies, the police created a wanted poster featuring the suspect and another one featuring the child's face, hoping someone would recognize him. As the posters circulated, more people came forward with potential leads. Son thought they had seen the suspect before, while others were convinced they knew the child's identity. Three major theories emerged regarding the boy's origins. The first was that he was a kidnapped child from Veracruz.

Months earlier, a boy had been abducted, and a ransom had been demanded. The family paid, but their child was never returned. Heartbroken, they now believed that the child in the dumpster might be their son. However, DNA testing proved otherwise. As time passed, another family came forward. They had also lost a son, and the father was certain that the 101 Dalmatian's shirt belonged to his child. Once again, DNA testing was conducted, and once again, it was a heartbreaking mismatch. Despite numerous families stepping forward, no one could definitively identify the child.

His face seemed eerily familiar to many, yet he remained nameless and unclaimed. Meanwhile, investigators focused on a hotel near the crime scene. They discovered that a family of three, a father, a mother, and a seven-year-old child, lived nearby. Rumors and suspicions quickly spread, and soon, the family found themselves being harassed by people convinced they were involved. We were constantly being pressured to identify the boy, the mother later recalled. They even said my husband had confessed, which wasn't true. They kept dragging us to the authorities, taking us to the forensic lab, making us look at

the child's body for long periods. But we kept telling them, we didn't know him. Eventually, with no evidence linking them to the case, the family was ruled out as suspects. But the investigation continued, and so did the heartbreak. The case struck a nerve with the Mexican public. The idea that a child could be so brutally murdered and then abandoned without even a name was unbearable. A group of concerned citizens took action, wanting to give the boy a proper burial. If nothing was done, his remains would likely end up in a mass grave,

forgotten forever. This was unacceptable to them. Among those determined to help was a woman named Margarita Alonso Castillo. She lived a peaceful life, had a husband and children, and everything seemed fine. But when she heard the story, she was overcome with sorrow. She couldn't stop thinking that the little boy could have been her own child. Moved by emotion, she spoke to her husband and decided to adopt the boy posthumously. With the authority's permission, Margarita and her family went to the civil registry, where they gave the child an official identity. He was named Miss I. El Barranco Alonso. Afterward, he was given a proper burial, resting in grave number 132 in the Cassanta Cruz section of the Eternal Garden Cemetery. Years passed, but the case

remained unsolved. There were no new leads, no suspects, no answer. Margarita passed away in 2018 and was laid to rest next to Miss Isle, the child who, legally, had become her son. Despite the lack of resolution, the case was never forgotten. In 2001, it received national attention when it was featured on Mujer, Casos de la Vita Real, a popular television program hosted by Sylvia Pinal. The show dramatized real-life events, and its influence was massive across Latin America. For years, it aired stories of everyday people, turning their tragedies into cautionary tales. The episode about the Dumpster Boy ended with a plea for the public to provide any information that could help identify the killer. Following the episode, the police once again received numerous calls. Many claimed to recognize the child, and once more, families came forward hoping he was their lost loved one. But among all these callers, one man stood out, Denisiya. Perez. He wasn't just another grieving parent. He was convinced, beyond a doubt, that he had once

known this child, that the boy had been a part of his life in some way. And with that, the case took another unexpected turn. To be continued. Part 2. There was a man named Denicio Perez, who was absolutely convinced that he had seen this child before. He was certain that the boy had been a part of his life, that he had interacted with him. Denizio was so sure about it that he decided to go to the police station and tell his story. He explained that he was a teacher of Gnostic philosophy and had worked in Aguascalientes. Once inside the station, he asked to see the image of the boy again. When they showed it to him, he shared something deeply unsettling.

He began by pointing out that the dumpster where the child's body was found, on August 28th Street, was very close to the headquarters of Nosis, Mexico. In fact, the distance was only about six minutes by car and sixteen minutes on foot. This reinforced his belief that he knew the person responsible for this crime, someone who practiced Nosis and was once very close to him. Denizio continued to provide more information. He claimed that the boy found in the dumpster was named Dylan Randall Mercado Gonzalez. His mother was Lilliana Mercado Gonzalez, and his stepfather was Francisco Javier Lopez

Gonzalez. According to Dinocio, Francisco was the one who could have committed this terrible crime. Denicio had always found Francisco strange. From the first moment he met him, he had a bad feeling about him. He also noticed that Dylan often had bruises all over his body, bruises that didn't seem like the result of playing. The way Francisco treated Dylan was cold and distant. nothing like how a father should treat a son. At first, Denicio didn't think much of it,

but over time, he started to believe that something awful was happening in that house. By the time he fully realized it, it was too late, the family had disappeared without a trace. The police launched an investigation. They searched for Lilliana, Francisco, and Dylan, but they were nowhere to be found. However, they did find Dylan's grandmother, a woman named Aricelli Gonzalez Becerra. When they showed her the reconstructed image of the boy, she immediately recognized him. She was certain that the child was her grandson, Dylan. The police then showed her photos of the body, his face, and the objects found with him. Ariseli was able to identify every little detail. The Christmas tablecloth, she was sure, belonged to her daughter. The floral

Blanket was also from her family. She kept repeating that the boy had to be her grandson. DNA tests later confirmed it, Dylan Randall was indeed the child in the dumpster. The story Aricelli told was chilling. Dylan was born in 1999 to Lilliana and her then partner, Andres Amador. But Andrace never acknowledged Dylan as his own and walked away from their lives. Lillianna became a single mother, but she wasn't alone for long. Soon after, she met Francisco, and the two started a life together. They moved in and became a family of three. But Lillianna's family didn't trust Francisco at all.

He was a strange man, he worked as a photographer and considered himself a philosopher and theologian. What worried them most was his personality. He was controlling, possessive, and jealous, especially with Lillianna. Francisco believed that his family was the only thing that mattered. Friends, neighbors, outsiders, they were irrelevant. His idea of protection was twisted, and unfortunately, Dylan wasn't part of that protected circle.

Francisco never accepted Dylan as his own, and over time, his rejection turned into something worse, hatred. A few years after meeting, Lilliana and Francisco got married and had children of of their own. This solidified Francisco's complete rejection of Dylan. It was said that Francisco often beat Liliana, and when Dylan tried to intervene, he got beaten too. Even if Dylan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Francisco would take his anger out on him. As Francisco's own children were born, the abuse escalated. Lilliana had two pregnancies, but the second one, which was twins, ended in tragedy. The babies didn't see didn't survive, and Francisco blamed Dylan for it.

From that moment on, the abuse only got worse. Neighbors would constantly hear Dylan crying, screaming, begging for help. They saw him suffer. They saw him being forced to kneel on stones for hours, stand for long periods holding heavy bricks, and even being sprayed with cold water outside at night. It was heartbreaking, but no one could do anything. Some people turned a blind eye, while others, like Aricelli, tried to take action. Aricelli reported the abuse multiple times and even requested custody of Dylan.

But every time the police showed up, the family had already moved. The system was too slow. By the time authorities acted, Francisco and Lilliana had already disappeared again. Some sources claim Lilliana was also abusive, while others say she was just another victim. way, one thing was certain, Dylan was suffering, and everyone knew it. But then, one night, the family vanished. Aricelli never saw her grandson again. The police distributed wanted posters with Francisco and Lillianna's faces, urging people to call if they had any information. Dozens of people called with sightings from all over Mexico, but every time the police arrived,

the couple was gone. No one knew if they were being tipped off or if they were just very very good at hiding. During the investigation, the police learned disturbing details about Francisco. He was deeply in debt, having taken out several loans he couldn't repay. Even more concerning, before meeting Lilliana, Francisco had been married to a woman named Annable de la Cruz, with whom he had children. Some sources say they had one child, others say too. One thing was certain, one of those children died under mysterious circumstances. Francisco had been alone with the child when it happened. The death was ruled accidental, but Annibald never believed it.

She was convinced that Francisco had killed their child. She filed a complaint, but the case was closed. Years passed, and the police continued their investigation. In 2003, they received another shocking piece of information. Francisco and Lilliana had tried to adopt a child. Their names were on official documents requesting legal adoption. But by the time the police found out, the couple had disappeared again. Frustrated with the lack of progress, the case was featured on a true crime TV show.

They recounted the entire story, shared the latest developments, and begged the public for information. But still, no solid leads came in. For years, there were only rumors, scattered sightings, but no arrests. Some believed the couple had crossed illegally into the United States, changed their names, and were hiding. The FBI even listed them among the most wanted. But they remained ghosts. That was until January 5, 2025, when Francisco and Lillianna were finally arrested. They were found in Chetamol, the capital of Quintanarou.

Details of their arrest are unclear. One version says Lilliana herself called the police, while another suggests that her psychologist turned her in. Apparently, she had been receiving therapy under a false name, and over time, her therapist pieced the story together and called the authorities. Finally, after more than two decades, the truth came out. On the night of November 12, 1999, Francisco and Lilliana had a heated argument. In his rage, Francisco attacked Dylan. This time, the beating was so severe, that the boy didn't survive. Instead of calling for help, Francisco decided to dispose of the body.

He wrapped Dylan in a blanket, placed him in a cardboard box, and packed it with plastic bags and a knife. At the time, the family was living in Halisco, but to avoid suspicion, Francisco took Dylan's body to Aguascalientes. He took a bus, then a taxi, and finally abandoned the box on August 28th Street. From that moment on, the family went on the run. They moved from Halisco to Guanoado, then Wahaka, then Palenque, Chiapas. They stayed there for a year before relocating to Chetamol in 2002. They lived their undisturbed for 23 years until their arrest. Now, Francisco and Lilliana face up to 40 years in prison. Many believe justice will finally be served. What do you think? Do you believe justice will be done at last?

The trial and the family's reaction. After years of investigation and numerous dead ends, the arrest of Francisco and Lilliana was a significant breakthrough in the case that had haunted so many for over two decades. The discovery of the couple in Quintana Rue brought an end to their long journey of evasion, but for the family, it was only the beginning of a long-awaited reckoning. As the trial began, emotions ran high. The courtroom was filled with people from all walks of life, journalists, legal experts, and, most importantly, the family members of Dylan Randall Mercado Gonzalez, whose life had been cruelly stolen from him. His maternal grandmother, Aricelli Gonzalez Becerra, was one of the most vocal figures during the trial. She had

tirelessly advocated for justice for her grandson, even when it seemed like the case would be forgotten. Ariselli had endured years of heartache, witnessing the disappearance of her daughter Lillianna and her grandson, and living with the knowledge that her beloved Dylan had been a victim of unimaginable abuse. Her determination to find the truth never wavered, and the sight of Francisco and Lillianna finally facing the consequences of their actions brought both relief and sorrow. The emotional weight of the trial was felt deeply by those who had known Dylan. Friends of the family, old neighbors, and even strangers who had followed the case were all present in the courtroom. Each person carried their own burden of guilt, knowing that they had

witnessed the signs of abuse but had not been able to stop it in time. The case was a painful reminder of how sometimes, even with the best intentions, people fail to protect those who need it the most. One of the most emotional moments came when the victim impact statements were read aloud in court. Aricelli, with tears in her eyes, spoke about her memories of Dylan as a young boy, how he was always full of life despite the challenges he faced. She described the love she had for him and the grief that had haunted her since his death. I will never forget his smile, she said. Even though I couldn't save him in life, I will fight for him in death. Her word sent ripples through the courtroom, and many who were there could not hold back their tears.

However, the trial was not only about the victims. It was also a moment for the defense to present their side. Lillianna's defense attorney tried to paint her as a victim of Francisco's manipulation and abuse. They claimed that she had been forced into submission by Francisco and that she had not been complicit in the abuse that Dylan had suffered. They argued that she had been a victim of emotional and psychological trauma herself, which had prevented her from acting to protect her son.

This narrative was met with mixed reactions, especially from the public. Some people were sympathetic to the idea that Liliana had been trapped in an abusive relationship, while others believed that she had been an active participant in the abuse, turning a blind eye to the suffering of her son. The debate about her role in Dylan's death was one of the most divisive aspects of the trial. Some witnesses testified that Liliana had been seen hitting Dylan in the past, while others recalled moments when she had tried to intervene to stop Francisco's violence, but had failed

to do so effectively. Despite the conflicting testimonies, it was clear that Lillianna's relationship with Francisco had been toxic and controlling. He had isolated her from her family and friends, making it difficult for her to seek help or even acknowledge the extent of the abuse. Many believed that Francisco had manipulated her into being complicit, but there were still questions about how much responsibility she bore in Dylan's death. As the trial progressed, the evidence against Francisco became undeniable. The forensic evidence, including the autopsy reports, painted a clear picture of the brutal abuse Dylan had suffered. The pathologist testified that Dylan's injuries were consistent with ongoing physical abuse, and the cause of death was

blunt force trauma. The prosecution argued that Francisco had been responsible for Dylan's death and that Liliana had allowed the abuse to continue unchecked. The defense, however, tried to shift the blame to the system, suggesting that it had failed Dylan and his family long before the murder took place. They claimed that the authorities had not done enough to protect Dylan when the abuse was first reported, and that the failure of the police to act had ultimately led to his death. This argument, though an attempt to deflect responsibility, did not resonate with the jury or the public. It was clear that the individuals most responsible for Dylan's suffering were Francisco and Lillianna.

The emotional impact of the trial reached its peak when the jury deliberated. As the final verdict was read, the courtroom fell silent. Francisco was found guilty of the murder of Dylan and sentenced to the maximum punishment allowed by law, life in prison without the possibility of parole. Lilliana, however, was found guilty of child abuse and manslaughter. She was sentenced to 40 years in prison. The verdicts were a bittersweet victory for the family, as no sentence could ever bring Dylan back. But it was a step toward justice, a step toward healing.

For Aricelli, the conviction of Francisco and Lilliana did not bring the peace she had longed for. I will never be able to forget what they did to my grandson, she said after the trial. But at least now I know they will never hurt anyone again. The verdict was a hard-won victory, but it came at a high cost. For the family, the healing process would take years, and the scars of the past would never fully disappear. In the aftermath of the trial, the media continued to cover the case, and more details about the couple's life on the run emerged.

It was revealed that they had changed their identities multiple times and had moved from one location to another in an attempt to escape justice. They had lived under assumed names, and in some places, they had even built new families. Liliana's daughter, who had been born after Dylan's death, was now an adult and had been following the case closely. She had always known that something was wrong with her mother and Francisco's relationship, but it wasn't until the trial that she learned the full extent of the abuse Dylan had endured. In a heartbreaking statement, she expressed her feelings of betrayal and anger. I never knew the truth, she said.

I never knew what happened to my brother, and I never knew the extent of the pain he went through. I don't know how to feel now. The public reaction to the case was mixed. Many people were outraged by the brutality of the crime and the fact that the family had been able to live freely for so many years. Some called for stricter laws and faster action in cases of child abuse, while others questioned the role of the authorities in failing to protect Dylan. The case sparked a nationwide conversation about the importance of child protection and the need for better systems to prevent and address abuse. In the final moments of the trial, as the family prepared for the long road to healing, they took comfort in the fact that justice had

been served. Francisco and Lilliana would pay for their crimes, and while it would never undo the pain they caused, it offered some semblance of closure. As Ariselli said in her closing statement, Dylan. This is for the child who deserved so much more than what he got. We will never forget you. The case of Dylan Randall Mercado Gonzalez became a symbol of the fight against child abuse and a reminder of the devastating consequences of allowing violence to continue unchecked. For those who loved him, it was a painful but necessary journey, one that would forever change the way they viewed justice and the importance of protecting those who cannot protect themselves. Let me tell you a story that will give you chills. Picture this, a small,

quiet town in West Virginia back in the late 19th century. Life was simple, people knew their neighbors, and news spread faster than wildfire. Now, this particular story begins with the discovery of a young woman's body, but trust me, it's not your typical tragedy. This tale takes a turn so strange and eerie that it's been whispered about for over a century. It all started when a young boy was sent on an errand. His name isn't important, but his task that day was simple, deliver a message to a woman named Zona Hester Shoe. Zona was a 23-year-old woman, married, and living her life in the small town of Greenbrier. On this particular day, her husband, Edward Shue, had left the house early in the morning and later asked this boy to drop by

their home and check on her. Edward had paid the boy a couple of coins, and the child, eager to earn his little fortune, ran to the house. When the boy arrived, he knocked on the door, but got no answer. He knocked again, called her name, and still, silence. Something didn't feel right. So, he cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. What he saw froze him in his tracks. There was Zona, lying at the foot of the stairs, motionless.

She was on her back, her eyes closed, one hand resting on her stomach as if she'd merely fainted. But something about the stillness, the unnatural quiet, told the boy that this wasn't just a fainting spell. Zona was dead. The boy ran from the house as fast as his legs could carry him, shouting for help. Word spread quickly through the tight-knit community, and before long, a crowd had gathered. The doctor, George Knapp, was called, but by the time he arrived, something odd had already happened. Zona's husband, Edward, had gotten home first. He didn't wait for anyone to inspect the scene or handle her body. Instead, he'd washed her,

dressed her in a high-necked black dress, and placed a veil over her face. Then, he laid her on their bed. This behavior might not seem too strange at first glance, but in those days, it was highly unusual. Typically, when a woman passed away, it was the women of the community who prepared her body, not her husband. Edward claimed ignorance of this custom, perhaps due to being an outsider, and people let it slide, for now. The doctor examined Zona briefly, but the examination was anything but thorough.

Edward hovered over the doctor, wailing and holding his wife's body as though he couldn't bear to let go. His behavior swung wildly between heartbroken sobs and bouts of aggression, and he adamantly refused to let anyone get too close to Zona. Despite these oddities, the doctor concluded that Zona had died of natural causes. Specifically, he wrote, everlasting faint, on the death certificate, an old-timey term that essentially meant her heart had stopped for no apparent reason. Later, he amended it to complications from childbirth, even though there was no evidence Zona had

been pregnant. The matter seemed closed, and the town moved on. Or so they thought. Zona's body was taken to her parents' home for the wake, another tradition of the time. Edward stayed by her side the entire time, sitting next to the coffin and refusing to let anyone touch her. He even placed a pillow under her head and wrapped a scarf around her neck, claiming it was her favorite and that she'd want to be buried with it. To some, these actions seemed like the gestures of a grieving husband. But to Zona's mother, Mary Jane Hester, they were deeply suspicious. Something wasn't right.

Mary Jane had never liked Edward. She'd warned Zona not to marry him, insisting he was bad news. Now, with her daughter lying dead, Mary Jane's unease turned to outright suspicion. She noticed an unpleasant smell coming from the coffin and strange discoloration around Zona's neck. When she tried to remove the scarf Edward had so lovingly tied, He became furious, insisting it stay in place. Mary Jane's instincts told her that Edward was hiding something, and she was determined to find out what.

After the funeral, Mary Jane took a sheet from Zona's coffin and tried to wash it. When she submerged it in water, the water turned red, as though stained with blood. No matter how much she scrubbed, the stain wouldn't come out. To Mary Jane, this was a sign, a message from beyond. Convinced that her daughter's death was no accident, she began to pray. After night, she begged Zona's spirit to come to her and reveal the truth. And then, it happened. Mary Jane began having vivid dreams, or visions, depending on how you look at it.

In these dreams, Zona's ghost appeared to her, bathed in an otherworldly light. The ghost spoke, telling Mary Jane about the horrors she'd endured. Edward, she said, have been abusive and cruel. On the night of her death, he had flown into a rage because she hadn't cooked meat for dinner. In his fury, he'd grabbed her by the neck and strangled her, snapping her neck in the process. To prove it, the ghost twisted her head completely around, a chilling detail Mary Jane would never forget. These dreams happened four nights in a row.

By the end, Mary Jane was convinced beyond any doubt that Edward had murdered her daughter. She took her story to the local prosecutor, John Alfred Preston. Now, you might think he'd dismiss her as a grieving mother driven mad by sorrow, but Mary Jane was persuasive. She wasn't known as a liar or someone prone to flights of fancy, and her story, as bizarre as it sounded, had enough strange details to warrant further investigation. The prosecutor reopened the case and interviewed everyone who had been involved, including the doctor.

When pressed, Dr. Knapp admitted that he'd been unable to perform a proper autopsy because Edward wouldn't allow it. This was enough for the prosecutor to order Zona's body to be exhumed. The exhumation took place on February 22, 1897. was required by law to be present, and he protested loudly, calling the whole thing a disgrace. He even declared that they wouldn't find anything because he was innocent. But the autopsy told a different story. Zona's neck was indeed broken, and her windpipe was crushed.

There were finger-shaped bruises on her neck, clear evidence of strangulation. The findings were damning, and Edward was arrested for murder. As Edward sat in jail awaiting trial, more of his dark past came to light. It turned out Zona had been his third wife. His first marriage had ended in divorce, with his ex-wife accusing him of extreme cruelty. His second wife had died under mysterious circumstances. And now, his third wife was dead, her neck broken. To make matters worse, Edward had reportedly boasted to fellow inmates that he planned to marry

seven women in his lifetime. This macabre ambition only added to the growing belief that Edward was a dangerous man. The trial began on June 22, 1897. Mary Jane was the star witness, and the defense tried to discredit her by focusing on her claims about Zona's ghost. They hoped to paint her as delusional, but Mary Jane held her ground. She recounted her dreams with unwavering conviction, describing every detail with clarity and consistency. The jury was captivated, and while the prosecution had tried to avoid relying on the ghost story, it became the defining feature of the case. In the end, the jury found Edward guilty of murder.

He was sentenced to life in prison, narrowly escaping a lynch mob that had gathered outside the courthouse. Edward spent the rest of his days behind bars and died in 1900. His grave remains unmarked, a quiet end for a man whose actions sparked one of the most unusual murder trials in American history. As for Mary Jane, she went to her grave believing that her daughter's spirit had visited her and revealed the truth. The story of Zona Hester Shoe, the Greenbrier Ghost, lives on as a testament to a mother's love and determination. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, there's no denying that this tale is as haunting as it is unforgettable. So, what do you think? Could Zona's ghost really have returned to seek justice, or was it simply a case of a mother's intuition proving stronger than any evidence?

Rodney McCoy, feeling the media pressure, went so far as to say that Tommy was the killer, that Tommy was the man who had hit him in the head and taken Carla. The police pushed him to confess, but Tommy said nothing. A polygraph test confirmed that he was not the one responsible. On the night of February 17, 1974, Western Hills High School held its famous Valentine's dance. It was the kind of school event you'd see in every coming-of-age movie, couples taking pictures, dramatic decorations, slow dances with lights dimmed low. But when the dance ended, some students weren't ready to call it a night.

Among them were high school quarterback Rodney McCoy and his girlfriend, 17-year-old cheerleader Carla J. Walker. After leaving the dance, the couple drove to a nearby Taco Bell, ordered food, and parked to eat inside their car. They laughed, enjoyed each other's company, and later started drinking and smoking marijuana. Eventually, they needed to use the restroom, so they decided to stop. at a local bowling alley. Parking outside, they stepped inside for a short break, then returned to their car. As they sat in the car talking, Rodney in the driver's seat and Carla in the

passenger seat, their conversation grew playful, turning into affectionate kissing. Carla leaned back against the door, her full weight pressing against it, when suddenly, the door was yanked open from the outside. In an instant, their romantic moment turned into a nightmare. A stranger had ripped open the car door, causing Carla to tumble partially out of the vehicle. Before Rodney could react, the man attacked him viciously, striking him in the head multiple times with a blunt object. Dazed and bleeding, Rodney could hear Carla screaming for the attacker to stop, begging him to leave them alone. But the man didn't stop. Rodney then heard three sharp-clicking sounds, later describing them as failed attempts to fire a gun.

Whether the gun was jammed or empty, he couldn't tell. As Rodney's vision blurred from blood loss, he barely managed to see the man grabbing Carla and dragging her away. The last thing he heard before blacking out was Carla's desperate scream, tell my dad. Call him. Carla Jean Walker was born on January 31st, 1957, in Tarrant County, Fort Worth, Texas. She was one of seven children in the Walker family. By all accounts, Carla was a bright and social girl, well-liked by her peers. She was intelligent, outgoing, and deeply involved in school activities.

As a student at Western Hills High School, she became a cheerleader, embodying the classic image of an all-American teenage girl, blonde, popular, and seemingly untouchable by tragedy. Her parents, Dory Charlene and Leighton Neal Walker, were loving but protective. When Carla asked for permission to attend the Valentine's dance, they agreed. That evening, she spent hours getting ready, filled with anticipation, carefully choosing a blue dress for the occasion. She also borrowed her mother's car for the night, a vehicle with locks that were particularly tricky, easy to secure from the outside but difficult to manage from within. But Carla wasn't worried. She was just going to a dance.

What could possibly go wrong? Hours later, her family was jolted awake by frantic knocking at their door. When they opened it, they found Rodney standing there, covered in blood. He was disoriented, panicked, and struggling to speak through his injuries. The only words that came through clearly were, call the police. Carla's been taken, the Fort Worth Police Department responded immediately. officers swarmed the bowling alley parking lot but they found almost nothing there were no clear footprints no signs of a struggle beyond the blood covering rodney there were however two pieces of potential evidence one was carla's handbag left behind in the car still containing her identification keys and wallet this suggested that robbery was not the motive the second piece of evidence was disputed some sources

claim that investigators found an empty magazine from a point-22 Ruger firearm, while others say they discovered a gun manual related to the same type of weapon. Despite assembling an extensive search effort, combing through local woods, roads, and even using helicopters and sent tracking dogs, there was no sign of Carla for three days. Then, on February 20, 1974, her body was discovered in a drainage ditch beneath a bridge near Benbrook Lake, approximately 30 minutes from where she had been abducted. Carla was fully dressed, her jewelry still on her body, again reinforcing the idea that robbery had not been a motive.

But her clothing was torn and her body bore bruises, signs of prolonged physical abuse. Most tellingly, she had red marks around her neck, indicating she had been strangled. The autopsy revealed even more chilling details. Carla had not been killed immediately. She had been kept alive for two days before her murderer ended her life. In that time, she was tortured and drugged with morphine, a detail that suggested her killer had some knowledge of narcotics. Investigators began exploring similar cases in the area. They quickly found one, Becky Martin, a 21-year-old student, had been abducted and murdered almost exactly a year earlier.

Her body was found near Benbrook Lake, just like Carla's. Becky had been petite, blonde, and physically resembled Carla. Both had been taken in February, their bodies dumped in the same region. The similarities were undeniable, but there was no definitive evidence linking the two cases. The police pursued multiple suspects. The first was Tommy Ray Nayan, a 21-year-old man who had abducted 16-year-old Danita Cash just months after Carla's murder. He had confessed to multiple killings, and Rodney McCoy, under immense media pressure, initially identified him as the man who had attacked them that night.

However, a polygraph test later cleared Tommy of any involvement in Carla's murder. Another suspect was Jimmy Dean Sasser, a man involved in a series of burglaries. When police confronted him, he cryptically remarked, I wondered when you'd come for me about Carla Walker. However, he later admitted he had made the statement out of despair over his failing marriage, and there was no evidence tying him to the crime. A third suspect, Glenn Samuel McCurley, became a prime person of interest. He had a history of car theft, lived near the area where Carlo was taken, and had once owned a point-22 Ruger, the same type of gun associated with the crime scene. However, when police questioned him in 1974, he claimed

that his Ruger had been stolen before the murder. Without physical evidence, investigators had no choice but to let him go. For decades, the case remained unsolved. But in 2019, investigators discovered an overlooked piece of evidence, a handwritten anonymous letter sent to the Fort Worth police shortly after Carla's death. The letter simply read, I killed Carla Walker in Benbrook, signed with the number 10. It had never been made public because the the detective who received it died shortly after, leaving it forgotten in a case file. In 2020, modern forensic technology finally provided a breakthrough. DNA recovered from Carla's clothing was re-examined and entered into a genealogy database.

The results pointed to a family name, McCurley. With renewed focus, investigators obtained a DNA sample from Glenn McCurley's trash and confirmed a match. On July 7th, 2020, police arrived at his home. He maintained his innocence but reluctantly provided a DNA sample. Days later, lab results confirmed that his DNA matched the evidence from Carla's body. On September 10, 2020, McCurley was arrested and charged with Carla Walker's murder. Initially, he denied involvement, but eventually, he confessed. He claimed he had been heavily drinking that night,

saw Carla and Rodney, and decided to attack. His full confession brought a tragic but long-overdue resolution to a case that had haunted Fort Worth for nearly half a century. After 46 years, Carla Walker's family finally had justice. The whole family immediately dropped everything they were doing and rushed to the police station to report what was happening. But once they got there, the officers didn't even file a report. They said the fire might be connected to the case, and until they put it out, they weren't going to look for the missing girl. Maggie Long was born in December 1999,

the youngest of three daughters in a hardworking family. Her family had Chinese and Vietnamese roots and did everything possible to build a better life in the United States. Maggie's parents owned multiple properties and ran a couple of restaurants in Bailey, Colorado. They worked day and night for years, eventually affording a beautiful house in a great part of town. In fact, the house was so big that they rented out the lower level.

The Long family lived upstairs, while the tenants downstairs were quiet, never causing any trouble. Remember this, it'll be important later. Bailey was a small town where everyone knew each other. With only 8,000 residents, it was a peaceful place surrounded by nature, with good schools and virtually no crime. If you wanted to know something about someone, chances where your neighbor had some information, especially about the Long family. They were well-known and well-liked, particularly Maggie. In 2017, Maggie was a senior at Platte Canyon High School. Her classmates described her as involved in nearly everything.

She was kind, generous, ambitious, and charismatic. She was also known for spending her free time helping others, showing up with food, offering company, or just watching Netflix with friends. Maggie had a huge heart in a wonderful spirit, said Shannon Monaghan, her best friend's mother. She had a beautiful smile and loved everyone. One of the most striking things about Maggie was that on her birthdays, she wasn't the focus of the celebration. Instead of making it about herself,

she invited friends and classmates over, made sandwiches, and then took them to Denver to distribute to the homeless. Even at a young age, she had accomplished incredible things, and people admired her deeply. Many saw her as a future leader, perhaps even a president or a famous actress.

On Friday, December 1st, 2017, Maggie had an important role in the school play. She had spent months rehearsing and was determined to give her best performance. But she couldn't sit still, she wasn't just acting in the play, she was also involved in organizing it, setting up the VIP section, arranging seating, and handling decorations. After school, she worked on setting up the venue, tying ribbons, placing snacks, and making everything look perfect. At some point, she told her friends she needed to go home for a quick change of clothes. She promised she'd be back in five or ten minutes, everyone knew Maggie well enough to suspect she'd probably return with more supplies, snacks, or decoration.

But hours passed, and Maggie never came back. Her friends called her phone repeatedly, but she didn't answer. They called her house, no response. They tried reaching her parents and sisters, but nobody picked up. The entire long family was working at the time. As time ticked by with no sign of Maggie, her friends had no choice but to give her role in the play to someone else. That's when her family found out she was missing.

His sister, Connie, arrived at the school that evening, expecting to watch her perform. But as she scanned the audience and backstage, she didn't see Maggie anywhere. She started asking around, and her friends explained that she had left to change but never returned. Panicked, Connie pulled out her phone to call Maggie. But before she could dial, she noticed several unread messages from their downstairs tenant. The messages were urgent, complaining about loud noises, shouting, and heavy banging coming from the Long's home. Connie immediately replied, saying that couldn't be possible, no one was supposed

to be home. Their house should have been empty. That's when she knew something was wrong. She rushed to her car and drove home as fast as possible. But as she approached her street, she saw fire trucks surrounding their house, it was in flames. While Connie had been driving, the tenant had gone upstairs to check on the commotion. Instead of finding Maggie, they found the place ransacked and on fire. They called 911 at around 7 p.m. The scene was chaotic, but what made it worse was that Maggie's car was parked outside. That meant she had been home when the fire started. Desperate for answers, Connie asked the firefighters what was going on, but they told her to wait, the flames were too intense.

Not knowing what else to do, she turned to social media, posting about Maggie's disappearance and asking for help. She then called her parents, who immediately dropped everything and rushed to the police station to report her missing. But when they arrived, the officers didn't take immediate action. They claimed the fire could be connected to Maggie's disappearance, and until it was fully extinguished, they wouldn't investigate. The family kept pushing for a search, insisting she be officially listed as missing. The authorities finally agreed, marking her as a missing person, but the search still didn't

begin. By 8 p.m., the fire was under control, and investigators entered the house. Right away, they saw clear signs of a break-in. Furniture was overturned, drawers were left open, chairs were scattered, and clothes were burned. That's when they formed their first theory. The Long family was well known for their wealth, they owned businesses, had a large, beautiful home, and rented out the lower floor. The police believed that a group of thieves had targeted their house, ransacked it, and set

it on fire. But the worst was yet to come. For days, the Long family believed Maggie was missing. They plastered the town with flyers, flooded social media with posts, and begged the police for updates. But officers gave them little information. Then, on December 3rd, the police held a press conference, assuring the town that there was no ongoing threat.

They urged the public to come forward with any information regarding Maggie or the fire. The next day, the authorities issued a gag order, meaning that no information about the investigation could be publicly shared. The Long family was confused, why was everything being kept so secret? That's when federal agencies got involved. The FBI and ATF, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, arrived on the scene. This alarmed the Longs even more. What did this case have to do with firearms and explosives?

The police wouldn't say. For four days, the Long family wasn't allowed near their own home because it was considered an active crime scene. They couldn't retrieve their belongings or even see what remained of their house. Then, on December 7th, the gag order was lifted. The police finally made the horrifying announcement. Human remains had been found in the burned house. The body was identified as Maggie Long.

And worse, they believed she had been murdered. Their theory. Maggie had walked in on a burglary in progress. Being the fearless person she was, she likely confronted the intruders. In response, they killed her, set the house on front. fire, and fled. As the investigation continued, the authorities released a wanted bulletin. They were searching for a 1990s to 2000s model minivan, likely driven by a white male in his 20s. The suspect might have burns on his body and was believed to be in possession of an AK-47,

2,000 rounds of ammunition, and a 9-millimeter barretta, all stolen from the long safe. The public was outraged. The police had initially assured them there was no danger, but now they admitted that an armed suspect was on the loose. More details emerged. The intruders have been trying to open a safe containing firearms, ammunition, and valuable jade figurines when Maggie walked in. That's when they killed her, set the house on fire, and escaped. To this day, no one has been arrested for Maggie's murder. The FBI reclassified the case as a hate crime in 2021, allowing them to access more resources. But Maggie's family still waits for justice. Now it's your turn, what do you think? Was the investigation handled properly, or did law enforcement fail Maggie Long? The

story of what happened began in 2009, a year my family would never forget. Back then, we were a large family. My grandmother, with her seven children, had built a rapidly growing dynasty. Each of her children had at least two kids, except for my aunt, who never had children, and my mother, who only had me. In total, we were 11 grandchildren. Every year, during the holidays, it was our tradition to gather and travel as a family. But the year 2009 would be different. My uncle Alejandro, a man with an adventurous spirit, had bought a farm in a rural area with a warm and tempered climate.

The farm seemed like something out of a dream, a white house on top of a small hill, with two floors and balconies in every room, from which you could see the entire valley. At the bottom of the hill, there was a large parking area, and a little further away, a big, lonely one-story house hidden among trees. The landscape was so beautiful that sometimes we felt as if we were in another world, one where time stood still.

But what impressed me the most were the sounds? The whisper of the wind through the trees, the singing of geese and ducks in the small lake, the distant naying of the horses. It was a place that, although seemingly perfect, had something in its stillness that I couldn't quite understand. Something I couldn't name, just like when a child feels fear but can't explain why, it's just, instinct. My uncle Alejandro invited us to spend a few days at the farm. We were all excited. My cousins and I played and laughed non-stop. We swam in the pool, explored every corner of the

property, and the fresh morning air was the perfect refuge for our endless games. Everything seemed idyllic, almost unreal. But after those days of fun, we had to return to the city. The children had to go back to school, and the adults to their jobs. My uncle, due to his commitments, couldn't be there all the time, so he decided to hire someone to take care of the farm and the animals in his absence. Mr. Ramon, a sturdy man with a deep voice, arrived with his wife, a woman with an expressionless face, and their two children, Esteban and Sarah. Esteban, a boy of about nine or ten years old, had a sad look in his eyes, as if childhood laughter had slipped away from him too quickly. Sarah, his sister, was a mystery. Though she was about our age, her behavior

was more like that of someone much older, quiet, distant, lost in thoughts we couldn't understand. Mr. Ramon's family stayed at the farm whenever my uncle wasn't there. But when we or other guests arrived, they moved to a set of rooms my uncle had built especially for them, a place separate from the main house. Even so, we shared the kitchen and the rest of the farm, and although it was sometimes difficult to ignore the fleeting glances or the awkward silence of Mr. Ramon's wife, the adults acted kindly, as if everything was fine. For us children, it seemed like the perfect situation, so much freedom, so much space to play

and explore. During that year's holiday season, when the whole family gathered at the farm again, we ran excitedly toward the pool, laughing and chatting. We invited Mr. Ramon's children to join us, but their response was less enthusiastic than we expected. Esteban was shy, but his eyes sparkled with the curiosity of someone who wanted to belong but couldn't. Sarah, on the other hand, she always seemed miles away, as if her body was at the farm.

but her mind was elsewhere, in another time. Most of the day, we saw her sitting alone in a quiet corner or staring at the horizon. What unsettled me the most was the relationship between Sarah and her mother. The woman was always cold and distant with us children. Never a smile, never an invitation to play. Her attitude was entirely different when she interacted with the adults, then she became a charming, warm woman who made everyone laugh. But in the presence of children, her face would turn blank, as if she didn't know how to interact.

with us. It wasn't just my imagination, my mother and my aunts noticed it too, though they never spoke about it openly. Night came quickly, as it often does in remote places, where the sun sets without a trace. We were exhausted, gathering in our rooms to sleep, while the adults stayed outside on the terrace, surrounded by the murmurs of the night. They laughed, shared cold beers and snacks, but something in the air, something in the stillness of the farm, made me uneasy. I, gripped by an inexplicable curiosity, got out of bed without knowing exactly why. I just felt an urgent need to get closer, to hear more. Maybe I wanted to ask my mother for something, but as I approached the balcony, something

in the air made me stop. Instead of stepping forward, I stayed hidden in the shadows, unnoticed. That was when I heard the conversation. Mr. Ramon, with his deep voice, was talking to my uncle Alejandro and the other adults. in his words made my skin crawl. Apparently, before our arrival, the farm had been rented out to a parish or a center that organized spiritual retreats. During one of these retreats, a group of nuns and young novices, women preparing to enter the convent, had arrived, hoping to find peace and tranquility in that remote setting. But things hadn't gone as expected. Mr. Ramone

recounted that the nuns hadn't even spent a single night at the farm. Just hours after arriving, they began packing their belongings in a hurry, their desperation palpable. They rushed to the entrance and, between nervous whispers and hurried prayers, demanded to leave immediately. Mr. Ramon, surprised, tried to stop them. He explained that the road to town was long and that he couldn't drive them, as his truck wasn't available at the time. But the women, visibly terrified, refused to stay another minute in that place.

They called someone, though Mr. Ramon never knew who. The only thing he remembered was that, after hours of waiting, a young man arrived in a truck, the kind used to transport crops or livestock. The nuns climbed into the vehicle as if the ground beneath them was burning, afraid to touch any part of that land. At that moment, the Mother Superior approached Mr. Ramon and, before getting into the truck, told him something that left him paralyzed. Leave this place.

Your family is being watched. The weight of those words left Mr. Ramon speechless. He had never noticed anything strange in his family. though his eyes had been clouded by the routine of tending the farm, and no one in the family had mentioned anything unusual. But that warning from the Mother Superior kept echoing in his mind, something didn't add up. And later, when our family arrived, things began happening that he could no longer ignore. My mother and my uncle's wife, Estrella, had noticed something strange about Mrs. Ramon's

behavior and her daughter, Sarah. The way she looked at us children, that coldness, that detachment, and how Sarah always seemed absent, as if she lived in another world. It made them uneasy, and they decided to speak to Mr. Ramon, to share their concerns. That was when he started to remember, to connect the dots, and realized that something deeper, something darker, was happening at the farm, something hidden until that moment. Then, I heard Mr. Ramon ask the adults about some crosses. Crosses. What crosses? His face was tense with worry. He described finding crosses in different parts of the farm, some buried, others partially visible, as if they had been deliberately hidden.

In places we had never noticed before, near the fountain, between the two houses, behind the hilltop house, among the trees, by the geese's lake, near the horse stable, even by the main entrance. Who had put them there? And why? A heavy silence settled over the night, as if something unseen was lurking in the shadows. Then, in a low, almost whispering voice, Mr. Ramon asked my uncle Alejandro, has anyone else been here when we weren't. Has someone entered without us knowing? My uncle, with a furrowed

brow, shook his head, but there was a spark of doubt in his eyes. He didn't know how to respond because he, too, had noticed something strange. It wasn't just the presence of the crosses but something in the air, something intangible and invisible, yet everyone could feel it. It was my mother who finally broke the silence, looking at Mr. Ramon with a serious, almost sorrowful expression. That's not normal. We haven't placed crosses on the farm, and we hadn't seen them before. And now, suddenly, they appear. What's going on here?

But there were no answers. No one knew what to think. We only knew that something was out of place, something we couldn't comprehend. The next day, I was no longer myself. I couldn't behave normally after that conversation. My eyes wandered everywhere, I needed to confirm the presence of the crosses. I managed to find the ones in the garden, the one among the trees near the lake, and the one behind the main house. They were very rudimentary crosses, made of branches with a very

dark hue, almost ebony, tied together with twine or some type of rope. I couldn't bring myself to approach them, something told me I shouldn't touch them. But at least now I knew they were real. That same night, the air was thick and heavy, as if the darkness itself were breathing over us. Outside, the adults continued searching with their flashlights for something no one could see, whispers and uneasy glances as they tried to decipher the source of a noise that had broken the night's silence on the farm. I watched from the half-open door, my heart pounding in my chest. That's when I saw her. Sarah. She passed in front of us without making a sound, as if floating in the shadows. Her dark hair was tied in a braid. I could see

that her gaze was fixed on a point beyond, a destination invisible to everyone except her. She walked with unsettling confidence, without hesitation, without even glancing at us. Why is she going to the lake? My little cousin Andrace whispered, his voice trembling. I didn't know how to answer. It didn't make sense. It was too late, the night was dense, the farm was immersed in almost complete darkness, and yet, Sarah walked as if she knew every inch of the ground beneath her feet, as if something were guiding her.

My eyes instinctively turned to Mr. Ramon's wife. She remained standing at the doorway, holding her flashlight unlit in her hands. She made no move to stop her daughter. She didn't call out to her, didn't try to follow her. She just stood there, motionless. And the most terrifying thing was her expression. There was no fear in her eyes, no concern, only resignation. A chill ran down my spine.

My body urged me to act, to call her name, to run after her, but something, something I couldn't explain, kept me anchored to the ground, as if interfering would be a mistake. I'm going to tell my mom, I whispered, and without waiting for an answer, I ran upstairs. My mother was lying down, but when I told her what I had seen, her expression changed immediately. She got up and said she would go tell Mr. Ramon. I clung to her arm as I followed her, but I never knew if she actually did. The next morning, breakfast at the farm took place intense silence. Amid the clinking of cutlery and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, I heard something that

made me shudder. Someone would come to take care of the crosses. My uncle Alejandro said it with firm resolve, as if it were the only possible solution. His wife, Estreya, looked at him with reproach and concern. My mother and my aunt simply averted their gazes and continued eating, avoiding the topic. I, on the other hand, felt immense helplessness. It seemed like I was the only child who couldn't ignore what was happening on the farm. My little cousins remained silent, avoiding any contact with Ramon's family. And Sarah.

I never saw her again. Her absence also unsettled my mother, who asked Ramon's wife about her daughter. The woman responded with a kind, serene smile, she's sick, but she's recovering. As she spoke, she took my mother's hands in hers with a tenderness that made no sense. She seemed so genuine, so empathetic, but when I looked closely, I knew she was lying. The truth wasn't in her smile, it was in her eyes. You always have to look at people's eyes, that's where their real thoughts hide. The next day, we left the farm and went to the town.

We needed a distraction, to get away from that suffocating atmosphere. We walked through the plaza, visited the church, and bought some traditional pastries. For the first time in days, everything seemed fine. But when we returned, night had already fallen over the farm, and the first thing we noticed was the light on in the house on the plane. Ramon and his family left this morning for his parents' house, my uncle Alejandro said, frowning. No one should be here. We stopped in front of the house, staring at that single illuminated window in the darkness.

Ramon must have forgotten to turn off the light, he tried to reassure us. Without hesitation, he walked towards the house, determined to check that everything was in order. My Aunt Carla, for some reason, took out her camera and snapped a picture of the scene. Minutes passed before my uncle returned. There's nothing strange, just a light left on, he said naturally, as if there was nothing to worry about. But my aunt didn't reply. She was staring at her camera screen, her expression turning to pure horror.

Oh my God, my mother whispered, covering her mouth with a hand. I moved closer, trying to see what they were looking at. In the photo, in the lit window, there was a clear silhouette of a man, or something resembling a man. He was sitting sideways, his profile barely outlined by the light. But the most disturbing thing was his abdomen, it protruded unnaturally, swollen or deformed. Silence fell over us. My uncle Alejandro checked the image and shook his head.

There was no one there. I went in, I checked every room. There was no one, but the image didn't lie. took hold of the adults. They grabbed our hands and hurried us into the main house. That night, no one slept alone. They pulled mattresses onto the floor, brought blankets and pillows, and we all stayed in the same room, with the lights on and the adults keeping watch.

No one mentioned the photo. No one spoke of the shadow in the window. And I don't know why we simply didn't leave that very night. By morning, the decision had been made. They woke us before dawn, everything was packed and ready. We had a quick breakfast, and without looking back, we left the farm. The journey back to the city was long and silent. But once home, everything seemed to return to normal, or so we thought.

A few days later, my aunt Carla was reviewing the photos she had taken during the trip. She connected her camera to the TV to project them. Only she, my mother, and I were in the room, watching the screen. The first images were normal, us playing, exploring, laughing at the farm. But then, something changed. Spots appeared in the photos. Circles, some dark, others whitish, like shadows floating in the air. At first, we thought it was a camera glitch.

But as we kept looking, the spots became clearer. If you stopped and looked closely, if you got close enough, you could see human features in them. Eyes. Mouths open in anguish. Figures that hadn't been there when the photos were taken. My Aunt Carla turned off the screen immediately. A year later, my uncle was. put the farm up for sale. It wasn't easy to sell. More than a year passed before someone

showed interest. And during that time, more things happened. But that's another story. The truth is, we never found out what really happened. What were those crosses? What was that figure in the window? And what were those dark and white spheres? The baby monitor sat on the nightstand, its tiny green light blinking in steady intervals. I barely noticed it anymore, just another piece of technology blending into the chaos of New Parenthood. Most nights, it buzzed with soft static or picked up the occasional creak of the crib as Emma shifted in her sleep. But tonight felt, off.

It was almost midnight when I first noticed it. I had just climbed into bed, exhausted from the day, but unable to fully relax. The monitor crackled to life, faint and uneven. At first, I thought it was just interference. The house was old, and the wiring wasn't great. The monitor often picked up odd noises, garage door openers, stray radio signals. But this time, it wasn't just noise. Through the static, there were whispers.

I froze, my hand halfway to the lamp switch. The whispers were faint, but I could make out the rhythm of words. Someone was speaking, repeating the same phrase over and over. Bring her back, I stared at the monitor, waiting for the static to clear. My pulse thudded in my ears. I leaned in closer, hoping I'd misheard. The screen displayed a grainy, black and white image of Emma's crib. She was there, tiny and peaceful, curled up under her blanket.

But the whispers didn't stop. Bring her back. My first thought was that someone nearby was using the same frequency. Baby monitors weren't exactly secure, and I'd heard stories about signals crossing. It had to be that, right? But the voice, it wasn't normal. It wasn't just words. There was a strange quality to it, a distortion, like it was being dragged through the static.

The longer I listened, the harder it became to convince myself it was just a technical glitch. I turned to my husband, Chris, who was snoring softly beside me. I shook his shoulder. Chris, wake up, I whispered, my voice trembling. He stirred, groaning. What is it? Listen. I held the monitor up so he could hear.

He squinted at it, still half asleep. It's just interference, he mumbled, rolling over. It's not, I insisted, my voice sharper now. Listen to what it's saying, he sighed and sat up, rubbing his eyes. I pressed the monitor closer to him. The whispers continued, soft but insistent. Bring her back, Chris frowned, now fully awake. That's, weird, he admitted.

He took the monitor from me, staring at the screen. Emma hadn't moved. Maybe it's a neighbor's signal, he said. though he didn't sound convinced. It's on a closed frequency, I said. It shouldn't be picking anything up, he didn't answer right away. Instead, he fiddled with the monitor, adjusting the volume and flipping through the settings. The whispers persisted, unchanging.

Bring her back, a chill ran down my spine. What does that even mean? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Chris shook his head. I don't know. He set the monitor down and stood up. I'm going to check on her. No, I blurted out, grabbing his arm.

What? I didn't know how to explain the unease curling in my chest. It's... I don't know. Something feels wrong. She's fine, he said, his tone gentle but firm. Look. He pointed to the monitor.

Emma was still there, still sleeping. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching her. Chris pulled his arm free and headed toward the nursery. I followed close behind, the cold hardwood floor biting at my feet. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the old pipes. When we reached Emma's room, Chris pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking in protest. She was there, just as the monitor had shown, tucked snugly into her crib.

Her chest rose and fell with each tiny breath. Chris turned to me, raising an eyebrow. See? She's fine, but as he said it, the whispers grew louder. They weren't coming from the monitor anymore. They were coming from the room. I froze, my eyes darting around the nursery. The air felt heavier, like the room was holding its breath. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, deeper. Chris didn't seem to notice. He stepped closer to the crib, brushing a hand over Emma's soft hair. Do you hear that? I whispered,

barely able to get the words out. Hear what? Bring her back. The voice was louder now, more insistent. It felt like it was coming from everywhere at once, above us, behind us, inside us. Chris turned to me, his face pale. Okay, that's, not normal. Before I could respond, the baby monitor crackled again. This time, the screen went black. We both stared at it, waiting for it to come back on. When it did, the image on the screen wasn't Emma's crib anymore. It was us.

We froze, staring at the monitor. The grainy black and white screen showed us standing in. the nursery. I could see Chris with his hand still resting on the edge of Emma's crib and me, wide-eyed, gripping the doorframe. The angle didn't make sense. That's not possible, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Chris didn't respond.

His eyes were glued to the screen, his hand slowly pulling away from the crib as if it had burned him. Where's the camera? I asked, my voice shaking. Chris turned, scanning the room. The baby monitor's camera was mounted on the wall, aimed directly. at Emma's crib. It hadn't moved. It couldn't have moved. Maybe it's a glitch, Chris said, though he didn't sound convinced. A glitch doesn't show us like this, I snapped. My chest was

tight, and my breaths came shallow and quick. The screen flickered, and for a moment, it went black again. When the image returned, Emma wasn't in the crib. My stomach dropped. I lunged forward, reaching for her, but she was still there, sleeping peacefully, exactly where she should be. I turned back to the monitor. The screen still showed her empty crib. The whispering was gone, replaced by a faint hum that felt almost alive. Chris grabbed my arm. Let's go back to our room.

Maybe it's the monitor itself, not the camera. I wanted to argue, but the weight in the air felt suffocating. The nursery, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt foreign and wrong. We backed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Chris grabbed the monitor off the nightstand when we returned to our bed. He sat on the bed, flipping through the settings again. Anything? I asked, standing in the doorway.

No, he said. His voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. Everything looks normal, it's not normal, I muttered. I sat down beside him, staring at the screen. The image was back to Emma's crib, she was there again, her tiny form rising and falling with each breath. But something about the picture felt wrong. It took me a moment to realize what it was. There's no static, I said.

Chris frowned. What? There's always static, I said. Even when she's sleeping, there's a faint sound, breathing, the creak of the crib, something. But now it's just, silent. Chris leaned closer to the screen, as if he could force it to make sense. The silence from the monitor felt louder than the whispers had been. Suddenly, the screen flickered again.

This time, the image warped. The edges of the crib stretched and twisted, and Emma's tiny form seemed to flicker in and out of focus. I grabbed Chris's arm. Turn it off, I said. He hesitated. Chris, turn it off, he fumbled with the buttons, but the monitor wouldn't respond. The screen flickered more violently, the static returning in sharp bursts.

And then the whispers came back. Bring her back. This time, the voice was louder. Clearer. It was still distorted, still unnatural, but now. Now it sounded like it was coming from inside the room. Bring her back, Chris dropped the monitor like it was on fire. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but the screen stayed on, the image twisting and flickering.

What does it mean? I asked, my voice trembling. Chris didn't answer. He knelt down, picking up the monitor with shaking hands. The whispers had stopped again, but the screen was still flickering. And then, for the first time, we heard a different voice. Where is she? The voice was deep and slow, each word dragging like it was being pulled through mud.

It wasn't coming from the monitor. It was coming from the hallway. Chris shot to his feet, his eyes wide. Did you hear that? I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. The air in the room felt heavier, colder. I could see my breath fogging in front of me. Where is she?

The voice asked again, closer this time. I grabbed Chris's arm, my nails digging into his skin. happening, he didn't answer. Instead, he moved toward the door, peeking out into the hallway. It was empty. But the voice didn't stop. Where is she? Chris shut the door and locked it, his chest heaving. We need to call someone, he said. Who? I asked, my voice breaking. What do we even say? Hi, there's a voice in our house asking creepy questions through a baby monitor. He didn't respond. I backed away from the door, my eyes darting around the room. The walls seemed closer than they had before, the shadows darker. Bring her back. The voice was back on the monitor

now, louder than ever. And then Emma cried. It was a sharp, piercing wail that cut through the whispers like a knife. Without thinking, I ran to the nursery. Chris shouted behind me, but I didn't stop. When I reached the room, the air felt even colder. Emma was still in her crib, her tiny fists clenched, her face red and wet with tears. But I wasn't alone. Something stood in the corner, barely visible in the shadows. The thing in the corner didn't move. At first, I thought maybe it was just a trick of the shadows, my mind playing games in the dim light. But as I stood frozen by the crib, I saw its shift ever so slightly. It wasn't human. Its outline was wrong, the angle's too sharp, the proportions too tall. Emma's cries filled the room, piercing and frantic.

I wanted to pick her up, to comfort her, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the thing in the corner. Chris! I shouted, my voice cracking. Footsteps thundered down the hall. Chris burst into the room, skidding to a stop when he saw the look on my face. What is it? he asked, breathless. I pointed to the corner, unable to speak.

Chris followed my gaze, squinting into the shadows. At first, he didn't seem to see it. Then his whole body tensed, and he took a step back, pulling it. me with him. What the hell is that? he whispered. The figure leaned forward, just enough for the dim light from the nightlight to catch its face, or what should have been a face. There were no eyes, no mouth, no features at all.

Just a blank, pale surface that seemed to pulse faintly, like it was alive. Emma's cries grew louder, more desperate. I reached for her, finally breaking free of my paralysis, and scooped her up into my arms. Her tiny body trembled against me, and I could feel my own heart hammering in my chest. Chris moved in front of us, positioning himself between me and the thing in the corner. What do you want? he asked, his voice shaking but firm. The figure didn't respond. Instead, the baby monitor on the nightstand crackled to life.

Bring her back, the voice said again, distorted and hollow. Chris turned toward the monitor, then back to the figure. Who are you talking about? Who back, the figure tilted its head, like it was trying to understand him. I held Emma tighter, her cries slowing to soft whimpers. The room felt colder now, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. I could see my breath in the air, each exhale shaky and uneven. The figure moved then, its body shifting in a jerky, unnatural way, like it wasn't used to moving.

It stepped out of the corner, and I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. I whispered, panic clawing at my throat. I see it, he said, his voice low. The figure raised a hand, or what looked like a hand. Its fingers were too long, too thin, and they ended in sharp, pointed tips. It gestured toward Emma, and I instinctively pulled her closer. No, I said, my voice trembling. The figure stopped, its head tilting again.

The monitor crackled once more. Where is she, the deep voice asked, slow and deliberate. She's right here." Chris shouted, his frustration boiling over. Emma's here. What do you want from us? The figure didn't react. It just stood there, silent and still.

Then, without warning, it took another step forward. Get back. Chris shouted, grabbing the lamp from the nightstand and holding it like a weapon. The figure stopped, its featureless face turning toward him. For a moment, I thought it might leave, but then the monitor crackled again, louder this time. She doesn't belong to you, the words hit me like a punch to the gut. My knees went weak, and I clutched Emma even tighter. She started crying again, her tiny fists flailing.

What does that mean? I demanded, my voice breaking. She's our daughter. Of course, she belongs to us, the figure didn't respond. Instead, it raised its other hand, pointing at the monitor. The screen flickered, and the image changed. It was no longer showing Emma's crib. Instead, it showed a room I didn't recognize.

The walls were dark, the floor bare. In the center of the room was a crib, but it wasn't Emma's crib. It was older, the wood-worn and splintered. And inside the crib was a baby. My breath caught in my throat. The baby wasn't Emma, but it looked like her, just slightly off. Her hair was darker, her cheeks fuller, but the resemblance was uncanny. What the hell is this?

Chris whispered, his grip on the lamp tightening. The figure pointed at the monitor again. Bring her back, the voice repeated, louder now. The baby in the monitor's crib started to cry, the sound tinny and distant. My head spun as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Chris moved toward the figure, raising the lamp like he was about to swing. But before he could, the figure stepped back into the shadows and vanished. The monitor went dark, and the room was silent again, except for Emma's cries.

Chris lowered the lamp, his chest heaving. What the hell just happened? I shook my head, unable to answer. My eyes were fixed on the monitor, waiting for it to come back to life. Whatever that thing was, I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper, it thinks Emma doesn't belong to us. Chris turned to me, his face pale. And it wants her back.

For a long time, neither of us moved. The silence felt thick, suffocating. My ears strained for the faintest sound, anything to tell me that the figure was gone for good. Emma stirred in my arms, her cries fading into soft hiccups. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and uneven, and I knew mine matched hers. Chris finally set the lamp down on the dresser, his hand shaking as he did. What now, he whispered. I shook my head, still staring at the monitor.

The screen was blank, the tiny green power light glowing like nothing had happened. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what we could do. Maybe we should call someone, he said. said, his voice uncertain. Like, the police. Or, I don't know, someone who knows about this kind of thing. I looked at him, my eyes wide. And what do we even tell them? That a shadow thing came into our baby's room and showed us, that? I gestured to the monitor, even though the image of the strange crib was gone. They'll think we're insane. Chris ran a hand through his hair,

pacing back and forth. Okay, then what? Do we just sit here and wait for it to come back? Because I can't do that, Claire. I can't just do nothing. I wanted to argue, to tell him we needed to think this through, but the truth was, I didn't have a better plan. My mind kept circling back to the same question, what did it want? Chris stopped pacing and looked at me. Let's leave. Just for the night. We can go to my mom's house or a hotel, anywhere but here, I hesitated, glancing down at Emma. She'd finally fallen asleep again, her tiny hand clutching the front of my shirt. The idea leaving felt, wrong. Like we'd be giving up ground to whatever that thing was. But staying here. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was waiting for something. Okay, I said

finally. Let's go, Chris nodded, relief washing over his face. He grabbed a bag from the closet and started tossing in essentials, diapers, bottles, a change of clothes. I stayed by the crib, holding Emma close. The room felt heavier now, like the air was pressing down on me. As Chris sipped the bag, the monitor crackled again. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Chris stopped, too, his eyes darting toward the screen. Bring her back, the voice said, low and distorted. I felt my knees buckle, and I had to grip the side of the crib to stay upright. The words hung in the air, heavier than before.

Chris grabbed the monitor and yanked the plug from the wall. There, he said, his voice tight. No more of that, but even unplugged, the monitor flickered back to life. The screen glowed faintly, and static hissed from the speaker. Chris, I whispered, backing away. He stared at the monitor in his hands like it had burned him. Then he dropped it onto the dresser and stepped back. The static grew louder, almost deafening.

I clutched Emma tighter, her body squirming as she started to stir again. The screen on the monitor flickered, and for a split second, I thought I saw something, a flash of that dark room, the crib, the baby. Then it was gone. The static stopped. and the monitor went dark again. Chris looked at me, his face pale. We're leaving.

Now, I didn't argue. We grabbed the bag and headed down the hallway, Emma still cradled in my arms. The house felt different as we moved through it, like it wasn't ours anymore. Every shadow seemed to stretch too far, every creak of the floorboards felt deliberate. We reached the front door, and Chris fumbled with the lock. His hands were shaking so badly that it took him three tries to get it open. As the door swung open, I turned to look back down the hallway. For just a moment, I thought I saw something move in the shadows near the stairs.

A flicker of motion, too quick to make out. I shook my head and followed Chris outside, my heart pounding. We got into the car, and Chris started the engine. The headlights lit up the front of the house, casting long shadows across the yard. Where are we going? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Chris didn't answer right away. He gripped the steering will tightly, his knuckles white.

Somewhere safe, he said finally. But as we pulled out of the driveway, I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't running to safety. We were running from something we didn't understand. The road stretched out before us, empty and endless. Chris drove in silence, his hands gripping the steering wool like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. I sat in the passenger seat, holding Emma close, her tiny breaths warm against my chest. Neither of us had spoken since we left the house. The weight of what we'd seen and heard, hung between us like a storm cloud.

The soft hum of the car's engine felt deafening in the silence. Where are we even going? I asked finally, my voice barely audible over the hum of the tires on the pavement. Chris glanced at me, his jaw tight. I don't know. Maybe my mom's. Or a motel, I nodded, even though the thought of dragging this darkness into someone else's home made my stomach twist. Emma stirred in my arms, letting out a soft whimper. Chris looked

at her through the rearview mirror. She's okay, right? For now, I said, though I didn't really believe it. The dashboard clock read 2.37 a.m. The world outside was pitch black, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow the car's headlights. Every so often, I'd catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, a shadow flickering at the edge of the road, a shape moving just beyond the reach of the light. I told myself it was my imagination. Chris turned on to a narrow, winding road lined with trees. Their branches arched overhead, forming a tunnel that made me feel like we were driving straight into the mouth of something alive.

We need to stop soon, he said, his voice strained. I can't keep driving all night, I didn't argue. My body ached from the tension, and Emma needed a proper place to rest. But every part of me screamed that stopping was the wrong choice. We passed a gas station with a single flickering light above the pumps. Chris slowed down, but I grabbed his arm. Don't, I said. He looked at me, confused.

We need gas, not here, I whispered. There was something off about the place. The shadows seemed darker, deeper, like they were waiting for us to stop. Chris must have seen the fear in my eyes because he pressed the gas pedal and kept driving. We finally pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside motel. The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly red glow over the cracked pavement. It looked deserted, but at least it wasn't the gas station. Chris got out and went to the office to check us in.

I stayed in the car, my eyes scanning the darkness. The baby monitor was still in the diaper bag at my feet. I hadn't touched it since we left the house, but now it felt like it was watching me, waiting for the right moment to come back to life. Emma whimpered again, her little fists curling and uncurling in her sleep. I kissed the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances even though I wasn't sure who I was trying to comfort, her or myself. Chris came back a few minutes later, holding a key.

Room 8, he said, nodding toward the far end of the lot. We carried Emma and our things inside. The room was small and dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of mildew. The bed creaked loudly when Chris sat on it, and the flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. It's not much, but it's better than the car. Chris said, trying to sound reassuring. I set Emma's carrier on the bed and carefully laid her inside.

She stirred but didn't wake. Chris turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. Static filled the screen. Great, he muttered, flipping through the channels. Every single one was static. I froze. Turn it off, I said quickly. He frowned but did as I asked, the screen going black with a faint click.

We sat in silence for a while, the room heavy. with tension. I kept glancing at the diaper bag, half expecting the monitor to start hissing again. Do you think it'll follow us here? I asked finally. Chris didn't answer right away. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking more exhausted than I'd ever seen him. I don't know, he admitted. But if it does, we'll figure it out. I wanted to believe him, but something about his tone told me he wasn't as confident as he sounded. The room grew colder as the night dragged on. I pulled the thin motel blanket tighter around Emma and myself, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

Around 4 a.m., I heard it again. A faint whisper, so quiet I thought I might have imagined it. Bring her back, my heart stopped. I looked at Chris, but he was already asleep, his head resting against the wall. The whisper came again, louder this time. Bring her back, it was coming from the diaper bag. I didn't want to move. My body felt frozen, every instinct screaming at me to stay still.

But I couldn't just sit there. Slowly, I reached down and unzipped the bag. The baby monitor was glowing faintly, even though it was still unplugged. Bring her back. This time, the voice was clearer, almost pleading. I turned the monitor over in my hands, trying to make sense of what was happening. The screen flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw it again, the dark room, the strange crib, the shadowy figure standing just out of view.

Then the screen went black. Claire, Chris's voice startled me. I looked up to see him staring at me, his eyes wide with fear. What's wrong, he asked. I held up the monitor. It's still happening, I whispered. Chris stood up, grabbing the monitor from me. He shook it like that would somehow make it stop, but it didn't.

The voice came again, louder now. Bring her back. And then, as if on cue, Emma started crying. Emma's cries pierced the air, sharp and frantic. I scooped her up, holding her against my chest as Chris fiddled helplessly with the monitor. The voice continued, louder now, overlapping with Emma's sobs like it was trying to drown her out. Bring her back. Bring her back. Smash it, I hissed at Chris. Just break the damn thing, he didn't move, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. What if it makes things worse? What could possibly be worse than this? I snapped.

Before he could answer, the screen flickered again, and the room plunged into an eerie silence. Even Emma's cries faltered, her tiny body trembling against mine. The monitor's glow shifted, revealing the dark room we'd seen before, only this time, the shadowy figure wasn't lingering in the background. It was closer. The figure was standing in the center of the crib, its form sharper than before, though still cloaked in darkness. And then it turned its head.

Slowly. Deliberately. I gasped, stumbling back as Emma whimpered in my arms. Did you see that? I whispered. Chris nodded, his face pale. It looked, at us. The monitor buzzed, static spilling into the room again. But this time, the voice was different.

It wasn't just repeating the same phrase. It was talking. Bring her back. You know why. You know what you did. Chris's hand tightened around the monitor. We didn't do anything, he shouted. his voice cracking. The figure in the screen tilted its head, as if mocking him. The static

warped, and the words that followed sent a chill down my spine. Not the child, I froze, my mind racing. Her. What did it mean? My first instinct was to think of Emma, but something in the voice, its tone, its deliberate emphasis, made me realize it wasn't talking about her. Chris looked at me, his eyes wide with confusion and guilt. Claire, he started, but the monitor buzzed again, cutting him off. The scene on the screen changed. It wasn't the strange room anymore. It was somewhere else, somewhere familiar.

My childhood bedroom. I couldn't breathe. The pink wallpaper with tiny yellow wilting daisies. The old wooden rocking chair by the window. The bloody stuffed bear that always sat on my bed. What the hell is this? I whispered. Chris didn't answer.

He was staring at the screen, his jaw clenched. The voice came again, clearer than ever. You shouldn't have left her. You shouldn't have forgotten. The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Memories I'd buried deep started to claw their way to the surface, fragments of night spent crying in that room, the sound of my mom's voice singing me to sleep, and then the silence when she wasn't there anymore.

No, I whispered, shaking my head. This doesn't make sense. Chris turned to me, his face pale. Claire, what's it talking about? Who is it talking about? I couldn't answer. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The monitor buzzed again, the image on the screen shifting once more.

This time, it was a woman. She was sitting in the rocking chair, her face turned away. But I didn't need to see her face to know who she was. Mom. I whispered, my voice barely audible. The woman turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her profile. It was her, her soft brown curls, the curve of her cheek, the way she always held her hand. hands clasped in her lap.

Chris looked between me and the screen, his expression unreadable. Claire, what the hell is going on? I don't know, I said, my voice trembling. I. I don't know. The monitor buzzed again, and the woman's figure started to dissolve into static. But before it disappeared completely, the voice came one last time, louder and clearer than ever. Bring her back, Claire.

Or I will, the screen went dark. I stared at it, my heart racing. The room felt impossibly cold, the air thick with something I couldn't explain. Emma started crying again, her wails cutting through the silence like a knife. Chris put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. Claire. What does this mean? What does it want?

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because deep down, I already knew. It didn't want Emma. It wanted me. And it wasn't going to stop until it got what it came for. had been three months since the night everything changed. Three months since I unplugged the baby monitor and swore I'd never use one again. Every creak of the house, every flicker

of light, had started to feel like a warning. I tried to tell myself it was over. That whatever I'd heard, and seen, was a figment of exhaustion and stress. But no matter how much I tried, the memory clung to me. Emily's laugh pulled me out of my thoughts. She was sitting in her high chair, cheeks smeared with mashed carrots, giggling at the way the spoon wobbled on the tray. Her joy was contagious, and for a moment, the weight in my chest lifted. I smiled, wiping her face as she squirmed. You're messy today, aren't you? I said, my voice soft. She babbled back, her words still forming in that beautiful, indecipherable way babies speak. It was just us now. Jeremy had left two weeks ago, not forever, but for work. He'd been offered a contract

overseas, something too good to pass up. I'd encouraged him to take it, even though the thought of being alone in this house terrified me. I didn't want him to know that. He already thought I was losing it. I couldn't blame him. After that night with the monitor, I'd spent weeks obsessing over every sound Emily made. I didn't sleep. I paced the house, checking locks and windows, feeling watched.

Jeremy tried to reason with me, but I could see it in his eyes, he thought I was being irrational. I started to believe it too. Maybe the whispers and shadows were just my imagination. Maybe the voice in the monitor wasn't real. Or so I told myself. I tucked Emily into her crib that night, as I always did, humming a soft tune. The nursery was the one place in the house that still felt safe. Pale pink walls, stuffed animals lined neatly on the shelf, the soft glow of a nightlight

shaped like a star. It was a bubble of warmth in a house that often felt too cold. But as I turned to leave, I hesitated. The faintest itch of unease prickled at my neck. The Cribs Mobile, a simple one with pastel moons and clouds, swayed slightly. There was no draft. I stared at it, my chest tightening. Stop it, I muttered to myself.

It's nothing, I closed the door halfway and retreated to the living room, settling onto the couch with a book I wasn't actually interested in. The silence was heavier than usual, pressing against my ears. I'd gotten used to Jeremy's presence, the sound of his footsteps or the hum of his voice as he worked in his office. Without him, the house felt too big. My phone buzzed. A text from him, how's Emily?

How's my favorite girls? I typed back quickly, she's great. Misses her dad, though. We're fine. Don't worry. I hesitated before hitting send, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was a lie, but what was the point of telling him otherwise? He couldn't do anything from halfway across the world.

I needed to handle this. Alone. The hours ticked by. Emily was a good sleeper, rarely waking once she drifted off. Still, I found myself tiptoeing to the nursery every hour, just to peek in. She was always fine, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm with her soft snores. At midnight, I decided to call it a night. I just climbed into bed when the sound started.

Static. It was faint at first, like a whisper carried on the wind. My body froze. I didn't have a monitor anymore. I'd thrown it out after that night. But the sound was unmistakable, crackling and hissing, filling the quiet. I sat up slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears. The static was coming from somewhere in the house.

It wasn't loud, but it was persistent, like it wanted to be heard. My first thought was the TV. Maybe I'd left it on by accident. I forced myself out of bed, every step feeling heavier than the last. The living room was dark, the TV screened black. The sound wasn't coming from there. I followed it down the hall, my breath shallow. The static grew louder as I approached the nursery.

My heart dropped. The door was open. I was sure I'd closed it halfway. Positive. But now it stood ajar, the faint glow of the nightlight spilling into the hall. The static was louder now, sharp and grating. It was coming from inside.

Emily. My voice was barely a whisper. I stepped into the room, my hand trembling as I flicked on the light. The static stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. Emily was still in her crib, fast asleep. Her mobile swayed gently, though there was no breeze. I scanned the room, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow.

Nothing. No source of the sound. Just the faint hum of the nightlight. I approached the crib, my legs unsteady. Emily stirred but didn't wake. Her face was peaceful, her tiny hands clutching the edge of her blanket. I let out a shaky breath, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. And then I saw it.

On the floor, beneath the crib, something glinted. I crouched down, my fingers brushing against cold plastic. I pulled it out and stared, my stomach twisting. It was the baby monitor. The one I'd thrown away. The screen was cracked, the buttons worn, but it was unmistakably the same. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. I'd thrown it in the trash.

I'd watch the garbage truck take it away. There was no way it could be here. But it was. And the light on the monitor was blinking. I wanted to throw it. Smash it. Do anything but keep holding it. But something compelled me to press the button.

My thumb hovered over it for what felt like an eternity before I finally gave in. The screen flickered to life, filled with static. At first, there was nothing. Just the same crackling his I'd heard before. But then, faintly, a voice emerged. You shouldn't have left me, I dropped the monitor. The voice was gone, replaced by static. My chest tightened, the air in the room feeling too thick to breathe.

I backed away, my eyes never leaving the device. then Emily's mobile stopped swaying. I stayed by the window for what felt like hours. The street outside was quiet, the only movement coming from the faint sway of tree branches in the cold wind. But the unease clung to me. My fingers trembled as I clutched the monitor in one hand, its plastic casing warm from how long I'd been holding it. The static returned, soft at first, like the hiss of a distant storm. I flinched and pressed the volume button down, almost muting it. I didn't want to hear it again, not the voice. not the whispers.

But I couldn't turn it off completely. What if Emma cried? What if, something else spoke? I shook my head and paced the living room. Maybe it was my lack of sleep, or the way the events of last night still rattled around in my brain. But the house felt different, heavier. It wasn't just in my head, even the air seemed thick, harder to breathe.

Every creak of the floorboards under my feet sent a jolt through me. When Emma finally stirred through the faint static, I almost cried. from relief. Her soft coos broke through the tension, and I hurried to her room. She was standing in her crib, her tiny hands gripping the edge as she rocked back and forth. Hey, sweetheart, I said, forcing my voice to sound steady. She looked at me and smiled, but there was something off about it. Her eyes, so bright and curious, seemed to dart past me, focusing on the corner of the room.

I turned, but there was nothing there, just the rocking chair and the little bookshelf my husband had built before she was born. Time to get up, I said, scooping her into my arms. Her gaze lingered on the corner as I carried her out of the room. I tried to shake off the feeling. Baby stared at nothing all the time, didn't they? But as I brought her downstairs and set her in her high chair, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder more often than usual.

Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet. Emma usually babbled nonstop, laughing at the clatter of her spoon or the way oatmeal stuck to her fingers. But today, she was silent. Her tiny head tilted toward the baby monitor I'd left on the counter. The static hissed softly, then popped. Hello, a voice whispered. I froze.

My hand gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. Bring her back, the voice said. It was clearer this time, no longer muffled by interference. A woman's voice, trembling, pleading. I lunged for the monitor and shut it off. Emma giggled. Did you hear that?" I asked, even though she couldn't answer.

She just smiled at me, her hands clapping together. The sound of her laughter should have calmed me, but instead, it made my stomach twist. It wasn't her usual laugh. It sounded, wrong. I spent the rest of the day trying to distract myself. I cleaned the kitchen, folded laundry, played with Emma on the living room rug. But no matter what I did, the monitor kept catching my eye. I told myself I wouldn't turn it back on.

There was no reason to. But when Emma went down for her nap, I found myself standing over it, my hand hovering above the power button. I pressed it. Static. I let out a breath, relieved. No voices. No whispers.

Just the harmless sound of interference. But then it changed. A low hum crept in, like the sound of a faraway engine. It grew louder, vibrating through the speaker. Why did you leave us, the voice said, breaking through the hum. I dropped the monitor. It hit the floor with a crack, but the voice didn't stop. We waited for you, I stared at the monitor, my chest heaving.

The hum grew louder, drowning out the voice. It was deafening now, filling the room. I covered my ears, but it didn't help. The sound wasn't just coming from the monitor anymore, it was everywhere. And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The silence was suffocating. I reached down, my hands trembling, and picked up the monitor. The screen was black, the light off.

It was as if it had never been turned on. Behind me, Emma started crying. I ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Her cries were sharp and panicked, the kind that made my heart race. I burst into her room, expecting to find her tangled in her blankets or standing in her crib again. But she wasn't in her crib. The blankets were untouched, the crib empty.

Emma. I called, my voice shaking. Her cries echoed through the house, distant now, coming from somewhere I couldn't place. I turned, my eyes darting to every corner of the room. And that's when I saw it. The rocking chair in the corner was moving, swaying back and forth. The rocking chair creaked softly, swaying back and forth in the corner of the room. My chest tightened, and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Emma? I whispered, taking a step forward. Her cries still echoed, faint and distant, like they were coming from somewhere far away but somehow all around me. My legs felt like lead as I approached the chair. The air in the room was ice cold, and my breath came out in short, visible puffs. The chair stopped moving the moment I reached out to touch it. Emma! I shouted now, panic surging through me. I tore through the room, checking under the crib, inside the closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. She wasn't here.

But her cries, they didn't stop. I froze when I realized where they were coming from. The baby monitor. I turned to look at it, still clenched in my hand. The screen was dark, the power light off. It wasn't even plugged in anymore, it shouldn't have been making any sound. And yet her cries spilled out, warped and muffled, like they were trapped in the static. No, no, no, I muttered, fumbling with the buttons.

I pressed everything I could, trying to turn it off, trying to make it stop. But nothing happened. Then the cries shifted. They started to warp, slowing down and distorting until they no longer sounded like Emma at all. The noise became deeper, more guttural, like something was imitating her voice but failing. I dropped the monitor and backed away, my back hitting the edge of the crib. The static cut out. And then the voice returned.

She belongs to us now. The voice was deeper this time, and there was no mistaking it, it wasn't human. No. I shouted. You can't have her. I grabbed the monitor off the floor and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces of plastic scattering everywhere. The room went silent.

I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I couldn't think straight. My baby was gone. Gone. I ran out of the room, my footsteps pounding down. down the stairs. Her cries had stopped, but the silence was worse. It was too still, too heavy. The living room was exactly as I'd left it. The toys scattered on the rug, her favorite blanket draped over the couch. But no sign of her. Emma! I screamed again,

my voice cracking. Nothing. I grabbed my phone off the counter and dialed 911 with trembling fingers. 9-1-1. What's your emergency? The operator's calm voice answered. My daughter, she's missing. I said, struggling to catch my breath. She was just here, in her crib, and now she's gone. Ma'am, please stay calm, the operator said. Can you tell me your location? I gave her my address, pacing back and forth as I tried to explain what had happened. But how could I explain this? How could I tell her about the voice on the monitor, the cries that weren't human. I'll send an officer to your location, the operator said. Stay on the line with me, I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. My hands were shaking so badly, I almost dropped

the phone. Then I heard it. The creak of a door opening. I turned slowly, my heart and my throat. The basement door, which I was certain had been closed, now stood ajar. The air coming from the basement was damp and cold, carrying the faint smell of earth and mildew. Man, the operator's voice broke through the silence. Are you still there? Yes, I whispered, staring at the dark stairway leading down. Is someone in the house with you, she asked. I don't know, I said, my voice trembling.

I stepped closer to the basement door, my phone clutched tightly in one hand. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and the sound echoed down the stairs. And then I heard it. Her laugh. It was faint, but unmistakable. Emma's laugh, coming from the basement. She's down there, I said into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper. Ma'am, I advise you to wait for the officers to arrive, the operator said.

Do not go down there, but I couldn't wait. That was my baby. I couldn't just stand here while she was down there, alone in the dark. I have to go, I said, ending the call before she could protest. The basement stairs groaned under my weight as I descended, each step feeling like it took an eternity. The light switch at the top of the stairs didn't work. leaving the space below shrouded in darkness. Emma?

I called, my voice echoing off the stone walls. Her laugh came again, closer this time. I reached the bottom of the stairs and fumbled for the pull chain to the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. The light flickered on, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. The basement was empty. But her laugh came again, louder now, coming from behind the old wooden door that led to the crawl space.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the rusted doorknob. Emma? I called again, my voice trembling. The laugh stopped. And then I heard it. The voice. Come closer, it said, low and gravelly. My blood ran cold, but I couldn't move.

The air around me felt heavy, pressing against my chest. The door creaked open, just an inch, and a gust of cold air rushed out. Bring her back, the voice whispered, so close it felt like it was right in my ear. The door to the crawl space hung open just wide enough for me to see darkness beyond. The air that wafted out felt alive, heavy with something I couldn't explain. My hands shook as I stared into the black void. I should have run, I knew that much, but I couldn't leave her. Not Emma.

Emma, I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice over the pounding of my heart. No response. Only silence. And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the crawl space, Mama, her voice was small. small and soft, like it always was when she was on the verge of sleep. But something was wrong. It wasn't just her voice anymore. It was layered, like someone else was speaking underneath it, below, guttural sound that didn't

belong to her. Emma, baby, I'm here, I said, reaching for the edge of the door. The words felt wrong as they left my mouth. They sounded too loud, too sharp in the suffocating silence. The moment my fingers touched the door, the laughter returned. It erupted from deep within the crawl space, echoing and bouncing off the stone walls. It wasn't just Emma's laugh anymore. It was a chorus, children's laughter, dozens of them, all overlapping and spilling out into

the room. But it was distorted, warped, the kind of sound that makes your stomach churn and your legs want to buckle. Emma, come out, please, I begged. My voice cracked as tears spilled down my cheeks. Come to Mama, okay, the laughter stopped. I could hear her breathing now, soft and steady, just on the other side of the doorway. It was so close.

My fingers tightened on the doorframe as I forced myself to step inside. The crawl space wasn't what I remembered. It had always been small, just a cramped area filled with old boxes and cobwebs. But now, the space stretched on endlessly, the walls disappearing into the shadows. The dirt floor was damp under my bare feet, the scent of mildew and rot filling my nose. Emma? I called out, my voice shaking. Where are you? I'm here, Mama, she said.

Her voice was closer now, almost at my feet. I dropped to my knees, my hands searching blindly in the dark. Baby, come to me, my fingers brushed against something soft. A foot. Relief washed over me as I pulled her toward me, holding her tiny body in my arms. She felt warm, solid. She felt real. I've got you, I whispered, tears soon.

streaming down my face. I've got you, baby, but she didn't move. She didn't wrap her arms around me the way she always did. She just stayed limp in my grasp. That's when I realized her breathing had stopped. I pulled back, trying to look at her face, but the darkness was too thick. My hands shook as I felt for her cheek, her nose, her mouth. Her skin was cold now, unnaturally cold.

Emma? I whispered, my voice barely audible. And then she moved. Her head tilted back, and I could feel her staring at me even though I couldn't see her eyes. Her mouth opened, far wider than it should have, and from her lips came that voice again, the one from the monitor. She doesn't belong to you anymore, it said, low and guttural. I screamed and scrambled backward, dropping her as I did.

The moment she hit the ground, the laughter started again, louder this time, echoing all around me. I turned and ran, my hands clawing at the dirt as I tried to find the door. But the crawl space was different now. It wasn't just endless, it was alive. The walls seemed to shift and breathe, the dirt floor writhing beneath me as if it was trying to pull me under. The laughter grew louder, filling my ears until I thought my head would split open. And then I heard her.

Mommy. Emma's real voice, high-pitched and desperate, cutting through the noise like a blade. I stopped, my heart lurching. Emma! I screamed, spinning around. She was there, just a few feet away. Her tiny form was bathed in a dim, flickering light that seemed to come from nowhere. She reached out to me, her face streaked with tears.

Mommy, help me, she cried. I lunged toward her, my arms outstretched. But just as my fingers brushed hers, she was pulled back into the darkness. Her screams echoed around me, blending with the laughter. No. No. I screamed, chasing after her. But the ground beneath me gave way, and I fell, tumbling into the void.

When I hit the ground, the air was knocked from my lungs. I lay there, gasping, as the darkness around me began to shift. Shapes emerged from the shadows, small, childlike figures with hollow eyes and wide, unnatural. They surrounded me, their movements jerky and unnatural. One by one, they began to speak, their voices overlapping in a horrifying cacophony. She was promised to us, they said. You can't take her back. I tried to move, to crawl away, but the ground held me in place, cold hands grasping

at my ankles and wrists. The children closed in, their hollow eyes boring into mine. Who promised her? I managed to choke out. My voice was hoarse, barely audible. They stopped, their heads tilting in unison as if considering my question. And then one of them stepped forward, its grin widening until it split its face in two. You did, it said.

I stared at the thing in front of me, its face still contorted into that inhuman grin. My mind reeled, trying to make sense of its words. I, I didn't, I stammered. I would never, the figure tilted its head, mocking curiosity. The other childlike shapes stood still, their hollow eyes locked on me. The ground beneath me was cold and unyielding, the invisible hands still holding me in place. My breath came in shallow gasps as I fought against the panic rising in my chest. You promised her to us, it repeated, its voice sharp and accusing.

Don't you remember? I don't. I shouted, shaking my head. My voice cracked as I fought back tears. I don't know what you're talking about. The figure stepped closer, its movements disjointed and unnatural. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could see the black emptiness where its eyes should have been. You don't remember, it said, almost gleefully. But you did. A long time ago, what do you mean? I whispered.

My voice was barely audible. What are you talking about? It didn't answer. Instead, it raised one skeletal hand and pressed a single finger against my forehead. The moment it made contact, my vision went white. I was no longer in the crawl space. I was standing in a room I didn't recognize. The walls were bare, and the air smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim yellow light over the scene. I saw myself sitting at a table in the center of the room. My hands were clasped tightly together, and my face was pale. I looked younger, years younger, but there was something else about me that I didn't recognize. My eyes were wide, almost vacant, and my lips moved as if I were whispering something. There was someone else in the room with me. The figure was tall and shrouded in shadow. I couldn't make out any features, but its presence was suffocating.

It leaned down toward the younger version of me, its voice low and rumbling. Do we have a deal, it asked. Younger me nodded, her hands trembling. Just make it stop, she whispered. Please, I'll do anything. Just make it stop. The figure laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made my stomach turn. Anything, it asked.

Yes, I said, my voice breaking. Anything, the figure reached out, placing a hand over mine. Its fingers were long and clawed, the skin pale and cracked. Then it's done, it said. You won't remember this, but when the time comes, you'll know. The scene began to dissolve around me, the walls melting into darkness. I tried to hold onto it, to make sense of what I'd just seen, but it slipped away like smoke. I was back in the crawl space.

The figure in front of me had withdrawn its hand, and the hollow-eyed children were staring at me with twisted smiles. My chest heaved as I tried to process what I just seen. I didn't know, I said, my voice barely a whisper. I didn't know what I was agreeing to, but you did, the figure said. You asked for it, and we delivered. And now it's time to collect. What did I ask for?

I demanded. What was so important that I would give up my own daughter? The figure didn't answer. Instead, it raised its hand again, and the children began to move, their twisted laughter filling the air. They closed in around me, their small hands grabbing at my arms and legs. Wait. I screamed, thrashing against them.

You can't take her. Please, I'll do anything. Take me instead, the laughter stopped abruptly. The children froze, their head snapping toward the figure as if waiting for instruction. The figure tilted its head, considering me. You would trade yourself for her, it asked, its voice low and rumbling. Yes, I said without hesitation. Tears streamed down my face as I stared into the void where its eyes should have been.

Take me instead. Just let her go, the figure smiled, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a chill down my spine. Interesting, it said. We'll consider your offer. Before I could respond, the ground beneath me gave way. I fell, tumbling through darkness, the children's laughter echoing in my ears. Their voices twisted into a single word, repeated over and over. Promise, when I woke, I was lying on the floor of the nursery.

The crawl-space door was shut, and the room was silent except for the soft hum of the baby monitor. My head throbbed as I pushed myself to my feet, my eyes scanning the room. Emma? I called out, my voice trembling. The crib was empty. Panic surged through me as I ran to the door, throwing it open. Emma! I screamed, my voice echoing through the house.

But the house was silent. She was gone. And I was alone. I stumbled through the house, screaming Emma's name until my throat burned. Every shadow in every corner felt alive, mocking me with the weight of my failure. The world felt off kilter, as though reality itself had started to unravel. My feet dragged across the hardwood floor as I moved from room to room, my mind racing. Where was she?

Where had they taken her? The house groaned under the weight of a sudden silence, thick and suffocating. My legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed to the floor of the living room. The last place I'd seen her in my arms flooded my mind. She'd been so warm, so real. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my face, unable to stop the onslaught of memories clawing their way to the surface. But not all the memories were mine.

A whisper curled through my ears like smoke. It wasn't coming from the baby monitor this time. It was coming from inside me. Lyer, the word was faint but sharp, slicing through my thoughts like. like a blade. My stomach churned. I'm not a liar, I muttered, clutching my head. But the whisper didn't stop. It grew louder, spreading through my chest like poison. You were never supposed to have her, what? My voice cracked as I pressed my hands harder against my ears. What do you mean? She's my daughter, the laughter came next. Soft at first, then growing

louder until it filled every corner of the room. It wasn't the children's laughter this time. It was deeper, older, and laced with something dark. Yours, the voice hissed, dripping with disdain. She doesn't belong to you. She never did, stop it. I screamed, but the laughter only grew. My vision blurred, and suddenly, I wasn't in the living room anymore. I was in a forest, the trees twisting and writhing like they were alive.

The air smelled of damp earth and blood. I could hear faint cries in the distance, Emma's cries. I ran toward them, my bare feet sinking into the muddy ground with each step. But the forest didn't end. No matter how far I ran, the cries stayed just out of reach. Then I saw her. Emma was sitting on the ground, her tiny hands clutching at the dirt. Her back was to me, and her soft wimpers pierced through the darkness.

Relief flooded through me as I ran to her, dropping to my knees. Emma! I cried, reaching out to scoop her up. At the moment my hands touched her, she dissolved into ash, slipping through my fingers like sand. No, I whispered, staring at the empty space where she'd been. No, no, no, do you see now, the voice said, echoing all around me. Do you remember, I didn't want to? I tried to block it out, but the memories came anyway, rushing back like a dam had broken.

I saw myself standing over my husband, a kitchen knife in my hand. His eyes were wide with shock as blood pooled around him, his lips moving. soundlessly. He'd known. Somehow, he'd known what I was. You're not real, he'd said, his voice trembling as he backed away from me. You're not even human, I didn't want to hurt him. But I couldn't let him stop me.

The knife had felt heavy in my hand, but the weight disappeared the moment it pierced his flesh. I'd watched the life drain from his eyes, cold and detached, like I wasn't even in my own body. And then I'd buried him in the backyard, beneath the oak tree where we'd once dreamed of growing old together. growing old together. The memory shifted, dragging me further back. I saw flames, towering and endless, licking, licking, licking. I saw chains, red-hot and unyielding, wrapped around my wrists. I had been one of them. A soul condemned to eternal torment. But I had escaped. I'd clawed my way out of the pit, tearing through flesh and bone, leaving behind the shrieks of the damned. I had stolen a body, a human shell to hide in. I had thought I could be free, that I could

start over. But then I had met him. My husband. And for the first time, I had felt something I wasn't supposed to feel. Love. It had been a weakness, and I had paid the price. Emma had been the price. She wasn't supposed to exist. She was an impossibility, a crack in the natural order. The voices from the pit had found me through her. They had whispered through the static, reminding me of my crime. They had come to collect what was owed. I snapped back to the present, the forest dissolving around me. I was back in the house, kneeling on the living room floor. My hands were smeared with blood, but I didn't know if it was real or just a ghost of my memories. The laughter had stopped, replaced by the sound of faint breathing behind

me. I turned slowly, my body trembling. Emma stood in the doorway, her tiny figure bathed in shadow. Her eyes weren't hers anymore. They were black as coal, endless and empty. They're here, Mommy, she said, her voice not her own. Behind her, the figures emerged. The children with hollow eyes. The shadowed being from the crawl space. They moved toward me, their steps slow and deliberate. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. They'll take me back, I whispered, my voice trembling. That was the deal. Take me back and leave her alone. The shadow figure tilted its head, the twisted grin spreading across its face. It's too late, it said. She was never yours to save, Emma stepped closer, her small hand reaching out toward me.

I wanted to run, to fight, but I couldn't move. Mommy, she whispered, her voice soft now. Why did you let me exist? Tears streamed down my face as the shadows closed and around us. I reached out to her, my fingers brushing against hers. And then there was nothing. Just darkness. They say a church is supposed to be a sanctuary, a safe haven for those seeking asylum and safety.

This church was the opposite, the screams I heard, the blood I saw, and the decomposing bodies I smelled. The police said there was nothing, just an empty and clean church, but I know what I saw. To anyone who reads this, do not, and I repeat do not go into the basement. The only reason I was able to escape was that I kept that door propped open. Every night I sleep I just see that played Dr. Mask looking at me. I was a young stupid college grad at Northern Arizona University. I was planning on going on a road trip to find a place to move, but my friends talked me into going hiking through some caves.

My friend said they would meet me there since they lived closer and get a camping spot set up outside the cave. I agreed, and later that night just as the sun was going over the horizon, I pulled onto the dirt trail and parked my car. It was only about 6.30 p.m. but the sun does go down that early here in the wintertime. I grabbed my gear and began walking on the trail towards the meeting spot. I walked for a good ten minutes not finding the spot which is weird because I knew it wasn't more than a couple of hundred feet from the trail.

I looked around to see if I could spot their campfire, to my left, I saw a faint orange glow. I assumed I must have just walked on the wrong trail and started heading towards the glow. However, as I got closer, I realized it wasn't a campfire but rather a church with two old-style torches hanging on the front wall. I looked at my map of the area and sure enough, there was no church listed to be out here. I should have been concerned about getting to my friends, I should have been hungry, but my curious mind got the better of me and I opened the front door.

The door slammed shut behind me and anyone inside would have surely been aware of my presence. The church was well kept up with no cobwebs or dust on the pews. I walk around examining everything before making my way to the altar. The altar had a piece of paper on it that read in Latin, I who am a vessel for God am infected with the devil's love. I accept God's love, and I accept the light, may it burn away the devil within and leave me a pure vessel for God's love. I know nothing about religion, so I just noted the words in my head thanking myself for

learning Latin of all languages. I tripped over the rug under the altar. I turned around to find part of the rug bulged as if something was under it. I lifted the rug and found an old cellar door. The door was heavy and had cracks in it. Worried that door might lock behind me I rolled the rug up and propped the door up. The passage down was small and dark I decided to turn my headlamp on I brought for the caves and made my way down, and down, and down.

This went on for at least two minutes before finally reaching the bottom where an old wooden door stood. The door had a small hole in it which light was illuminating from, so I decided now was a good time to turn off my headlamp to save the battery. Before I could even take my first step towards the door I froze, the smell is what got me first. I recognized that smell for my anatomy labs, a rotting corpse. Then the scream started there were at least two voices, a male and a female they sounded

like they were in agonizing pain. As I got to the door and looked through one of the gaps, my heart sank. I saw my friends chained to the wall being burned alive by some person in a plague doctor mask. Anger washed over me, I wanted to help my friends, but before I could I was met with despair the man turned and I swear he looked right at me. He had taken two steps towards the doors before I fled like a startled cat. I ran up the stairs out through the cellar door and pushed the altar over the cellar door

so it could not open again. I sat in one of the pews crying to myself as all the emotions washed over me. I called the cops and told them everything, but when they got there and pushed the altar back upright there was no door. The next few days went by in a flash, the police taped off the church, took my statement, and to this day my friend still remain on the missing persons list. I put myself into a mental hospital unable to get over the thought that I am responsible for this. May no one ever go to that church stay as far away from it as possible in hell,

burn it to the ground something like this doesn't belong here. Part 1. It was a sunny summer day when I discovered that my stepsister had stolen my credit card. She had gone on vacation with her friends, thinking no one would notice. But when I saw a suspicious transaction on my account, I knew something was wrong. I immediately blocked my credit card and alerted the bank. A few hours later, I got a panicked call for my step-sister. She was stranded on her vacation with no money and nothing she could do. She begged me for help, but I was too angry to listen. I hung up the phone, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt. When our parents found out, they were furious. They blamed me for blocking the card and accused me of abandoning

her. It felt like I was the villain, even though she was the one at fault. Their constant nagging and accusations pushed me to a breaking point. This was the last straw. I decided to move out on my own. No more drama, no more worries about stolen credit cards, just my own space and peace. It wasn't easy, but it was the best decision I've ever made. I found a small apartment downtown and started building my new life. I focused on my work and began to enjoy the freedom of living independently. Weeks passed, and I began to settle into my new life. I worked hard, saved up, and finally bought myself a used car. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and I was proud of it.

My step-sister eventually returned from her trip, furious and resentful. She felt I had betrayed her, and the tension between us grew even more. Part 2. One evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard a noise outside. I looked out the window and saw my step-sister sneaking into my car. I ran outside, but it was too late. She sped off into the night, not realizing the consequences of her. her actions. Hours later, I got a call from the police. My car had been involved in a crash, and my step-sister was in the hospital. I rushed to the scene, my heart pounding with a mix

of fear and anger. The car was totaled, a twisted wreck of metal and glass. When our parents arrived at the hospital, they were livid. They blamed me for everything, accusing me of caring more about my car than my step-sister. It was as if they couldn't see the pattern of her reckless behavior. This time, I decided enough was enough. I pressed charges against her for theft and reckless endangerment. The court case was intense. My step-sister cried and pleaded, but the evidence was clear. The judge ruled in my favor, and she was ordered to pay for the damages and attend mandatory therapy sessions. It was a hard lesson for her, and a difficult journey for me. In the end, justice was served. My relationship with my parents remained strained,

but I found peace in knowing I stood up for myself. My stepsister, though still distant, began to show signs of change. She started taking responsibility for her actions, and slowly, we began to rebuild our relationship. Life has its ups and downs, but sometimes, standing your ground is the only way to find true peace. I don't remember much of the house fire that killed both my parents. I lived on the first floor, but the gray smoke had grown so thick that I stumbled blindly for what felt like hours before finding a door. My throat felt like sandpaper and my eyes constantly streamed tears of irritation and pain. Strips of burned and mutilated flesh hum from my poor hands,

though I knew it would heal rapidly, within a few hours. A firefighter appeared like a ghostly silhouette before me. I remember the flashing lights of police and fire trucks and the faraway echo of deep voices. From the direction of the house, I remember the dying screams of my parents as they burned alive. My childish imagination could never have predicted what would come next. Behind the flurry of ambulances, fire trucks and cop cars, I saw a single black sedan with tinted windows. Compared to the bright colors and strobing lights of the emergency vehicles, it looked like little more than a shadow. The windshield, too, looked dark and opaque, nearly impossible to see through. I sat in the back of an ambulance. The EMTs had already cleared me, saying I only had

a few scrapes and some mild smoke inhalation and eye irritation, but that I didn't require urgent care or hospitalization. Abruptly, the doors of the black sedan flew open. Two men in black suits stepped out, wearing sunglasses even in the middle of the night. I stared, open-mouthed, as they swerved their way through the jumble of emergency responders and vehicles. They came straight at me, unsmiling and grave. Their faces looked extremely pale, almost vampiric in a way. Hey there, Gostin. Gostin. Quite a unique name, the one on the right said calmly, stretching my name out as he dropped down on one knee. His sunglasses looked like mirrors, but they reflected the world darkly. Hi, I whispered in a

tiny voice. Who are you? We're here to bring you to a good home, he responded in a voice as soothing as balm on a wound. He put a hand on my shoulder, trying to be comforting. But through the thin fabric of my T-shirt, I could feel his skin burning as if with an inner fever. I tried to draw back, but his grip tightened, the fingers digging into the thin bones. Where's Mom and Dad?

I asked. Why haven't they come out?" He just shook his head. We'll explain everything on the way, son, he said, rising to his feet. He gently patted me on the shoulder a few times for good measure. No one else paid us any attention. With the two strange men beside me, we started off toward their sedan. My name is Keller, the leader of the two men said as he slid smoothly into the driver's seat.

He motioned at the silent one next to him. This is Vlad, where are we going? I asked. He turned in his seat, jerking his head to face me. The veins on his forehead and neck seemed to pound in time with his heart. You sure do ask a lot of fucking questions, Kid, Keller hissed, his teeth gritted as his lips flew into a snarl. Taken aback, I sat as silent as a statue as he started the car and slowly pulled away from

the jumble of emergency vehicles. We traveled in silence for hours, down winding roads and past dark forests. I remember we eventually came to a small airfield in the middle of scattered cornfields. A man with a black rifle stood at the front gate, looking bored and tired. Keller showed him a silver badge in a black leather case, and the gate started to roll to the side. Keller pulled into a dark corner of the airfield. Together, the two agents quickly got out, slamming their doors closed. I had tried the handle a couple times along the trip, hoping I could jump out when the car slowed or stopped, but it was locked from the outside somehow. Now I frantically grabbed it again, shaking the door with as much force as my

small body could muster. I only saw the grinning, pale face of Vlad outside. A key jiggled outside, and both doors flew open. In Vlad's hand, I saw a needle filled with clear fluid. They held me down as he injected it in my neck. I felt sick and weak as black waves clouded my vision. I fell into a dreamless sleep. By the time I woke up, things around me had changed drastically. I was handcuffed and thrown into the back of an SUV. With a pounding migraine, I looked up front, seeing Keller and Vlad still in the front seats. But now, the windows outside showed jagged mountain peaks covered in thick drifts of snow. The night outside looked freezing cold.

Endless forests disappeared into the shadows off in the distance. I could feel the car rapidly accelerating uphill as hail peppered the windshield and roof. Vlad glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes reminded me of those of those of. of a Siberian husky, ice-cold, and predatory. Ah, you're awake. That's good, Vlad hissed in a thick Eastern European accent. We'll be there soon, ghosten.

There are a few things you should probably know before we get there. Escape is impossible. Anyone who tries gets shot by the snipers. Some who lose hope might take it as the easy way out. Perhaps those are the smart ones. When you get there, you and the other newcomers will take a test. Those of you who fail will be euthanized. Do you know what euthanasia is, Gostin?

I nodded. Every month, the bottom 10% of the class will be taken out. At the end of nine months, those left alive will be offered jobs with the CIA and the military. All the kids there are freaks, just like you. They don't all heal burnt, blackened skin in a few. hours, though, Vlad continued. That is impressive. I felt a cold shutter run down my spine as I realized these men knew far more about me than

seemed possible. What else can you do, kid, nothing, I muttered. My hands weren't that badly hurt. I think you're exaggerating. My voice felt weak and small. Uh-huh, Keller said sarcastically. Oh, look at that. What a sight, huh, I'm a sight.

I remember that moment like a screenshot to this day. I gazed open-mouthed in horror up the steep mountain slope. Dark patches of evergreens surrounded the small, snow-covered road on both sides. Their boughs reached out toward the SUV, their overgrown needles scraping the sides with a faint screech. I could smell the overwhelming presence of pine coming in through the vents. Above us loomed something like a massive high school surrounded by rolls of razor wire and multiple layers of tall, electrified fences. A dozen jet black sniper towers were placed

equidistant around the perimeter of the property. The enormous brick building at the center looked like it had no windows at all. Sheared concrete walls rose to a flat roof a few stories high. Large industrial-sized smokestacks scattered over the top constantly belched black smoke into the crisp Alaskan air. Behind it, dozens of snow-capped mountains stretched off towards the horizon. We pulled up to the gate. Spotlights converged on the SUV from all directions. A guard dressed in all black stood there with a large rifle strapped to his chest. On his face, he wore a silver mask. It had long, slitted eyes and metal lips tightly pressed together in a grimace. My first thought was of the man in the iron mask. Two more guards stood in a nearby guardhouse wearing

identical masks, though they varied in height and build. Keller rolled down the window. The guard in charge spoke in an electronically distorted voice. It sounded inhumanly deep with a subtle hiss of static writhing under his words. What is your business? The guard hissed. We're dropping off another subject for the tests, Keller said calmly, showing his silver badge. The Department for the Clemsing of anomalies, we have another shipment coming in by train from

the Capitol, the guard said, his mask revealing, distorted voice revealing nothing of what lay hidden under the surface. The cleaners are unloading the train now. You can drop the boy off over there. He needs to get an identification number. I didn't like the sound of any of this. Most of all, I felt unnerved by the way they talked about me as if I were a sack of meat getting delivered to a butcher shop. The SUV slowly pulled off from the front gate, following the freshly plowed road that wound its way around the exterior of the strange, prison-like school. I could hear far-away screams, a combination of many dissonant voices that rose and swelled into a hellish cacophony. I saw a platform of bear, gray concrete swarming with hundreds of kids, most of them

looking like they were in the range of nine to thirteen. More armed soldiers wearing the same silver mask screamed orders. Some held black German shepherds on long chains that snarled and snapped at the kids, pulling against their restraints with wolfish ferocity. We're here. Keller exclaimed excitedly, pulling up next to the concrete platform. They pulled me out, taking off my handcuffs and shoving me into the surging crowd. The men in the silver masks pushed us forward relentlessly towards the building. Males to the right, females to the left, one of the guards said in an electronically

amplified voice, repeating it over and over. More guards had black truncheons, which they used to beat kids who they thought moved too slow or, sometimes, for no reason at all. I looked down the line of people, wondering where it led. Hundreds of boys disappeared into a dark hallway, while the line of girls veered off to the other side of the platform where another similarly black threshold waited to swallow them up. Keep moving forward, another guard said, smashing his truncheon down over and over on the backs of boys ahead of me. I heard bones cracking and panicked screams. People tried to run past

the sadistic guards of this hellish place, but they timed their shots with practiced ease. I saw quite a few kids get bit by the dogs as well. Drops of fresh blood stained the ground leading forward, mixing with darker, older stains eaten into the pavement. I shivered uncontrollably in the freezing Alaskan winter, wondering if I had somehow ended up in hell. Maybe I had died in the fire along with my parents, and this was eternity. I tried to slink into the center of the crowd, letting the boys on both sides of me take the brunt of the blows, though a few glancing strikes still hit me. I felt immensely grateful when we moved into the black hallway, which at least had some heat.

Bizarre slogans in gold paint lined both sides of the wall. Welcome to Stonehall, the School of Eyes, one red. A hurricane of souls spirals out of the chimneys, rejuvenating the planet, read another. It was almost as if a schizophrenic in a psychotic state had written their thoughts down, though they seemed to connect in any eerie way I couldn't yet understand. Next to me stood a small boy with jet black hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken and badly set. Unlike the others, he wasn't screaming or upset.

He looked calm. He glanced over at me, meeting my eyes. Hello, he said over the wailing and cries of the confused, hurt kids. How are you? I laughed at that. Not very good, to tell you the truth, I answered. I think we might die tonight. The boy shook his head once, the serenity never leaving his eyes. No, not you and not me, he said simply.

Others, yes. But people die here all the time, after all. Like the sign said, a hurricane of soul's spirals out, how do you know we won't die? I asked, confused. He leaned close to me. There was an odd smell around the boy, almost like ozone with a note of panicked sweat. Yet his expression reflected no perturbation in his mind. I can see the future, sometimes, he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

Just in small doses, and it's not always right. It's like, imagine if reality was a beehive, filled with millions of cells rising above you. Those are all the possible worlds. But some paths are straighter heading upwards, and these are the more likely realities. Other paths would have to swerve and curve in insane ways, and these realities almost never come true. Well, I sure hope you're right, I said, because today is not a good day to die. I found out that the boy's name was Dean. I stayed close by his side as all of the boys were herded, one by one, into a room.

After waiting for nearly half an hour, it was my turn. A guard in a silver mask took my arm and put it on top of some sort of machine that reminded me of an x-ray. A metal clamp closed around my wrist and elbow. Two other guards watched, armed with black rifles. Suddenly, red laser shot out, sizzling into my skin. I screamed, trying to pull away, but seconds later, it was over. I looked down at my arm, seeing a number tattooed there in black copperplate,

H-0101. After that, we were led into a large auditorium with hundreds of velvet-lined seats facing a stage. A man in a black robe wearing the same iron mask as all the other guards stood there waiting, not moving in the slightest. For a moment, I thought it might be a mannequin. Dean stood behind me in line. Find seats, the guards screamed in their amplified voices. People scrambled to the nearest open seat. Dean and I found two seats near the front, only as stones throw away from the still figure on the stage, looming over the crowd like the angel of death.

On the right arm of each seat, there was a tablet. The screen stayed dark for now, but once the hundreds of boys had taken their seats, all of them in the room turned on at once. You know why you're here in Stonehall, the black-robed man on the stage said, taking a long step towards the students. Each of you are different, capable of great things. In this school, we will weed out the weak and feeble. Only the strongest and smartest will survive.

The first round of elimination will take place by test. Enter your identification number at the top of the screen. The test will begin to begin. in 10 seconds, the questions that came up on the screens seemed bizarre and nonsensical some of the time. The first strange one had to do with taro. It read, in front of you, you see the fool, the hanged man and the devil. What card comes next? In a flash, I somehow knew what they wanted me to say. The death card, I typed on the small touchscreen keyboard. The questions varied wildly. Some topics focused on astral projection or out-of-body experiences, while others

asked about ancient types of torture. Strange wild cards continuously came up, non-sequiters like the taro question. I still remember another bizarre one. If the National Socialists had one World War II, in what year would Adolf Hitler have died, it asked. I thought about what Dean had said, how he could see different realities above him like the cells of an eternal beehive. I wrote down, 1949, and the test was over. The screens all went black simultaneously. Spotlights overhead came on, shining down on us from all directions. The white glare blinded me temporarily. On the stage, I could just barely see the silhouette of the robed man. He raised his hand, his pointer finger extended upwards, reminding me of the ISIS salute.

The tests are being scored now, he rasped. Please stay in your seats. I nervously looked around, seeing the other students sweating heavily. The doors at the back of the auditorium flew open. Dozens of guards with rifles walked in, their masks gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. In pairs, they walked over to some of the boys, pulling their arms out and checking the tattooed numbers. They passed by me and Dean, but the boy on the other side of me had

failed. Sweating heavily, I saw him stumble to his feet as the black-gloved hands of the guards forced him up. What's happening? He asked, his voice weak and uncertain. Where are you taking me? Shut the fuck up, a guard hissed, pushing him forward onto the steps. The boy went sprawling, smashing his face into the hard steps with a sickening thud. A moment later, he raised his swollen head. Streams of blood flowed from his nose. He spit up frothy blood and a piece of a tooth. After a few minutes, they had lined up a few dozen of the boys out of the few hundred people in the class. At gunpoint, they marched them out and into the hall.

The rest of you will be shown to your rooms, the black-robed man at the front of the hall said. Every month, you will have a test, though not all will be based on knowledge. Some tests may be based on your skills and abilities. You will be honed over the months, strengthened and shown amazing sights. We were led out into the hallway. It split off into four corridors, and off in the distance, I saw it split off again. The halls have been decorated somewhat like a traditional school, with tiled floors and brick walls. Fluorescent lights hung overhead, casting the pale, terrified faces below in a white glare. Stairs going up six or seven levels opened up intermittently.

They sectioned us off in groups of a dozen, sending us into rooms with cold steel bunk beds covered in thin mattresses. I was thankful to see Dean in my group. I laid down immediately, feeling bone-tired and weak from all that happened and the long distances I had traveled. I heard Dean weeping in the bunk below me. And then, far below us, the screaming started. At first, it came through muffled.

I saw air vents in the room, square grills. at the corners. The sound seemed to come from them. The wailing intensified, the notes of agony and terror growing stronger. What is that? I whispered, not wanting to know the answer. I had a sick feeling in my stomach. My heart was racing. You can't see it? Dean asked. I can. They get locked in concrete rooms. Then the vents start whirring, and the poison comes through. They see their nails turning blue as they pile up into pyramids of bodies, coughing up blood from screaming so loud and so long. Can't you see it? No, I can't, I said. After about 15 or 20 minutes, the intense, agonized wailing began quieting down. One by one, the voices died out like stars winking out at the end of the universe. I fell asleep sometime in the pitch black night.

I dreamed of pyramids of naked corpses with dilated pupils and blue lips. Men in hazmat suits came in, but when they turned to look at me, I realized their suits were fused to their skin, their plastic masks melted to their blood red, grinning skulls. I woke up screaming as something like a tornado siren rang out above me. Bright lights turned on overhead, humming with an incessant tinking sound. I thrashed in my bed, falling off the side of the bunk and length. landing on the floor. The other boys looked at me like I was insane. Dean got out of bed and helped me stand up. We were marched single file back down the hallway. Classrooms opened up

on both sides of us, filled with a mixture of girls and boys. A silent guard with a silver mask pointed us toward a classroom on the right, where a dozen girls sat at tables, their eyes looking tired and haunted. A man stood at the front of the class with strange, blood-red irises. He had a shaved head and a reddish hue to his skin, as if he were at risk of exploding from hypertension at any moment. Sit down, he yelled. Sit down. We don't have much time here. I quickly found a seat at a table with three other boys. On the chalkboard, the man had written, in large, spiky letters, pyrokinesis. My name is Mr. Antimony, and I'm here to teach you little shits about pyrochinesis, he hissed, walking in circles with a manic energy. Most of you

will fail. The art of harnessing the deathless self within the heart and bringing heat from it is a rare one. It has been practiced by Buddhist monks and practitioners of Advaita Vedanta for millennia, along with the other higher arts like telekinesis, mind-reading, and astral projection. A few of you may be worthy enough to realize the source of this power. In the drawers in front of each of you, you will find a variety of objects, cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, paper, and a book titled, The Art of Living Fire written by the ancient seer, Hermes Tres Magistus. In the first class of this bizarre place, we were taught how to heat objects with our hands

until they exploded into flames. The two other boys at our table, Kim, a young Asian kid with magnified glasses, and Tommy, a little, malnourished-looking kid, instantly proved to be adept at the lessons. I hadn't succeeded in lighting even the smallest cottonball when something went horribly wrong in a flash. Kim had succeeded in igniting a Bible on fire when a ball of flames shot out of his hands, causing the bottle of alcohol to erupt. It melted in an instant, dripping a blue inferno over the table.

It soaked into Kim's shirt and pants, and the red flames that emanated from his hands exploded. He screamed, running in circles as his skin blackened and dripped. I saw his eyes melting out of his head. He fell to the floor, and someone grabbed the jacket and tried to smother the flames, but it simply ignited. The student dropped the jacket, backing away from the screaming, writhing body. on the floor. During the next few weeks, we continued to learn that the nightmarish classes of Stonehole. Regular casualties occurred, and deaths frequently happened during accidents. Yet these deaths did not go towards the quota that would be enforced in another week.

Another 10% of the class would die, and this time, they said the tests would include practical demonstrations of powers that would be ruled by a team of judges. We need to get out of here, Dean whispered one night. Tommy lay at the next bunk over, his small face looking pinched and mousy in the dark. They're going to start the executions again soon, he said. The path to the concrete rooms down below, the path to the gas chambers, Dean agreed. We need to find a way to break out and tell the world about this place. All of us had grown exponentially in the last few weeks, our latent abilities coming to fruition

under the constant watchful eyes of the teachers. Why don't you use your precognitive abilities to see a way out? I asked Dean. There has to be weak spots. Maybe we can kill the guards and take their suits. If we had the masks on, we're too small, Tommy said. I shook my head. You're too small, I said.

Dean and I might be able to pass. Not all the guards are tall, after all, what if you're? the students rebelled. Tommy asked. Maybe we could ask around, see if other kids want to fight back and try to escape. If all of us attacked them at once, they have precognitive abilities, too, Dean said. They're going to see the most likely paths just like I can. At least the ones at the top, and a few of the teachers, so it comes down to my plan, I think, I said. And we don't know who we can trust. The three of us could probably kill and overpower a guard. What do you think? They killed my parents and kidnapped me,

Tommy spat with venom. I would love to see some of these fuckers dead. I hope it doesn't come to that, but I think it might, Dean said, and then everything went quiet. On the day before the scheduled test, Tommy came running up to mean Dean after the class on assassination techniques had finished. His scarecrow thin face shone with a wide grin. I had never seen him so excited. I think I found a way out, he said. He looked around furtively, making sure no one else stood close enough to here. Do you guys remember the day you came in here? I nodded. How could I forget? I got dropped off by two agents, I said. They claimed they were from some non-existent government agency called the cleaners. I came on the cattle cars, Tommy said, frowning at the memory. Well, they drop off

more kids out there every day. They need constant fresh meat for the tests, after all. There are guards all over the place, and cars out there. We need to find a weak spot in the guards' defense, I said, where we can overpower a couple of them and kill them and steal their uniforms. After that, you think we could just walk out of here. The medical ward usually isn't heavily guarded, Dean said. We need to do it tonight, though. This is the last chance. We made it sound so easy, but in reality, I knew it would be an almost impossible task. The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Before I knew it, the classes had finished, and we were being led back to the chambers.

We waited in the darkness, whispering so the other boys wouldn't hear our plans. When 3 a.m. rolled around, Dean indicated it was time to go. The hallways outside are empty, he whispered. We need to move now, as quickly, and quickly. quietly as we can. I saw his pupils constricting and expanding rapidly, as they always did when he tried to tap into the multiverse of possibilities. I wondered what it looked like, staring up into the beehive of realities. Despite his attempts to help me learn some pre-cog abilities, I had failed in every attempt so far. Whether day or night, the hallways always looked the same,

windowless, with every inch of them illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Dean lead us successfully down turn after turn. I heard the guard steps missing us by mere seconds. Afraid to even breathe too loud, we made our way towards the medical ward. Are you guys ready? Dean whispered. Using his abilities seemed to take a toll on him. His face looked pale and sweaty, his dilated pupils gleaming manically.

We need to fight. There are two guards up ahead. Fuck, Tommy whispered back. I can't believe we're doing this. They're going to murder us if we don't, maybe, I said. We have to kill them first. Hey, stop right there, a guard exclaimed abruptly, coming around the corner. He had an automatic rifle slung around his shoulder.

I froze like a deer in the headlights, staring dumbly at the guard. Luckily, Tommy went into action immediately, running at the guard before he could aim his gun. Tommy raised his small hands, causing a swirling vortex of flame to erupt from his hands. With lightning-fast reflexes, the guard grabbed his rifle as Tommy's hands wrapped around his bare throat. There was a flash as the rifle fired. At the same moment, the skin on the guard's neck started to drip and blacken. There was an echoing of pain screams as my ears rang. Another guard came around the corner seconds later, aiming his rifle at Dean's head.

Dean shot a flash of blue lightning from the tips of his fingers, using his telekinetic powers to send the rifle flying upwards. The bullet smashed harmlessly into the ceiling, causing dust and debris to rain down on our heads. Tommy fell on the guard's body, a torrent of blood pumping from the massive hole in his chest. I ran at the second guard, a flash of blue light sparking from my fingertips and sending him sprawling backwards. He grabbed his rifle, blindly in the direction of me and Dean. I heard bullets whizzing past my head, missing my brain by inches. I'm hit. Dean screamed. I looked back, seeing a ragged hole eaten into his right shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound in time with his heartbeat. Tommy had stopped

moving as he lay on the writhing body of the other guard. The flame spread down his body. He He kicked and clenched with all of his strength, looking like a poisoned hornet twisting on the floor. I knew I was alone now. Focusing on the spinning vortex of energy within my heart, I tried to bring out the fire I had never succeeded in creating before. The guard lay stunned for a moment, but I knew he would rapidly recover. I leapt forward, putting my hands around his throat.

I felt something freezing cold running through my blood, but when it emerged from my skin, grew burning hot. An acrid smell like ozone and burning metal surrounded me, pouring off my feverish skin. The guard screamed as his throat melted. His gurgling grew low and distorted. I felt his windpipe collapsing under the heat and assault. Breathing heavily, I looked around, expecting to see a platoon of guards running in. Someone must have heard all the gunshots and screaming. Dean's eyes had started to roll up in his head by this point. I crawled over to him, slapping his face. Stay with me, man, I whispered. Rapidly, his lips took on a bluish cast. His paleness grew vampiric, his skin chalk white. I knew it was useless. I got up, feeling dissociated and unreal.

I looked around, seeing an empty, dark room down the hall. It was one of the rooms for the medical ward, filled with unoccupied beds and equipment. With a rush of adrenaline, I leaned down, dragging the body of the guard I had killed over to the room. At first, his body seemed too heavy, impossibly heavy, but my telekinetic powers came rushing out. I felt drained from using my powers so much, and I hoped that, soon, I could rest. I rapidly stripped the guard of his military gear and silver mask. Underneath, I saw a young man, probably in his early twenties. He had a soft, childlike face. He seemed on the border of life and death as his gurgling breaths came slower and shallower. I wondered how such cruelty could hide behind such a mundane exterior. It took me a few

minutes to change, breathing heavily in the dark. The gear all felt far too large on me, especially the boots. I saw a nearby medical closet with linen, slip-proof socks and hospital gowns. I put on pair after pair after socks until I could walk in the black boots. The gear smelt of burnt flesh and blood, with drops of blackened gore still staining the bulletproof vest and tactical vests. I put on the mask, whispering a few words. The built-in voice distortion system caused them to come out low and predatory, like the hissing of snake. Stay with me, man, I whispered, feeling the echoes of past atrocities spreading around me. Stay with me. I slowly opened the door, looking both ways but seeing no one.

Close by, I heard heavy footsteps rushing in our direction. I came around the corner as a dozen guards ran up with rifles. The one in front froze, holding his gun with practiced ease. I stared into the unreadable silver face, wondering if this was the end. I found two boys dead, I said. Some guards, too, we heard gunshots, he responded. I nodded, pointing behind me at the pools of blood and the broken bodies laying strewn about like garbage. It looks like a couple kids attacked some guards, I said. I was just about to go report it and call for backup.

Go get the principal, he hissed. We'll secure the area. Gratefully, I crept past the still, eerie figures of the soldiers, unable to believe my luck. I made my way outside, hearing panicked screaming and pain sobs. A new round of kids stood next to the cattle cars of the train under a cloudy, black sky. A thin layer of cracked ice covered the ground. Seeing these kids beaten and pushed forward brought back horrifying memories of my first night here. Looking around, it grew worse when I saw the black SUV of Keller and Vlad.

It stood empty, the engine running. In the line of kids, I glimpsed their two pale faces dragging two girls toward the hallway. Blending in with the crowd of guards, I quickly made my way over to the SUV and got inside. Without hesitation, I put it in drive and slowly started pulling away. No one had noticed anything yet in the chaos of the moment. In the parking lot, I saw dozens of other similar SUVs used by Stonehall for trafficking kids. I hoped I could blend in and get out before anyone raised the alarm. I pulled slowly up to the main gate, my heart twitching like a trapped rabbit.

The iron mask of the guard revealed nothing as I rolled down the window. He held his rifle tightly in his hands. Through the eye holes, I saw two red irises staring out. Identification, the distorted voice said. Even through the distortion, I could hear the boredom in his voice. I checked the pockets of the dead man's uniform, finding a wallet. I pulled it out, flipping it open and showing the silver badge in the center. The guard nodded, moving back to the guardhouse.

The gate slowly started ambling to the side. Wait. Stop him, a voice shrieked from behind me. In utter panic, I glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Vlad and Keller heading in my direction, sprinting blindly toward the SUV. Fuck! I shouted, slamming the gear shift into drive and accelerating rapidly. The tires spun on the ice for a long, heart-stopping moment.

The guard ran out of the guardhouse, raising his rifle at the SUV. Then the car took off in a flash as the tires caught, sending me flying through the open. gate. I accelerated at dangerous speeds down the slick slope of the Alaskan Mountains, leaving Stonehall behind. A few minutes later, a voice came over a radio next to the steering wheel. I recognized the voice of Keller. Gostin, stop. This was all a test, and you passed. You escaped from Stonehall, he said urgently. You were the only one in the last five years to successfully get out. Your training is done. We'd like to offer you a job. I glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing cars far behind me. A few black SUVs flew out of the gate, looking as small as fruit flies.

Swearing, I accelerated as fast as I could, fearing I would skid right off the road. After making it to the bottom of the mountain, the road split off into four directions. I saw thick forests to the left and right. Nervously, I pulled right and sped around the corner, nearly sliding into a tree. I looked in the rearview mirror again, but I didn't see my pursuers. I pulled over, abandoning the car and fleeing that place of horrors. I walked for days before I found a small town where I managed to blend in. But I still feel hunted to this day. Have you ever had one of those experiences that leave you scratching your head, wondering what just happened? Maybe you've seen something you can't explain, heard a sound that made your skin crawl, or even felt a

presence in an otherwise empty room. Over the years, I've collected my fair share of spooky stories, and no, I'm not saying their proof of ghosts, cryptids, or anything supernatural. But boy, they sure make you think. So grab a cozy seat and get ready for a long, strange journey through the bizarre tales I've heard and lived. The lady in the empty room, it all started one ordinary afternoon at work. I was strolling through the building, minding my own business, when I passed by a room with a window in the door. Out of pure habit, I glanced through it. And that's when I saw her, a woman standing alone in the room.

Nothing too weird, right? Except for one tiny detail, there were only three people in the building that day, me and two others, both of whom were right behind me in the office. I took a few more steps before the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Wait a minute. Who was that? I turned on my heels and rushed back to the door, heart racing. But by the time I got there, the room was empty.

The only thing staring back at me through the window was my own dumbfounded reflection. Of course, I had to check. I opened the door, expecting. I don't know what. Maybe a prank. But no, there was no one inside. Just the eerie silence of an empty room. Later that week, a co-worker shared her own unsettling encounter.

She'd been working in the office next to that same room when she noticed the shadow of the door on the floor. It slowly opened and closed, on its own. She swore up and down that she was the only person in the building at the time and refused to go check it out. By the time I arrived an hour later, the door was locked tight. This wasn't an isolated thing either. Over the three years I worked there, everyone had their own creepy story.

Disembodied voices in empty rooms, strange noises that came from nowhere, and a general sense that you were never truly alone. One time, we were sitting in the office when we heard heavy breathing in a corner where nobody was standing. Another favorite of mine. The time my manager, a hardcore skeptic, decided to challenge whatever was haunting the place.

She laughed at our stories, waved them off as nonsense, and then, with all the confidence in the world, declared, if something's here, prove it. Big mistake. Seconds later, we heard a loud crash from the hallway. After some cautious investigating, we found a book that had flown off a shelf near the main door and landed halfway down

the corridor. Needless to say, the manager stopped laughing after that. In fact, she resigned not long after. Coincidence? Maybe. But she never brought up that day again. The island encounter, fast forward to my teenage years. I was about 16 or 17, and as one of the older members of our scout troop, I got a little more freedom on trips. One summer, we headed to Indian Lake, gorgeous state park in upstate New York. The campgrounds were scattered across islands in the lake, accessible only by boat. Cool, right? When we arrived, we realized one of the sites was on a completely separate island from the others. Naturally, my two friends and I volunteered to claim it as our own. Adventure, independence, and a little peace and quiet. Sign us up. The adults helped

us ferry our gear over in canoes, and after a quick check of the island, we confirmed it was just us, no other campers around. That night, we built a fire, grilled some burgers, and kicked back under the stars. Life was good. Then came the growling. Out of nowhere, we heard deep, guttural growls and sharp barking coming from the trees. My buddy John froze on the spot, he's terrified of dogs, while Paul and I tried to locate the source of the noise. It was hard to see anything through the dense shadows, and honestly, we were too scared to shine our flashlights. For what It felt like an eternity, we just sat there, hearts pounding, as the growling continued. Eventually, the noises stopped, and whatever it was disappeared into the forest.

We waited another fifteen minutes, just to be safe, before retreating to our tent. Let's just say none of us slept well that night. The next morning, we scoured the island for tracks or any sign of the mysterious animal. We found nothing. No paw prints, no broken branches, no campers with an off-leash dog. silence and a lingering sense of unease. The Phantom Passenger. This next story didn't happen to me, but it's one of my favorites. My grandmother swears it's true, and honestly, who am I to doubt her? It happened back when my mom and her siblings were just kids. My grandma was

traveling with all four of them, three hyperactive children and a baby, on a plane. As you can imagine, it was pure chaos. At some point during the flight, a man seated behind my grandmother offered to help. He handed my mom and her siblings coloring books and toys, entertaining them while my grandma finally got a moment to breathe. She said he had a kind smile and a calming presence, like he knew exactly how to handle frazzled parents. When the plane landed, my grandma wanted to introduce him to my grandpa and thank him properly. She waited by the exit, scanning the faces of every passenger. But he never came out. Confused, she asked a flight attendant if the man was still on board. The attendant checked

the manifest and gave her a puzzled look. Ma'am, there's no one by that name on this flight. To this day, my grandma believes he was some kind of guardian angel sent to help her in a moment of need. Who knows? Maybe she's right. The UFO sighting. Let's talk UFOs for a second.

I'll admit, I'm not much of a believer, but something happened back in the mid-90s that still gives me chills. It was spring, either 1994 or 1995, and I was hanging out in my bedroom, chatting on the phone with a friend. From my window, I had a clear view of the field across the road. That's when I saw it, an oval-shaped object glowing a yellow-orange hue, hovering low over the field. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe a helicopter.

But it didn't make any noise, and its movements were too smooth. My friend and I called the local airport to see if they had any aircraft in the area. They didn't. After a few minutes, the object drifted eastward and disappeared from view. The next day at school, I wasn't the only one talking about. about it. Turns out, plenty of kids, and their families, had seen the same thing. To this day, I have no idea what it was. The creepy apartment, a few years ago, my mom kept an apartment she wasn't living in full time. I stayed there occasionally, and let me tell you, weird stuff

happened all the time. The door to my bedroom would open and close on its own, sometimes slowly, other times with a loud slam. The doorknob would jiggle as if someone was trying to get in. I'd double-checked the windows, thinking maybe it was a draft, but nope, everything was sealed tight. One night, while video chatting with a friend, the couch I was sitting on shifted slightly. Another time, my lamp started flickering, not the random kind of flicker you get with bad wiring, but deliberate on and off flashes. And it wasn't just me. Friends who visited witnessed it too. Eventually, the activity stopped, and the apartment went back to being normal. But for a while, it felt like I was living in a bad horror movie. The Shapeshifter. Here's a story I'll never forget.

My mom, sister, and I were staying at a Native American casino when we encountered, something. My sister and I were swimming in the pool while my mom relaxed nearby. A pale, freckled woman with striking yellow eyes entered the area, fully clothed in jeans and a sweater. She started pacing around the pool, watching us. My mom noticed her strange behavior and told us to get out. The woman struck up a conversation with my mom, asking bizarre questions about my sister's hair and whether it would grow back if cut.

Then she wandered into the restroom. Fifteen minutes passed, and she never came out. A pool attendant checked the restroom and found nothing but a couple of matchboxes. Just as we were packing up to leave, the woman reappeared, walking out as if nothing had happened. We decided to leave the casino altogether. As we drove away, a dark brown dog with the same

yellow eyes appeared in the road, staring directly at us. It was unsettling, to say the least. Childhood shadows, growing up, my childhood home always felt, off. It wasn't particularly old, but strange things happened there. Shadows darted across the hallway, always in the corner of your eye. The guest bedroom, in particular, gave everyone the creeps. We kept the door closed at all times. One night, my sister woke me up, claiming she'd heard a little girl crying outside our window. I thought she was imagining things, until I heard it too. The next morning, we asked our younger brother if he'd been crying during the night. He hadn't. Whatever we heard, it wasn't coming from inside the house. So, do I believe in ghosts, cryptids, or UFOs? Not exactly.

But these stories, both my own and those shared by others, remain mysteries I can't quite explain. They're the kind of tales that make you wonder what's really out there. And who knows? And who knows? Maybe the truth is stranger than we think. We asked him, but he denied it was him. We asked him about it, but he just shook his head and denied it was him. He thought maybe it was us crying, but we were on the other side of the house. And, of course, my parents didn't hear a thing. That's the kind of house I grew up in, an old, creaky home full of noises and mysteries

that we could never quite explain. My family had its share of strange encounters beyond the usual thumps, creaks, and whispered sounds. Let me tell you about some of the weirdest moments that still give me chills. The sliding glass, my brother and I were teenagers, just sitting in the kitchen having dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary. There was a glass of water on the counter near us. We were chatting when suddenly we heard a noise, soft but distinct, right where the glass was. Both of us turned to look, and we swear we saw it move, just a few inches, all on its own.

We weren't touching the counter, and there was no wind, no shaking, it just moved. At first, we thought maybe it was a trick of the eye. But as we stared at it and argued over what we just seen, something even creepier happened. From the direction of the front door, we heard it open and slam shut, clear as day. I immediately called out to my brother, but there was no response. Then I noticed a shadow move across the kitchen, headed down the hallway. Naturally, I assumed it was him ignoring me, so I followed it, calling his name. name louder each time. The shadow turned another corner and entered his bedroom, shutting the door

behind it. By now, I was yelling at him, frustrated and ready to lecture him about how we hadn't seen each other in weeks and he was already acting like a jerk. When I flung open the bedroom door, though, the room was completely empty. The whole house was empty. That was when it hit me, I wasn't following my brother. I was following something else entirely. Grandpa's story of the haunted road. My grandpa grew up in a very rural area, think forests, fields, and dirt roads as far as the eye could see. This was back in the 1940s and 50s, so you can imagine how isolated his hometown was. Every morning, he'd walked to school in the pitch dark, especially during the winter months. On his way, he passed by an enormous, old, abandoned house. It was the kind of place you'd expect

to see in a ghost story, windows dark, shutters broken, the whole vibeery. But what made this house truly strange was the light. Every morning, without fail, the entire house would light up as if someone inside had flipped on all the switches at once. Keep in mind, this was long before fancy automatic lighting systems were a thing, and the house didn't even have a power source connected to it, at least not officially. What made it even more bizarre was that no one lived there. It was just an empty, decrepit building that somehow lit up like a Christmas tree every single morning. Grandpa swore by this story until the day he died. The mysterious fisherman, here's a story my dad told me about his childhood. It was one of those periods when

his family was struggling financially. My grandparents had to get creative to put food on the table, which often meant fishing at a nearby lake. One day, while they were fishing, this man appeared out of nowhere with a tiny tackle box. He set up shop right next to them and started fishing like a pro. My grandpa always emphasized how small the man's tackle box was, almost comically so. But here's the wild part, the man pulled out an endless supply of gear, hooks, bait, even a cutting board and a knife, from that little box. It was like watching magic. Within minutes, he'd caught a ton of fish, cleaned them expertly, and packed them into a large container he seemingly pulled from thin air. Then, without a word, he handed the container to my

grandpa and walked away. To this day, my family believes the man was Jesus. Maybe it's just a comforting thought, but three people swear they saw the exact same thing. Ghosts on the phone, when I was 13, something happened that I still can't explain. I came home early from school that day, which was unusual for me because I usually walked, but this time, I'd taken the bus. No one else was home, so I had the house to myself. I made a snack, planning to take a nap afterward. That's when the phone started ringing.

I answered, but there was no sound on the other end. Weird, but whatever. I hung up. Then it rang again. And again. Every time, I'd pick up, and there'd be nothing but silence. This went on for about twenty minutes until, finally, I was fed up. I answered one last time, ready to yell at whoever was playing games. This time, though, there was sound. A woman sobbing quietly. Then, behind the sobs, I heard laughter, this cold, metallic, inhuman laughter. It was like nothing I'd ever heard before. When I asked, can I help you, the woman started screaming in some language I didn't understand.

Then the line went dead. Shaken, I checked the call log to see who'd been calling me, but there was nothing there. No missed calls, no incoming calls, nothing. I reported it to the police, but they couldn't find any record of the calls either. To this day, I have no idea what happened. The next incident happened when I was about 14 years old. It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons when everyone in the family seemed to have disappeared into their own corners of the house.

I was sitting in the living room, enjoying some snacks and casually flipping through channels on the TV, when I suddenly heard what sounded like footsteps upstairs. At first, I dismissed it, thinking it might just be the creaks and groans of an old house. But as the sound persisted, my curiosity got the better of me. I called out, Mom. Dad? Is someone up there? No response.

The footsteps continued, slow and deliberate, as if someone was was pacing back and forth. I started feeling uneasy, but I told myself it was probably just my overactive imagination. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Eventually, I worked up the courage to go upstairs and check it out. As I reached the top of the stairs, the air felt colder, almost as if I had stepped into another dimension. I turned toward the hallway and froze. The footsteps had stopped, but the hallway was empty. Just as I was about to turn around, I saw a shadow dart into one of the rooms. My heart raced as I slowly approached the room, thinking perhaps it was my brother playing a

prank on me. All right, you got me, I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. I pushed the door open, expecting to see him, but the room was completely empty. My stomach dropped. I could still feel the presence of someone, or something, watching me. I bolted downstairs, locking myself in the living room until my family came back home. When I told them what had happened, they tried to reassure me, saying it was probably just the house settling.

But deep down, I knew what I'd experienced wasn't normal. Another strange occurrence happened years later when I was in college. I had rented an off-campus apartment with two of my closest friends. It was a modest place, nothing fancy, but it had a certain charm. Or at least, that's what we thought when we first moved in. About a month into our lease, we started noticing odd things happening around the apartment. For instance, the bathroom door would often swing open by itself, even if it had been securely latched. At first, we blamed it on faulty hinges or drafts, but then more peculiar things started happening.

One night, while we were all watching a movie, we heard the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen. We rushed in, expecting to find a broken dish or glass, but everything was perfectly intact. No signs of anything being out of place. The most unnerving event happened to my roommate, Sarah. She had been studying late one night and fell asleep on the couch. Around 3 a.m., she was jolted awake by the feeling of someone stroking her hair. Thinking it was one of us, she groggily muttered, stop it, I'm trying to sleep. But when she opened her eyes, there was no one there.

She screamed, waking everyone in the apartment. When we turned on the lights, we saw that the cushions on the couch where she'd been sleeping had deep, inexplicable indentations, as if someone had been sitting right beside her. Needless to say, we didn't stay in that apartment for much longer. Fast forward a few years, and I was now married and living with my spouse in a cozy little home on the outskirts of town. Life was peaceful, for the most part, until one particular night that neither of us will ever forget.

It was a stormy evening, and we were curled up on the couch, watching the rain lash against the windows. Suddenly, there was a loud bang that seemed to come from the basement. My partner and I exchanged nervous glances before grabbing a flashlight and heading downstairs to investigate. As we descended the stairs, the air grew colder, and the musty smell of the basement seemed more pronounced than usual. We scanned the room with the flashlight, but everything appeared to be in order.

Just as we were about to head back upstairs, we heard it, a faint, raspy whisper. It sounded like it was coming from the far corner of the basement. Is someone there, my partner called out, their voice trembling. The whispering stopped, but then the flashlight flickered and went out. We were plunged into darkness, with only the sound of our ragged breathing filling the silence. I fumbled for my phone to turn on the flashlight, but just as the light illuminated the room, we saw a figure standing in the corner. It was tall and shadowy, with no discernible features, just a pair of glowing red eyes that

seemed to pierce through us. We bolted up the stairs, slamming the basement door behind us. We never found a logical explanation for what we saw that night, but we made sure. sure to keep the basement door locked from then on. One final story that still gives me chills happened during a camping trip with some friends. We had ventured deep into the woods, far from any towns or cell service. It was supposed to be a fun weekend of hiking and roasting marshmallows by the fire. The first night went smoothly, but on the second night, things took a sinister turn. We were sitting around the campfire, sharing ghost stories,

when we heard a rustling sound coming from the woods. At first, we thought it might be a deer or some other animal, but the rustling grew louder and closer. One of my friends shone their flashlight into the trees, and for a brief moment, we saw a pair of eyes reflecting the light. They were much too high off the ground to belong to any animal we knew. Then, the most bone-chilling sound I've ever heard echoed through the woods. It was a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the very ground we were sitting on. We scrambled to extinguish the fire, hoping to avoid drawing any more attention to ourselves.

We spent the rest of the night huddled together in the tent, too afraid to sleep. By the time morning came, we packed up and left without saying a word. To this day, none of us can agree on what we saw or heard that night, but we all know one thing for sure, we'll never go camping in those woods again. In the eerie glow of the dimly lit cell, a woman clutched the iron bars tightly, her voice steady as she began to repeat, word for word, the conversation that had taken place on King James V.I's wedding night with and of Denmark. Shocked, the king believed he'd found undeniable proof of her witchcraft.

Convinced that a dark power was at work, he demanded that the Inquisitors provide him with written confessions of all those accused of witchcraft who were awaiting execution. Hello everyone, and welcome back to my spine-chilling library. In case you're new here, let me introduce myself. I'm E.N. C. Flip Fischer, and whenever I can, I bring you the most shocking mysteries of history. Today, we're diving into one of Scotland's darkest moments, between 1590 and 1590. a series of which trials took place in the south of Scotland. In these trials, both nobles and commoners were accused and convicted of witchcraft.

Out of 70 people charged, most were found guilty in sentenced to burn at the stake. This notorious event in Scottish history came to be known as the North Barrack Witch Trials. So, what happened to bring so many people before the court? And why did witchcraft fever sweep the land at that particular moment? Let's dig in and find out. This story begins with King James the 6th of Scotland, who was also James the first of England. Born on June 19, 1567, James was the first monarch to rule over both England and Scotland simultaneously, a fact that didn't sit well with everyone, especially in England, where he wasn't

particularly popular. But in Scotland, he was widely respected. James' life was filled with conspiracies, unresolved murders, and mysteries from the very start. He was the only child of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Lord Darnley, the Duke of Albany. Their relationship was far from stable, both had extramarital affairs and led separate lives. However, these issues were kept under wraps from the general public. On February 10, 1567, when the Duke and his lover were murdered, suspicions erupted. At first, people whispered that the murderer might have been James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. But when he married the newly widowed queen just months later, all of Scotland grew suspicious,

pointing fingers not only at him but at Mary, too. In June of that year, a group of Protestant rebels arrested Mary, accusing her of treason, and imprisoned her in Loch Lavin Castle. With few options left, she was forced to advocate in favor of her infant son, James the 6th, who was just 13 months old at the time. But putting such a young child on the throne meant a series of regents would rule until he was of age, and this led to what many called the curse of the regents. Each regent who stepped up to the role met a mysterious or violent end.

The first to fall was the Earl of Moray, who was assassinated. Next was the Earl of Lennox, who suffered a fatal injury from a group of Catholics. Then came the Earl of Mar, who died under suspicious circumstances, and so the list continued until the Earl of Morton. Morton tried something unusual, he wanted to directly train young James to handle the affairs of the kingdom and manage conflicts among the nobility. But this was not a popular idea among the nobles, who preferred a king they could easily influence. So, Morton was accused of involvement in the plot to murder the Duke of Albany, imprisoned, judged, and ultimately executed.

There are many interesting aspects of James VI's life, but what interests us today is his obsession with the supernatural and his intense fear of the occult. Known to be an intelligent and literary-minded king, James was also incredibly insecure, fearful, and plagued by paranoia. This paranoia, combined with a life filled with conspiracies and death, made him a deeply distrustful man. It was rumored he even wore iron plates under his clothes to avoid being stabbed. People also whispered that James wasn't interested in women, preferring the company of men, though he did eventually marry for political reasons. When his mother died in 1587, James' advisors urged him to find a wife to secure his lineage and strengthen his position. The chosen bride was N of Denmark, the 14-year-old daughter of King Frederick 2 of Denmark. In 1589, and married James by proxy and set sail for Scotland.

Though the journey began smoothly, a violent storm struck halfway, nearly sinking the ship. The sailors managed to guide the vessel to Norway shores, where they waited for the weather to improve. Eventually, the decision was made that and would delay her journey until spring. Unable to wait, James assembled a party of 300 men in travel. to Norway himself. Their journey went without incident, and upon reuniting James N. and married in Oslo on November 23rd. They spent an extended honeymoon there, only returning to Scotland in May 1590. But they didn't come alone, they brought with them a renewed zeal for hunting witches.

While in Denmark, James had witnessed which trials firsthand and learned of the local people's fears of evil spirits and demonic powers. In Denmark, tales of witchcraft, curses, and demonic packs were common, and which executions were an everyday affair. Shortly after James's arrival, he found himself in the middle of a dispute among sailors. The Danish admiral, under scrutiny after the royal ship had been battered by the storm, accused a group of witches who, he claimed, had conspired to summon the deadly winds. One suspect, a woman named Karen the Weaver, was arrested and tortured until she confessed to attending a witch's coven. Under severe pain, she named twelve other women as accomplices, including one in Calding, who was accused of leading

the plot. And, two, was arrested and subjected to torture. She confessed to bewitching the ship carrying in of Denmark to Scotland, claiming the coven had used demons to ensure the storm. The terror she stirred up led to widespread accusations and multiple arrests, as Denmark found itself in a witch-hunting frenzy. Upon returning to Scotland, James VI was thoroughly convinced of the threat posed by witches and established a tribunal dedicated to eradicating them. Among the first to be targeted was a young woman named Gailas Duncan, a figure familiar to fans of Outlander. By all accounts, Gailas was a lively and charming young woman, single, but with many suitors

due to her good looks and friendly nature. She found work as a servant in the home of the Sheriff of Tranent, a small town near Edinburgh. The sheriff had no complaints about her until, suddenly, she began acting oddly, disappearing each night and returning only at sunrise. Rumors spread, noting that she also had an unusual knowledge of medicinal herbs, and locals would often approach her for remedies for ailments like headaches or stomach aches. Amazingly, those who sought her help would often feel better by the next day.

The sheriff, who was aware of the period's writings on witchcraft, grew suspicious. In those days, it was thought that women who roamed at night were likely meeting with the devil. Convinced that gilis was a witch, the sheriff denounced her, overseeing her torture personally and without mercy. Under torture, Giles finally cracked, naming others who she claimed were part of the plot against N of Denmark. This confession led to the infamous North Barrack which trials, but Gailas's ordeal was only the beginning. In those days which trials often involve bizarre tests to determine guilt. One of these, the water test, involved submerging the accused, if they floated, they were deemed a witch. Giles was subjected to another

foolproof test, the witch's mark test, in which any birthmark, mole, or scar was considered that devil's mark, supposedly proving allegiance to Satan. Gilles was found to have a birthmark, which was enough to seal her fate. Broken and exhausted, Gailas confessed everything her interrogators wanted to hear. She admitted to being part of a coven, having sold her soul, and plotting against the Danish Queen's life. Under her torment, she also named around 70 others, ranging from healers and respected townsfolk

to a university professor, John Fion, who would go on to make one of the most chilling confession of the trials. Fian, claiming to be a powerful warlock, admitted to participating in black masses and leading a coven. The stories he told sent shivers down the spines of the Scottish people and reinforced the notion that a vast conspiracy of witches was plotting against the realm. The North Baroque trials continued for over a year, resulting in the execution of numerous people by burning. These events were so shocking that they were recorded in a pamphlet called News from Scotland, which detailed the accused and their alleged crimes. The pamphlet made its way throughout England and Scotland, intensifying the fear of witchcraft. The trial sparked

new legends and myths, which remained part of Scotland's folklore even today. Some say the spirits of those executed still haunt the ruins of Edinburgh Castle, where many were burned alive. King James VI himself attended many of the North Barrett trials. Initially skeptical, he changed his mind after speaking to Agnes Sampson, a healer accused of witchcraft, who recounted a private conversation between James and on their wedding night, a feat James believed only a witch could accomplish. Shocked, he ordered a thorough documentation of the trials, eventually leading to the publication of news from Scotland. In 1597, James even wrote a book on the subject, demonology, cementing his place as one of

the most famous witch hunters of his time. Though the North Berwick which trials are now a haunting chapter in history, they serve as a reminder of the dangers of unchecked fear and the terrible power of superstition. 1435, Dowwell Road. New Fort, Brandon. Was the address of Thomas Gillian's new home. Thomas peered out his car window, eyes fixed on the house. It was the oldest house on the block, but it had been well kept.

The cedarwood walls looked intact, and it had a large balcony with a beautiful view of the neighborhood. Now, why is a place like this left abandoned? Thomas thought to himself, while not paying attention. A child on a bike dashed in front of his car. Thomas, surprised, slammed on the brake stopping just inches before the child. I am so sorry. Thomas explained stepping out of the car to see if the child was okay.

Do not worry. The child replied with a strange voice. One day, I dream of being hit by a car. It's one of my goals in this life. Thomas stood there, perplexed by the child's strange reply. Um, hi. I'm Thomas." He explained after an awkward pause.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Thomas. I am James. Nice to meet you, James, Thomas replied. Are you the one who's moving into Michael? James asked. Michael. Who is Michael? Thomas replied awkwardly.

Oh, my bad Mr. Thomas, that's the nickname we gave this old house here. James said pointing to 1435. Oh, yes I am the one. Thomas replied, do you live around here then? Yes. My family lives just across the way. Want to come over and visit? Currently, I am teaching my pet rat how to swim.

James smiled. Um, no thanks. Thomas awkwardly replied. I've got to go unpack. Very well. James added. Good luck. I'll go tell my dad we have new neighbors.

He will be delighted to find someone's moving into old Michael again. James said before running off, um, thanks. Thomas replied turning toward the house. The door creaked open revealing what reminded Thomas of an ancient tomb full of old artifacts. I thought they said this house would be clear when I got the keys. He muttered looking at the assortment of old things lying around. He placed his boxes on the floor and began to walk around. There were old wood floors, and an island kitchen strangely placed in the middle of the main floor, walking into the large living room, a plethora of boxes sat stacked by the walls. Curious, Thomas walked over to one and picked out an old newspaper.

The date read September 6, 1969. Upon removing the newspaper a cloud of dust filled the room, causing Thomas to cough loudly. The dust seemed to linger, it was so thick it almost completely impaired his vision. Well, Thomas set out loud coughing, still can't beat the price. This old house is definitely an interesting relic, he laughed. Putting the newspaper down, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. There was a long hallway, with bedrooms on both sides. Upstairs, too, was full of boxes and old things laying around.

He walked into the first room to the left and peered around the narrow doorway. The room felt colder than all the other rooms. A chill ran up his spine as he felt something brush past him directly behind him. His hair stood up and he quickly turned, only to find nothing there. Okay, that's a bit, creepy, Thomas said to himself before turning. back around. Just then, a tall man banged and jumped his way out of the next room down the hall. Aha. I almost caught you that time. He yelled. Thomas peered his head out the doorway to see a tall man, with a brown coat, and a fur hood standing before him. Um, what on earth are you

doing in my home? Thomas demanded. Relax, child. The man smiled. I was not aware anyone had bought Michael. That still doesn't answer what you were doing in the next room, Thomas replied. Do you want to know the truth? The man whispered with shifty eyes. Yes. Yes, I do. Thomas replied trying to stay calm amidst the company of the odd man. I am a paranormal investigator. The man yelled. Thomas plugged his ears. Could you be a little quieter, Mr. Investigator? Sorry, trying to make it more dramatic. The man smiled. Now, I don't want to scare you but, I am looking out for, Shadow People. People say this place is full of them. The man replied, Shadow People. The realtor never said anything about

shadow people. Thomas replied, He should have. The man replied back taking out a flashlight despite it being daytime and shining it around the hall. What realtor did you use? The man added, Does it matter? Thomas asked. The man stopped. Turned off his flashlight and turned around. Yes. Haven't you ever seen those commercials? Thomas awkwardly paused before replying, Okay, mister, I would like to continue to talk, but, I have to move in and cleaning to do.

So could you please save your investigation for another time? The man begrudgingly accepted and walked down the hall, quickly running down the stairs. I've got a lot of cleaning to do. Thomas sighed. He picked up an old box full of old shoes and put them off to the side. aside. This will be the garbage pile. Thomas thought to himself. Quickly, he remembered the fast food he ate that morning as his bowel angrily growled. I should have known better than to go to Taco Bell, he said out loud. He made a quick

dash to the bathroom downstairs. The bathroom was small and had more boxes of things like shoes and clothes. Thomas sat down to release his bowels from the horrors of Taco Bell only to be startled by a loud crashing noise coming from upstairs. Finishing up, he climbed the stairs to find boxes scattered across the bedroom floor. The box of shoes he had put aside had been dumped over. What in the world? He said out loud, puzzled and confused. I bet it was that weird guy again.

He thought to himself. If he doesn't stop bothering me, I'll be phoning the police. Just then, a knock came on the door. Thomas dashed down the stairs he noticed a chill run down his spine again. He opened the door to find the neighbor kid, James, and his dad standing there holding a basket of assorted goods. Hello. The father said with excitement,

Welcome to the neighborhood, I am Richard, and you've already met my son, James. Yes, nice to meet you, Richard, I am Thomas. He replied, Thomas. So good of you to join our neighborhood. Richard said standing there smiling. A strange awkward pause took place, Thomas standing there looking at the two people both smiling in an unsettling manner. Um, Thomas said.

Is there anything else you wanted to say? Oh, yes. Richard replied, This gift basket is for you. It's full of assorted things for your new home. Thomas took the gift basket from Richard, thanks. He replied. The two remained silent as he looked through it, there were a few assorted fruits and oddly enough, a pair of shoes.

What are the shoes for? Thomas asked, puzzled. Oh, are they not enough? Richard replied If you need more we have lots James added Um No thanks

I am good on that I was just curious as to why shoes I mean I have my own There's even plenty in this house I have to get rid of Thomas said Get rid of Richard replied Why get rid of them

You can use them as decorations They would look nice in Michael I don't see what you Never mind. Thomas awkwardly replied. Thanks for the um. Shoes. It is no problem.

Richard replied. Hope you're happy in your new home. Yes. Thanks. Thomas replied turning around to close the door. That evening, Thomas had finished organizing some things in the living room and sat down to crack open a beer after a long day's work and some rather odd neighbors. His cell phone rang. Hello.

Thomas answered taking a sip of his beer. Thomas, how's the new place, a female voice said from the other end. Oh, hey Marcy. Thomas replied. It's okay. But it is definitely odd. Odd? Marcy asked.

What do you mean odd? Well, it's full of old things, they did not clean it like they said they would, I am having to do the cleaning. Also, the neighbors are really weird. Thomas added, I told you that you should have watched that commercial to see what was the right realtor for you, Thomas. Marcy joked. Also, weird neighbors.

You do realize you say that about every neighbor right. They like shoes. Thomas blurted allowing Marcy to barely finish her sentence. Shoes. She asked. Yes, shoes. Even this old house has a bunch of them. Thomas replied.

Well, okay, that is pretty odd. But I mean, maybe they collect them. I don't know. I have seen weirder hobbies trust me. Of course you have. Thomas jokingly replied. But anyway, I hope you are ready for a roommate Thomas. Marcy laughed.

Roommate? What? Thomas replied puzzled. Yep. I didn't get into a college as I hoped. I currently have no other place to stay. Marcy replied. Well, um.

I sort of, wished you'd have said something sooner. I mean. We talked for like. Thomas said getting cut off by Marcy, thanks Thomas see you soon. Thomas sighed hanging up the phone relaxing into a chair with his beer. He slept on the chair that night, two burnt out to continue moving and let alone move in his heavy bed. His watch turned to 6 a.m. where he thought he set an alarm for.

However, his alarm was mistakenly set to 6 p.m. Instead, he was awoken by something different. The sound of paper being moved around from upstairs. Puzzled, he cautiously walked upstairs and peered around the hallway. Nothing. He slowly walked down the hall and looked into the room to the right. Nothing. Just then, a black shadow dashed past behind him.

He did a full turn towards the room he was in the day before and there, rummaging frantically through a box of paper, was the paranormal investigator still wearing his bulky jacket. Excuse me? I thought I told you to do your business elsewhere. Thomas said angrily. The man turned. You don't understand. Someone changed the order of things here.

He frantically replied. I did. Thomas replied, I told you I was cleaning up this place. The man stood up and walked right up to Thomas. You can't just do that. I have everything set up in a specific order for a reason. The man yelled. And what reason is that?

Thomas asked. I. I cannot tell you." The man replied. You wouldn't understand. Well, then I am going to have to get rid of these things. I have been meaning to throw out these boxes of old shoes and clothes. Thomas walked around the man to pick up one of the boxes.

The man swung his hand hitting the box right out of Thomas's hand and back onto the floor. You cannot get rid of the shoes. You'll kill us all. The man screamed. Okay, that's it, Thomas replied. I am phoning the cops and you are being removed from this house. No. Please.

You can't. I am the only hope you have here. The man dramatically said before chuckling a bit and seemingly disappearing into thin air. What the? Thomas said out loud, confused and frightened. Maybe I've been spending too much time in this old house, he thought to himself. I have been overworking myself I should go outside and cool off. A bit shook he put on his jacket and left.

the house. A fall wind had picked up. The strange neighbors waved at him as he walked by. Richard raking leaves as James played in the yard hitting things with sticks he picked up from around the tree. They motioned him to come over. A motion he tried to ignore, but with each motion, they got more and more comical and dramatic till they were flailing their arms around in the air. Thomas reluctantly wandered over to them. Hey, Mr. Thomas. James replied attempting to hit a rat with a stick. Hi, there. Thomas replied.

Richard leaned in, you look a little shook Thomas, are you okay? It's nothing. Thomas replied. Just. Having a long day at the house. I understand. We had many long days in that house too when we lived there. Richard replied.

You used to live there. Thomas said, As he is reminded of the shoes by seeing a pair on their doorstep. Oh. That bizarrely makes sense, Thomas added. Richard chuckled and replied, ha. Yes, we lived there for quite some time. I was born there.

James replied. So, why did you move across the street then? Thomas asked. We just wanted some things of our own. Richard replied. What does that mean? Thomas replied puzzled. Never mind.

Come in, come in. Join us for dinner. Richard said motioning Thomas towards the front door. We're having boiled rat. James replied with a smile. No, we're not having boiled rat. Richard replied jokingly as he pushed Thomas into the house. The house was small and homely, filled with all sorts of oddities.

They sat down at the table and Richard put down plates of greasy-looking meat and rice before sitting down himself. James excitedly stabbed into the meat repeatedly. So, Richard said, Tell us honestly, what do you think of your new house? Thomas looked down at his plate before reluctantly piping up, well, it's meat. Just neat. Richard asked.

I find it creepy, weird, and off-putting. James blurted out his eyes fixed on his plate as he continued to stab it with enthusiasm. Richard tried to shush him. No. I, I get that, Thomas replied. If I am being honest there are some, things that have happened there. Richard put down his fork and stopped eating. James following suit. Oh. He asked. Like what sort of odd things? You guys will think I am crazy. Thomas said

looking up to see their stiff smiling expressions. Then again. Maybe not. He added. Okay well. I saw this guy in there a few times. He claimed to be a paranormal investigator. He was going through some things, and when I tried to get him out the second time. It's, like he vanished. Thomas said, retracting to the comfort of the table seat. Oh, is that all? Richard asked. What do you mean, is that all?

Thomas replied. Thomas, Richard said. There is some strange stuff that goes on there, yes. But the shadow people are not there to harm you. I'm not sure I believe in the supernatural. Thomas said doubtfully. I do, Richard replied. me too. James added.

Trust me, Thomas, Richard said, placing his arm on Thomas's shoulder in an awkward fashion. It could be much worse. Now, Richard continued. Who wants dessert? Is it mice cake? James said excitedly raising his hand. No, James it's not mice cake. Richard replied, I, think I'll call it a night.

Thomas replied heading for the door. That night, after being annoyed by his side, 6 p.m. alarm, Thomas dragged his bed into the house finally and set it up in the lone downstairs bedroom. Laying back on it, he sighed. I don't know if this weird place is right for me. Tired, he quickly fell asleep as the shadow people started to appear in and around the room dashing down the halls and watching Thomas from the doorway. Their eyes glistened with bright white empty sockets, the strange man who claimed to be a private investigator appeared and softly whispered to Thomas, don't worry Thomas, I'll keep you safe from Michael. The next morning, the

AM alarm went off. Thomas, still groggy, crawled out of bed and headed into the kitchen. He pulled his coffee maker out from a box and plugged it into the wall. He turned it on. Just then, a knock came at the door Thomas in his nightclothes walked over to open it. Standing there was Marcy with a bunch of boxes. Morning Thomas. I am ready to move in.

She replied. I didn't think you were serious. Thomas replied. I was. You know me, I am straight to the point." She replied, Look, Marcy, Thomas said. I'd really like to help out but I don't know if there's enough room for all your stuff in here.

Nonsense. Marcy replied, This place is huge. She pushed past Thomas into the old house still full of junk Thomas had yet to sort. You weren't kidding about the stuff they left behind. She said looking around the dining room full of boxes. You should really get rid of this stuff." Marcy said peering into a box sitting by the table. It was full of dusty old books.

Easier said than done, Thomas replied. There's so much junk and... Some... People. Would rather I keep it here. Marcy turned to face Thomas. What does that mean? Some people.

Thomas, it's your house. It's not your fault the last tenants left so much junk. Yeah. You are right, Thomas replied, sipping his morning coffee he had just picked up from the machine. Tell you what Thomas, Marcy continued. I'll help you clean up this place. I'll start with cleaning up the room I'll be staying in and we'll work on the rest of it from there. Fair enough, Thomas replied.

But, there's only one bedroom downstairs, the rest are upstairs. Suits me fine. Marcy replied heading towards the stairs. Thomas followed her up the stairs. The hall was full of even more boxes and junk than before. "'Wow! It's worse up here, huh?' Marcy stated, peering around the corner into the hall. "'It didn't seem this bad before,' Thomas added. Paying no attention Marcy immediately walked into the first room on the right.

The boxes full of paper had been knocked over again. "'What are these?' Marcy asked kneeling down to look at the boxes. "'I don't know they were there when I got here,' Thomas added. Marcy picked up a piece of paper looking at it. It had random doodles and cartoon drawings on it. Interesting, she stated standing back up. Well, we can have all this junk gone probably by nightfall if we get at it. She took a box of the drawings and tossed them into a bag.

By nightfall, they didn't manage to get the full house, but the majority of the upstairs floor was clean they had put many things into garbage bags to be hauled to the dump in the morning. With a little help, this place will look great. You just wait, Thomas. Marcy smiled. They both said good night as Thomas dashed down the stairs a cold wind following him. He felt as if something was there, but upon stopping and turning around he didn't see anything.

He left for his room and Marcy entered hers, laying down on a small bed she had packed to sleep on for the time being. Thomas had trouble sleeping that night. The feeling that he was being watched would not go away. His watch struck 3 a.m., suddenly, a screen came from upstairs. wide awake Thomas dashed out of his bed and ran up the stairs. Marcy. Marcy. He yelled. No reply. He dashed down the hallway and into Marcy's room where she was frozen in fear. Standing in front of her was the paranormal investigator frantically

rearranging all of the papers and items they had tossed into bags on the floor. Several shadow figures were there standing with him. Thomas, what is this? She screamed. I've been trying to figure out the same thing. He replied. Thomas walked up to the private investigator and pulled him off the floor up to his height. I thought I told you to leave me alone. He angrily yelled. You don't understand.

The man replied. Well, scaring Marcy to death is warrant enough for an explanation I'd say. The man took a few deep breaths, fine. He replied. You want an explanation, I'll give you an explanation. He pulled away from Thomas and stood in between Marcy and Thomas. Me and the shadow people, we are not here to hurt you. We are trying to help you.

The man explained. How so? Thomas asked. I do what I do to keep the real danger happy and at bay. It likes things in a specific way. The man replied. It. Who's it?

Thomas replied. Michael. The man said, Michael is a collector. Bad things happen to people who move in here because they don't realize how to live with Michael and befriend it. Michael is the nickname the Weird Neighbors gave the house, Thomas added. Marcy sat there perplexed and confused.

Exactly, the man said, the house I s Michael. Well, you can tell Michael that he doesn't have to worry about us. We will leave this place in the morning. We'll find another place to stay tonight. The two drove up to the Wilson Hotel located just a few miles south of the neighborhood. Should I get a room for both of us? asked. Marcy rolled her eyes, yes. I am not sharing a room. Ouch, Thomas half-jokingly replied. Two rooms. He said to the man at the front desk.

Sure thing, sir. We have rooms 104 and 107 available. The front desk clerk replied. That sounds fine, Thomas replied taking the keys from the desk clerk. They both settled into their rooms. A quiet knock came on Thomas's door. He cautiously sat up. Hello. He asked slowly moving towards the door. James quietly said from the other end. Michael is our friend, but he gets lonely, possessive. We can relate to him. Thomas stood there confused. James, what are you doing here at this time of night? Does your father know you are not at home? Thomas asked. am here to warn you to make peace with Michael. He is very angry. Thomas heard the distinct sound of James hitting things all along his door. He sighed frustrated. Just, let me go to sleep, James.

We can talk about it in the morning. He heard the footsteps of James dashed down the hallway and out the door. Thomas dozed off. His clock struck 5 a.m. a faint sound woke Thomas up once more. The sound was getting louder and louder until a smell passed by his nose. It was smoke. The place had caught fire. The desk clerk immediately shot into his room screaming, everyone out now. The fire department is on their way. Thomas ran down the hall Marcy not far behind as well as the other groggy half-a-sleep people

rushing for the door. Thankfully, the few guests that were there that night made it out okay. By the time the fire department arrived the place had burnt to the ground. The next morning Thomas went to the neighbors and banged on their door. Richard opened up with a smile. Good morning Thomas. He said, What brings you here so early? We need to talk. Now. He said barging and passed Richard into the house.

What's this about? Richard asked following Thomas into the kitchen. Thomas sat down at the kitchen table. Richard, your deranged son was at the hotel I and Marcy were staying at last night. It burned to the ground. Mind explaining that? The smile ran away from Richard's face. you left your home he asked yes we had to thomas replied the shadow people were becoming a problem richard sighed people just don't understand michael then help me to understand thomas said the lonely o l house has a life of its own thomas it spent many years abandoned and alone only living with the junk it accumulated we like many have tried to befriend it in doing so it Influenced my son quite a bit.

He is a good friend of Michael's. Richard explained. So James did burn down the hotel? Thomas asked. No, Richard replied. James is not like that. It was Michael. He was so lonely he wanted you to stay he gets, jealous of other houses.

They get all the company while he sits alone and forgotten. Richard, Thomas replied, How do we get out of this house? As crazy as it might seem, I don't. feel the urge to make peace and live trapped with a possessive house for the rest of my life. I might be able to get James to talk to it." Richard replied, But it's, risky. James.

Thomas and Richard entered the house Marcy already started packing up her things. Who's making noise? Richard asked. Is it rats? James asked, licking his lips. It's just Marcy packing, Thomas added. The three headed upstairs to the room where Marcy was packing. This is Michael's room.

James blurted out, get out. Marcy exited the room and stood in the doorway watching with the others. Michael. James called. Come talk to me. The house shook. Hi, Michael. Guess what I did today?

The house shook some more Marcy almost lost her balance, but Thomas managed to catch her. I hit some nasty rats with a stick. Fun huh? The shadow people showed up behind Thomas. The man got Thomas's attention. Thomas turned to him, what do you want? He asked. What are you doing?

The man pleaded. Michael doesn't want to talk. We're trying to make peace just like you said so we can leave this all behind us, Thomas replied. You're not trying to make peace. You are trying to butter Michael up so you can leave. Don't think you can fool him. The man replied. What do you expect us to do?

Thomas replied turning away from the man. Listen, Michael, my buddy, James continued. Mr. Thomas and this nice lady need to go back home. They don't belong here with us. The house began to shake even more as the man pulled Thomas's arm, Thomas. Listen. You can't do this. Michael just needs a friend.

You can't be their home, Michael. They aren't right for you. James continued boxes of paper and shoes fell to the ground and scattered across the house as the shaking got more intense. Well, I guess you can keep their stuff. James smiled. What? Thomas replied. He's not taking nothing.

Richard stopped Thomas. Thomas. Trust me, taking your stuff is the least of your worries. Suddenly, the shaking stopped. Boxes scattered across the floor Marcy stood up with Thomas. Is it over? Thomas asked. Yeah, James replied.

He's given up. Thomas let out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to pick up a box. We'd better start packing then. He says, if he can't have you, nobody can. James smiled. Suddenly. A flame lit up the box Thomas was holding and quickly spread to the other boxes in the room. Thomas looked on as the whole room went up in flames.

The trio fled towards the stairs they quickly were set ablaze. There's no way out. Marcy screamed. Yes, there is. There has to be. Thomas replied frantically dragging the others behind him. They ran towards the balcony door and quickly opened it as the flames roared down destroying everything in its path. Quick.

This way. Thomas guided them towards a slanted part of the roof. There's a pile of leaves in the front yard. The roof is low enough we can jump. The three quickly dashed onto the slanted roof and carefully prepared to jump, the balcony being consumed by flames. Michael. James yelled turning around. I'll see you for movie night. Thomas, Marcy, Richard, and James all jumped into the big pile of leaves below and

quickly ran away from the burning walls of the building. Within moments the pile of leaves was up in flames as well. Soon after the house was reduced to ashes. Thomas heard a faint whisper from behind him, I warned you. Thomas and Marcy stepped into the truck. Ready to go back to the city, Marcy. Thomas asked. Damn right I am, Marcy replied.

As they drove off down the dirt road. Richard stood in his front yard waving them goodbye. Poor Michael, he thought to himself. He just wanted some people of his own. He turned to go back into the house as James ran by playing in the yard. Stopping to face the ashes of the O.L. House across the street he smiled, Michael. You're okay. Come on in Michael.

He said, turning around to go inside as cold wind followed him inside. Ha. No, Michael. I don't know the way to get to the city. He laughed closing the door. The journey back home, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Coming home after years away should have been a triumphant return, filled with hugs, warm meals, and memories shared over late-night conversations. But when I stepped off that train and set foot in my hometown, all I found was silence and the faint hum of streetlights flickering in the distance. It felt less like a return and more like an intrusion, like the town had moved on without me,

erasing any trace of the life I once had. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets, the cold biting through the thin fabric. The train station was empty, save for an elderly man sitting on a bench, his eyes fixed on a newspaper from three days ago. He didn't look up as I passed by, nor did he flinch when the wind rattled the loose panes of glass above us. It was as if he, too, was stuck in some forgotten liminal space, waiting for something, or someone, that would never arrive. My feet carried me down Main Street, past the diner where my friends and I used to meet after school, the bookstore where I spent countless afternoons flipping through novels I could never afford to buy, and the playground

where first kisses were exchanged under the cover of twilight. Each place was frozen in time, but not in the way I'd hoped. The diner was boarded up, the bookstore's windows layered with dust, and the playground. It was gone, replaced by an overgrown field littered with broken glass and rusting metal. Home wasn't home anymore. It was a ghost town, and I was the only living soul wandering through its memories. I made my way to my childhood house, a small two-story place at the end of Oak Lane. The sight of it hit me like a punch to the gut. The paint was peeling, the porch steps sagged under their own weight, and the once vibrant garden my mother had so lovingly tended was now a tangled mess of weeds. It looked like no one had

lived there in years. My key still worked, though, and I pushed open the door with a creek that echoed through the empty halls. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and neglect. Dust-coated every surface, and the furniture was covered with white sheets, like ghosts waiting for their moment to come alive again. I dropped my bag by the door and stood there, staring into the abyss of what used to be my life. It's funny how memory works. As I walked through each room, flashes of the past came rushing back, birthday parties in

the living room, late-night arguments in the kitchen, lazy Sunday mornings on the back porch. Each memory felt like a fragment of a story I could barely remember, a book I'd read so long ago that the details had faded into obscurity. I ended up in my old bedroom, the one place that still felt somewhat familiar. The posters of bands I'd long since forgotten were still taped to the walls, their edges curling with age. My bed was still there, the faded blue comforter rumpled as if I'd just gotten up. Even my old desk, complete with the carvings I'd made during particularly boring homework sessions, stood in the corner, an untouched relic of a simpler time. I sat down on the bed and buried my face in my hands.

was I even doing here? Coming back had been a mistake. There was nothing left for me in this town, no one waiting with open arms or a warm smile. I should have stayed away, kept the memories as they were instead of tarnishing them with the reality of decay and abandonment. The next morning, I woke to the sound of birds chirping outside my window. For a moment, I thought I was a kid again, waking up on a lazy summer morning with the whole day ahead of me.

But reality said and quickly, and I groaned as I sat up, my back protesting against the old I decided to explore the town a bit more, hoping to find something, anything, that still held a spark of life. The streets were just as empty as the day before, but I noticed things I hadn't seen during my initial walk. Small details, like the way the paint on the lampposts was flaking off or how the cracks in the pavement formed intricate patterns that seemed almost deliberate. I ended up at the edge of town, where the forest began.

As kids, my friends and I used to spend hours exploring those woods, creating elaborate adventures and pretending we were heroes on a quest. I hadn't been back there since high school, and the sight of the towering trees brought a bittersweet smile to my face. The path was overgrown but still navigable, and I found myself wandering deeper and deeper into the woods. The air was cool and damp, and the sound of my footsteps was muffled by the thick layer of leaves on the ground.

It was peaceful, in a way that felt almost unnatural. Like the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Eventually, I stumbled upon the old bird, tree house we'd built when we were kids. To my surprise, it was still standing, though barely. The wooden planks were warped and weathered, and the rope ladder had long since rotted away. But it was there, a testament to the past and the fleeting nature of time. I climbed up as best as I could, using the sturdy branches for support.

The inside was just as I remembered, cramped, dusty, and filled with random trinkets we deemed important enough to store there. A rusted pocket knife, a pile of faded comic books, a glass, jar filled with coins from various countries. Each item told a story, a snapshot of a moment in time that felt both distant and immediate. I spent hours up there, lost in memories and the quiet hum of the forest. For the first time since I'd arrived, I felt a sense of peace. Maybe coming back wasn't such a mistake after all. Maybe there was still something here worth holding on to.

Over the next few days, I started to settle into a routine. I cleaned up the house as best as I could, clearing out years of dust and debris. I explored more of the town, revisiting old haunts and discovering new places I'd never noticed before. And slowly but surely, I began to feel a connection to the place I'd once called home. I even started running into people I used to know. Mrs. Callahan, who'd been my fifth grade teacher, was still running the tiny library on Elm Street. She recognized me immediately, her face lighting up with a smile as she pulled me into a tight hug. Then there was Jake, my childhood best friend, who was now running his family's hardware store.

We spent hours catching up, laughing over old stories and marveling at how much, and how little, we'd changed. The town wasn't as empty as I'd thought. It was still alive, in its own quiet way. And as the days turned into weeks, I began to see it not as a ghost town, but as a place filled with resilience and history. A place that had weathered storms and stood the test of time. One evening, as I sat on the back porch watching the sunset, I realized something important. Coming home wasn't about finding the past or trying to relive old memories. It was about creating new ones, about finding a way to connect with the present and the people

who were still here. The house was still falling apart, and the town was far from perfect. But it was home. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged. Solo travel is one of those things that divides people. Some see it as liberating, a chance to really get to know yourself, to chart your own path, to be the hero of your own story. Others see it as lonely, maybe even a little reckless. But there's something magnetic about the idea of just picking up and going, no one to answer to but yourself.

If you've ever felt that pull, you're not alone. There's a whole world out there for you to explore, and sometimes the best way to see it is on your own terms. The first thing to know about solo travel. It's not all Instagrammable moments and postcard perfect sunsets. Sure, those happen, and when they do, they're magical. But solo travel is also missed buses, questionable meals, and getting lost more times than you can count. It's standing alone in a crowded marketplace, unsure of whether you're thrilled or terrified. It's learning how to be okay with your own company, and sometimes, how to get yourself out of a tight spot.

Let's talk about the thrill of it first. There's something undeniably empowering and a lot of it. about stepping off a plane or train in a place you've never been before, knowing it's up to you to figure it all out. No one's there to hold your hand, to point you in the right direction, to say, hey, maybe don't eat that street food. Spoiler, eat the street food. It's worth it.

Usually. When you're on your own, you're forced to trust yourself in a way that doesn't often happen in day-to-day life. You're making all the calls, where to go, what to see, how to spend your time. It's equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. the best part. When things go right, you get all the credit. That perfect hike you discovered. That hole in the wall cafe with the best coffee you've ever had. All you. And when things go wrong? Well, let's just say you'll come back with a story. Solo travel also strips away a lot of

the distractions of regular life. Without anyone else's opinions, preferences, or schedules to consider, you can really focus on what matters to you. Want to spend four hours wandering through an art museum. Go for it. Feel like skipping the famous tourist attraction because it's just not your vibe. No one's going to stop you. It's your trip, your rules. But it's not all sunshine and roses. One of the hardest parts of solo travel is, well, the solo part. There will be moments when you wish you had someone to share it with, whether it's a breathtaking view, a laugh over a travel mishap, or just a really good meal. And let's be honest, eating alone at a restaurant can be awkward, at least at first. But over time, you learn to embrace it. You bring a book, strike up a conversation with the waiter, or just people watch and enjoy the moment.

And then there's the safety aspect. Let's not sugarcoat it, traveling alone, especially as a woman, comes with risks. It's important to do your homework, trust your instincts, and take precautions. That might mean sticking to well-trodden paths, avoiding certain areas after dark, or letting someone know where you'll be. It's not about being paranoid, it's about being prepared. And when you're prepared, you can relax and enjoy the adventure. One of the unexpected joys of solo travel is the connections you make along the way. When you're on your own, you're more approachable.

People are more likely to strike up a conversation, to invite you to join their group, to share a bit of their world with you. Some of these encounters will be fleeting, a shared laugh, a moment of kindness, but others might turn into lasting friendships. There's something about being far from home that brings people together. Another thing you learn when you travel solo. Resilience There will be moments when things go wrong, like really, spectacularly wrong. Maybe you miss your train and end up stranded in a town where no one speaks your language.

Maybe you lose your wallet or get caught in a downpour with no umbrella. These moments are frustrating, sure, but there are also opportunities to prove to yourself that you can handle it. And when you do, you come out the other side stronger and more self-assured. of course solo travel isn't for everyone some people genuinely prefer the comfort and companionship of traveling with others and there's nothing wrong with that but if you've ever felt the itch to go it alone to see the world on your own terms i'd encourage you to give it a try start small if you need to a weekend getaway to a nearby city a day trip to a place you've always wanted to see see how it feels you might surprise yourself and if you do decide to take the plunge here's some advice

hack light. Trust your instincts. Be open to new experiences. And don't forget to take a moment, every now and then, to just breathe and soak it all in. Because solo travel isn't just about the places you go, it's about the person you become along the way. At its core, solo travel is an exercise in freedom. It's about stripping away the expectations and obligations of regular life and giving yourself permission to just be. It's not always easy, and it's rarely perfect.

But it's real, and it's raw, and it's worth it. So if you're standing on the edge, wondering if you should take the leap, here's your sign, go for it. The world is waiting, and it's more beautiful than you can imagine. The disco ball spun lazily overhead, casting fractured reflections across the smoky room. Pulsing bass beats thumped through the Copacabana nightclub, though the crowd was sparse for a Tuesday night. Neon lights flickered against the mirror behind the bar, painting the bottles in shades of electric pink and purple. A couple of regulars swayed on the dance floor, caught somewhere between nostalgia and the dream of better nights, while a group of younger patrons huddled in the corner, laughing too loudly over cheap cocktails. Behind the bar, the bartender moved with practiced ease, wiping down the counter, filling glasses, and keeping an eye on the door.

His face was lined with years of watching crowds come and go, but his movements were sharp, mechanical. This place, once full of life and glittering stars, now existed in the shadows of its own legend, and so did he. The door creaked open, and a gust of warm city air blew in as a new patron stepped inside. A woman in her late twenties, dressed in a flowing blouse and jeans that hugged her form. Her hair was tousled, and her eyes carried the curiosity of someone exploring unfamiliar territory. The night had the promise of escape, of something new, and this was the spot she'd chosen to land. She approached the bar, sliding onto a stool a few spaces down from the center. The bartender noticed her and stepped over, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning

forward with a casual nod. "'What can I get you?' he asked, his voice steady and unhurried, as though the beat of the night couldn't touch him. "'I'll have a gin and tonic,' she said, her voice a little breathy from the energy of the room. "'Thanks,' he gave a brief nod and reached for the bottles, pouring the gin with the ease of muscle memory, topping it off with tonic and a lime wedge. As he slid the drink in front of her, she smiled politely, taking a sip before her eyes

wandered around the bar. That's when she saw her. At the far end of the counter, away from the laughter and flashing lights, sat a woman who didn't belong. Draped in feathers and sequins that shimmered faintly in the neon haze, she looked like a misplaced ghost from a different time. Her hair was perfectly curled, and her lips were painted a deep ruby red, but there was something hollow in her eyes, something unsettling in the way she stared at her drink, untouched, like she wasn't really there at all. The young woman turned back to the bartender, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Who's that, she asked, tilting her head toward the end of the bar.

She looks, out of place, the bartender followed her gaze, his face darkening slightly as if the side of the woman stirred something heavy in his chest. He sighed, placing the towel over his shoulder as he leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving the strange woman in the distance. That, he said quietly, is Lola, the new patron blinked, recognition dawning slowly. Wait, the Lola. In the song, the bartender's lips pressed into a thin line, his voice soft but filled with the weight of years.

Yeah, the same. She's been coming here for as long as I can remember. Always sits in that spot. Orders the same drink, but she never touches it. Just, stares. Like she's waiting for something, the young woman's curiosity deepened, her gaze flicking back to Lola, who hadn't moved a muscle. That's so strange, she murmured.

What happened to her? Why does she look like she's stuck in the past? The bartender leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, like he was about to reveal a secret the walls themselves have been holding for decades. It's a long story. And not a happy one. You know the song, right? Ever hear what really happened the night Tony died?

The young woman shook her head, her curiosity peaked. Just what the song says. Ah, the song, the bartender muttered, his voice laden with a quiet heaviness. People think it's just a catchy tune, a story someone. made up. But Lola, she's been coming here for years, always sits in that same seat, orders the same rum and coke. Never touches it.

It's like clockwork. Most folks don't believe me when I tell them who she is. They think it's a gimmick or something, but, there's truth to that song. More than you'd think, the bartender leaned in, his voice dipping lower, a sense of gravity pulling the conversation into a different era. Let me tell you about that night. The night everything went wrong, he set the ragged. down slowly, his fingers lingering on the counter as if the wood beneath his hand could

somehow take him back. He stared at nothing in particular for a moment, then began. Back in the day, this place wasn't all neon lights and glittering disco balls. No strobe lights or mirror tiles. Nah, it had class. You could feel it the second you walked in. Velvet drapes hung from the walls, deep red, heavy. The stage was the centerpiece, draped in gold curtains that shimmered under the soft glow of chandeliers.

The floor. Polished wood, always gleaming underfoot, the kind that begged you to glide across it when the band started up. And the band, they were something. A live ensemble, not this pre-recorded stuff you hear now. They played jazz, swing, whatever set the mood. Brass horns, silky pianos, the kind of music that made you sway without even thinking about it, his eyes flickered with memory as he continued. The patrons, well, they were different, too.

men in sharp suits, women in gowns that sparkled like stars under the dim lighting. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, but it didn't cloud the place. It just, fit, you know. There was a kind of elegance here, the kind that made people stand a little taller, act a little smoother. You didn't come here just for a drink, you came for an experience. To see and be seen. And to see her. He paused, his gaze drifting to the empty stage as if she might step out from behind the curtains at any moment.

Lola, she was the star. A singer, the kind that could take your breath away with just the first note. She had this way about her, feathers in her hair, a dress that clung to her like she'd been born in it, and a voice that could melt even the hardest soul in the room. When she sang, everything stopped. The conversations, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, it all faded. The lights would dim, a spotlight would catch her just right, and you'd swear you were watching a goddess on that stage.

The bartender's voice softened as he spoke of Tony. And Tony? He was her man. A bartender, like me, but he was different. He had this energy about him. People gravitated toward him, trusted him with more than just their drink orders. He was the kind of guy who'd make you feel like you belonged here, like you were part of the scene, even if you were just passing through. Everyone liked Tony.

He had that way of listening to you, pouring your drink, and making you feel like you were the only person in the room. his jaw tightened, and his eyes grew darker. And that's how it was. Tony behind the bar, Lola on stage, and the Copacabana. It was alive. People packed this place every night just to see them. It was magic, until that night. The night RICO showed up, the bartenders' face tightened as he continued,

his voice thick with the memory of that night. Rico, well, he was trouble the moment he walked in. You could see it in the way he moved, smooth, confident, like he owned the place just by stepping through the door. He wasn't like the other guys who came to watch Lola. Nah, RICO was a different breed. Slick back hair, a sharp suit tailored perfectly to his frame, and a gold chain that glimmered against his chest.

The kind of guy who didn't wait for an invitation, he just took what he wanted. The bartender's gaze turned hard as if he could still see RICO there, standing by the entrance, scanning the room. He walked in with an entourage, other tough guys, all muscle, but you knew immediately who was in charge. Rico didn't have to say much. People just moved out of his way, like they could feel something dangerous in the air.

He spotted Lola right away. She was on stage, mid-set, singing one of her slow numbers, her voice low and sweet, filling every corner of the club. She'd worked the crowd, make eye contact, smile in that way that made men forget their drinks and lose themselves in her song. The bartender's voice softened as he remembered her. Lola could command the room, but it wasn't just about her voice. It was the way she moved, the way she teased the audience without ever getting too close. She had them in the palm of her hand, always in control, always untouchable, until that night. The bartender wiped his hands on the rag again, but his gaze stayed fixed on the past.

Rico wasn't there for the show. He was there for her. He sat right at the front, eyes locked on her the whole time, like she was the only thing in the room. Didn't care about the music, didn't care about the crowd. Just Lola. And Lola. Well, she knew how to play it. She gave him a glance, just enough to keep him interested, like she did with everyone else.

But RICO wasn't like everyone else. He wanted more. The bartender's jaw clenched as he remembered what happened next. It started innocent enough. After her set, Lola made her rounds, working the room like she always did, thanking people, flashing smiles. But when she got to Rico's table, it was different. He stood up, grabbed her hand, pulled her in closer. Too close.

And Lola, well, she wasn't used to men grabbing her like that. She laughed it off at first, tried to keep it light, but Rico, he wasn't playing. He held on, his fingers tied around her wrist, pulling her closer than any man had a right to. The bartender shook his head, his face grim. You could see it in her eyes, she was uncomfortable, trying to stay calm, but Rico wasn't letting go. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her against him like she was some prize he'd won. The whole room went quiet, watching. And then Tony. He paused, his voice

tightening. Tony saw it. He was behind the bar, same as always, but when he saw Rico with his hands on Lola, everything changed. Tony wasn't the type to make a scene, but that night, that night was different. He came out from behind the bar, his eyes locked on Rico. Didn't say a word, just walked up to them, calm but with this fire in his eyes. The bartender's voice lowered, the tension thick in the air as he recounted the moment. Tony put his hand on Rico's shoulder, real firm, and said, that's enough. But Rico, he just laughed. This cold, cruel laugh, like he didn't even see Tony standing there.

He kept his grip on Lola, even tighter now, like he was making a point. This your girl? RICO asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. Seems like she wants a real man. The bartender shook his head again, his voice quiet. That's when Tony swung. Didn't wait for Rico to finish his sentence. One solid punch, right to the jaw.

Rico stumbled back, and for a moment, it looked like that might be the end of it. But Rico. Rico wasn't the kind of guy to let something like that slide. The bartenders gazed darkened. Rico straightened up, wiped the blood from his lip, and reached into his jacket. That's when everything went to hell. He pulled a gun, right there in the middle of the club. People screamed, chairs flew back, and Tony, he didn't flinch.

He just stood there, his eyes on Lola. He wasn't scared. Not for himself, anyway. All he cared about was getting her out of Rico's grip. The bartender's hands trembled slightly as he recalled the moment, his voice tightening as the memory became more vivid. Tony didn't just stand there when Rico pulled the gun. No, Tony had too much heart for that.

The second he saw the gun, he went for it, fast and sure. He didn't hesitate, not for a second. He lunged at Rico, grabbing for his wrist, trying to wrench the gun out of his hand before anything worse could happen. The whole place froze, everyone watching, not a sound except for the struggle between the two of them. His voice dropped, as though he were trying to whisper the past into existence. Rico, for all his arrogance, wasn't used to someone standing up to him, especially not in

front of a crowd. But Tony, he wasn't fighting for himself. He was fighting for Lola. He managed to get hold of Rico's wrist, twisting it hard, trying to force the gun down, but Rico, he was a wiry bastard, full of mean strength. They wrestled, Tony pushing him back, knocking over tables as they struggled for control. Glasses shattered, chairs toppled. You could hear the gasps from the crowd, the frantic footsteps as people backed away,

ducked behind anything they could find. The bartender's eyes flickered with the intensity of the memory. Tony had his hands on the gun now, both of them fighting for control, the barrel swinging wildly between them. You could see the desperation in Tony's eyes, his muscle straining as he tried to wrestle it free. Rico was grinning, this sick, twisted smile like he was enjoying the fight, like he knew something Tony didn't.

And then, there was a scuffle. Tony managed to shove Rico hard, slammed him against the edge of the bar. For a split second, you thought Tony had the upper hand. He paused, the tension building as he described the moment. But Rico. Rico was a snake. He twisted his body, using the momentum, and got his hand free. Before anyone could react, there was a flash, a loud crack, and the room exploded into chaos.

The gun went off, the bartender swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. And Tony, he crumpled. The look on his face, it wasn't fear. It wasn't even pain. It was shock. He staggered back, his hand pressed to his chest where the blood was already starting to bloom through his white shirt, spreading like a dark stain. The crowd screamed, people ran for the doors, chairs scraping, drinks spilling.

Rico stood there, still holding the gun, breathing heavy, his eyes wild. And then, without another word, he just turned and walked out, like nothing had happened. Like Tony was just another casualty in his world, the bartender's voice caught for a moment. But Tony, he wasn't just another casualty. Not to Lola. Not to any of us. He collapsed right there, behind the bar he'd spent so many nights working, and Lola, she was on him in an instant.

She didn't scream, she didn't cry. She just held him, like if she held him tight enough, maybe it wouldn't be real. she could bring him back, he wiped his eyes quickly, the weight of the memory thick in his throat. But she couldn't. And the place, it was never the same again. The bartender's gaze drifted down the bar, where Lola still sat, lost in her thoughts, a ghost in a neon glow. And neither was she. The bartender's voice grew thick with emotion, and he cleared his throat, taking a sip from a glass of water. The bartender's face darkened as he remembered the woman Lola had once been, the way her light had dimmed after that night. They say,

Lola went mad after Tony died. Lost her mind. It's true, you know. She couldn't sing anymore, couldn't step onto that stage without seeing him lying there, bleeding out on the floor. The fire that made her a star, it just went out. She'd walked through the club like a ghost, staring off into space, barely speaking. People would ask about her, but she wasn't really there anymore.

Whatever part of her had sparkled, that peace died with Tony. His voice grew quieter, his gaze drifting to where Lola sat at the end. end of the bar, the same seat she occupied every night. Her eyes were empty, distant, like she was trapped somewhere far away from the neon glow of the nightclub. But here's the thing. There's a part of the story people don't know. Yeah, she went mad. But it wasn't just grief. It was rage. It was vengeance. Losing Tony broke something inside her, but it also fueled her. She stopped singing, sure, but she didn't stop moving. She didn't stop thinking. The young woman listening leaned forward, drawn in by the bartender's words. What did she do? The bartender

sighed, his voice heavy with the weight of knowing what came next. She became obsessed with finding Rico. She stopped caring about anything else. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, just spent her days figuring out where he'd gone, who he was hiding with. See, Ricoh was a powerful man. He had connections everywhere, from low-lifes on the street to the rich and untouchable. He knew how to vanish when things got too hot. But Lola, she was relentless. She didn't care who she had to ask or how much danger she put herself in. She wanted him, and she didn't care what it took to get to him.

The bartender rubbed the hand over his face as if trying to shake off the weight of the past. It took months. Months of her stalking the city, getting in deeper with dangerous people just to get one more lead, one more whisper of where Rico might be. She lost weight, stopped taking care of herself. Those feathers in her hair. They started looking ragged, her dress faded, but she didn't care. The woman that used to captivate every room she entered had turned into someone else entirely.

She was obsessed, consumed by the idea of revenge. She'd spend nights wandering the streets, talking to herself. People said she wasn't right in the head anymore, that she'd gone mad from the grief. His voice grew darker, almost a whisper, as he continued. But the madness wasn't aimless. She wasn't lost. She was focused. Eventually, she tracked him down.

Rico, he thought he'd gotten away clean. He was laying low in some high-end nightclub downtown, the kind of place where men like him felt untouchable. He had money, women hanging off his arm, and he was back to his old ways, laughing, like he'd forgotten all about Tony. Like that night didn't mean a damn thing, the bartender's eyes flickered to Lola again, still unmoving, still caught in her own world. She walked in there, dressed just like she used to.

The feathers, the sequins, like nothing had changed. She hadn't been seen in public for months, and when she stepped into that club, no one batted an eye. They didn't recognize her. To them, she was just another woman, another piece of decoration in the background of Rico's life. The young woman's eyes widened as the bartender continued. Lola didn't make a scene. She didn't storm in with fury in her eyes. No, she played it smart.

She was calm, composed. She walked right up to Rico, smiling, like she was just another admirer. He didn't suspect the thing. Hell, he probably thought he charmed her. She danced with him, all smiles and soft laughter, like nothing was wrong. She let him think he had her under his spell. And he, the arrogant bastard, leaned into it, pulled her close, never realizing what she was planning. The bartender paused, his fingers gripping the bar tightly.

And then, when the moment was right, when everyone was watching but no one. was paying attention, she stabbed him. Right there, in the gut, between his ribs. Rico didn't even see it coming. She smiled at him as the blood spread through his suit, as his face twisted from shock to pain. She let him realize, in that last moment, who she was. She wanted him to know, the young woman gasped softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

She killed him, the bartender nodded, his voice grim. Yeah. She killed him. Left him bleeding out on the dancing. floor, just like Tony. And then, she walked out, like it was nothing. No one stopped her. No one could believe what had just happened. And after that? Well, it wasn't like the movies where revenge makes it all better. No. It broke her completely. He looked back at Lola, still staring into her untouched drink. That was the last time anyone saw the real Lola. After that,

she wasn't even a shadow of herself. She'd avenged Tony, but it didn't bring him back. It didn't fill the emptiness. It just left her more hollow than before. She's been coming here ever since, wearing the same dress, sitting in the same spot, stuck in that moment, like she's trapped in time. People say she lost her mind completely, and, maybe she did. He sighed deeply. But in the end, it didn't matter.

She lost Tony, she lost herself, and no amount of revenge could ever fix that. He sighed, his eyes drifting back to Lola. it happened, she disappeared for a while. No one knew where she went, or what she was doing. But when she finally came back, she wasn't the same. Whatever was left of her after Tony died, it was gone. Completely. She just sit at the bar, like she is now, staring at nothing, lost in her own world. It's like she's stuck in that moment, reliving that night over and over. The bartender's gaze hardened, but there was sympathy behind his words. Some people say she's haunted by Tony's ghost.

Others think it's guilt. Maybe she's punishing herself for killing Rico, or maybe she's still waiting for Tony to walk through those doors. I don't know what it is. But I do know this, she's never been the same since. The young woman glanced down the bar at Lola. She hadn't moved, her fingers lightly brushing the rim of her glass. There was a sadness in her eyes, a weight that seemed to hang on her shoulders.

Does she come here every night, the young woman asked softly, her voice barely rising above the hum of the club. Every night, the bartender confirmed, his eyes distant. Same routine. She orders the same drink, wears the same dress, and just stares off, like she's waiting for something. Or someone. The music shifted to a lively disco beat, the pulse of the room picking up, but Lola

didn't so much as blink. She never did. The bartender glanced at her for a moment longer before turning back to the young woman. If you ever want to see what happens when you lose a woman. everything, when grief and revenge hollow you out, just take a look at her. The woman shivered, the weight of his words sinking in. She quickly downed the rest of her drink. I think I'll take your word for it, she said, glancing once more at the ghost of Copacabana before slipping out into the night. The bartender returned to cleaning the counter, his eyes flicking back

to Lola now and then. As the hours ticked by, the club emptied out, the music faded, and the lights dimmed. At the end of the bar, Lola sat alone, staring into the past, locked, in memories of Tony, of RICO, of that night when everything had changed. And she would do it all again tomorrow. Working in cemeteries and around graves, it's a job that doesn't cross most people's minds. But those who do it often have strange, eerie stories to tell. Here's a compilation of some bizarre and unsettling encounters from cemetery workers and others who've spent time among the tombstones.

When I was a teenager, I got a summer job cleaning up the largest cemetery in my city. It wasn't exactly grave digging or funeral work, but my task was to pick up trash and artificial flowers blown from the graves. I worked with another girl, and we mostly strolled around with garbage bags, tidying up so the landscapers wouldn't have to. This cemetery was huge, one of the largest in the Midwest, complete with paved roads, walking trails, and an almost park-like beauty. Locals used it to walk dogs, bike, or just enjoy the scenery.

Unfortunately, that meant a lot of littering, too. One afternoon, the other girl and I were walking along the paved paths near the mausoleums, scanning for trash. As we rounded the corner of one large mausoleum, we saw an elderly man standing with his back against the side of the building, looking out at a nearby plot of graves. Here's the thing, there were two odd details about him. First, his outfit. It looked old-fashioned, like something a man from the 1950s or 60s would wear.

He had on a corduroy jacket despite the summer heat, a newsboy cap, and long trousers paired with a button-up shirt. The colors and patterns screamed mid-20th century to me. But hey, older people sometimes were outdated clothes, so I brushed it off. The second thing was his cup of coffee. It wasn't in a thermos or disposable cup, he held an actual ceramic mug and sipped it casually. Right there, in the middle of the cemetery. As we walked past, he looked at us, smiled, raised his free hand in a friendly wave, and went back to sipping his coffee. We smiled and waved back, then kept walking. A few moments later, the other girl turned to me and said,

That was kind of weird, wasn't it? I agreed, and we glanced back at the mausoleum corner. He was gone. We stopped, retraced our steps, and checked the area. No sign of him. It was impossible for him to have walked away so quickly without us seeing. We shrugged it off and got back to work. A few days later, we mentioned the encounter to one of the landscapers

while grabbing garbage bags from their supply shed. When we described the man in his coffee cup, the landscaper laughed and said, Oh, you've seen our ghost. Apparently, this wasn't news to anyone who worked there. The landscaper explained that the man is often spotted near that same mausoleum, gazing at a family plot. He's always holding a ceramic coffee cup.

There's a grave for a husband, wife, and two daughters there. The wife and daughters share the same date of death, which suggests some sort of tragic accident, while the husband's tombstone marks his death a couple of decades later in the 1970s. The theory is that the man is the father, visiting his family even in death. People only ever see him for a few seconds before he disappears. That story floored us. It turned what we thought was a quirky encounter into a supernatural one.

Years later, I worked in a well-known cemetery in my city, one of the largest in the state. It spanned 345 acres, with an additional 300 acres of in-used land. One day, I decided to take a break and walk through the grounds, passing by the main office in a massive mausoleum. This mausoleum had three public floors, plus three more floors in a roof accessible only to staff via a special elevator switch. Families of those interred there had codes to enter the building, but it was usually quiet. I liked spending time there, it was peaceful and rarely crowded.

One day, while wandering the lower level, I noticed the boiler room door was open. Thinking a coworker had left it that way, I closed it and continued exploring, reading the names on the crypts. Suddenly, I heard footsteps on the staircase. I froze, expecting to see someone appear, but no one did. I checked the entire building. Nothing. Feeling a bit uneasy, I went back to the main floor and distracted myself by fiddling with

the organ used for funeral services. Eventually, I decided to head back downstairs. To my shock, the boiler room door was open again. This time, I peeked inside. No one was there. That was it for me. I bolted out of the building, running all the way back to the operations area at the far end of the cemetery. Shaken, I told my manager what had happened.

He wasn't surprised and even shared some of his own strange experiences. It seemed like almost everyone who worked there had a story. Not all creepy experiences happen in cemeteries, though. My grandparents' property is surrounded by woods, and it has a dark history. Before they owned it, an entire family lived there and was supposedly murdered. Years later, a distant relative of the deceased family came by, asking to exhume the bodies. My grandfather was thrilled, as he wanted to expand the house but didn't want to disturb the graves. The day they unearthed the graves, I watched from a distance.

They pulled out three adult-sized coffins and one child-sized coffin, all incredibly old. One of the adult coffins was so deteriorated it fell apart as they tried to lift it. I caught a glimpse of the remains inside, bones still clinging to bits of muscle and tissue. It made my stomach turn. The worst part was when my grandfather and the relative tried to reposition the body in the broken coffin. It ended up face down. That image still haunts me. When I was in high school, my dad bought a cemetery.

I worked there until graduation, mowing lawns, pulling weeds, and placing flowers. It was usually peaceful, aside from occasional shadowy figures or unexplained noises. But the strangest thing happened during burials in the crypts. These crypts were underground rooms, big enough for multiple caskets or urns. Families would sometimes light candles and leave photos, flowers, or other mementos inside. Decades later, when we opened these crypts for new burials, we'd find melted candles and old photographs of the deceased. It was eerie being surrounded by reminders of lives lived long ago.

One summer, my family and I volunteered to clean an old cemetery. While planting flowers and pulling weeds, I noticed three graves side by side, each with a different last name. Curious, I asked my mom if they were related. She said no, but the same woman had been married to all three men. Each had died in accidents within two years of marrying her. She'd buried them next to each other, then requested to be interred two counties away when she passed.

The timeline was chilling, the first husband died in 1984. the second in 1986, and the third in 1988. All were wealthy business owners, and after their deaths, she closed their businesses. That cemetery has never felt the same to me since. In London, I worked as a caretaker for a cemetery-turned nature reserve. It was in a rough area, nicknamed the woods, by locals. We frequently found hidden stashes of ammunition, knives, and even guns among the tombstones. Once, a friend stumbled across a backpack filled with Molotov cocktails.

My discoveries were less dramatic but still unnerving. I found a bag of shotgun shells behind a crumbled monument. Knowing someone might be watching made it even scarier. The locals avoided the cemetery after dark, and honestly, so did I. Even cemeteries have their humorous moments. My uncle once tried selling drugs in one during the night, thinking it was the perfect secluded spot. His plan backfired when he was scared off, by squirrels.

Apparently, they'd pop out of nowhere, chittering loud. Imagine being surrounded by unseen, screaming rodents while already paranoid. He swore off drugs after that. Some encounters, though, are outright chilling. I'm responsible for maintaining a small family mausoleum. The descendants have all passed, so it's up to me to clean it, replace flowers, and ensure it stays undamaged. One evening, as I locked up, my phone rang. The caller, a frantic woman, kept asking about a name, Jane Smith.

Jane had been interred in the mausoleum since the early 1900s. When I asked why she wanted to know, the woman calmly said she needed me to check if Jane was still there. Her tone made my blood run cold. I assured her everything was fine and ended the call. To this day, I bring someone with me when I visit the mausoleum. Years ago, I worked in a county cemetery maintenance department. Farmers would occasionally stumble across graves while plowing fields, as some burial sites have been forgotten or lost over time.

One summer, a farmer called us to report unearthed remains. When we arrived, we found a small grave with a rusted coffin containing a child skeleton. There was no headstone, just a faded wooden cross. We re-buried the remains in a proper cemetery, but the experience stayed with me. I couldn't help but wonder about the child story and how their grave ended up abandoned. Working in cemeteries often blurs the line between the mundane and the supernatural. Whether it's a fleeting glimpse of a ghost, unsettling noises in an empty mausoleum, or strange coincidences in old graveyards, the job offers plenty of stories to share, and plenty of reasons

to look over your shoulder. All right, folks, buckle up. This is the story you've all been waiting for, what happened before and during the filming of my Blair which video. If you know me, you know it takes a lot to scare me. I'm not the kind of person who freaks out easily, it takes something truly terrifying to make me scream, jump, or bolt out the door. But January 21st

Yeah, that was a whole different level There's no calm way to tell this story If you've seen my Blair which video You might remember the strange part at the beginning I zoomed in on my finger, showing three fine cuts One of them running right through my nail, almost splitting it in two I posted a picture of it on Twitter at the time saying I had no clue how I got those cuts

To this day, I still have no idea how they happened And no, I can't say 100% it was something paranormal, but the weirdness of the whole situation is undeniable. Now, if you've followed my paranormal blogs, you'll know that I've had some, let's say, unique experiences. I once worked in a store where the stockroom was haunted by a dark presence. At first, I thought it was just a strange energy, but it became clear that this thing was intelligent.

And unfortunately, it latched on to me, all because I made the mistake of interacting with it. Thankfully, with the help of my mom and a friend who's super sensitive to these things, I managed to shake it off. They told me to do a few rituals, candles, incense, weird chance, and it seemed to work. Afterward, I felt like things were back to normal. I could go into rooms without any sense of dread, use the bathroom without glancing over my shoulder. Life was good. Or at least, I thought so.

Then January 21st happened. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a night of nightmares. I woke up that morning feeling off, I knew I'd had nightmares, a whole series of them, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what they were. All I knew was that I hadn't slept well, and waking up didn't make things any better. Still, I wasn't about to let a bad night ruin my day, so I got up and went to wash my face. That's when I noticed the pain in my finger. At first, it was just a slight sting, barely noticeable.

But the more I splashed water on my face, the sharper the pain became. It felt like something was gnawing at my nail, biting and scratching at the flesh underneath. It was like an invisible rat clinging to my finger, trying to rip the nail off. I shook it off, figuring I must have injured it somehow without realizing. I focused on getting ready, trying not to let my imagination run wild. But there was something strange in the air that morning, something heavy, like the atmosphere was too thick to breathe. At first, I brushed it off as me being groggy, but it kept nagging at me.

hashtag hashtag the moment I felt it. As I stood at the sink, I felt an overwhelming sense of being watched. My rational brain told me it was nothing, just mourning anxiety or some leftover tension for my dreams. But the feeling wouldn't go away. I thought maybe Daniel, my friend, was playing a prank and hiding behind the shower curtain. So, I yanked the curtain back, expecting to find him. But there was no one there.

The heavy sensation I felt wasn't coming from the shower, it was coming from the corner of the bathroom, by the towel rack. That's when things got really weird. I reached out toward the air near the towel, and I swear, I could feel heat radiating from it. Like there was something standing there, something I couldn't see but knew was present. I told myself I was being ridiculous and went back to washing my face. And that's when I heard it, the breathing. It was faint, but definitely there. It sounded distant, like someone struggling to breathe through a thin layer of water. But even though it seemed far away, I could feel each breath on my skin, like the air was brushing against me.

My instinct was to run. Whatever this thing was, it was gaining strength, feeding off my fear. But I couldn't move. Part of me wanted to stay, to face it, to prove that I wasn't scared. I needed to know if it was real, if it was something tangible or just my imagination. The longer I stood there, the heavier the air became. The breathing grew louder, stronger, until it felt like someone was exhaling directly onto my neck. The pain in my finger intensified, throbbing in sync with each breath. And then I ran.

I bolted out of the bathroom, tripping over myself and practically crashing into the hallway. I was yelling for Daniel, my heart racing so fast I thought I might pass out. When I reached him, I begged him to check the bathroom, to make sure there was no one, or nothing, there. He went in, checked every corner, and told me everything was fine. But I knew better. hashtag hashtag filming the Blair which video. After that incident, I wasn't exactly in the mood to be alone. But I had to film the Blair Witch video that day, so I asked Daniel to stay with me while I recorded. If you know me, you know I've dealt with claustrophobia since I was a kid. Being alone in small, enclosed spaces is one of my biggest fears, and that day it felt impossible

to stay calm. Daniel stayed with me for the first part of the video, and things went okay. I was still on edge, but I managed to focus on the camera and push through. Then about ten minutes in, his dad called him downstairs to help with something. He asked if I'd be all right, and I told him I'd be fine. Big mistake. As soon as he left, the atmosphere shifted again. The room felt smaller, the walls seemed to close in. I tried to keep filming, but the words wouldn't come out right.

I was sweating, cold sweat trickling down my back, and every hair on my body stood on end. I kept glancing toward the closet, convinced that something, or someone, was hiding inside, watching me. I could feel a presence, like eyes boring into me from every direction. I started taking long pauses between sentences, listening for any sound, any sign that I wasn't alone. And then I heard it again, the breathing. This time, it was right behind me.

I could feel the breath on my neck, cold and damp, sending chills down my spine. The camera even picked it up. I knew I wasn't imagining it, this was real. I jumped up, knocking over the camera in my panic, and ran out of the room, screaming for Daniel. Hashtag, hashtag hashtag a shared haunting. Now, here's where things get even weirder. Some of you might remember a story I shared in a previous paranormal blog about seeing a pale, thin figure outside the window of my friend May's house. I didn't tell her about it right away because I didn't want to freak her out, but eventually, I decided she had the right to know.

When I finally told her, she wasn't surprised. She already knew something was off in her house, but hadn't been able to put a face to it, until I described the figure I saw. It turned out May's mom had seen the same figure years earlier, back when they lived in a different house. She'd tucked May's brother into bed one night, and, as she turned to leave the room, saw the same pale, thin man standing in the corner, watching them with an open mouth. They moved to a new house, hoping to leave the strange occurrences behind. But the figure followed them.

May's mom admitted that she still saw him from time to time, always standing silently in corners, watching with that same unsettling stare. Hashtag, hashtag, hashtag conclusion. So yeah, that's the story. What happened to me on January 21st still gives me chills, and the fact that May's family has been haunted by the same figure only makes things creepier. I know some of you will say, you're just imagining things, or it's all in your head, but let me ask you this, what would you have done in my place?

Because I can tell you one thing for sure, when you feel something breathing down your neck and your finger is mysteriously cut open, it's hard to convince yourself that it's all just a coincidence. From the moment my mom told me about her mother's strange experience, things at her house went from strange to downright creepy. It was then that I learned she had a personal connection with Bobby, yes, that Bobby. When she mentioned knowing him, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this situation than just a passing ghostly encounter. I immediately recommended she take action, light some sage, burn incense, or do something to cleanse the house. But deep down, I knew it wasn't going to be enough. The way this present stuck around made it clear this wasn't some spirit that drifts through

occasionally. No, this thing had been there a long time, and I had the gut feeling it would stay forever. Things only got worse after burning the sage. Last night, my mom sent me a bunch of voice messages on WhatsApp. She was home alone at the time, but strange she was. thing started happening as she was talking to me. She could hear the fridge downstairs opening and closing by itself. Then, the cupboard doors in the adjacent room started creaking open and shut. On top of that, she heard footsteps in the hallway and random noises from all corners of the

house. We've decided it's time to visit a shop specializing in esoteric practices. Hopefully, they'll have something powerful enough to banish this entity for good. Fingers crossed that we can finally put an end to this nightmare. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a long-awaited trip to Edinburgh, ghosts, cemeteries, and disappointment. Now, let me tell you about my trip to Edinburgh, something I'd been dreaming about my entire life. I was beyond excited to visit the city, especially Greyfriars Kirkyard. For years, I had been fascinated with the story of George McKenzie, also known as Bloody McKenzie, one of the most infamous ghosts in Edinburgh. I had spent the past year obsessing over the details of the cemetery, diving deep into every corner

of its history. I poured over photographs of gravestones, researched every name and inscription, and built up in my mind an image of a vast, grand cemetery filled with drama and mystery. I imagined grafriars would be the most magnificent, imposing burial ground I'd ever see, and I was certain that standing in front of McKenzie's mausoleum would be an overwhelming experience. But when I finally got there, disappointment hit me like a brick. The grand monument to Bobby, the loyal police dog, wasn't what I expected. Instead of something majestic, I was greeted by a simple commemorative stone and a few sticks stacked in front of it. I also thought there'd be clear signs pointing toward the famous, black mausoleum,

where McKenzie's spirit supposedly lingers. But all I found was a big sign listing the names of notable people buried there. No clear directions to the mausoleum, no spooky markers, nothing. My friend May had warned me that the experience would be intense. She told me that when she stood in front of McKenzie's mausoleum, her vision went black for a few seconds, and she nearly fainted. And mind you, May is someone who never feels anything paranormal, she's as emotionally steady as a rock.

So, if she experienced something that intense, I figured the mausoleum must hold some truly dark energy. Determined to find it, I decided to explore further with my friend Daniel. We walked slowly through the cemetery, trying to make our way to the other side. As we strolled, a dull headache started creeping in. At first, I thought it was just exhaustion from the early morning trip. We had taken the train from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and I figured the tiredness was catching up with me. But as we walked deeper into the cemetery, the headache intensified.

It went from a dull ache to a sharp, throbbing pain. With every step forward, I felt dizzier and more nauseous. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I told Daniel I had to stop, and I sat down on a set of stone steps to catch my breath. That's when Daniel, curious as ever, pulled out his camera and started taking photos. After a few minutes, he turned to me with a strange look on his face. You're sitting right in front of the black mausoleum, he said. I shot up, startled, and turned around to face the iron gate of the mausoleum.

As soon as I leaned closer, I heard a voice, three words, spoken softly by an older man's voice, coming from inside the mausoleum, asterisk, come closer. Asterisk, chills ran down my spine. I stood frozen for a moment, horrified. Then, I turned to Daniel and saw that he was. was rubbing his eyes. When I asked what was wrong, he told me that his vision had gone black, just like Mays, and he felt like he was about to pass out.

Over the next few days, we visited Greyfriars two or three more times, hoping to recapture that strange feeling. But nothing happened. No voices, no headaches, and no blackouts, just silence. We even asked other visitors if they had experienced anything strange, and almost everyone had a story to tell. by curiosity, we signed up for two tours, one in the morning to learn about the historical side of Edinburgh, and a night tour focused on the city's ghost stories.

Our morning guide, Maria, gave us a detailed history of the cemetery but dismissed the paranormal stuff. She didn't believe in ghosts and made it clear that she thought all of it was nonsense. Interestingly, though, she avoided getting too close to the mausoleum. When we asked her why, she shrugged and said, better safe than sorry. She repeated that phrase later when we asked about the Covenanter's prison, another reportedly haunted spot. Despite her skepticism, she kept her distance from the most notorious areas.

That night, our second guide took a completely different approach. He refused to take us anywhere near Greyfriars or mention Mackenzie's ghost. When we pressed him for details, he admitted that many locals prefer to forget about the Bloody Mackenzie, Poltergeist altogether. He confessed that he had already suffered enough because of it and didn't want to stir things up again. A few of the other people on the tour said they had taken the official tour that goes inside the mausoleum and the Covenanter's prison, but none of them wanted to share their experiences.

It was as if the memories were too unsettling to talk about. All they told us was this, asterisk, don't mess with McKenzie. Asterisk, that warning only made me more eager to book the official tour and see the inside of the mausoleum for myself. Hashtag hashtag a new home, a new haunting. Now, shifting gears a bit, Daniel and I are about to move into our new place. It's a bit of a fixer-upper, but we've already started working on it. The first day I stepped inside, I felt something. It wasn't a threatening presence, just, something lingering.

It seemed like whatever it was came and went, like it didn't fully realize it was there. Last weekend, we invited my parents over to see the new place. I didn't mention the strange feeling I had, hoping that if it was real, my mom would pick up on it too. She's hypersensitive to these things, much more so than I am. enough, as soon as she walked in, she gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, asterisk, yep, I feel it too. Asterisk we showed them around the house, and just as we reached the living room, a loud

noise came from the bathroom. Daniel rushed over to check it out and found one of the drawers on the floor. We tried to brush it off, thinking maybe a gust of wind had knocked it over. But my mom's smile told me otherwise. Later, as we were finishing the tour, we heard another loud noise from the living room. This time, we didn't even bother checking, we just left. But ever since that day, strange things keep happening whenever we visit the house. Objects move, and we hear random knocks and noises, even though the place is empty.

Just a couple of days ago, we went back to finish dismantling the kitchen. While Daniel was busy with the cabinets, I kept hearing him call me from down the hallway. But every time I checked, he insisted he hadn't said a word. The same thing happened to him, he thought I had called him, but I had. The weirdest part came right before we left. Several piles of wooden boards that had been stacked neatly in the living room started sliding to the floor, simultaneously. It wasn't just one stack falling, it was multiple stacks, all collapsing at the same time.

So, yeah, it looks like we're going to have plenty of paranormal V-logs from this place in the future. Stay tuned. And that's where things stand for now, haunted houses, ghostly cemeteries, and a new chapter in a place that might just be full of spirits. Life certainly isn't boring. Strange letters appear around my apartment. They pop up in unexpected places, at random times. Stranger still, the letters are signed with my signature. There is no return address, and no identifying information. The handwriting is similar to mine, but I don't have any memory of writing them.

The first note to appear was outside my apartment door, and read, Hello, we should talk. It's been too long. As vague as it was, I hadn't developed much interest in the mystery. I smirked at the message and decided it was the start of a bad prank. I threw it out the next day. It hadn't crossed my mind much until three days later. I woke around 3.30 a.m. to use the restroom, something I often do after a day spent drinking.

I was a little skittish, but no more than you'd expect waking up alone in the middle of the night. When I returned, that's when I shifted to dread. There it was, lying on my pillow. A letter. It was almost glowing, with a peculiar off-white color. And there was my signature, inscripted with a brilliant gold sheen. Chills raced up and down my spine like alternating currents, thoughts following in my head. I frantically glance out the window, barely able to make out anything in the darkness.

If someone had escaped that way, they'd have left a trail of footwork. footprints in the snow. The feeling in my gut intensifies as I check the closet, hesitantly pulling open the door with a pocket knife in my free hand. My insides are twirling and twisting like tight knots. But again, nobody is there. I prepare to call the police, 911 only a click away. But something tells me to wait. To keep looking. There is only one spot left, one horrible, unavoidable place. So I lower my head, ready to check under the bed. I inch to the ground, sweat creeping down my face, and I begin to tremble. I shine my phone light into the darkness, half expecting someone to be staring back, or worse. I don't know whether to feel relieved or

shocked when the only monsters I can find are a few empty bottles and some crumpled cigarette packs. Whoever had left the letter was gone, or good at hiding. But they couldn't have seen. But they couldn't have slipped by without me noticing. The bathroom faces the living room, by the front door. The floors creak and crack at the slightest step. The hinges cry and squeak with every motion. I am petrified at the thought that they could still be there, watching me. I mentally prepare myself to open the letter, scared at what I might find. I peel the fold, and lift the note. It is written in bright red, and reads, it starts soon. I am frozen.

I have no clue what that could possibly refer to. I have no friends, family, or any correspondence. Nobody would care if something happened to me. I'm not a member of any clubs or in any groups. I don't even use social media much these days. I didn't sleep that night. Since then I've found letters tucked in my bookshelf, a few on the dash of my car, under my blanket, and even in my pocket.

Most of them repeat the same line, while others appear blank. However, the most explicit message appeared in my hands while I was spacing off. One second I am staring out the window, watching the thunder roll by, the next I feel something sharp, almost tingly making contact with my fingers. It has the same eerie color and unnatural glow as the other letters, but the name is marked in a much brighter gold tone. I decide I shouldn't open it, but the morbid curiosity is driving. me crazy. The texture is more abrasive than the others, and the material is much stronger,

but I get it open anyway. Inside is a black card with a much deeper crimson serif that reads, Can't live with it. Can't live without it. Blank lines are what you look for, but you don't see them the way you should. I stare at the letter, waiting for something else to happen. My heartbeat steadily rises, then slows. The room is so quiet, so still, chirps and whistles pause in retaliation. The TV turns off and the washing machine settles to a stop. I raise coffee to my lips, accidentally swallowing too fast. It doesn't burn, but my tongue tingles. My fingertips tingle. My ankles. I stay on the couch, rocking back and forth, as my limbs begin to sensate uncomfortably. I feign little reaction.

The room is feeling smaller and smaller with every passing tick of the clock. Then the silence ceases. The muted soundscape resigns to the hustle and bustle of cars honking, kids playing, and birds cawing outside once more. Full normalcy. The washing machine starts bumping the ground, shaking violently as if it were going to burst. The TV turns back on, but static rains over the screen. buzzing, cracking. I look back outside, and snow has begun to fall.

Little drops paint the glass, crystallizing instantly on the cold surface. My misty breath obscures the image, so I wipe it with my sleeve. The snow is picking up faster, and the cars are lining up. The forecast didn't anticipate heavy snow for another month at least. As quickly as I wipe away the condensation, it reappears. So I give up on people watching, looking at the television. The static is like snow of its own kind, blending and melding together in an unpredictable sequence. I'm used to visual snow, clouding my vision with subtle specks of what can only be described as thousands of tiny particles.

But staring at the TV makes that disappear for a moment, replacing it with its own malady. So I look into it, losing track of my surroundings. Focusing on something else's perspective. The chaos of the TV static is more consistent than my own. By the time I realize what I'm doing, the image has already returned to normal programming, and it's midnight. I am thirsty and very tired. I should feel more disturbed right now. But life is mundane.

Life is drab. Smooth and easily digested. I am alone, and I know that. Now I am unsure, and that fear is new and colored. I finally got some genuine rest that night, passing out as soon as I fell to the bed. Dreams come and go without much recollection but that of a feeling, a feeling of relief. I open my eyes in short cycles. Sunlight bleeds intensely through the blinds of my window, hitting my face.

The red light commits me to wake, and I yawn with applause. A smirk crosses my lips, basking the mood and satisfying warm tones from the sky. I yank open my curtains, eyes wide to the sky. I am bombarded by darkness and snow hurling at me through an open window. My smile creeps into a face of despair, the face of misunderstanding possessed by fear. I step backwards, my feet stumbling over a half full bottle of liquor. I fall helplessly, hitting my head against the bed frame. Everything is fuzzy.

Hazy. Everything dazed. I reach forward. grabbing at air. Currents whip and strike against my hands, keeping me down. I feel trapped. The thunderstorm is watching me, getting closer as I fall flat. I can no longer see through the blood pouring over my blurred eyes.

I hear a squeak. My door opens. I imagine the letter in my head, and a voice repeating, it starts soon. It starts soon. It starts soon, the invader whispers into my. ear. I throw myself at the voice, forcing my weight onto nothing, an apparition. I jump up, rising from my covers. I am drenched in sweat, not blood. I look to the left, and then to the right. Sun fills the room subtly through the blinds. My heart is pounding. But the world

is full of color. I sweep the blanket away, jumping out of bed. Confronting the curtains, I begin to slowly pull them apart before committing with a sudden thrust. The sun outside is shining as bright and loud as ever. It blinds me as I meet its gaze, and I cover my face with my moistened arm. I breathe in. I exhale softly, then deeply, and I feel something painful against my heel. I look down, and there is broken glass, and a puddle nearly soaked into the carpet. My chest mirrors the sharpness in my foot, but I hold it together. I sweep the pieces onto a dustpan, and try to forget about what happened. As I carry the broken shards of glass to the kitchen, I take notice of the repetitive chinking sound, like bouncing coins. The apartment is noisy this time

of day, and I can hear the typical sounds of cars in traffic, people arguing about whatever, dogs barking and music blaring. But I also hear the glass. The noise follows me to the trash, I can dispose of it. So I open the lid and drop the dustpan in, but there is no satisfying sound. The glass isn't with me. I rack my brain looking for where I must have dropped it, even looking in the bedroom. The spill is still there, but no shards. Not even a bloody splinter. These last few days have been hard to recall. But I won't accept it. I don't want to accidentally step onto a pile of misplaced glass sometime in the future. The bedroom is clear. The hallway is clear. The living room is clear. All that's left is the kitchen and, well, the bathroom. It's

self-explanatory. I return to the kitchen, inspecting the rough patches of linoleum for stragglers. I find many shards of glass, but not the ones I'm looking for. Something is missing. Anyone else would likely pick up what they could find and call it a job well done, but I can't. Not now. I sweep the floor, picking up lots of little bits and pieces of food and trash, but not what I need. My expedition is interrupted by a knock at the door. I never get visitors. I approach the door, checking the eyehole, and there is someone across the aisle, standing around. I open the door enough to peek my head out, and ask if they had knocked on my door or at least seeing who did. They tell me nobody has been there since they arrived.

That they have been standing around for the last five minutes or so. All right. Well, thanks anyway. I reply awkwardly. They don't respond. I shut the door quickly, feeling embarrassed for even asking. I place my head against the door, and take another deep breath. I hear it again. A knock. A hard, deep knock. The type of knock you would feel if you were

leaning against the door. It is coming from inside. The closet. The trembling returns. I'm no longer concerned with adventure or mystery, as much as getting as far away from this place as possible. I turn and start to twist the door handle, but it doesn't move. I pound on it, screaming for someone to help. I hear my neighbors talking as normal, going about their days. But they don't respond. I keep slamming the door, but it won't budge. I back up before running into it. My shoulder makes a snapping crunch as I smack against the metal. It doesn't feel broken, but it hurts. I hit the floor, crying for someone to hear me. Then the building goes quiet for a moment. Whispering follows, permeating the walls. I keep shouting at the top of my

lungs. Footsteps soon come running up the stairs outside, but at the same time, the unknown knocking starts again. Louder now. Outside, one of my neighbors begins to rattle the door knob, twisting and turning it erratically, then, a thud, and a creak, and another thud. Finally a concerned woman charges through the doorway, the lock suddenly releasing and the knocking subsiding. She grabs me, and asks what happened. Why was I screaming for help? Why was I banging on every wall and surface? I can't tell her.

I don't know how to explain even if I could. She pulls her phone out, tapping the screen then gesturing it to me, 9-1-1 ringing. I panic and hang up the phone. Her face grows shocked. She looks annoyed by this point, ready to leave me any moment if I can't cough up some answers. I make up a story so she'll stop asking questions I can't answer. I tell her that I had a mental breakdown, that I slipped and hurt my arm badly, and that she needs to drive me to the hospital.

But apparently, she can't take me, because her car is in the shop. She offers to call an ambulance, but that makes my anxiety shoot even higher. She insists on staying with me for a moment, and I don't argue with her. It would be nice to have some company, especially with a woman. Even if it is out of pity or neighborly concern. For a moment, I put fear behind me and focus on the girl. I have little success with women, but I try not to act weird. She asks if she can brew some coffee, and I accept after a round of games.

I'm fine. That's kind, but I couldn't make it. make you do that, I respond before inevitably accepting. I guess a cup would be fine. I tell her where the coffee beans are. They're premium. It is too strong. I feel that I am losing concentration on the matter at hand.

We are chatting about ourselves, what we do for a living, our families, that kind of thing. But in the middle of the conversation her attention diverts away. She pauses in and out of speech. I follow her eyes She sees a pile of bottles, by the closet Most of them are completely empty Did you have a party recently? She asks me, assuming the benefit.

I have to lie again. I had a big party. A party with all my friends from work and school. I nod my head. She seems to believe me. I apologize for not cleaning up and ask if she would like some. She looks uncomfortable and tries to change the topic.

She explains to me that she has been living here for a few years, but hadn't ever seen me before. That I seemed nice enough. Perhaps, that I was even normal. I tell her that I work the graveyard shift. I try to rest as much as I can. I don't get a lot of free time these days, you know. I pause, watching her eyes for subtle changes. Everything is so expensive now.

She agrees. She barely makes rent. I am thinking about numbers. Finances. I am discussing all that I know of the economy, but I want to be discussing the knocking. I want to find the broken glass that provokes my attention. I want to kiss the girls sitting in front of me. Knocking.

Whipping air. Dancing glass. Romance and romance and desire. Pounding walls. Cracking wind. Disappearing objects. My brain is ramping up and down. My face is calm but suggestive. She doesn't know what I want, and part of me is motivated to keep it that way. I don't want to go from a nobody to someone crazy. I am already lacking social skills as is. But she is a ticket. I can't help but be easily distracted by her looking back at me, for once. I ask if she wants to talk again sometime. She takes that as an invitation

to leave, and it is, but it is also an invitation for her to return. She does the hard part for me, and offers her number. I write it down with a bold red pen after she leaves. She will be impressed if she thinks I remembered it. I won't. I put the slip on the fridge, so I'll have it when needed. I want to call her already. I haven't talked to a woman over the phone since my mother passed away. I couldn't bring myself to see her, so I locked myself in the closet. The closet with my spare phone. I went to the closet and put her number into the phone, saving it under, neighbor girl. I don't recall her actual name. She thinks I am Austin. I decided to send a message. Test. I stare at it.

the screen for a few minutes. She replies with a thumbs up. I am going through with it. I turn around and stare out the kitchen window. Across the street is a liquor store decorated with neon signs and promotional posters for various brands. I have no preferences. There are a few more cars parked out front than what's typical for this time. But no people. The store is dark on the inside, but the open poster and neon light say otherwise. My stomach hurts. My head hurts. I need it now. I take a step forward, and hear a crunch. I look down for a second. My mouth ajar, almost salivating. A piece of glass penetrates my foot, deeply embedding under a layer of thick skin. I lean against a wall on one leg, blood dripping from the edges of the shard.

My shoulder aches against the corner. I pull on it and the pain stings. I cover my mouth. I pull again and the glass keeps coming. I continue to pull but the shard goes on and on like an endless loop. I feel my vision fading and my balance falters. I bite my finger and blink rapidly. I bite harder and my eyes shoot open, perfumed with mist.

My foot has nothing in it. glass lay on the carpet, not three inches in length. A foot ahead is another piece, and another past that. A trail of shards lead back to the kitchen. I drop to my knees, in disbelief, I am contemplating. Has it started? I pinch my bicep. I flick myself on the forehead. I crawl forward, defeated. The glass is shiny. The glass is clear. No imperfections or rough edges. I bring it close to my face, and place it flat against my cheek. It's cold, unlike the carpet. I observe it, rotating the piece around. What am I supposed to see? I place it close to my eye, and look through it. The glass reflects the world in a million degrees of space. I look

again, and then again. The glass becomes foggy from the warmth of my breath, but it remains cold. I pull it closer. It touches the raw milky texture of my eye, and I see something. Snow. There is snow falling in my apartment. I tilt my head up. The ceiling is a foggy cloud. The snowflakes radiate around me in a swirl.

They envelop me. They're so cold, nipping at me through my clothing. My arm begins to shake, and I try to stay still, but it gets harder not to sway my hand. The pain in my shoulder feels like a vice grip. But I keep the glass over my eye with my remaining energy. I tilt my head down and see the path of glass shards against a blanket of sleet. I follow it to the kitchen, an expanse of water, and frozen bodies. The walls are black, and the ocean reflects a sea of alien stars.

The corpses float through the mild waves, forever drowning. I wade through the water, keeping the glass steady. as possible. I'm afraid to switch hands. If I close my eyes for even one second, it might break away again. In the center of the watery grave is the fridge, and on it is the note, but it's different. It's shining. I move faster, creating currents of cascading waves. The fridge seems to get further along as I move. My legs are almost too cold to go further. And if I press the glass into my eye any harder, it might just pop. Then I smell something. The water has a scent, a familiar note. Sharp and pungent. Intrusive and effective. Acidic even. I am getting woozy. Then I feel a sensation

drifting along my legs. The body. It glides along the surface in my jacket. I touch it, cold as ice. My fingers slip along the cheekbones, which are sunken. I grabbed the shoulder and turn the body. My face stares back at me, when I gouged out. A piece of glass stuck in the gaping mouth, a smile like a forbidden expression. My headache is pounding now. I need it more than ever, but I shouldn't. I keep moving forward. Trudging the same path, despite the pain. The wandering fridge is farther still. But I don't think it can keep up forever. More bodies slam through me. I don't dare look at them again. My arm is shaking so much that the image is becoming distorted. I don't have much time. But I know that I need to see, like the letter told me. I am panting with each

movement, and I feel like giving up. My eyelid is beginning to bleed, and I have to blink. But it's there, right ahead. I can see it getting so close. I reach out and can almost grab it. I pull back, and barely pull the note from the door. It's a letter. Made out to me, by me. No address.

No other identifying information. Maybe I'm guilty. I tear it open, and pull out the card. Written in bold red cursive it reads, it's already begun. Put it off. You cannot swim for sure. shore while you drown. There is a pit where my stomach should be, like a sinking ship. I let my arm drop, and the room lights up. I'm holding the card with the girl's number written on it.

I drop it on the ground, and carry myself to my room. I fall over, passing out. On this night, I dare not dream in black and white. How it started with the Buttermender Fledgers, for context, I 28 am married to Rick 28M who has a ridiculous sort of funny-sounding last name with a very fitting meaning to it. Our son is named River from a previous relationship. We are happy, I love Rick and Rick loves River. Rick has two siblings, Terry 25 and Henry 30M. Melanie 28F is Henry's wife and my S-I-L. Trudy 60 is Rick's mom, my M-I-L. They are the bane of my existence. Buckle up, 2023, Melanie 28 was friendly with me, we had things in common and I'm an extrovert and people lover.

She at the same time didn't like me because of reasons unknown, truly. The first time I felt some hostility was when we were all at the fair, Rick and I just dating. Melanie's husband Henry 30M and I got in trouble for talking while we waited for her to use the restroom. She came out quickly towards me at me, which startled me, she was crying and so. screaming at me. I was so confused. We were waiting for her to exit the bathroom, but I guess I was supposed to ignore her husband in that time, I am not flirty either, but I am kind and polite. Henry after this was distant and things were awkward at gatherings. Everyone in the family had

their own stories to tell about Melanie's issues blowing up on people, then they told me not to take it personally, so I didn't. Melanie would say passive aggressive things and drunk at family game nights but we were becoming closer and I wanted my husband Rick 28M to have a good relationship with his big brother so I let them slide. Things alluding to me needing attention and being loud. Which Melanie was, more than I, ironically. When we got engaged I didn't want to change my last name, I have a nice last name that fits me. Rick was supportive and wanted to create his own with me. Revealing this to his family was like we had said we murdered grandma. Their last name was made up by their great, great something or other who named himself Finchelstiper

because in another language it means bad underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore underscore I'll let your imagination run wild but I didn't want this last name especially after hearing the meaning. They said this relative was he was a very negative person and abusive to his family and named himself. To me, the name is silly and they are proud of it so they can be proud but I'm having my own family. The thing said to me were so disrespectful. We all thought over it for weeks, where Rick and I had many arguments about him not taking the lead during these times, leaving me to navigate his family dynamics blindly. But again it all settled. Weeks later the women throw me a bachelorette and I was like this is awesome we are all a family and they like me.

I love to party and I feel we are all connecting. We are all drunk and Melanie and I and we were in the bathroom hitting her vape when she asked why I didn't like the Egelfritz's name. I said I didn't mind it but didn't feel it fit me. I also have a child from a previous relationship with a different last name and don't want him getting the idea we need the same names to be family. She felt offended and said Henry made her change her name, from her stories Henry made her do a lot of things she didn't want to, and she envied me because Rick was super laid back. She is Mexican, so I'm sure changing her last name Bergermeister was a hard swallow, but she was yelling at me and being physically aggressive so I tried to leave she blocked the entrance,

I pushed through her, get out, and went to his mom and sister and relayed what had happened because what the heck? We were having a good time and now she is bullying me straight up. Not cool. I'm bawling, Trudy and Terry are trying to calm Melanie down and we all go home, I throw up in my hat the whole way home and nobody speaks of it again besides Trudy reminding me that Melanie has problems blowing up on people. Wedding goes by following weekend and Melanie is visibly irritated and is the first to leave with Henry, but who cares, I'm married. Soon after I was asked to babysit by Rick's sister Terry and I said yes.

Melanie also was asked to babysit so I said we could together. I was always trying to cut tension with family time. I found out later Melanie behind my back told Terry I said I wouldn't like to tag team babysitting, which I never said, because I have a child and love play dates it makes my life easier, so she lied to make me look bad, which was super weird. I think talking behind each other's backs is a vital thing in that family like milk to American dinner time. That day arrived and I texted to say we had River and I wanted to confirm it was cool to bring the whole circus. And if that didn't work we could babysit at our place since it's large, baby-proofed and close

by. I got a passive aggressive message back from Rick's mom Trudy, we were in a family group chat, saying our neighbor would be watching the baby. Mind you, I'm the only other one in the family with a child and River would have a great time with his cousin. His parents live 15 minutes away and our neighbor is next door literally. So she drives and parks in front of my house and drops baby off to the neighbor which I thought was rude and intentional. We all fought a bit and I let it go. This is when I'm starting to feel like I am the scapegoat and the tension is coming from all the women in the family. There is plenty drama in between, but it's so much I think I would have aged to dust before

trying to recall it all. I will tell the most important one. The big one. The straw that broke my MF back, Melanie, Henry, Rick and I went to a paint and sip night double date style. We all agreed not to talk about the babysitting thing, mostly because Melanie can't control herself, Melanie, of course, brings it up on the way home after a couple drinks and starts with me. I tell her to leave me alone and I'm ignoring her which riles her up. Now she's jumping in

her seat, screaming and, I mean screaming. Calling me a B asterisk asterisk asterisk age and a see you next Tuesday. Us girls are in the back boys up front and I'm yelling at Rick to drop them off on the freeway, LOL. I think he felt back for Henry because he says no and makes me sit. in the back seat with her while she screams at me for the 30-minute ride home. Rick felt bad for me but thought dropping them off would be worse because of repercussions with his mom, we talked since then and he sees how messed up it was to leave me trapped while she blew up. She's putting her finger in my face and poking me and trying to escalate me. She called me a drug addict because I have been in recovery for almost a decade, clean nine

years, had an ex-pass away from drugs, just bringing up traumatic things that happened to me and saying it was my fault, which I felt was way, way too far. Using painful memories and things said in confidence as ammo is another level of twisted. She ends it all with something like I need to find my place in the family. Ig what that means. The Hart's Horningsonsons really find themselves important, I guess. But after we were getting out of the car, I told Henry we won't be seeing them anymore, and he scoffed. Henry apologized to Rick the next day, and said Melanie would apologize. Melanie sent the most robotic you pushed me to it kind of apology. I wondered if she thought I'd call the cops since the letter was so logistically and

lawyer coded written. Since this wasn't the first time or the second time she has attacked me, I tell her I am done with her. Not just that, but that she feels justified to treat me this way is the thing I need to cut ties and move on. Everyone else was seemingly on my side until Rick Mom Trudy wanted her family gatherings the same as always. I had been a punching bag for almost a year and now the issue is that I don't want to have game night

with Melanie and her mouth. Is that the actual issue? I don't think so. So much has happened since then like being gifted a book on mindfulness. On Christmas, by Christians. That's like their whole thing is being kind on Christmas and it was meant to make me feel bad. Oh, and Trudy letting herself into my house on Easter to aggressively complain about us not wanting to be around Melanie for the millionth time, leading to a screaming match me versus Trudy to GTF my house.

Might I add that we tried to be around Melanie to be cordial and in that time it was so tense I thought we might physically fight? Trudy protected and backed up Melanie who was a bully so my only choice was to remove. myself. Terry, Rick's sister was not an innocent party either, but rather the town shit-stirer, a professional might I at. Teacup without handle tea time incoming, Terry, right before all this drama went to Korea to teach English, came back pregnant and cut this poor Korean dude off because he wouldn't send her $800 a month while pregnant and not working, not ill either, so this child has no father and they call him. Drum drum roll. Yellow baby It's abhorrent and actually made me dislike her altogether.

Someone out there is missing their child and it breaks my heart. Back to the Friddenhamerstein's, while still wanting a relationship with everyone except Melanie and, Henry who took her side obviously, I would try to plan events with them and come over to visit or do chores for events they wanted to throw or clean Terry's room so her mom didn't have to. She was 25, but at this point nothing surprised me, basically things that I didn't love doing but did because I wanted things to improve. I would try to be helpful to them and be their friend. I loved them but I was so mistreated that I'm now in place where I do not communicate with them at all. Blocked on everything. Rick pretty much hates his family over this whole ordeal but

remains firm that they have always been selfish, manipulative, the kind of people that pinch kids to make them cry and take a picture type. Well, shuffle bottoms if you're reading this, I don't care. Before I go. Some final piping hot tea. Did I tell you Rick's mom is best friends with Rick X. Wife Karen? Oh yeah. Icing on the cake, isn't it? At 18 years old he was with Karen for just 13 months, she cheated on him gave him the clap, tried to hide it by saying it was a UTI, when he found out and reasonably divorced her, she cut the brakes to his car, slapped him, etc. Then suckled on to his mom and became her bestie. His mom and her are best friends and travel everywhere together despite Rick telling her it makes him uncomfortable. She is brought up sometimes when I'm there like

Karen send us something in the mail and Rick looks grossed out. I do not miss the mental gymnastics and the disrespect the family tries to normalize. They are awful people. I'm not exaggerating when I saw awful. I am writing this to vent and to remind myself and to others not to continue you to be in the lives of those who mistreat you. Another new year, and yet, I know deep down inside, this year won't be any better than the last. I'm 38, and I have yet to have a good year, or even a good month, in my entire life. Matter of fact, 2025 is starting off to show me that this year, things may turn worse than ever. I try to find the strength and the will every day to carry on, to mask my pain so that I can be strong for those around me, but it's

becoming harder by the day for me to even do that. We can start from the beginning, a bridged version, of course, because to write everything would take me forever, and honestly, I don't think anyone would have the patience to read it. My childhood was stolen from me. My father's first attempt on my life that I remember, because of the traumatic acts that happened, was when I was three. He locked my mother and I in a trailer and lit it on fire. We got out, my mom got me in her car, front passenger seat and we started to back out as a steel-tool chest snagged the window over my face from my father throwing it. That was the first real memory of my father. After my mom went back to him a few months later, things didn't get any better. For the next 13 years,

my father locked me in my room, I was not allowed to cross the bedroom threshold. I was given a ketchup bottle full of water every day, and that was to last me until bedtime. If I needed to go to the bathroom, I had to wait for my father to pass by my room and get his permission. I wasn't allowed toys, or to talk to my mother, talk to myself, make sound effects. I was allowed books, paper and pencils. My father, who claimed disability by the time I was six, spent his days trying to catch me breaking one of these rules. He would sneak down the hall, stand there and wait for extended periods. If he couldn't catch me doing something, he would come up with a reason to punish me. My punishments were typically severe beatings with foreign objects that would leave bruising,

blood blisters, and in some cases, lacerations. I would be kept from school until I healed. When I wasn't in my room, my father would have me on our property in the middle of nowhere cutting fields on my hands and knees with scissors, pulling star thistle bare-handed. He would make piles of rocks taller than me with his tractor, then give me two five-gallon buckets and then I would fill them to the top, because if I didn't, I was beaten. Them I would carry both buckets at the same time about an acre, make a new pile. I would move then from one side of the property to the other, all day, every day, weather did not matter, from dawn till dark.

Other times, my punishment was to stand in the corner from about 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., break was given at lunch and dinner. Or writing, literally, one million times a phrase that he felt I needed. I got in a fight at school when I was about eight. It was right after Christmas. I begged the teacher not to send a letter home. I didn't want my dad to take my presence away and hit me. Needless to say, they still sent the letter. Not long after that, at nine years old, I decided to run away from home. I lived in the middle of nowhere and figured I'd live like the Indians did. I made it a few miles, chasing a few deer and squirrels along the way thinking I could get them to eat, and then the police found me. They took me back

to my parents. I was beaten senseless and stood in the corner for ten hours a day. About this time a worker from child protective services showed up unannounced. My father rushed me to my room, kicked my footprints out of the push carpet, and an investigation was launched. My mother and father denied all wrong songs, saying I was a liar and a troubled child. I was put on three years of probation, made to pick up cans along the roadways to pay a fine, I was put in scared straight where they locked me in the county jail and allowed inmates to yell and scream at me, threaten me, etc. Mealtime, I was fed separate from my family, I sat at a bar with my back to the dinner table. My dad would feed his cat at food next to me. The cat's fall would be in my

plate, in my face, but I couldn't tell her no, I couldn't move her, or her overwhelming smelling at food, and I could ask anyone to move her for me. Bedtime was at 5.30 p.m. I wasn't allowed to see my extended family such as aunts, grandparents, etc. If they came over, which was really rare, I stayed in my room with strict instructions to not speak. If someone was to speak to me, I was to answer, but carefully, and not engage in extended conversation. If I displeased him with my interaction, he would give me a look and I knew when they left, what was in store for me. My mother left my father many times during my childhood, but each time went back just a few

weeks or months later. One of the times when she left him, I picked up kickboxing unbeknownst to my father. When I was 13, she left him again. This time she stayed gone for over a year. During this time, I wanted to find a job in the small town I lived in. I wanted to save up for a car when I was 16. I was now just barely 14. I got on my bike and ride around town, hanging flyers and asking around.

As I rode along the side of Highway 99, a red pickup hit me in my chest, then drove halfway up my legs, threw it in reverse and backed over me. I stayed conscious the whole time, unsure of if I was going to survive. Everything was broken in my left side except a few ribs, my back or my neck. My left foot had all the flesh and muscle torn off, 368 stitches, inside and out and the possibility of a skin graft to put it together. My right arm was snapped in half, multiple broken bones on the right side, but not as bad as my left. I was bedridden for nearly six months, in a wheelchair for a year. I was told I would never play a sport again, run again, or even walk without a sever limp.

But I proved them all wrong. Shortly after I was walking again, I got caught by my mother with a Playboy magazine in my room. She wasn't happy. She called my father who lived a few miles away. The next morning while I slept, my mother had my father come over. He burst in my room, drug me out of bed, the me down, which really hurt from the injuries I was still recovering from. He then proceeded to throw me out of my mother's house telling me to never be seen again. I was just over 15. I or some clothes in my backpack,

hugged my cat goodbye and started walking down the dirt road. I didn't know where to go or what to do. I went to the elementary school, they were closed for some sort of break, and I sat on the tables outside, wondering. Then I saw a big red plastic turtle-shaped sandbox, it shell was the lid. It was getting late, dark would be here shortly, so I went to the sandbox, opened the lid, curled up in the sand, pulled the lid over me and fell asleep for the night. The next morning, I heard voices outside my sandbox. They sounded familiar, like one of my friends and his sister. They were playing. I came out to go play with them. They were surprised, needless to say, to see me come out of nowhere. They asked,

and I told them I was staying there, I had no home. They played for a while and then they left. The end. Another new year, and yet, I know deep down inside, this year won't be any better than the last. I'm 38, and I have yet to have a good year, or even a good month, in my entire life. Matter of fact, 2025 is starting off to show me that this year, things may turn worse than ever. I try to find the strength in the will every day to carry on, to mask my pain so that I can be strong for those around me, but it's becoming harder by the day for me to even do that. We can start from the beginning, a bridged version, of course, because to write everything would take me forever, and honestly, I don't think anyone would have the patience to read it.

My childhood was stolen from me. My father's first attempt on my life that I remember, because of the traumatic acts that happened, was when I was three. He locked my mother and I in a trailer and lit it on fire. We got out, my mom got me in her car, front passenger seat and we started to back out as a steel tool chest snagged the window over my face from my father throwing it. That was the first real memory of my father. After my mom went back to him a few months later, things didn't get any better. For the next 13 years, my father locked me in my room, I was not allowed to cross the bedroom threshold. I was given a ketchup bottle full of water every day, and that was to last me until bedtime.

If I needed to go to the bathroom, I had to wait for my father to pass by my room and get his permission. I wasn't allowed toys, or to talk to my mother, talk to myself, make sound effects. I was allowed books, paper and pencils. My father, who claimed disability by the time I was six, spent his days trying to catch me breaking one of these rules. He would sneak down the hall, stand there and wait for extended periods. If he couldn't catch me doing something, he would come up with a reason to punish me. My punishments were typically severe beatings with foreign objects that would leave bruising, blood blisters, and in some cases, lacerations.

I would be kept from school until I healed. When I wasn't in my room, my father would have me on our proper. in the middle of nowhere cutting fields on my hands and knees with scissors, pulling star thistle bare-handed. He would make piles of rocks taller than me with his tractor, then give me two five-gallon buckets and then I would fill them to the top, because if I didn't, I was beaten. Them I would carry both buckets at the same time about an acre, make a new pile. I would move then from one side of the property to the other, all day, every day, weather

did not matter, from dawn till dark. Other times, my punishment was to stand in a corner from about 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., break was given at lunch and dinner. Or writing, literally, one million times a phrase that he felt I needed. I got in a fight at school when I was about 8. It was right after Christmas. I begged the teacher not to send a letter home. I didn't want my dad to take my presence away and hit me. Needless to say, they still sent the letter. Not long after that, at nine years old, I decided to run away from home. I lived in the middle of nowhere and figured I'd live like the Indians did. I made it a few miles, chasing a few deer and squirrels along the way thinking I could get them to eat, and then the police found me. They took me back

to my parents. I was beaten senseless and stood in the corner for ten hours a day. About this time a worker from child protective services showed up unannounced. My father rushed me to my room, kicked my footprints out of the push carpet, and an investigation was launched. My mother and father denied all wrong songs, saying I was a liar and a troubled child. I was put on three years of probation, made to pick up cans along the roadways to pay a fine, I was put in scared straight where they locked me in the county jail and allowed inmates to yell and scream at me, threaten me, etc. Mealtime, I was fed separate for my family,

I sat at a bar with my back to the dinner table. My dad would feed his cat at food next to me. The cat's fall would be in my plate, in my face, but I couldn't tell her no, I couldn't move her, or her overwhelming smelling at food, and I could ask anyone to move her for me. Bedtime was at 5.30 p.m. I wasn't allowed to see my extended family such as ants, grandparents, and grandparents, etc. If they came over, which was really rare, I stayed in my room with strict instructions to not speak. If someone was to speak to me, I was to answer, but carefully, and not engage in extended conversation. If I displeased him with my interaction, he would give me a look and I knew when they left, what was in store for me. My mother left my father many

times during my childhood, but each time went back just a few weeks or months later. One of the times when she left him, I picked up kickboxing unbeknownst to my father. When I was 13, she left him again. This time she stayed gone for over a year. During this time, I wanted to find a job in the small town I lived in. I wanted to save up for a car when I was 16. I was now just barely 14. I got on my bike and ride around town, hanging flyers and asking around. As I rode along the side of Highway 99, a red pickup hit me in my chest, then drove halfway up my legs, threw it in reverse and backed over me. I stayed conscious the whole time, unsure of if I was going to survive. Everything was broken in my left side except a few ribs, my back or my

neck. My left foot had all the flesh and muscle torn off, 368 stitches, inside and out and the possibility of a skin graft to put it together. My right arm was snapped in half, multiple broken bones on the right side, but not as bad as my left. I was bedridden for nearly six months, in a wheelchair for a year. I was told I would never play a sport again, run again, or even walk without a sever limp. But I proved them all wrong. Shortly after I was walking again, I got caught by my mother with a Playboy magazine in my room. She wasn't happy. She called my father who lived a few miles away. The next morning while I slept, my mother had my father come over.

He burst in my room, drugged me out of bed, the me down, which really hurt from the injuries I was still recovering from. He then proceeded to throw me out of my mother's house telling me to never be seen again. I was just over 15. I or some clothes in my backpack, hugged my cat goodbye and started walking down the dirt road. I didn't know where to go or what to do. I went to the elementary school, they were closed for some sort of break, and I sat on the tables outside, wondering. Then I saw a big red plastic turtle-shaped sandbox, its shell was the lid.

It was getting late, dark would be here shortly, so I went to the sandbox, opened the lid, curled up in the sand, pulled the lid over me and fell asleep for the night. The next morning, I heard voices outside my sandbox. They sounded familiar, like one of my friends and his sister. They were playing. I came out to go play with them. They were surprised, needless to say, to see me come out of nowhere. They asked, and I told them I was staying there, I had no home. They played for a while and then they left. Not long after that I saw them coming back, but they had an adult with them who I assumed was their mom. I ran to my box, closed the lid and hid. She came over and tried to convince me to come out. But I was afraid I was going to be in trouble, so I stayed quite and didn't come out,

she didn't open the lid, but instead left. A few more minutes later I heard a vehicle, some footsteps, and then a man's voice telling me to get out of the title and come with him. I complied it off fear that my father had insulted in me. It was my friend's dad. His mom had went and got him. They took me to their home which was two doors down from my mother's. I was terrified my father would see me nearby and punish me. But the man that took me and held a black belt and assured me I was safe, and that they would take care of me. About a year past, I was 16 now, my mother had moved and went back to my father in the time I was gone. She also left him again. She got an apartment one town down. It wasn't long until she called me

multiple times begging me to come home. I finally did, on the condition that she don't go back to him. I continued my training in kickboxing, wrestled on the high school wrestling team, I played football my sophomore and junior year, I got into weightlifting. Things were going great. Then she went back, again. This time, as I was isolated in my room eating my meal on my floor, my dad came in, yelling at me, he swung his fork near my face, I bobbed my head out of the way. He said, oh, you think you're a tough guy now because you know Kung Fuha. I said, no, I don't think I am. I know I am. His eyes turned to stone and I knew what was coming. I stood up, now over an inch taller than my father. He tried to hit me, I blocked it, gave him a quick

jab and a hard back round to the leg. The fight was done. He went to his room, grabbed his pistol and came back. He told me I had an hour to get out of his house. I called my friend, who I had met at my dojo. He was around 25 at the time. He was part of the 101st Airborne and part of the initial invasion force into Iraq. He was an amateur MMA fighter, who shortly would go pro under Ken Shamrock. He showed up to get me 10 minutes later, which was impressive, since he lived 25 minutes away, minimum. His radio was loud, which I knew would anger my dad.

I got in his car and he proceeded to spin donuts in my dad's yard, which was one of his pride and joys. I told my friend, dude, my dad's going to be pissed. My friend laughed and said, so what? What's he going to do about it? and we were off. I stayed the night with my friend. He didn't have any food, a small apartment in a rough neighborhood.

He struggled to make ends meet. We had raw potatoes with saracha for most meals when I was around. It wasn't long and I felt like I was a burden. I made up a story and left. I found a bridge along the river. It had some spots I could stay dry and protect it from the wind, so that's where I stayed at night. I dropped out of high school. I barely went to the dojo.

I was dating my Sensei's daughter, and she noticed my absence in school and class. She brought it up to my Sensei, who investigated and eventually discovered I was a homeless kid. He took me in, gave me care, treated me well, and that's where I stayed until I turned 18. At 18 I got my first apartment. I met an older woman who was 30. We started hanging out together and became an item. Prior to my departure to the Army, I found out she was pregnant. I was so happy to be a father, I saw it as a chance to break the cycle of bad fathers.

I wanted to be a good one. I headed off to boot camp, and about halfway through, I got a letter from the woman who was carrying my child. She said she had a miscarriage. The baby was so sick, its skin was transparent. It has blue eyes and blonde hair. I grieved the loss of my child through boot camp, A-I-T and Airborne School. I got letters from my mother telling me that lady had taken my vehicle and went to Arizona.

She was still married. That she had been taking all my money. I flew home for leave and called her, gave her 48 hours to return my vehicle or I report it stolen. A few days later it was left in the parking lot. My vehicle was brand new when I left. But no, it looked like a bullet hole in the front bumper, a dented fender, looked like something blew up on the interior of my car's roof.

A few days later I went to Burger King, as I went to open the door, the woman walks past me, carrying a new baby girl swaddled in a blanket. My world froze and she kept walking. I sat down inside, not even hungry anymore. I tried to reach out to the district attorneys for help. No one would help me I lost the child again Fast forward a year

Whole on leave I met a girl in my hometown We became an item And eventually when I head back I hear she's pregnant So I start planning on moving her to base She did not want to And she did not like me being in the military She told me you either come back now

Or in taking your child and you will never see him again This destroyed me. So I made the worst decision I ever made and went AWOL to be back home with her and to see my child into the world. When the day came for my son to be born, I sat in the hospital room with her waiting. There was a knock, we expected a doctor, but instead two police officers and a social worker came in. They took me into the hall, handcuffed me, AMD took me to the county jail while my son was being born. I sat in there for three weeks. One morning I got word that I was to be released with orders to fly back to my unit the next morning.

They let me go, and I saw my son for the first time. The next morning came, and I couldn't leave my child. I stayed. I became a fugitive, constantly being hunted. My mother would tell others about my situation AMD it wasn't long before people were leveraging it for their own gains. I would be bullied by other residents, and if I defended myself, they would be bullied by other residents. they would report me. My grandmother found out I got a $250 bonus from my job for Christmas. She called me and said I had one hour to give her the $250 or else she would turn me in.

So I gave her my money. For seven years I hid, working under the table jobs, being blackmailed. I starved, I went from £190 to £130 pounds. I missed the birth of both my children, got arrested three times for being AWOL and still always came back to take care of my family, since my now wife did not work ever. My mother at one point allowed my wife and kids to stay with her, but I was not allowed to because she had told her apartment manager about what I was going through, so yet again, I was homeless in a tent. Finally after seven years, I found out someone was tracking me again.

I knew I had about 24 hours. But I was done. I sat there and waited. When they came, I offered no resistance, I just went. I allowed myself to be transported from the west coast to Fort Riley, despite many chances to escape again. They put me in Fort Leavenworth for two months and let me go with an other than honorable discharge. While sitting in headquarters I learned that the way they located me was my grandmother had called

and turned me in asking for a reward. But now I was free. I came home, and was immediately back in the abuse. See, since the beginning of our relationship, my wife had been mentally and physically abusive to me. What are you going to do about it? You're AWOL. I'll just have you arrested. Was her favorite line. She would tell me daily how ugly I was, how worthless I was, how I could do no better than her and that she settled for me. I wasn't allowed to shave, brush my teeth or shower without her permission or else I was a cheater. Several times she would come down the hall

screaming at me out of the blue and dig her fingernails into my flesh and tear it. But I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't get help from the police, for seven years they would have just taken me, even if they didn't take me when I was clear, where I came from, they would laugh me off and not do anything. This continued for 11 years, her constant abuse, me being the sole provider. And then one day she decided she wanted a job. She got a job at home for special needs people. Two weeks in, she came home one night wearing a sweater I'd never seen and smelling like a man's cologne. I asked and she said it was her lesbian friends. I got suspicious and dug around and found out she had some guy that used to be our neighbor who was married and had

a handicapped child come from one state over and fuck her. But that wasn't all. She had had three other affairs in that time, one with her own cousin. We fought for days, me telling her to leave my home, but she wouldn't. One evening she grabbed my point four-five and walks up to me and asks, is it loaded? I said yes. She points it at me and says, all I have to do is pull the trigger. When they come, I'll just tell them you were hitting me and I did this in self-defense. Eventually she put my gun down. After a few more hours I dripped to my knees crying, I wrap my arms around her waist and beg her to stop. She pushed me off and walked out the front door in the dark. I walked on my back porch, collapsed crying and passed out drunk. I don't

know how much time passed, but soon, my phone rings, but I don't even look at it. Over and over my phone rings for quite a while, finally I looked through my tears and the dizziness from a 24-pack of beer. The number seemed familiar, but couldn't place it. At that moment my kids who were really young come running out, Dad, there's a bunch of cops with spotlights out front telling you to come out. I stagger to my door and am hit with so many lights and an officer on a megaphone, turn around, put your hands in the air and walk backward to the sound of my voice. I have no idea what's going on, and as I comply it's really hard to walk forward so drunk, I was afraid I was going to fall off my steps and someone would get jumpy and I would get

all these cops unloading their guns into me and possibly hitting a child. When I hit my circular drive I'm told to drop to my knees and place my hands on top of my head. I was cuffed and put into a squad car. I asked what I'm being arrested for, but all they would say is, what do you think? My response was, because I'm drunk. They said, now is that a crime to drink in your home, to which I replied, no, so what am I being arrested for? I was told to shut up and I'll find out when his partner gets back. Shortly later another squad car shows up, my wife gets out with a cop and they walk into my house. I told the cop that was standing over me she was not to be in there, she is kicked out for what he did, he told me that's not my choice. As the officers

come out, I noticed they have one of my revolvers and two rifles. I had many more, my wife had given those to them because they were my favorites but didn't give them any others because she hoped to keep them. As I'm being transported to the hospital to be cleared for jail, I'm finally told what I'm being arrested for. Assault and kidnapping. My heart stopped, I said no, I didn't do any of that. I'm then informed that it carry a mandatory 25-year sentence if convicted. As we sit in the hospital, I'm a wreck, my heart was just ripped out, my family destroyed and now I'm facing serious charges and a 25-year sentence for something I didn't even remotely do. I asked the officer if I could prove I'm telling the truth, if he would drop the charges. He says yes. I pause knowing I've got

one shot, if I can't prove it in my first attempt, that's it, I'm done. I say, you have my phone, right? He says yes. I say, go through it, you will find everything there, she is lying, she cheated, she did all these things. I just hugged her on my knees and asked her to stop. The cop gets my phone from his squad car leaving hospital security to watch me. He comes back in and confirms that I'm giving permission for him to go through my phone, I confirm and he starts. Pretty soon, did you call her this? How about this? To which I say, yes, I absolutely did. His response was, I can't blame you. He then says, okay, I'm going to go make some calls and look into some facts. A while later he returns. He tells me my story matched 100% to my wife's sister's story and everything he could find.

He told me all charges were being dropped, but, because of the volatile situation and the fact I was so drunk, he didn't feel it was smart to let me go home that night, that I was going to be booked for the night in the jail and he would release me first thing in the morning. I went back home and for nearly a month I was forced to live with her, she would not leave. Her family who lived nearby wouldn't get her. so finally I asked my mother to give her a place to stay just three months a chance to get a job some money and a place of her own if she don't then kick her out at that point for nearly eight months she stayed with my mother who lived twenty minutes away during that time my mother dropped by one time to check on me called two times i sat with my pistol in my mouth trying to find the courage to pull the trigger but couldn't during this time I had two of my three kids with me that I'm Y youngest was about two at the time, and my ex-wife had taken him.

One night around 3 a.m., I got a call for my mother, they were bringing my youngest to me, my ex was having sex next to him, drinking constantly and stealing prescriptions. It wasn't too long before I got the truth, my disabled mother had been selling her pills, my mother was allowing these men into her home, and even serving them dinner. My mother had even, prior to this separation, had been taking her to male strip clubs. So now I had three kids, no help, no money for daycare. The older two went to school, but the youngest didn't. So now I had to take him to a construction site with me daily.

And it's hard being a dad changing diapers and keeping a child safe while building houses. Jumping ahead about a year or so, yet a great woman. I loved her to death. deeper than I've loved anyone to this day. But this girl was friends with all sorts, she herself was bisexual, had been in straight relationships, lesbian relationships, and was even a third in another. She went to Germany within our format month for two weeks, and came back with Chlamydia. For some reason, she was always afraid that her child's father and I would talk and he would

tell me something about her. I turned a blind eye, but four years later, after being engaged to her for a year, in our wedding three months away, I found out she had been having sex with some woman she worked with. I broke it off. But, she lingered, I found out what it was she was concerned I would find out, she had HPV and had not disclosed this. I wound up getting warts that I had to have removed and still battle with occasionally to this day. Well, about this time, the pandemic hit, I was laid off within the first month. I owned the house my parents had started buying in the mid-90s. Mortage was 700 for my two acres with a creek, three bedrooms, and two baths.

The new note holder asked where his money was and when I told him I'm laid off due to the lockdown, he told me that was unacceptable. I told him there were protections against this during the pandemic. Two weeks later, I had court papers hung on my property letting me know we were going into foreclosure. During this period I met another woman. She and I started dating and she found out about my situation. She lived about 50 miles away and offered me and my children to live with her and rebuild our life together. Now this one gave me lots of red flags, real quick with pet names, talking about marriage within the first month or so of our relationship, but due to my circumstances, I was limited on where to go to keep my kids together and safe.

So we began the move. It was December, I was a houndsman with a pack of four hounds, I had two goats, three ducks, and 20 chickens. While moving this distance, I would show back up to my property early in the morning and in the evening to tend my animals. One day I show back up, and my kennels are open, my dogs are gone, my goats are gone, and there's a note from the sheriff that they had seized my animals for abandonment. I contacted them and set up a meeting with the undersheriff. He and the animal control officer sat in the room, and the sheriff told me before starting the recording that him and this guy wore the same uniform and that he will side with him no matter what. The animal control officer got a noise complaint about my guns, when they showed up and couldn't get in contact with me, they looked through my windows and saw that the house was nearly empty, so he seized my animals, despite each dog having tags with three phone numbers to contact me. I proved they my security cameras that I did not abandon, that I was there two times per day to care for them.

The sheriff says he will give my dogs back, but it's $100 per animal I need to pay the shelter. That was $600 to get my four dogs and two goats back, even though I was innocent, just weeks before Christmas. I could only afford my dogs, so they kept my goats and sold them to butcher. So now we are in the new home with this woman, and I notice she has books about how to keep a man, how to make a man love you, she would talk manipulation tactics with my daughter. One day I came home early, and caught her screaming in the room at my daughter about me. I stood there and waited.

She came down the hall and her expression changed, Oh, hey, baby. We argued a bit and that was it. It wasn't long after that I found out my 13-year-old daughter had been talking to adult men online, getting inappropriate pictures, ditching school, smoking, drinking, and lying about her whereabouts. I took her computer away, grounded her and made her do push-ups

for lying to me for about five minutes. I thought I handled it right. About the time Onnikran variant came out, I caught COVID. I was laying in bed on a Sunday, feeling dead when there's a knock and there's sheriffs at the door. I put on my mask and go to speak to them. They start asking about my 13-year-old daughter and if they can speak to her. That they had gotten a concerning report. So I get my daughter and I go back in.

About five minutes later they tell me they are taking her to the hospital for evaluation because she made specific suicidal threats. They told me I should hear from the hospital soon. Over two hours passed and no call, so I began calling. I would get hung up on, put on hold for an hour and just generally stonewalled for nearly two weeks. Now I have sole custody, legal and physical of all three kids. I told the hospital this and asked why they were withholding my daughter and information for me, why I couldn't see my daughter.

They told me she was in protective custody and getting sent to an institution and hung up on me. Pretty soon social workers show up. They tell me that grounding my child for two weeks to the house and property, taking away her computer and internet access and making her do push-ups is child abuse. I call my mother, because I found a letter in my daughter's things from her where she had made plans to come get her one night while I was in Jiu-Jitsu and help her run away 200 miles to her new home. I asked my mother why she would do this to me AMD my family. And in a cold unrecognizable tone, she said, because I'm angry with you for not letting me be

around them. I won the court case, but now my daughter was back. She continued stealing, I was forced by social services to allow her to what she wanted when she wanted, like go to the teen center whenever she wanted for however long she wanted and I could not supervise, if I did not, it would be abuse and neglect because she said she's suicidal. She would go there and 18-year-old boys would have sex with her in cars, I found this out years later from her brother. She kept telling my boys, Dad better get in line or I'll have him put in line, if I don't get to go stay with my mom, I will make it my mission to destroy dad's life.

Social services showed up three more times to investigate new allegations that she and my mother would make. In this time I also found out my current girlfriend of the time I had been enabling this, putting her in touch with Grandma and her mother, encouraging her to do these things. I figured it was so I would be hurt and she could come in AMD play superhero and win me over. I later found out I was correct, she had described a manipulation technique that she read about called The White Knight to my daughter and son, and she attempted to employ it on me. So when I found this out, she wanted me out of the house immediately, I agreed to move ASAP, but she said no, not good enough, if I have to get an emergency order

to get you out tomorrow, I will. So the next night, when I come home from work, she starts screaming at me. She starts yelling about me having HPV, I told her this before we did anything so she would be aware, make her decision, AMD we could work to be safe, in front of my children, which was wrong and gross. I asked her to stop, she didn't. My kids were now standing there watching her yell this and I attempted to cover her mouth, but before I even reached out she screamed bloody murder and tore the skin from my face nearly putting out my eye. I just walked off, went to bed and said, forget it. The next day she was gone. She didn't come back. But the cops did. I told them what happened. They said they came with every intention of

arresting me, but after hearing my story and confirming it with the kids, they decided not to. They told me I had 24 hours to leave, if I did not, they would arrest me under some form of a felony. So I packed what I could in the SUV, loaded up my kids, and we slept in a parking lot for nearly a week. I left my hounds, but kept coming back in the night to feed and care for them. I stayed with my boss at the time, he was an old guy. But he let me and the kids stay there. I was there about a month, but wasn't having luck getting into any form of housing. Where I came from, to even get a crappy apartment, you needed a 650 credit score. I had around a 515 from robbing Peter to pay Paul most my life trying to make ends meet.

I couldn't continue imposing on this guy, and it was tough being in a tiny room with all my kids. So I started looking for a roommate situation where we could have normality and more space. Some older woman was renting out a few rooms on her 20-acre property. I reached out AMD met her, she agreed to allow us to live there and my hounds were welcome. So we went there. Not even two weeks in, I noticed my tools start disappearing, items in my room would be moved or gone. She was legitimate crazy.

She would talk about waiting for me to come home and hitting me in the back of the head with a baseball bat to my kids. One day while I was at work, her and her daughter call me, they tell me to come bury my dog, they shot her because she wouldn't shut up. But then in the same breath, they threatened to shoot me as well when I come out. Of course the police weren't interested in helping me. So I collected what I could of my belongings, grabbed my kids and left, I couldn't get an apartment with my animals, and by taking them, I chose them over my kids and was doomed them to be in this situation forever.

I lost the rest of what I loved that day. I found an old woman that managed some apartments, she liked me, and decided that even though my credit wasn't what she wanted, she would give me a home. We moved into our first home in a little over a year after becoming homeless. Things went well, I started dating someone I had known for a year, I had a great job at a mill. But I needed hand surgery for an injury that I had had for nearly four years. When I was undergoing the operation, my oldest son decided without telling me, that he wanted to see if his mom had changed. He was 15. He reached out to her, told her where we lived and met up with her, after she had abandoned them all. I allowed him to as he pleased with her,

so long as he didn't leave town AMD she didn't have my exact address. Their relationship went for nearly eight months when I was served papers. Now she wanted in the baby's life, who was now seven and didn't even know her. About this time though I had started the process of buying a home across the country. I wanted a new start and new life. I had worked hard to get my credit score to $690 and was ready. So off I went. I thought it was going to be great, I mean gas where I came from was $6 a gallon, now I'm paying $2.38. I took a big pay cut, I went from $40 an hour to $20 here doing construction. But I was all right. Then I thought it was going to get better. My new boss wanted to retire, he offered me his 20-year-old company, I just needed 30k down.

I started being taught to do estimates for him. I did 12, but was understood by illegal immigrants on every one of them. In the meantime, work the company did have, he subcontracted out, when on vacation A&D laid me off for a month just doing estimates. Mortage fell behind, bills fell behind. I asked my girlfriend to help me for a few months, she wasn't too happy. She paid one month, and didn't after that. Now I sit here dealing with the depression, the suicidal thoughts. My relationship is falling apart.

This is the abridged version of my life. I left out tons of stories, information A&D other things. I've never talked about this stuff to anyone, I carry it silently always hopeful. But I'm scared now. I've battled depression a long time, bad depression, but never this bad. In a few days it's been two months of feeling this. I have no family or friends, and I don't want a therapist. I guess this was my attempt to talk, and make myself feel a little more okay.

If you've read this far, thank you for hearing me. But please, if you feel compelled to comment or message me, don't attack me. I'm not proud of what I did leaving the army I'm not proud to have an STI It's all dishonorable and disgusting, I know But it's part of my story, AMD for once I wanted to tell even those parts