Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Creepiest Nightmares Ever

Episode Date: February 2, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #nightmarehorror #terrifyingdreams #psychologicalterror #darknightmares This collection dives into disturbing nightmares filled with shadowy figures, relentless fear, and surreal horror that follows its victims even after they wake up. Each story reveals how dreams can become twisted reflections of hidden trauma, dark entities, and inescapable terror, proving that sometimes the scariest place to be is inside your own mind horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, nightmarestories, psychologicalhorror, dreamhorror, creepydreams, sleepterror, darkfantasyhorror, mindhorror, supernaturalfear, disturbingstories, nosleepstories, terrifyingvisions, shadowyhorror, fearofthedark, twistednightmaresThis episode includes AI-generated content.

The case starts in November 2011 with a viral story about a man named Ricky Nels who allegedly killed his wife after she threw away his Star Wars action figure collection. Ricky, a 30-year-old, had been married for several years to poor P. Lenro, 28. Their marriage was rocky, with constant arguments that seemed to escalate quickly. She even threatened to move back to Thailand. But when she tossed out his prize Star Wars collection, that was the last straw. In a heated confrontation, Ricky strangled her. While it was a tragic incident, the story spread like wildfire online, sparking memes and endless discussions on forums, YouTube, and Facebook.

It even reached a point where people debated if the story was real or just internet lore. Little did anyone know that Star Wars would again be at the heart of a murder case just three years later, but this one had a twist of eerie planning behind it. Fast forward to 2014, where the true story of Samina Imam, a successful regional manager at Costco, begins. She was a woman known for her kindness, a true people person who could lift anyone's spirits with her warm smile and thoughtful advice. She managed Costco stores across three major cities, Southampton, Bristol, and Coventry, frequently traveling in meeting new people. Despite the demanding nature of her work, she loved it,

and something about her happiness led friends and family to suspect she might be seeing someone. By December 2014, her close ones were nearly certain Samina was in love. She was more cheerful than usual, constantly on her phone, and always had plans. Her family expected she'd introduce her mysterious partner over the Christmas holidays. Samina's holiday plans included working until 4 p.m. on December 24th, meeting up with someone afterward, and possibly spending Christmas with friends or that special someone. On December 26th, she'd drive from Cardiff, where she lived, to Essex to celebrate with her family. But Christmas came and went, and Samina never arrived.

On December 26, her family reported her missing. The police immediately sprang into action, launching Operation Ceramic, to uncover Samina's last known movements. Her co-workers confirmed she'd left work at 4 p.m. on December 24th, which surveillance footage from the Costco parking lot corroborated. A bit later, another camera captured her shopping at a Marks and Spencer store, where she bought a bottle of Bellini in some sweets. All clues pointed toward a romantic rendezvous.

The police soon discovered that Samina had been. booked a room at the Murmod Hotel in Birmingham for the 24th and 25th, with full board, a lavish holiday plan. Yet the hotel staff reported that she never checked in, meaning something had happened before she reached her destination. For 11 days, police searched tirelessly, while the media circulated her description and that of her black BMW. She was described as a petite woman of English and Pakistani descent, with dark hair and standing about five feet tall. Meanwhile, detectives got hold of her phone records and found messages suggesting she was upset on December 24th. At 6.30 p.m., she'd sent a message to a man named Roger, expressing anger and saying she was going where she'd be appreciated.

Roger Cooper, 41, a Costco manager and Samina's colleague, seemed suspiciously indifferent in his response the following day, merely texting her, Merry Christmas. Police decided to bring him in for questioning, where he eventually confessed to having an affair with Samina, though he claimed she had another. man and had left him out of jealousy. Roger's alibi was that he'd spent Christmas Eve with his brother David in Lester before returning home to his wife. For police, his calm reaction to Samina's angry message and the vague alibi raised red flags. Police obtained location data from Samina's phone, which showed she'd headed to Lester instead of Birmingham on the 24th, aligning her location with David's home, which

cast further doubt on Roger's story. The case took a shocking turn on January 4, 2015, when a neighbor reported. seeing Samina's BMW parked on their street. Police inspected the vehicle, finding three suspicious details, it was spotlessly clean, devoid of Samina's belongings, and the driver's seat was pushed way back, odd for someone as short as Samina. Instead, it seemed suited to someone like Roger, who was nearly six feet three inches. As suspicions mounted, police called in Roger's brother, David,

a former military man who stood nearly six feet six inches. David seemed visibly nervous and denied knowing Samina or having seen her on the 24th. Yet Samina's phone had been in Leicester, near his home, casting doubt on his story. Police scoured surveillance footage near the street where Samina's car was found. They spotted two tall men exiting the vehicle, later identified as Roger and David. Determined to break David's resolve, detectives called him in for further questioning while another team searched his home. They found a bizarre collection of Star Wars memorabilia, random trinkets, and even a bottle of Bellini and sweets, identical to the item Samina had bought on the day she vanished.

Confronted with this evidence, David finally cracked and admitted that Roger, who was married but had multiple affairs, had been romantically involved with Samina. As the affair grew intense, Samina pressured Roger to commit fully, even issuing him an ultimatum to choose between her and his wife. Fearing she'd expose him, Roger saw Samina as a liability. So, on the night of December 24th, David claimed, Roger had lured Saminat to his house. Once there, the brothers confronted her, and David, not knowing how to calm her, allegedly used a chloroform-soaked cloth to subdue her. Unfortunately, she died.

Panic-stricken, David called a friend named Ben, who supposedly helped dispose of the body. Despite David's confession, police doubted his story fully absolved Roger. An anonymous tip led them to a plot of land owned by David in Leicester, littered with rubble and debris, an ideal spot to conceal a body. There, on January 16th, they found Saminas remains buried in a military-style sleeping bag, her head wrapped in a plastic bag and her torso bound. An autopsy confirmed that she died from chloroform inhalation, and her system contained a lethal mix of toxins. With evidence mounting against them, Roger and David were arrested on January 7. While the media sensationalized the case, playing up the Star Wars angle, detectives focused on building a solid

case against the brothers for premeditated murder. On October 21st, 2015, both were found guilty of first-degree murder, with a minimum sentence of 30 years each. This tragic case revealed the length some people will go to hide secrets. Although Samina's murder was linked in pop culture with Star Wars, the true horror lay in the cold, calculated actions of the Cooper brothers. The chilling story serves as a reminder that real-life villains don't wear costumes, they often hide in plain sight. This retelling captures the case's drama and psychological tension, revealing how an obsession with control, and a touch of Star Wars, led to a calculated tragedy. It all began with a chilling realization in the dead of night. Someone struck him hard on the head,

jolting him awake from what he thought was sleep. The pain was sharp, searing through his skull, and he immediately shot to his feet. Darkness engulfed the room, and no one was in sight. His mind raced with fear as he began to shout, calling for his son and his son's friend, who had been staying over. Panicked, he told them what had just happened, insisting that someone had broken into the house and attacked him. But the boys dismissed his fears, insisting he must have dreamt it all. Yet, deep down, he knew better.

The throbbing pain in his head was too real to ignore. This unsettling incident was only the prelude to a far more sinister story, one that unfolded on a sunny Sunday morning, June 30, 2013. It was around 6.30 a.m. when two passers by and noticed something unusual on the road leading to Bunola in Majorca. A land rover was parked haphazardly on the shoulder of the road. The site was odd enough to draw them closer, and when they peeked inside the vehicle, they stumbled upon a horrifying scene. An injured man lay slumped in the driver's seat. They recognized him immediately, it was Andrew K. Benazer, a well-known local businessman. Horrified, and he was

They contacted the police without delay. Minutes later, the judicial police and the homicide unit of the Civil Guard arrived at the scene. The initial impression suggested a robbery gone wrong. Andrew's body bore signs of a violent struggle, particularly severe injuries to the head. Known for always carrying cash and wearing a Rolex, Andrew had neither on him this time. It seemed plausible that a thief had targeted him and fled with his valuables. However, something about the scene felt off. The lack of blood spatter or significant pools of blood in the car hinted that the crime might not have taken place there.

Could this have been a cold, calculated act of vengeance? To unravel the mystery, we must delve deeper into the life of Andrew K. Benazer. At 57, Andrew was a prominent entrepreneur from Alaro, Majorca. Known to many by the nickname, too, he was both admired and envied in equal measure. He had built an impressive fortune through two major businesses, Palma Maddo, a gaming company valued at nearly 2 million euros, and Coulter, a real estate firm worth approximately 4.5 million euros. Together, they owned 78 properties. Additionally, Andrew himself had 19 more properties to his name, ranging from houses to commercial spaces. Wealth, however, comes with its burdens.

Andrew's success inevitably attracted envy, but his private life remained a mystery to most. He was known to be a solitary man with few close friends. He maintained a close relationship with his fathering had been married, fathering three children, Iinar, Tony, and Andrew Jr. Yet, his family ties were anything but harmonious. For reasons unknown, Andrew's marriage ended bitterly. After the divorce, he severed ties with his two eldest children, leaving them out of his will. His youngest son, Andrew Jr., became his sole heir.

The boy excelled in school, earning his father's favor and eventually moving in with him. Andrew Sr. even involved his son in the family business, grooming him for the few. future. Andrew's personal life took another turn when he began a relationship with Inniiborka, a woman from Moldova. Their romance lasted several years but ended abruptly in March 2013. The breakup sparked rumors, with whispers suggesting that Andrew Jr. had something to do with the split. Despite such speculations, Andrews Sr. remained tight-lipped. He confided in no one, not even his sister Margarita, who was one of the few people he trusted. As the investigation into Andrew's death began, the police examined surveillance footage from the area where his car was found.

They also combed through his home, believing it might hold clues. The house was thoroughly inspected, and even the phones inside were tapped. The authorities hoped to uncover any slip-ups in conversations between family members, as Andrew had limited contacts outside his inner circle. Initially, the police ruled out the family as suspects, suspecting instead that Andrew's death was the result of a vendetta tied to his business dealings. On the night of June 29, 2013, Andrew had been at his father's house. Everything seemed normal until he received a mysterious phone call.

Without revealing who had called, he abruptly left. That was the last time anyone saw him alive. However, a breakthrough came when the wiretaps picked up a suspicious conversation between Andrew Jr. and his friend Francisco Abbas. In the transcript, published by the Diario de Majorca, the two discussed dividing the inheritance among Andrew's siblings, a startling revelation considering Andrew Jr. Was supposed to inherit everything. The cryptic exchange raised eyebrows, prompting investigators to dig deeper.

They uncovered testimonies from two individuals with damning information about Andrew Jr. The first was Inia Borka, Andrew Sr. S.X. partner, who revealed the tumultuous relationship between father and son. According to Inia, Andrew Jr. had moved in with his father at 15, citing financial struggles with his mother. Initially, he was a promising, well-behaved young man, but things soon took a turn. He shirked household responsibilities, spending endless hours playing video games. His father's attempts to impose limits were met with resistance, and their arguments grew increasingly heated.

Inia described the situation as unbearable, which ultimately led to her breakup with Andrews Sr. in March 2013. The second testimony came from Margarita, Andrew's sister. She confirmed the strained dynamics within the family. While Andrew Jr. had become his father's favorite, their relationship deteriorated over time. Andrew Jr. S. obsession with video games, particularly titles like Dead Rising 2 and Call of Duty, consumed him. He became a renowned player in online gaming communities, even winning a national tournament. Among his peers, he was known by the username, Tactical Men, proudly describing himself as a killing machine.

Andrew Jr. S. Passion for gaming led him to forge a close friendship with Francisco Abbas, a 20-year-old from Zaragoza. The two met online and bonded over their shared love of games. Their friendship grew so strong that they began visiting each other in person, solidifying their connection. In June 2013, Francisco traveled to Mallorca to visit Andrew Jr., arriving just days before the murder. During his stay, events took a dark and unsettling turn. Andrew Sr. was initially pleased to see his son. on forging a real-life friendship, but his happiness was short-lived. On the night of June 28, he found himself mysteriously falling asleep after eating a piece of cake his son and Francisco

had baked. He woke up later, convinced he had been struck on the head. Though his son and Francisco dismissed his concerns, Andrew Sr. confided in Margarita the next morning, expressing fears that the boys might be plotting against him. Margarita's concerns grew when the police found blood traces in Andrew Sr. S. Home using infrared technology. This discovery confirmed their suspicions, the murder had occurred in the house, not the car. The evidence pointed squarely at Andrew Jr. and Francisco. Both were arrested immediately after Andrew Sr.'s funeral. During separate interrogations, they confessed to the crime, each offering their version of events. Andrew Jr. admitted to the murder, claiming years of psychological abuse drove him to the

breaking point. He described feeling humiliated and belittled by his father, particularly in front of others. Meanwhile, Francisco revealed a different motive. He confessed to being deeply in love with Andrew Jr., willing to do anything to win his affection. Francisco claimed that Andrew Jr. promised him a share of the inheritance if he helped carry out the murder. The duo's plan was as sinister as it was methodical. On the night of June 28, they baked a cake laced with sedatives, hoping to incapacitate Andrew Sr. when that failed. they decided to strike the following night. Using a weapon inspired by Dead Rising 2, a bat with embedded nails,

they launched a brutal attack. Andrew Sr. Was lured into the living room, where Francisco struck him from behind. Over the next several minutes, they delivered over 40 blows using the bat, a hammer, and a vase. Once Andrew Sr. was dead, they cleaned his body, dressed it in fresh clothes, and staged a robbery. After dumping the body in the Land Rover, they drove it to the remote location where it was. was eventually discovered. Their efforts to cover their tracks were sloppy, however. The Land Rover attracted attention, and witnesses identified it as Andrew Sr. S. S. Vehicle.

This, combined with the blood evidence at the house, sealed their fate. Both Andrew Jr. and Francisco were found guilty of murder. Andrew Jr. So, here's the deal, I live alone. One bedroom apartment. Nothing fancy. It's cheap, decent neighborhood, no complaints. Well, at least until recently. When I first moved in, it was pretty uneventful. Just your standard new place adjustment phase, getting used to the weird sounds the building makes, the way the plumbing sometimes groans like a dying animal,

the occasional creaky floorboard that makes you think someone sneaking up behind you when you're just trying to make a midnight snack. The usual, you know. But then, things started happening. Little things. Things that could be explained away if you didn't think too hard about them. Like, I'd go to grab a glass from the kitchen. cupboard, and the door would already be open.

Weird, but maybe I left it that way. Maybe I just didn't notice. Then my keys, I have this hook by the door where I always hang them because otherwise, I'd lose them in approximately 3.4 seconds. But some days, they wouldn't be there. I'd find them on the kitchen counter, or on my nightstand, or, once, on the floor by the couch. I told myself I was just being absent-minded.

And then the food. I know for a fact I bought a little. a six-pack of yogurt. I eat one every morning. But by Wednesday, there was only one left. I thought, okay, maybe I miscounted. Maybe I ate more than I thought. Maybe I was just that exhausted after work that I wasn't remembering properly. Then came the window incident. Now, listen, I do not open my windows. Ever. Growing up in a rough neighborhood teaches you certain habits. Lock your doors. Keep your blinds shut. Don't give people a reason to think they can mess with you. So I make sure my windows are locked. Double

checked, always. That's why when I came home one evening to find my bedroom window wide open, my stomach dropped. I stood there in the doorway, just staring, trying to process. My first thought was that I must have been robbed. But nothing was missing. My TV? Still there. Laptop. untouched. Even my emergency cash stash, still sitting in the drawer where I left it. So if it wasn't a break-in, then what the hell was it? I tried to come up with explanations. Maybe I forgot.

No. No way. Maybe maintenance came in while I was gone and forgot to close it. But there was no note, no email. Nothing. It made no sense, but I forced myself to move on, to pretend it wasn't a big deal. Then came last night. Three in the morning.

Dead asleep. And then, creak. Not the kind of creek you hear when a building settles. Not pipes. Not the wind. A footstep. I froze. Eyes wide open, staring at my ceiling, barely even breathing.

Then, another creak. Closer. Every hair on my body stood on end. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, turned on the flashlight and aimed it at my bedroom door. The door was still closed. I sat up, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just my brain playing tricks on me in that weird half-asleep state.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I had to check. So I got up. Slowly. Quietly. Checked my closet. Nothing. Bathroom?

Empty. Living room. Front door. Locked. Windows. Shut. And then I saw it. The vent. In the corner of my living room, there's this big floor vent.

You know the kind, old building, outdated heating system, huge metal grate that looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the 90s. I'd never really paid much attention to it before, but now, now I could see that it was loose. Just slightly. Like someone had pried it open and then tried to put it back without making it obvious. I crouched down, phone light shining into the darkness beyond the grate, and that's when I saw it. A blanket. A half-empty water bottle. A crumpled fast food wrapper. I stopped breathing. Someone had been living in my walls. I just knelt there, staring, mind completely blank. I wanted to move, to react, but my body wasn't cooperating. Everything clicked into place,

the missing food, the open window, the creaks in the night. I wasn't losing my mind. I wasn't just being forgetful. Someone had been inside my apartment. Living here. Watching me. I don't remember standing up. I don't remember grabbing my keys. I just remember walking straight out the door, getting in my car, and driving to my friend's place without looking back.

I didn't sleep. How could I? This morning, I forced myself to go back. Just to check. The vent? Closed again. Like nothing ever happened. And I don't know what's worse, the fact that someone was living there.

Or the fact that they know I found out. That was the start of the nightmare. I wish I could say it ended there, that I packed my bags and got the hell out, but things don't always work out the way you want them to. See, moving isn't that easy when you're broke. And at the time, I was broke. So I did the only thing I could do, I tried to act normal. Like I hadn't seen anything.

Like I wasn't completely losing my mind every second I spent in that, apartment. But once you see something like that, you can't unsee it. You can't pretend everything's okay. Every noise made my skin crawl. Every misplaced item sent me into a spiral of paranoia. I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I set up my phone to record while I slept, just in case. And every morning, I'd check the vent, and every morning, it would still be closed. Then, one night, I heard something new. Breathing. I was lying in bed, phone. in my hand, reading some stupid article to try and distract myself, when I heard it. Soft.

Shallow. Right on the other side of my bedroom wall. I stopped breathing. Strained my ears. The sound was so faint I almost thought I was imagining it. Then, a rustling noise. Like fabric shifting. Like someone moving around in a tight space.

I should have called the cops. I know that. But in that moment, all I could think was that if I called them and they didn't find anything, I'd be stuck here. Alone. With whatever was living in my walls. So instead, I did something really, really stupid. I knocked on the wall.

Silence. Then, three knocks. Coming from inside. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, I packed a bag and got the hell out. Found a cheap motel, spent the last of my savings just to avoid going back. And while I was lying there in that scratchy motel bed, staring at the ceiling, I made a decision. I wasn't going back.

I didn't care what it took, I was breaking my lease, breaking my bank account if I had to. Whatever it cost, it was worth it. So the next day, I went back, just to grab the rest of my stuff. I told myself I'd be quick. In and out. But when I got there, something was different. The door was open. Not unlocked.

Open. Like someone had been expecting me. I didn't go inside. I didn't even hesitate. I turned around, walked straight back to my car, and never looked back. I don't know who, or what, was living in that apartment. I don't want to know. But sometimes, when I'm lying in bed in my new place, safe and far away from that nightmare,

I still hear it. A creak. A rustle. A soft, shallow breath. And I wonder, did I really escape? Or did it just find a new way in? Don't go back, a Wisconsin nightmare. A couple of summers back, my girlfriend and I decided to get out of the city and spend a weekend hiking and camping in the northern woods of Wisconsin.

We'd done similar trips before, we're from Chicago, so driving north into the green quiet was kind of our escape from the constant noise and traffic. But this particular trip. Yeah, this one changed everything. After what happened, we've both pretty much agreed. We're not going back unless we've got a small army with us. Now, don't get me wrong, we're not total amateurs when it comes to hiking and camping. We've hit up a bunch of state and national parks. We like getting out there, feeling the fresh air, walking away from reception and emails and all that city junk.

But this region of the Chiquamagon National Forest, up by the North Country Trail, was new territory for us. It's remote, like, really remote, and back then, that's exactly what we wanted. Or thought we wanted. We had it all planned out, hike around 15 miles into the trail, find a backpacker's shelter, and set up camp nearby.

Just a couple of nights out under the stars, recharge our brains, then head back. The night before, we crashed at a friend's house in Warsaw so we could get an early start. The drive from there into the forest was peaceful, gravel roads winding through thick trees, everything green and quiet.

For the first hour or so, it was perfect. But then we saw these two guys on the side of the road, standing by a truck that looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by rust. Confederate flag bumper sticker, dented fenders, the works. They were just, standing there. Staring. I gave them a friendly wave, the kind of we're all just enjoying nature, wave, but they didn't wave back. They just kept watching as we passed. I glanced in the rearview, and yep, still staring.

We laughed it off at the time. Made a joke about backwards hillbillies, or up creepers, or something stupid. In hindsight, I wish we'd taken it a little more seriously. But at that point it was just a weird moment in an otherwise peaceful day. Eventually, we found the trailhead. No other cars, no other hikers. Just us and the wild. Honestly, that part felt awesome.

It was cool and quiet, the bugs weren't too bad, and the trail was absolutely gorgeous, hills, valleys, thick woods, moss-covered rocks. The whole deal felt like something out of a nature documentary. We hiked for a solid eight hours, stopping here and there to snap pictures, drink water, and just soak it all in. That first part of the day. Still one of my favorite memories. The forest was beautiful, untouched, like time didn't exist there. By the time we reached the shelter, we were sore, tired, but in good spirits. Now, the shelter itself was nothing fancy, just a basic wooden structure with a roof and open walls,

plus a fire ring nearby. Instead of sleeping inside the shelter, we picked a little clearing about a hundred feet behind it and set up our tent. It felt more private, and we liked the idea of being tucked away. in our own little spot. That night, we got a fire going, boiled some water, ate those dehydrated trail meals that somehow taste amazing when you're starving, and passed a bottle of wine back and forth. The sky was clear, and the stars were insane. No city lights, no sounds except the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves. It was perfect. Until it wasn't.

We put the fire out when it was just embers, packed up our trash, and crawled into the tent. I was exhausted, carrying a full pack for 15 miles will do that to you, so I passed out pretty quick. Normally, I wear earplugs when I camp because other people in campgrounds can be loud, but here. We were totally alone, so I figured, hey, no need. My girlfriend didn't fall asleep as fast. She always gets a little nervous sleeping outside. especially in unfamiliar places. But eventually, we both dozed off.

I don't know what time it was when the sound woke us up, but it was full dark. No moonlight, just black outside. At first, it was faint, a dull, rhythmic thudding sound. Like, wood hitting wood. Not like something falling. More like someone deliberately knocking two logs together. Thunk. Pause.

Thunk. We sat up, barely breathing. The tent we had didn't have mesh windows, so we couldn't see outside. We just had to sit there, listening. At first, I told myself it was probably just an animal, maybe a raccoon messing with our trash, or a branch falling. But no, it wasn't that kind of sound. It kept going. Slow, steady. Someone was doing it on purpose. And then it stopped. Silence. Absolute silence, except for the faint buzz of night insects. We sat frozen. My girlfriend grabbed my hand, her grip was ice cold. I didn't bring any kind of weapon. I usually carry bare mace, but this time I decided to skip it to save a little weight. She told me not to leave it, but I figured we were fine. Big mistake. After a long silence,

footsteps, like leaves rustling. Then, voices. Low, hushed. Male voices. We couldn't make out what they were saying, but we were sure, at least two people were out there. Talking. I've never felt fear like that. Not in a dream. Not in a movie. I mean real fear. We didn't move. We barely breathed. We just sat there in the dark. hoping whoever it was didn't know we were there. Hoping they'd leave. Eventually, the voices faded. Or maybe they stopped.

I don't know. It was hard to tell. We stayed awake all night. Didn't move, didn't talk, just listened. Every Russell made our hearts jump. At dawn, when the light finally started to filter through the trees, we slowly unzipped the tent and stepped out. Nothing.

Just trees in silence. We packed everything as fast as we could. Rolled up the sleeping bags, collapsed the tent, shoved it all into our packs. Before we left, we walked back to the shelter one last time, I don't even know why. Curiosity, maybe. That's when my girlfriend screamed. On one of the wooden beams near the entrance, the word kill was carved deep into the wood. Big, ugly letters.

And around it were fresh cuts, long, sharp slashes, like someone had hacked at it with an axe or a huge knife. The wood shavings were still on the ground. That's what we'd heard. That's when we stopped walking and started running. I don't think we said a single word for miles. We just kept moving, barely taking breaks. Every sound made me look over my shoulder. Every bird call made my heart race.

The trail we had found so beautiful the day before now looked like a nightmare maze. The glacial ridges and dips that had seemed majestic now just felt like hiding places for something, or someone, watching us. When we finally saw the sign for the trailhead, we both almost cried. But the nightmare wasn't over yet. Our car was still there, but something was off. The windshield wiper was standing straight up, and something was stuck to it. As we got closer, my stomach dropped. It was a dead squirrel.

Its body had been shoved down over the blade, its fur matted with blood. And smeared across the windshield, in crude, sloppy streaks, was more blood. I didn't even try to clean it off. We threw our gear in the trunk, jumped in, and I peeled out of there so fast I'm surprised the gravel didn't shred my tires. The whole drive back, I kept checking the rearview mirror. mirror. Dust filled the road behind us, so I couldn't see anything, but I couldn't stop looking. We finally pulled into a gas station in a nearby town. I used a wad of newspaper to get the

squirrel off and scrubbed at the blood with the windshield washer. The attendant didn't ask questions. Maybe he knew better. We didn't stop again until we reached Chicago. We haven't been back to that forest since. And we don't plan to. Part two. Part two. We didn't stop until we were halfway back to Chicago. Both of us were pale, silent, shaken to the core. I couldn't stop thinking about that squirrel impaled on my windshield wiper like some twisted warning, and that word scratched into the shelter wall. Kill.

Who even does that? Some sicko was clearly out there, close enough to us in the night to hear our every breath. And we'd slept there, unaware, just a thin layer of nylon between us and, whatever the hell that was. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. What if they had come closer? What if they'd messed with our tent instead of the shelter wall? I mean, the sounds we heard, the voices, who knows what they were doing out there in the dark?

We couldn't have been more exposed. No protection. I kept replaying every step of our hike back to the car, half expecting someone to leap out from behind a tree. Every crunch of a branch, every bird call made me whip my head around like a paranoid maniac. We made it home, but I didn't sleep for a few nights. Neither did my girlfriend. Every creek of the apartment made her flinch. Every passing car made me peek out the window.

We were on edge for weeks. That trip changed something in us, it made the wilderness feel less like a peaceful retreat and more like a place you should never be alone. especially not with strange men lurking around with axes. It wasn't long after that when I had another strange run in, and this time it wasn't deep in the woods. It happened right in my own town, well, not my hometown, but the small Wisconsin town I had temporarily moved to for work. Population, 11,000. The kind of place where people waved to you from their porch and the gas station guy knows your name. Or so I thought.

I was on my way to a meeting at my boss's house, he ran our little company out of his basement while we looked for an actual office. So I'm cruising down this quiet country road, taking in the scenery, when I noticed something weird in my rearview mirror. There's a blue sedan riding my bumper so close I couldn't see its headlights. I drive a Kia Soul, which is shaped like a toaster, so if someone's that close, they're basically climbing into your back seat. I tapped my brakes lightly. The guy didn't back off. Instead, he honked. Just one long, loud blast.

I looked up and caught a glimpse of him. Bald. White. Probably in his forties. Wearing sunglasses even though it wasn't all that bright out. I don't know why, but something about him made my skin crawl. Maybe it was the blank expression. Or maybe it was how close he was willing to follow a complete stranger.

on a nearly empty road. So, I did what any passive-aggressive driver would do, I flipped him off and dropped five miles under the speed limit. He had plenty of room to pass. I was the only car out there. But nope, he just stayed glued to my bumper. I even took out my phone and pretended to snap a photo. Still nothing.

Just cruising behind me like a heat-seeking missile. At one point, I reached an intersection where I was supposed to be. to turn right. But just to see what would happen, I turned left instead. And like something out of a movie, he followed. That's when I knew it wasn't just bad driving. This guy was following me on purpose. I tried to lose him in a roundabout, doing a full circle. Twice. He stayed with me like we were tethered together. My stomach dropped. It didn't feel like a joke or road rage anymore. It felt like stalking. I considered my options and figured the safest move was to head to the police station, even if it made me late. So I did. Pulled right into the parking lot,

ready to jump out and run inside if I had to. I thought, surely he'll drive off when he realizes where we are. But he didn't. He pulled in right beside me. Parked so close I could barely open my door. Then he just sat there, staring. That creepy smile still plastered across his face like he was enjoying a private joke. Now, I'm studying to be a behavior analyst. I work with kids now, but I'm deep into criminal psychology in my free time. Profiling, patterns, motives, I love that stuff. But sitting there, trapped in my car, I wasn't analyzing anything. I was scared. And I was scanning his car, checking for weapons, trying to decide if I could run fast enough if I had to. I picked up my phone again, this time to call 911.

As soon as I started dialing, the guy rolled his window down, stared at me for a beat longer, and then slowly backed out and drove away. Like nothing had happened. Like I wasn't left there trembling with a thousand questions. I ran inside the station and gave my statement. told the officer everything I remembered, although I hadn't caught the license plate. Apparently, I wasn't the only one. There had been other reports of a guy in a blue car tailgating people, making them feel unsafe. The officer gave me a card for victim services and told me to let someone know if I ever saw

that car again. Then, when I went back outside, I noticed something new. There was a note on my windshield. Just a smiley face. That's it. A little smiley face drawn on a piece of paper, tucked under the wiper like a calling card. I took it back inside. The officer looked at it and said, that's disturbing. Don't go anywhere alone for a while. I'll check in on you, and he did. Called me later that day. Drove by my apartment during his night shift. It's a small town, stuff like that means a lot.

made me feel a little safer. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that this guy might show up again. So I had a talk with my fiancé, told him I'd post my work schedule from now on, and if I ever didn't check in within ten minutes of arriving somewhere, he needed to call the police. No hesitation. Then, not long after that, my Uncle Sam came to visit. You've got to know something about Uncle Sam, he's the family clown. Always telling jokes, pulling pranks, laughing so loud it echoes through the house.

I've never known him to be serious. Until that day. We were outside looking at my car, popping the hood, doing that whole guy bonding thing. My dad was there too. We weren't really mechanics, just pretending to know what we were looking at. Then Sam got real quiet and said, let me tell you something that happened to me. Might be good for you to hear, I'd never heard his voice like that, lo, almost shaky. He wasn't grinning anymore.

There was no punchline coming. He told us he'd never shared this story before, but seeing me with my new car and being reminded of his younger days made him want to speak up. Back when he was in college, he went to this small rural school in Wisconsin, surrounded by farmland and not much else. During his junior year, he moved off campus to a house a few miles out of town. One night, after drinking a little too much at the local bar, he decided to walk home. It was late, dark, and cold.

Cornfields on both sides, not a single streetlight in sight. That's when a pickup truck pulled up next to him. Beat up, rusty, loud engine. The guy behind the wheel looked like your typical farmer. worn out cap plaid shirt. Hey, you need a lift, he asked. Sam, being a little buzzed and a lot naive, said sure and climbed in. At first, everything seemed fine.

They chatted a bit. Sam gave directions to his house. But then, five minutes in, the truck sailed right past his street. Hey, man, you missed the turn, Sam said. Oh, I know a shirt. Shortcut, the farmer replied. Been around here 50 years. Just pay attention, you'll learn something, and that's when Sam sobered up. The guy drove them deep into the countryside, turning onto a dirt driveway that led to a rundown farmhouse. The place looked abandoned. Broken swings set in the

front yard. A shed in the back with one faint light glowing. Everything else was dark. No neighbors. No When the truck finally stopped, Sam made a move to get out. But when he reached for the lock, he realized something terrifying, the lock knob had been sawed off. There was no way to manually unlock the door. He was trapped. Part 3. Uncle Sam sat down on the front bumper of my car, hands in his lap, staring off like he was watching that old pickup truck pull up all over again. There was no knob, he said, real quiet. Just a little jagged hole where it used to be.

Like someone didn't want passengers getting out without permission. My dad and I exchanged a look. Neither of us said a word. And then, Sam continued, the guy gets out. Walks around to the back of the truck. Opens the tailgate and just stands there for a second. Sam said he looked through the window and saw the guy fiddling with something, couldn't tell what exactly, just saw the man's silhouette against the dim barn light.

He kept bending down and standing up again, like he was gathering tools. Sam's heart started pounding. The guy hadn't said a word since they pulled into that driveway. I knew something was wrong. I just knew, Sam said. So he started looking around. Frantically. Trying to find anything, anything, that might help him get out.

That's when he spotted a screwdriver tucked halfway under the seat. like a gift from the universe. He yanked it out and went to town on the door. Wedging it into the seam, pushing, crying, digging at the inside of the panel like a madman. He said it felt like hours, but it must have been less than a minute. Then, miracle. The door popped. He didn't wait.

Didn't look back. Just threw it open, hit the ground running, and didn't stop until he saw porch lights way off in the distance. He said he cut through fields, leapt over ditches, tripped over a barbed wire fence and didn't even feel it. He was bleeding by the time he reached a farmhouse and pounded on the door. The couple who answered were old. Confused. But they took one look at Sam, mud covered, wild-eyed, out of breath, and let him in. Called the sheriff. They even gave him a ride home later.

But when the deputy went back to check out the property the next to the next to the next door, next morning, guess what? Nothing. No truck. No man. No tools. The place was empty. Like a ghost story. I never told anyone, Sam said, his voice almost a whisper. But I still think about it. What if I hadn't seen that screwdriver? What if that guy was waiting for me to pass out? Or worse, he looked at me then, straight in the eyes. Be careful, he said. Always trust your gut. That story messed with my head for days.

It wasn't just the content, it was seeing Sam tell it without a single joke. The man had lived with that memory for decades. No police report. No closure. Just a near miss, like so many others. It made me start wondering how many close calls people have and never talk about. How many weird encounters, almost crimes, almost deaths happen in everyday places, and just, disappear. And then came the third incident.

The one that shook me the most. It happened while I was working at a therapy center in a nearby town. I was driving home late after a long shift. The sky was dark, the roads were quiet, just me and my thoughts and some lo-fi beats on the stereo. I took a back-road shortcut I'd used a dozen. It shaved off ten minutes and wound through some scenic farmland. I liked that stretch, until that night. I was halfway through when I saw headlights behind me.

No big deal. Another car. Except, the car didn't pass. It didn't turn. It just followed. Close. Too close. I tapped the brakes.

No reaction. I sped up. So did they. Then they started flashing their brights at me. Over and over. Like they were trying to signal something. Or scare me. I started sweating. There were no houses nearby. No businesses. Just empty land and one narrow road that curved like a snake through the fields. My mind raced. Was it the same guy from before? The blue car creep. I took out my phone and dialed 911. Told the dispatcher I was being followed, gave my location as best I could. She stayed on the line with me, calm and steady, guiding me toward the nearest open gas station. I didn't even know where it was, I just followed her directions. But the car behind me didn't let up. Kept flashing its lights, revving the engine, swerving slightly like it wanted to force me off the road. My hands were. My hands were were shaking on the wheel. Then, out of nowhere, the dispatcher said something that froze my blood.

We just got another call. A woman in a van nearby says a car matching your description has been harassing her for ten minutes. I blinked. Wait, what? Are you in a gray kiosol? Yeah, then I think, the guy might not be following you. He might be trying to warn you. I was confused. Beyond confused. Pull over when it's safe. Carefully, she said. So I did. I pulled into a gravel shoulder and came to a slow stop. The car behind me stopped too.

A man got out, hands raised, palms open. I cracked my window, heart pounding. Ma'am, he said, your back tire is about to fall off. It's wobbling like crazy. I tried to get you to stop earlier, but you just kept going. sure enough, when I got out to check, the tire was nearly detached. One more curve and I might have flipped the whole car. Turns out, he'd seen it while passing me earlier and had turned around to try to help.

The flashing lights. The swerving. He was trying to get my attention, not hurt me. And just like that, all my fear turned to shame. And then gratitude. The man helped me get it fixed and drove off into the night, a real light. good Samaritan. But it hit me hard, how fast your brain jumps to worst-case scenarios when you've been through enough close calls. Trusting people becomes harder. Even the good ones. So now, whenever someone

says, you're just being paranoid, I smile and say, maybe. But it's kept me alive so far, between the woods, the Smiley-Fa-Stalker, and Uncle Sam's midnight escape from the mystery farmhouse, I've learned this much. The world's not always what it seems. Danger doesn't always announce itself with thunder and lightning. Sometimes it creeps quietly behind your car. Or scratches warnings into walls. Or hides a screwdriver under a seat like a secret escape route. And if your gut says something's off.

Listen. Even if no one believes you. Even if it makes you look crazy. Because maybe, just maybe, it'll be. the one time you're not. Part 4 final. After everything, I started keeping a journal. Not the cute kind with stickers and doodles, but a beat-up old notebook I stuffed in my glove compartment. I wrote down license plates that gave me a weird vibe. Names of places I'd driven through that felt wrong. Even smells. You ever smell something that just doesn't belong. Like metal and bleach and old

pennies, all at once. I have. And I don't ignore those smells anymore. Once, maybe a few months after the tire thing, I was walking to my car after a night shift at the therapy center. Parking lot mostly empty. Air still. That sticky, post-midnight silence where every sound feels too loud. As I reached from my door, I smelled it again. That metallic, acidic, wrong smell. Like Rust and chemicals and something, dead underneath. I froze. Looked around. Nothing.

But I swear, I wasn't alone. I unlocked my car and climbed in fast, locked the doors, flipped the interior lights on, and checked the back seat like always. Empty. I still turned the key and peeled out like a bat out of hell. And just as I passed the edge of the parking lot, I glanced in the rearview mirror. There was a man standing in the shadows between the dumpsters. Not moving.

Not chasing. Just watching. No one ever found anything. I filed a report just in case, but they said the cameras in that part of the lot hadn't been working for weeks. Classic. That's when I realized something I hadn't let myself believe before. These incidents... They weren't random.

I was being watched. Or targeted. Or maybe just extremely unlucky. But one thing was clear, it wasn't over. About a week after the dumpster guy, I got a letter in my mailbox. No return address. Just my name, handwritten in uneven block letters. Inside was a single piece of paper.

You shouldn't have run, no context. No signature. I stared at it for a long time. The first thing I thought of was the blue car years back. The guy whose smile didn't reach his eyes. Was it him? Was this a revenge thing? Or had I just become a magnet for creeps and psychos?

I called the cops again. They said it was probably a prank. Kids do weird stuff. Yeah, okay. Kids with access to my address and a twisted sense of timing. Sure. So I installed cameras. Front porch.

Backyard. One facing the driveway. I stopped walking alone at night. I kept pepper spray in my jacket and a tire iron under the driver's seat. But the worst part wasn't the fear. It was the waiting. Waiting for the next knock, the next scratch, the next time something was just slightly off. Then came the night that confirmed it for good.

I was house sitting for a co-worker. Big place in the hills, surrounded by woods, way too isolated for someone like me. But I needed the cash, and it was supposed to be an easy gig, feed the dog, water the plants, lock up at night. The first two nights were fine. Quiet. Peaceful, even. I started thinking maybe I'd overreacted.

Maybe I'd imagine too much. Then, night three. I woke up around 2.30 a.m. No reason. Just, awake. The kind of waking where your brain is already alert before your eyes are even open. I sat up in bed and listened. The dog, this chunky old lab named Murphy, was growling. Low and steady. Not barking. Just a warning. I got up, Grabbed the bat by the bed, yeah, I brought one, and crept into the hallway. Murphy was standing at the top of the stairs, hackles raised, staring at the front door. I followed his gaze.

The door was open. Just a crack. But open. And someone had put something on the welcome mat. A smiley face. Drawn in chalk. No signature. No note.

Just a little grinning symbol scratch. latched onto the wood like a message from some twisted fan club. I slammed the door, locked it, checked every window, every closet, every inch of that damn house. Called the cops, again. They came, took a report, said they'd patrol the area more frequently. But I could tell they didn't believe me. Or maybe they were just tired of my calls. That's when I hit my limit. I drove home that morning, packed a bag, and went to stay with Uncle Sam. He took one look at me when I walked in and said, it started again, hasn't it? I nodded. He didn't even ask questions. Just made coffee, turned on the porch light, and handed me an old revolver. I sleep with one eye open now, he said.

Maybe you should, too, we spent that night on the porch. Talking. Watching. Waiting. Like old war he's sharing ghost stories from the same invisible battlefield. And as the sun came up, I finally asked him something that had been burning in my brain since the beginning. Why do you think it's happening to us? Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Some people attract lightning. Others attract weirdos. Bad energy.

Evil. I don't know what it is. But we're not the only ones. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a manila folder. Thick. Stuffed with old clippings, printouts, scribbled notes. He slid it toward me. I've been tracking cases, he said. People who vanished after telling someone they were being followed. Women who reported stalkers and then changed their minds. Men who found smiley faces carved into their trees or fences. Some of them disappeared. Some turned up dead. Others just, stopped talking.

I flipped through it in silence. Photo after photo. Note after note. They all had something in common. No closure. No arrest. Just silence. Like whatever's out there wants you to doubt yourself.

Wants everyone else to think you're crazy. Until you disappear quietly without a trace. So now, I stay alert. I keep the cameras running. Every odd detail, every strange sound, every shadow that moves where it shouldn't. Because I don't think this ends. Not really. You can run.

Move houses. Change numbers. Switch cars. But if it's found you once. It can find you again. So if you're reading this, and something in your gut says you're being watched, listen. And if you ever smell metal and bleach in a place that shouldn't have either, run. Because you don't want to end up in someone else's folder.

Trust me. The end. We begin. As you know, this case has caused a great stir in recent weeks and has created two very distinct groups. The first is the group of people who believe that this case is a lie, a lie created from the dear David case, whose sole purpose is to bring fame and recognition to its creator, Bado Salas. The second is the group of people who believe that this case is 100% real, that the four videos are indeed real and that there is no trickery involved. And I, unfortunately, do not side with either group, because to take a side, you need evidence. If you don't believe in the case, you need solid arguments.

And if you do believe, you also need solid arguments. And you cannot have solid arguments without conducting a field investigation. If you haven't been there, haven't seen it with your own eyes, haven't felt the energy of the place, or interviewed the main subject, you cannot take a stance. You can have your opinion, that is undeniable. But to say something is definitively true or definitively false is like walking on quicksand. Those who are against it basically argue the following, that threads were used to pull the objects, that the lights being off is a clear sign someone was hiding there, that someone in the dark was pulling the strain, and that before things happen, it seems like Beto already knows where they will occur.

And those who support it have only one argument, that Beto's scared attitude and constant cries for help are proof that the case is 100% real. So today, I will put on the table some, not all, because otherwise this video would be endless, of my knowledge about parapsychology to provide a few nuances to the case that may turn it into more than just four viral videos. But for that, you need to pay close attention because there are points that are hard to understand. The paranormal world is based on frequencies. This idea is really complex, not just to understand but also to explain.

So I will try to summarize it as much as possible and use as few technical terms as I can so we can all understand it. Throughout the day, people change frequencies with every mood they have. For example, you wake up, look out the window, and see that it's a beautiful day. Your mood at that moment is joy. Joy would correspond, for instance, to frequency A. Mid-morning, a friend calls you and tells you your best friend has been admitted to the hospital. Your mood is now sadness, which would correspond, say, to frequency B. You go to the hospital and find out that in the room with your best friend is a person you really dislike, and you find out they were notified before you. Your mood is now

anger, which would correspond to frequency C. We'd have three different moods, joy, sadness, and anger, and each would correspond to a different frequency. But what happens when a person is unconscious? What happens when we are asleep and unaware of our emotional state? We have very low frequencies that we could hardly reach when awake. A sensitive person can change frequencies at any time of the day, either intentionally or accidentally. However, there are several points during the day when a normal person, well, that sounds bad, an average person can access other frequencies. These are when they are relaxed, sad, or asleep. So we could say that entities exist in frequency B, states of consciousness with very low frequencies.

And when someone is unconscious, their frequency is so low that they could directly come into contact with multiple entities. If Beto Salas's case is true, then during the three days he was unconscious, he could have entered the frequency of one or several entities. When Bado said he dreamed of a little girl who gave him a stuffed animal, many people said that the ghost of a girl really gave him the stuffed animal, that this same ghost materialized, opened the bedroom door, walked in, spoke to his wife, and gave her the stuffed animal. Let me tell you, that is impossible. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that the paranormal world is not like what Hollywood shows. entities require a tremendous amount of energy to materialize for even a few moments.

There are no records, files, or serious investigations that prove an entity has materialized for that long, interacted, touched, or opened a door in the flesh. That is, for now, unthinkable. As a sensitive person, I've been able to see entities. And although for me seeing them has felt eternal, it's never been more than a few seconds. For an entity to materialize, on one hand, it must be in sync with the receiver, that is, on the same frequency. And on the other hand, it needs a huge amount of energy. This leads me to the first theory, that the entity is not and never has been a little girl. An entity capable of orchestrating what I'm about to say next cannot be a child. The first theory would suggest that a real flesh and blood girl actually entered Bato Salas's room, a girl who was probably visiting a sick relative and, in her innocence, thought it would be nice

to give him her favorite stuffed toy. This sweet moment could have stayed just that, a nice memory. However, an intelligent entity could have connected with Beto Salas's frequency, seen through him what was happening, seen how the girl wished him a speedy recovery and gave him the toy, and used that tender moment to take control of the situation. Not all entities have a message for us. In fact, nice 90% of the ones I've encountered either weren't aware of what they were doing or their only intent was to feed on fear. It sounds like a movie, but in reality, they have to survive, their pure energy and need

to feed on more energy. Flesh and blood people release energy, we release energy in everything we do, and they are like a kind of energy vampire. These entities make themselves present when you're emotionally low, exactly the point where Beto may have been. His body was sick, and even though he was sick. unconscious, his emotional state likely wasn't good. That's when the entity connected with his frequency and decided to cling to him. If there's something I don't have much experience with,

it's cursed objects. However, on this channel, we've investigated topics like the Dybock box and haunted dolls like Harold, Robert, and Annabelle. In all these cases, experts have reached very clear conclusions, entities don't possess objects, they possess souls. If a negative ritual is performed on an object, entities may be attracted to it, but they will never completely lose their free will. A clear example of this could be the Robert doll. In this case, we saw that the doll was created so that a demonic entity would always be present around it. But the entity's intention was not to possess the doll. The doll was a container that, once handed over, would open and begin a process of possession. But it didn't fulfill its goal. The entity continued to

linger around the doll and, to this day, is still looking for the next victim. That's why the museum section where it's kept is so active. Let's say the doll itself is bait. With the Dibbock box case, we saw that you can go even further, you can actually trap an entity so that it doesn't begin the possession process or turn the object into bait. However, as we saw in that case, once the box was opened, total chaos broke loose, and aggressive paranormal events began to occur with the previously mentioned intent. In fact, the intention of negative entities is always the same. That's why I believe that if this case is real, Bato Salas's doll is nothing more than bait. The entity in question, as I said earlier, may be using this tender anecdote to catch the

attention of its real victim, to lure them slowly and eventually begin the possession process. Poltergeist phenomena are a very broad field of phenomenology, and at times, it's very hard to separate them from other paranormal events. At first glance, this case seems to be an infestation of this type. In 2017, I took a trip to Edinburgh, a city considered the mecca of parapsychology. The purpose of the trip was to personally investigate not just the city's legends but also the incredible poltergeist events experienced by people living near the Greyfriars Cemetery. Everyone I interviewed said they experienced the exact same things and lived through all three levels of paranormal phenomena. Those in the first level, the classic one, let's say, said that

multiple objects would fall off shells on their own and even fly to another part of the room. But they only did it when someone was looking, which, according to one woman I interviewed, suggested that the events were caused by a childlike ghost whose only goal was to get attention. You could hear Knox, feel the voice of someone calling you, but when you went to check, no one was there. So when I learned about this case, experience told me that if it was real, it must be this type of event, childlike, attention-seeking, patterned, and, of course, meant to drive its victims crazy. There it is, the first one, there it is, and that's what scares me, that's what really scares me.

Some pictures that were hanging straight wake up crooked, as you can see. But I want to capture as much as possible. There it is, the first one, there it is. I don't know what's happening. God, there's two. Many have pointed out how strange it is that Beto knows exactly where and when the paranormal events will occur. That it's curious how he anticipates things. And psychology has an explanation for this, the so-called psychic gaze. For someone who has never experienced a paranormal event, this might be very hard to understand. So I'll give a very simple example, when there's a

very strong entity in a room that wants to manifest, it directly connects with your frequency to let you know that it's about to act. And you feel this as if someone were staring at the back of your neck, as if a stranger were right in front of you, staring deeply into your eyes. A stranger who is very, very big and very, very, very strong. It's an incredibly uncomfortable sensation. You know this person is huge and powerful, but you can't see them. You just stand there, staring at the point. You just stand there, staring at the point where you know someone invisible is watching you intensely. And then something happens, something inexplicable. A glass falls, a chair moves. Suddenly, that sensation disappears, as if it was never there at all. After objects fall or move

on their own, come the f-raps, documented throughout the centuries. To explain this, we have the incredible case of the Fox Sisters, founders of the spiritualist movement. They not only experienced paranormal events throughout their lives, but also developed the theory of spectral knocks or raps, through which entities can communicate. Another case involving raps could be the drummer of Tedworth, recorded, if I remember correctly, in the 17th century by Reverend Joseph Glanville. This case was really shocking because two girls claimed to hear drumbeats in their room, as if a ghostly drummer were truly there. Skeptics from all over the world accused the girls, without proof, of making the sounds themselves to make others believe their room was haunted. But many tests were carried out,

and it was eventually proven that those spectral knocks were 100% real. However, in Beto-Salus's case, there is something that disturbs me. It's that in this case, the raps don't respond to questions. It's a very clear voice that does so. Are you the little girl? The beautiful girl from my dream who gave me the stuffed animal to help me get better. Holy God, it said, Hello, we're not here to hurt you. Are you the little girl, the beautiful one who gave me the stuffed animal? Are you here with us, with me?

Say, holy, no, no, no. I want to run, but for my children. Are you lost? Do you need something? Tell me, if I can help you, I gladly will. Do you need something? It said her mother. For an entity to do something like this, to speak so clearly and so often, it needs a tremendous amount of energy. Too much. I have never encountered anything like that.

But if someone has, please leave it in the comments. Even so, the voice isn't what really worries me. What really worries me is that when Beto decides to leave, the entity reacts very violently, with three knocks. I'm going to close the door to come with this person, to try to help you, okay. My God, did you hear that? She's here. It's a little girl, trying. I don't know.

I'm really scared. The three knocks in the paranormal world are an insult to the Trinity. Demonic entities in the first phase of infestation present themselves with those same three knocks, mocking the Holy Trinity and challenging their victims. It's their way of saying they are above any God, above any belief. After the three knocks, that's when you should really fear for your life. That's when the nightmares begin, and, of course, the attacks. The three knocks have appeared in countless cases of demonic possession. A clear example would be the case of Roland Doe,

which inspired the film The Exorcist. Others we could mention include Annalise Michel, better known as Emily Rose. However, I'm very skeptical about that case. I'm very skeptical. I don't think it was truly demonic possession, just as I have my doubts about the Enfield case. Over time, many facts have been omitted, and in Enfield's case, there were many lies. But one possession case I do believe in is the exorcism in Connecticut. In fact, the main victim was a boy who was terribly ill, very sad, practically depressed, who underwent very aggressive treatment, and who also lived in a place prone to paranormal activity. which would bring us to a third conclusion, the real conduit of the entity into the earthly world is Badoz Salas himself.

But now it's your turn, do you take a side, or are you like me, do you prefer to keep an open mind? The end. It was the morning of Saturday, October 11, 2003, when Karen Panell failed to show up for work. At the time, she was working as a customer service agent for American Airlines in Tampa, Florida. And let me tell you, she wasn't just any employee, she was practically the employee of the month, every month. Responsible, punctual, professional, and completely dedicated to her job. Her work wasn't just a job to her, it was her passion. So when she didn't show up, her co-workers immediately knew something was wrong. One of her colleagues tried calling her, home phone, cell phone, nothing.

No response. That's when she decided to call Karen's boyfriend, Tim. He picked up, groggy, as if he had just woken up. But as soon as she told him that Karen hadn't come to work, his groginess disappeared, replaced by pure panic. He knew Karen. He knew how responsible she was. If she wasn't at work, something terrible must have happened.

He told the co-worker he would check on her and call back with an update. Without wasting a second, Tim jumped in his car and sped toward Karen's house. When he arrived, he rang the doorbell, knocked on the door, and called out. without her name, no answer. Dread creeping in, he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The front door was unlocked. That was a very bad sign. Cautiously, he stepped inside, calling her name again. His eyes immediately drifted to the right, toward the kitchen. That's when he saw it. Drops of blood. At first, just small droplets scattered across the floor. But as he moved forward, the blood became more prominent, on the floors, on the walls, even

smeared on the furniture. It wasn't just a crime scene, it was a massacre. Then, in the corner of the kitchen, he saw them, Karen's feet, motionless. His stomach lurched. His knees nearly buckled. He barely made it outside before he doubled over and vomited onto the lawn. He couldn't bear to see more. He didn't want to see more.

With shaking hands, he grabbed his phone and called 911. Paramedics and police arrived within minutes. But what they found was even worse than what Tim had seen. Not only was their blood everywhere, but Karen's body was almost unrecognizable. She had been stabbed sixteen times, mostly in the chest and neck. Whoever did this hadn't just wanted to hurt her, they wanted her dead. Badly. The wounds told a horrifying story.

The killer had targeted her heart, a clear sign of rage, of personal hatred. Karen had fought back, her defensive wounds made that clear, but in the end, she didn't stand a chance. Even worse. The crime scene was almost too clean. No fingerprints, no evidence left behind. Whoever did this was careful. They had worn gloves, covered their tracks.

And the murder weapon? Missing. Police determined that the killer had used a kitchen knife, one of Karen's own. That meant they either grabbed it in the heat of the moment, or they had planned this all along. As police searched the house, something wasn't adding up. If Karen had been attacked in the kitchen, she must have let her kill her in willingly. The signs pointed to someone she trusted. But then they found something that changed everything.

Outside, in the backyard, things were disturbed. A bird bath had been knocked over. The electrical box was open, wires tampered with. And most chilling of all. The sliding glass door at the back of the house, the lock had been forcefully ripped out. Now, this looked like a break-in. Back inside, more clues emerged. Karen's purse was open and dumped onto the kitchen counter.

Was this a robbery gone wrong? It seemed logical, except, the attack was too personal. Too violent. This wasn't just about money. And then, on one of the kitchen walls, police found something shocking. Written in blood were three letters, Arosite. Karen's case had just taken a dark and twisted turn. Karen Panell was born on February 10, 1964, in Landstow, Germany.

She was the youngest and only daughter of Ursula Marie and Ralph Panel. Being the baby of the family, and the only girl, she was cherished, protected, and full of energy. When she was still young, her family moved from Germany to Georgia, USA, due to her father's military career. She graduated from Northside High School in Warner Robbins, Georgia, and later moved on her own to Tampa, Florida, where she built a successful life for herself. She became a flight attendant and even did some modeling. Everyone who knew her spoke highly of her, kind, warm, always smiling. Whether she was helping customers, working with colleagues, or spending time with friends, she was a ray of sunshine. But there was one thing about Karen

that deeply worried those closest to her, her taste in men. Karen, for all her kindness, had terrible luck when it came to relationships. People said she was too good, too trusting, and men took advantage of that. She had been in toxic, even abusive relationships. And worse, she had a pattern, breaking up with a bad guy, only to fall for someone exactly like him. At one point, she even got married to a man named Jeff Payne. They were together for five years before divorcing.

And as if a divorce wasn't hard enough, shortly after, she received devastating news, she had multiple sclerosis. The diagnosis changed everything for her. Karen decided she wasn't going to waste a second of her life. She wanted to travel, spend time with loved ones, and truly enjoy every moment. She switched jobs, moving from flight attendant to customer service agent, something that gave her more stability in time for herself. She still dated, but her bad luck with men continued.

One ex became so obsessive that she had to call the police multiple times just to get him to leave her alone. Then she met Tim. And everything changed. Timothy Permanter, or just Tim, was the man Karen had been waiting for. He treated her like a queen, attentive, sweet, supportive. By 2003, they were already talking about moving in together. They met in a car dealership where Tim worked. Karen wanted a new car, and the moment they met, there was instant chemistry.

The very next day, they went on their first date. From then on, they were inseparable. Tim seemed perfect. He had his life together, drove a sleek blue BMW convertible, and had an intriguing past. He claimed to be a former Navy SEAL, retired after top secret, high-risk missions. He even had the scars to prove it. But things are never as perfect as they seem. The last time Tim saw Karen was Friday, October 10, 2003.

As usual, they had a date. He dropped her off at home at 7.30 p.m. Since Karen had to work early the next morning, they decided not to spend the night together. But before leaving, he gave her a small gift, a cat-themed calendar. She loved it. She hugged him, smiling, and then waved goodbye. That was the last time he saw her alive. By 9.30 p.m., Tim was on the phone with his best friend, George Solomon, who lived an hour away in Moon Lake.

George invited him over, saying he and his girlfriend were going out and Tim should join. So Tim drove there, spent the night with them, and got home very late. The next morning, he was woken up by the phone, Karen hadn't shown up to work. The moment Karen's body was found, police looked at Tim. The boyfriend is always the first suspect. They hauled him in for questioning, and that's when the truth about Tim unraveled. He had been lying to Karen about everything. I was in bed, scrolling through my phone.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight and I should have been asleep, but my mind wouldn't shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I'd forgotten something. Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom's number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. If you're ever feeling off, she'd say, just call me. So I did. It rang twice before she answered.

Hello, her voice was soft, like she'd been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said, hello, was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded. Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you, there was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, no, you didn't wake me, sweetheart, my stomach tightened.

She sounded like her, but the way she said, sweetheart, made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping. with something I couldn't place. Are you okay? I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little. I'm fine, she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.

A chill ran down my spine. Mom, is something wrong, the line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn't make it out. What did you say? I asked, my voice louder now. Silence. Mom, the call ended. I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest.

The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds. I didn't hesitate, I called her again. This time, she picked up right away. Hey, honey, she said, her voice warm and familiar. What's wrong? Why are you calling so late? My breath caught in my throat. Mom.

I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but, I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane? She laughed softly. Sweetheart, you didn't call me. I've been asleep, no, I did. You answered.

We talked, well, kind of. It didn't sound like you, though, maybe you dreamed it, she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now. I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. It wasn't a dream, there was a pause. Then she said, honey, I swear I haven't been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you're okay? I wanted to believe her.

I really did. But that voice, it wasn't a dream. Yeah, I lied. I'm fine. Sorry for waking you, it's okay, she said, her voice soft again. Call me if you need me, okay. I love you, love you too. When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen.

My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before. I didn't call her again that night. But I couldn't shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been. I couldn't sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screened dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.

The sound of her voice, that voice, played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn't entirely foreign. That's what scared me the most. At some point, I must have dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 312 AM. I hadn't set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened. Then, the phone rang.

I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID, Mom. My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn't sleep either. I answered, trying to steady my voice. Hello, but all I heard was static.

Mom. I said again, louder this time. A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name. Sweetheart, my skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. slow.

Drawn out. Mocking. Who is this? I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. The voice ignored me. It's so late, you should be sleeping, I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me. What do you want?

My voice cracked. The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, come find me. I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight. For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn't. Instead, there was a sound from outside my room.

A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway. I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time. Hello. I called out, my voice shone. shaky. No answer. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door. The hallway was empty. Nothing but

shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light. Then I saw it. My mom's voice wasn't the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn't moving like me. It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled. I froze, unable to look away. The reflection's smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone's flashlight.

My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant. The air in the hallway felt different now, denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved. Who, who are you? My voice barely rose above a whisper. The reflection didn't respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn't even trying to mimic my movements anymore.

I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it, subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn't slept in days. And then it moved. Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.

Stop it, I said, my voice louder now. You're not real, it cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held it. the phone, it pointed directly at me. The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I said, stop it. I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway. The reflection's lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear. It mouthed something,

slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl. My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped I glanced down, another call. Mom. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn't move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do. I answered. Hello, this time, her voice was clear.

Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath, relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. Mom. Where are you? I'm at home, sweetheart. It's late. Why are you calling so much? Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt, off.

I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn't there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls. Mom, I didn't, my voice faltered. You called me, there was a long pause on the other end of the line. No, I didn't, she said slowly. Are you sure you're okay? My throat tightened.

I could still feel that dense, oppressive. air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again. Yeah, I. I'm fine, I lied. Okay. Get some rest, all right. You sound like you've had a long day, sure, I said quickly. Good night, I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.

I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should have been. And then, faintly, I heard it, her voice. But it wasn't coming from the phone this time. It was coming from behind the mirror. The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn't my mother's voice anymore, not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too

hard to mimic her. My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said. I didn't answer this time. I couldn't. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer. Why won't you answer me, sweetheart?

The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. You always call me, don't you? Don't you want to hear my voice? I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. You're not real, I muttered, more to my chest. myself than to the thing behind the glass. This isn't real, the air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back.

Only this time, it wasn't just standing there. It was closer. Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn't my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone. But it was still smiling. I didn't move. I couldn't.

My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You don't look happy to see me, it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well. It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half. I've been waiting, it whispered. So long. For you, my stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away.

My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence. Mom. This time, I answered. Mom, her voice was frantic. Honey, are you okay? You're scaring me, I, my voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me,

its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. Mom, where are you? I told you, I'm at home. Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense. Stay there, I said quickly. Don't, don't leave the house. What's going on?

She asked, her voice rising. You're scaring me, sweetheart, I didn't answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped. You shouldn't have answered, it said, its voice dripping with malice. You opened the door, the glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest. Mom, I said into the phone, my voice shaking.

If anything happens, if I don't call you back, just stay where you are, okay? Don't come here, what are you talking about? she demanded. What's happening? The mirror shattered. I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter, or crash. When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone. But the voice wasn't.

It was behind me now. The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low. Sweetheart, it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable. I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on or go out. I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the front of the phone.

floor where I dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear. Mom. I croaked. There was no response. Just static. Mom, please, I said, my voice breaking. Say something, the static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh, a soft, low chuckled that didn't belong to her. You really thought she could help you, the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn't coming from the phone anymore. I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn't obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.

The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn't belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light. It wasn't me, but it was. It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn't blink. Why are you running? It asked, its voice layered with mine in something deeper, more guttural.

You called me, remember, I couldn't move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach. I've been waiting, it said. Its mouth didn't move when it spoke, but the words were clear. Do you know how long I've been waiting? It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn't seem possible.

Who are you? I whispered, my voice barely audible. It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. You know who I am, it said. You've always known. You just didn't want to admit it. I don't. It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion.

Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin. You let me in, it whispered. When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice, I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. No, I said, my voice breaking. I didn't mean to, doesn't matter, it said, grinning wider. You're mine now, the flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a face.

glow on the thing's face. And then it reached for me. I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant. Its hand, my hand, reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone scream. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen. You won't feel a thing, it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. You'll just, fade, I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now, endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.

Please, I whispered, barely able to form the word. It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. in a voice that was half mocking, half genuine, it said, you don't even know what you're begging for. The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren't just darkness, they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward. No. I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold on to. You called me, it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else.

You answered. That's all it takes. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head. I've been waiting for so long, it whispered. And now, you'll wait too, I don't know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence, deep, oppressive silence, and then the sensation.

of falling. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment. I was in the hallway, but it wasn't mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn't belong to me, didn't belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring. And then I saw it. It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn't smile this time. It just watched. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn't obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I was trapped. And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away. I don't know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn't feel real anymore. Eventually, I heard something, a faint sound, distant but growing louder. It was a phone ringing.

I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone. It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer. The screen lit up, showing a name I didn't recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter. Until it read, Mom. I didn't want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to.

But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass. I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest. Hello. I whispered. And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard, Sweetheart, I'd been waiting for you, the call disconnected. And the hallway went dark. The wrong voice, I was in bed, scrolling through my phone.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight and I should have been asleep, but my mind wouldn't shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I'd forgotten something. something. Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom's number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. If you're ever feeling off, she'd say, just call me. So I did. It rang twice before she answered. Hello, her voice was soft, like she'd been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said, hello, was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded. Hey, Mom.

Sorry, did I wake you, there was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, no, you didn't wake me, sweetheart, my stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said, sweetheart, made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn't place. Are you okay? I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.

I'm fine, she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like you. she was reading a script. A chill ran down my spine. Mom, is something wrong, the line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn't make it out. What did you say? I asked, my voice louder now. Silence. Mom, the call ended. I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds. I didn't hesitate, I called her again. This time, she picked up right away. Hey, honey, she said, her voice warm and familiar. What's wrong? Why are you calling so late?

My breath caught in my throat. Mom. I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but, I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane? She laughed softly. Sweetheart, you didn't call me. I've been asleep. No, I did. You answered. We talked. well, kind of. It didn't sound like you, though, maybe you dreamed it, she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now. I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. It wasn't a dream, there was a pause. Then she said, honey, I swear I haven't been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you're okay? I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice, it wasn't a dream. Yeah, I lied. I'm fine. Sorry for waking you.

It's okay, she said, her voice soft again. Call me if you need me, okay. I love you, love you too. When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before. I didn't call her again that night. But I couldn't shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn't her.

It couldn't have been. I couldn't sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own. The sound of her voice, that voice, played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn't entirely foreign. That's what scared me the most.

At some point, I must have dosed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 312 a.m. I hadn't set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened. Then, the phone rang. I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID, Mom. My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing.

Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn't sleep either. I answered, trying to steady my voice. Hello, but all I heard was static. Mom. I said again, louder this time. A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.

Sweetheart, my skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking. Who is this? I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. The voice ignored me.

It's so late, you should be sleeping, I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me. What do you want? My voice cracked. The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, come find me, I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight. For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for a time.

to ring again. It didn't. Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway. I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time. Hello. I called out, my voice shaky. No answer. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door. The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.

Then I saw it. My mom's voice wasn't the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn't moving like me. It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled. I froze, unable to look away. The reflection smile was.

was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone's flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant. The air in the hallway felt different now, denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved. Who, who are you? My voice barely rose above a whisper. The reflection didn't respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face.

My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn't even trying to mimic my movements anymore. I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it, subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn't slept in days. And then it moved. Not like a person, though.

It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even. further. My stomach churned. Stop it, I said, my voice louder now. You're not real. It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me. The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I said, stop it. I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway. The reflection's lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl. My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped

it. I glanced down, another call. Mom! I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn't move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do. I answered. Hello, this time, her voice was clear. Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath, relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. Mom. Where are you?

I'm at home, sweetheart. It's late, why are you calling so much? Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt, off. I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn't there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls. Mom, I didn't, my voice faltered. You called me, there was a long pause on the other end of the line.

No, I didn't, she said slowly. Are you sure you're okay? My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again. Yeah, I. I'm fine, I lied. Okay. Get some rest, all right.

You sound like. you've had a long day, sure, I said quickly. Good night, I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should have been. And then, faintly, I heard it, her voice. But it wasn't coming from the phone this time. It was coming from behind the mirror. The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn't my mother's voice anymore, not really. It had the same tone, the

same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her. My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said. I didn't answer this time. I couldn't. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer. Why won't you answer me, sweetheart? The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. You always call me, don't you? Don't you want to hear my voice? I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. You're not real, I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the

glass. This isn't real, the air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn't just standing there. It was closer. Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn't my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone. And it was still smiling.

I didn't move. I couldn't. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gap. gasps. You don't look happy to see me, it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well. It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half. I've been waiting, it whispered. So long. For you, my stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence. Mom. This time, I answered.

Her voice was frantic. Honey, are you okay? You're scaring me, I, my voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. Mom, where are you? I told you, I'm at home.

Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense. Stay there, I said quickly. Don't, don't leave the house. What's going on? She asked, her voice rising. You're scaring me, sweetheart, I didn't answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out,

its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped. You shouldn't have answered, it said, its voice dripping with malice. You opened the door, the glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spider webs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest. Mom, I said into the phone, my voice shaking. If anything happens, If I don't call you back, just stay where you are, okay? Don't come here, what are you talking about? she demanded. What's happening? The mirror shattered. I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction.

But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter, or crash. When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone. But the voice wasn't. It was behind me now. The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low. Sweetheart, it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable. I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on or go out. I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear. Mom. I croaked. There was no response.

Just static. Mom, please, I said, my voice breaking. Say something, the static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh, a soft, low chuckled that didn't belong to her. You really thought she could help you, the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn't coming from the phone anymore. I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn't obey.

The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen. The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn't belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light. It wasn't me, but it was. It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong.

They were too wide, too dark, and they didn't blink. Why are you running?" It asked, its voice layered with mine in something deeper, more guttural. You called me, remember, I couldn't move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach. I've been waiting, it said. Its mouth didn't move when it spoke, but the words were clear.

Do you know how long I've been waiting? It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn't seem possible. Who are you? I whispered, my voice barely audible. It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. You know who I am, it said. You've always known.

You just didn't want to admit it. I don't. It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin. You let me in, it whispered. When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice, I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. No, I said, my voice-breaking.

I didn't mean to, doesn't matter, it said, grinning wider. You're mine now, the flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing's face. And then it reached for me. I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature

had dropped ten degrees in an instant. Its hand, my hand, reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone scream. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen. You won't feel a thing, it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. You'll just, fade, I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out.

My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now, endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone. Please, I whispered, barely able to form the word. It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. in a voice that was half mocking, half genuine, it said, you don't even know what you're begging for. The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren't just darkness, they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher,

wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward. No. I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold on to. You called me, it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. You answered. That's all it takes.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head. I've been waiting for so long, it whispered. And now, you'll wait too, I don't know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence, deep, oppressive silence, and then the sensation. of falling. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment. I was in the hallway, but it wasn't mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn't

belong to me, didn't belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring. And then I saw it. It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn't smile this time. It just watched. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn't obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped. And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.

I don't know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn't feel real anymore. Eventually, I heard something, a faint sound, distant but growing louder. It was a phone ringing. I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone. It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.

The screen lit up, showing a name I didn't recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter. Until it read, Mom. I didn't want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass. I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest. Hello. I whispered.

And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard, Sweetheart, I've been waiting for you, the call disconnected. And the hallway went dark. I moved away from my hometown a few years ago. My father had committed suicide when I was a small boy, going out to the barn and shooting himself in the face with a shotgun. I barely remember him still. The only thing that stays with me from that day was my mother's agonized, racking sobs when she found his mutilated body.

Sometimes, during nightmares late at night, I still hear those same screams, repeating over and over like a skipping record. My little brother, Charlie, was born with Down syndrome. My mother took care of Charlie by herself since I moved away. I rarely talked to my family, something I feel increasingly guilty about looking back. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had a worsening addiction to pills and alcohol. To this day, I don't know if she intended to kill herself or not. But, after examining her corpse, the medical examiner concluded that she had a lethal combination of benzose, morphine, and vodka in her system.

When they found her body rotting in the summer heat in her bedroom three days later, they said she had one eye half open, her arms still outstretched towards the telephone, as if trying to call for help even in death. The police ended up finding my number a few days later. I lived over five hours away, but when I heard Charlie was being kept at the police station, I immediately took the day off of work and headed back towards my hometown of Frost Hollow. I remember driving through the rural town,

a place of rolling hills and thick, dark forests, thinking how dead and empty the whole area looked. A lot of the houses that had been there when I was younger had since been demolished or lay baron, dilapidated and rotting. The police station in the center of town seemed to be one of the few places still open. I looked at the shuttered windows lining both sides of Main Street, seeing one out of business sign after another. On the bright side, however, there were plenty of parking spots along the cracked, empty streets. I got out of the car, seeing a feral, mange-covered dog ripping through bags of garbage in a nearby alleyway. The

sickly sweet smell of decaying trash filled the air, thick and cloying. I entered the glass doors of the police station, finding an old crone pecking at a keyboard behind the front desk. She looked like a twisted dwarf, her eyes magnified to giant orbs behind her glasses. She looked up at me with a pale, bloodless face. Yes, she said in an annoyed voice. I'm here to pick up Charlie Benton, I said. The old woman looked behind her, where a tanned woman in a police officer's uniform was leaning against a rusted metal cabinet, looking through a file. Sergeant Alvarez deals with that, the old woman spat, looking back at her computer.

The police officer sighed, looking up at me with humorless eyes. A few moments later, she circled around, coming out the tinted black glass door around the side. The slow, erratic typing of the old woman continued ringing out like the ticking of a failing heart. Sergeant Alvarez had wide, almond-shaped eyes and jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She did not look happy to see me. Your Dennis, she asked. I nodded, pulling out my license. She inspected it closely before handing it back to me.

We found your brother in quite a state. He was covered in blood, naked from the waist up wandering through people's backyards at night. When the police found him, at first he was unresponsive. as if he were sleepwalking or something. His eyes were open, but he was not talking and appeared to be looking at things only he could see. After about 30 seconds of this, they said he appeared to wake up, though he still wasn't giving coherent answers at first. He just kept saying, she was walking, she was walking.

Eventually, after a lot of trying, they were able to ask him about why he was wandering at night and why he was covered in injuries and blood. Your brother said something kept hurting him in the house at night and that he had to get out. He had, marks on his body, Sergeant Alvarez said, her eyes suspicious. Intelligence gleamed behind them. The strangest thing. It looked like someone had burned handmarks into his back and shoulders. I found this information disturbing on some instinctive, primal level, but I didn't know why.

Who could have done that? I asked, confused. She shrugged. Charlie couldn't tell us, she said. Your mother had been dead for three days by that point, and the wounds on Charlie's body were fresh. Do you know if there was anyone else who regularly visited or lived in a house with them? I shook my head. My mother had no friends, I said.

She was practically a hermit. She used to just stare out the window for hours when I lived there. like a zombie. No one ever came to visit her. The black doors swung open again, and Charlie stood there next to a muscular police officer. Charlie's face had his typical vacant stare. Charlie appeared in his mid-20s, a sweaty, lumpy mass of a human being wearing a tight pinky in the brain t-shirt. His enormous belly hung over his belt, his shirt seemingly always pulled up to expose a few inches of naked flesh. He had confused, mud-brown eyes that rarely focused on anything for longer than a few seconds. But there were other times Charlie seemed to have an almost photographic memory,

repeating entire conversations in his strange, droning monotone even months after they had taken place. She is dead, he said, his muddy brown eyes unfocused. She is dead. She was walking. I squinted at him, feeling cold dread dripping. down my heart. Charlie, buddy, it's okay now, I said, taking a step towards him. He looked up abruptly, seeming to just now realize that I was there. Dennis, he screamed, his enormous belly jiggling as he ran forward. He wrapped his thick arms around me, his face filled with an innocent, childlike excitement. He lifted me off the ground. A breathy exhalation of fetid breath hit me directly in my face. I grunted as he squeezed the air out of my lungs.

Charlie was immensely strong and often didn't realize his own strength. You're crushing me, buddy, I grunted in a small, crushed voice. Charlie dropped me back down on the ground. I looked closer at him, seeing healing, sickly wounds peeking above the neckline of his t-shirt. A rainbow of black, purple and blue marks hung there, formed in the shape of long, twisted fingers. The worst of them had drops of pus falling from the burnt craters in the center. I wondered how many more lay hidden beneath his clothes. Sergeant Alvarez gave me her card, telling me to call her if I found out any more information

about the case or if Charlie remembered anything or was able to give more information in the future. I wondered who could have possibly been hurting Charlie. It made me feel sick and angry, thinking of someone following him around, scaring him and attacking him during the night. Charlie already hated and feared the dark as it was, adding another layer of cruelty to the disturbing case. He had feared it ever since he was a small boy. I walked him out of the police station, buckling him into the passenger seat of the car. As I sat down in the driver's seat, he looked over at me. Sweat glistened on his upper lip, and his goofy bull cut of a haircut was sticking up in random spots. Dennis, I saw her, Charlie said in

his flat monotone. She was walking. At night, I heard her feet. In the dark, I heard her feet, Who was, Buddy? I asked. Who did that to you? Did someone hurt you during the nighttime? He nodded. A single tear fell from his squinty eyes, dripping down his round face. It wasn't Mom. He shook his head in response. His lips started quivering. He He leaned close to me, whispering in a horse, terror-stricken voice. The bone-face woman, he hissed, breaking down in tears. I had contacted a team to remove the soiled items in the master bedroom after receiving a call from the police.

The team told me it would be a fairly easy job, and that I would be able to stay in the house later that night. With no other living family except Charlie, I would undoubtedly inherit it anyway, though I had absolutely no intention of keeping it. I wanted to sell it as soon as possible, but I would have to go through everything and decide what, if anything, I wanted to keep. All of Charlie's stuff was also still in the house, which I knew we would need to go through and package regardless. It was a Friday, and I had the weekend off work. My plan was to finish moving everything out of my mother's house that weekend.

Charlie and I pulled into the sprawling property that night, turning on to the flat, dirt driveway towards the old colonial. Sharp stones crunched rhythmically under the tires. I took in the sight, the large windows and wrap-around porch of the dark purple house. I saw my childhood neighbor, Sloan Herbic, standing outside on his front lawn. Behind him loomed his Victorian house, a blood-red building of sharp turrets and dark, dusty windows. Sloan Herbic was a strange man in more ways than one. He had been burned horribly as an infant in a crib fire, barely seen. surviving with his life. Melted folds of lumpy scar tissue covered most of his body,

including his face and head. Miraculously, he hadn't lost his eyesight, nose or lips, but both of his ears were missing as well as all the hair on his head except his long, black eyelashes. His horrifyingly scarred body looked nearly as pale as an albinos, but his eyes were as dark as sin. I remembered Sloan as an arrogant, aloof man with no friends, about ten years older than myself. According to what my mother told me as a teenager, Sloan's mother had gone missing when I was little, during the time when they were constructing our then brand new home in Frost Hollow.

By now, I thought, he must be at least 40, though the keloid scars and mutilated ridges of flesh running over his entire body made it impossible to tell. As I got out of the car, I gave a neighborly wave, but Sloan ignored me. He stared fervently down at the hole, slamming the sharp tip of the shovel into the earth over and over again at a frenetic pace. I walked by Charlie's side up the rickety wooden steps to the front porch, pulling the spare house key out of my pocket from so many years ago.

With trembling fingers, I slid the key into the lock, finding that my key still worked, as I knew they would. The door opened onto a dark, sinister hallway. A nauseating odor emanated from the house, blowing out the front door like the rancid breath of some primordial monster. It was the smell of rotting bodies, clotted blood and infection. It left a slightly sweet aftertaste. Gagging, I flipped on the light switch.

I took a step forward, but Charlie didn't follow. He stared up at me with an unusual intensity, taking his huge, round arms and crossing them over his chest. The front of his dirtcake sneakers came up the perimeter of the threshold, but he refused to go any further. He just shook his greasy, sweat-covered face. Come on, buddy, I said encouragingly, giving him a wide smile. What's wrong? He pointed behind me, down the hallway. I instantly looked over my shoulder, my heart leaping up like a jackrabbit. Having watched far too many horror movies, I expected to see some bloodstreet hag standing there with a face like a skull and an ear-to-ear grin. But the hallway lay empty.

She's still here, Charlie said slowly, his eyes giant glassy orbs of terror. She is dead, Mom's not here, Buddy, I answered, ambling back toward him and taking one of his enormous hands in mind. I could feel the width of it, the smooth flatness of his palms except for one. one thick ridge. Mom's at the funeral home. We're going to see her Sunday, remember. Charlie shook his head again, his hair flying everywhere.

This place is bad, he said. We've got to stay here for the weekend, Charlie, I responded, feeling a rising sense of irritation. I already explained it all to you. The house is fine. They took the dead body out already, so what's the problem? You'll be with me the whole time. It will be bad, Charlie said, sweating heavily.

It won't be scary, buddy. I promise. Looking back, it is hard to imagine any more untrue words than those. Much of the stuff from my mother's room had been taken out by the cleaning team. They told me that some of her fluids had burst from her body, staining the mattress and bed frame with their black rock. Luckily, not much had gotten on the floor, but a small puddle. had dripped down. The guest bedroom was directly underneath Mons' room, just a small, square room on the first floor with a bed, a dresser, and a TV. I kept the bedside lamp on all night.

On the ceiling of the room, there was a Rorschach ink blot of dead, rotted fluids that still needed to be cleaned up. It was about the size of a basketball and looked like an eye. It had a dark, circular spot in the center, followed by thin, black tendrils that cracked their way towards the oval perimeter of the stain. Charlie crawled into bed next to me, putting a heavy, hot hand on my shoulder before falling asleep almost instantly. But I couldn't sleep. After what felt like an eternity, I looked over at the red lights of the alarm clock, seeing it was 3.32 a.m. I swore under my breath, sensing that my insomnia would not leave me alone this weekend in this place of horrors. At exactly 333, a jarring mechanical shrieking started outside.

I jumped up in bed. Charlie awoke instantly. He sat up so fast that he smacked his head on the wall with a dull bunk. What the fuck is that noise? I hissed, jumping out of bed. I looked up at the stain as I went, giving it a distrustful glance backwards. The mechanical catarwalling seemed to growing louder as I made my way toward the front of the house. I went to the front window, seeing Sloan Herbock running a woodchipper next to his totally dark house. I could just barely make out his dull silhouette, hearing the din of the constant grinding. Charlie gave an incomprehensible scream in the guest bedroom. I heard his heavy footsteps running toward me. His face was red and flushed, his pupils dilated and frantic. The eye moved, he said, his voice had

having more emotion than I had heard in it in a long time. I blinked, the fog of sleep still clouding my mind. You mean the stain? I asked, finally figuring out what he was talking about. The stain on the ceiling. He nodded ferociously, bobbing his head up and down quickly. Eventually, I ended up talking Charlie down and getting him back to bed. The stain was still in the same spot, as far as I could tell.

Around 4 a.m., the sound of the woodchipper finally died. In the eerie silence of the dark house, I fell into a nightmarish fever dream where I saw women bound with chains in a basement surrounding a mannequin wearing a suit made of human skin. The next morning, I went over to Sloan's house and knocked until he answered. While I waited, I studied the strange gargoyle knocker plastered across the scarlet door. At first, he would only crack it open a fraction of an inch. staring out at me with a single black eye. Can you not run the wood chipper in the middle of the night?

I asked, giving him a faint, anxious half-smile. It's keeping me and Charlie from sleeping. I mean, you had the thing going at 3 a.m. last night. A few heartbeats later, the front door flew open. Sloan took a step towards me until his scarred, alien face stood only inches from mine. It's because of my skin, isn't a little. it, he asked in a hoarse, low voice. He spoke in a strange cadence, mumbling the words in dissonant rhythms. If someone cut your eyes out so you couldn't see how ugly I am, you wouldn't care about

the wood chipper anymore, would you? I took a step back, the smile peeling off my face. I reached for the canister of police mace in my pocket, gripping it firmly and putting my hand on the trigger. Sloan, that has nothing to do with that, I answered coldly, narrowing my eyes at him. Don't act like a goddamn psycho. Look, if you keep that shit up, I'll call the cops. Don't fucking do it again. I had no patience for nut jobs like him. He always gave me the creeps. As a kid, someone had gone around pouring bleach into the eyes of people's cats and dogs, blinding them and leading to some getting euthanized. I always suspected Sloan of doing it, though he never got caught. My brother and I spent the rest of

of that day packing up anything we wanted to take with us, putting it in boxes and labeling it. Charlie didn't have a lot of possessions, and mom didn't exactly have a lot of valuable items in her house, so it was fairly quick going. I figured I would either end up selling or donating most of the crap left behind in the end. Before I knew it, the sun had started setting again. The darkness of a moonless sky descended on frost hollow like a guillotine blade. My brother and I kept working, mostly in silence, though Charlie would come over and show me random objects he had recently acquired. Rick.

Charlie said, proudly holding up a plush doll of Rick from Rick and Morty. A trickle of fake drooled dripped Rick's mouth, and a trickle of real one from Charlie's. I laughed, ruffling his hair as if he were a toddler. That's right. I answered excitedly, that's Rick. You like Rick, buddy. You like how? he just does whatever he wants whenever he feels like. Charlie nodded excitedly at that.

After a couple more hours of sorting, I decided to go to bed. I wanted to leave as early as possible on Sunday morning after the funeral, which was the next day. Charlie followed me like a puppy, his normally unfocused eyes flitting from one side to the other with a kind of intensity one had rarely seen there before. He constantly scanned the shadows, as if looking for something. We kept all the lights in the surrounding rooms and the guest bedroom. As I lay there, about to fall asleep, I glanced over at Charlie and saw him staring straight up at the stame with wide, watery eyes. I don't know how long it was later when I awoke suddenly in the pitch black. I blinked quickly, confused. And then I heard it, the noise that had caused me to set up

in bed. Right over me, I heard something gurgling and hissing in rhythmic breaths. It sounded as if whatever it was had lungs filled with blood and dirt. The terror I felt at that moment was incomprehensible. But it grew much worse when two burning, skeletal hands reached down and grabbed me. They covered my right arm in an iron grip, the thin, blade-like fingers feeling inhumanly long. I could feel my skin burning and melting. I screamed, kicking out with my legs and trying to pull away. I brought my left hand up, grabbing blindly for the thing's face. I groped in the darkness until I felt it, a face like a skull. It was slick and wet under my touch, sticky with clotted blood. I felt the muscles of its skeletal face thrumming and contracting. The thing

had no skin. I repressed an urge to scream, instead reaching for its eyes. even as its burning hands continued yanking at my arm, trying to pull me off the bed. I felt a nose that was just a ragged hole of destroyed flesh, felt the fetid breath passing softly through those mutilated patches. I reached up into its eyes, but there were no eyes there, just two empty sockets. I reached inside and felt the skittering of insect larvae under my fingers. At the back of the empty socket, my fingers groped thin strands like fleshy wires that had been severed. With all of my strength, I stuck my finger deep down into that warm, twisting socket,

stabbing my fingernails into the optic nerves and vessels at the back and ripping. The hands on my arm instantly released. I felt some of the melted skin go with them, heard the tearing of my flesh as warm blood instantly dripped from the wounds. Hyperventilating, my breath hissing with pain, I fumbled in my pocket for my lighter. I brought it up, flicking it. I caught a glimpse of the thing my brother called the bone face woman, her naked, skeletal body running out of the room with a sickly gurgling of her diseased lungs. Overhead, the stain had turned into a real eye, a fleshy, black thing that flitted over the arm with a dilated pupil.

It emanated insanity, it stared glassy and inhuman. Charlie lay on the floor, his eyes opened but unseen. My breath caught in my throat, the burning agony in my arm temporarily forgot. I ran toward my brother, kneeling down over his limp body and shaking him. I saw fresh burn marks in the shape of a hand on his face, covering his forehead and temples. The cracked, broken flesh dribbled pus and blood like thick, clotted tears down his cheeks. When he didn't respond, I shook him again, grabbing him by the chin and forcing his eyes to meet mine.

I saw him blink. He inhaled like a drowning man, grabbing my hand tightly in his hand. shaking his head from side to side. She was here, he whispered. She is dead, Dennis. She lives in the dirt. We need to get out of here and never come back, I said, trying to pull Charlie up. He was far too heavy. Can you get up, buddy? Come on, we'll leave now. With great difficulty, Charlie pulled himself up. His eyes started watering as the weeping burn marks continuously dripped a rainbow of clotted fluids. I took out my phone, trying to call for help, but nothing was working in the house anymore. The electricity had gone off, which was why the lights had all gone out,

but that wouldn't explain why my fully charged cell phone had gone black as well. Charlie and I stumbled outside. I put him in the passenger's seat of the car, deciding to get the hell out of there and never come back. But when I tried to turn the starter, the car didn't make a sound. The engine didn't even make an attempt to turn over. It's her, Charlie whispered, his face a mask of terror and pain in the darkness. The bone face woman wants us to stay, well, she can go fuck herself, I spat, anger and fear mixing in a toxic sludge in my blood. I watched the house closely, seeing the curtains at the front moving. I caught an occasional glimpse of that abomination peeking out at us with her empty eye sockets and skinned face.

I looked at Sloan's house, realizing I could call for help from there. He was the only neighbor within a half-mile radius. Charlie, the car's not working and I need to call for help. I'm going to go across the street and use Sloan's phone to call the cops. I want you to lock yourself in the car. Don't open the door for anyone except me or the cops. You got that, I asked, keeping a constant watch on the house, expecting the bone face woman to sling. out after us at any moment. She is dead, Charlie said robotically. She is walking. She will not

let us leave. After I had made sure Charlie had locked himself in the car, I sprinted over to Sloan's dark Victorian house. I ran up the porch steps, ready to start knocking frantically on the door. But as soon as I touched it, it creaked slowly open, showing a dimly-like kitchen. A single oven light was turned on. I looked around in disgust. The place was filthy. Mold covered pots and pans covered the stovetop. Drying crusts of filth covered a mountain of dishes emerging from the sink. Maggots and other insects feasted like kings here. The white reflections of glittering rat and mouse eyes peeked out at me from the corners of the room. Sloan. I called, not wanting to be too loud. Even though I wouldn't have admitted it to him, I was, quite honestly, terrified of

Sloan Herbic. There was something off about that man. I left the kitchen, moving to the living room. There was only a single night light in here. All around me loomed naked human skins nailed to the wall. They rose in two rows, the bottom row offset from the top by a few feet so that more of the space could be used. I crept closer with wide eyes, realizing that the vast majority were just latex or silicone. Not all of them, however. Stuck randomly among the fake hanging skins were some that looked different.

These looked thicker and had soft ridges running over their surface. I even saw signs of belly buttons, tattoos and nipples on these leathery skins. At that moment, I knew without a doubt that they were human. Many looked ancient and cracked, the leather falling apart at the shoulders or waist. There was a couch covered in what looked like gore in the center of the room facing a TV and DVD player. On a small wooden table next to it lay a phone and a blood-encrusted meat cleaver. Shaking with excitement and fear, I crept closer to them, immediately grabbing the weapon. I took Sergeant Alvarez's card from my pocket, calling it.

She answered on the second ring, sounding. tired. Hello, she said. Sergeant Alvarez speaking. This is Dennis Benton, I whispered furtively. I need help immediately. Send an ambulance and police to my mother's house at 3.32, Angel Trace Road. Something's happened. Where are you right now? She asked. I met my neighbors across the street, but there's, like, body parts everywhere. I think he might be a serial killer. I don't know what the fuck's going on here, but please, hurry. I gently put the phone back down on the cradle, hearing a floorboard creak behind me. Sloan Herbic stood there, his dark eyes blazing. He pointed a pistol straight at my head. Looking down the barrel felt like looking into eternity. He was wearing a suit

made of what looked like pale, white human skin. It covered him from head to foot, hugging his body with precision. All of the thread and sewing marks were expertly hidden. It almost made him look like some strange, alien nudist, wearing a suit of white leather. At his feet, he had an open canister of gasoline. With practiced ease, he kicked it over, letting the pungent liquid spill out onto the floor all around me. Hey man, you don't have to do this, I said, trying to act calm but quivering inside. I expected him to pull the trigger at any second, and then it would be lights out forever. I've already started, he said, grinning and pointing out the window. I saw my house burning across the street. I felt the blood drained from

my face as I thought about Charlie, sitting there in the car with his childlike innocence. I hoped you would know to get out in time. Why are you doing this? I asked, horrified. I never did anything to you. Everyone who looked at me did something to me, he spat. They hated me because I'm ugly and burned. But now I have a new skin, so people can't hate me anymore. I made it myself, and this face. He pointed at the dried human skin wrapping around his head. This is my mother's. She was one of my first, but she never truly left, you see. She told me, take it. This is my body, given to you. Take my skin, take my face and my hair, and from it, make yourself a new body. Make yourself a thing of beauty, as soft and pale as winter moonlight. After I killed her, I buried her

under the dirt in your house, back when it was being built. I knew they would pour the foundation the next day. All those tons of concrete covered her, took her away, and then no one ever knew what happened. He shrugged. It had to be done, to make me whole again. No mother could see her own son become a twisted, ugly thing, after all. The rest of the skin mostly came from prostitutes. I find female skin is much softer, more malleable and easier to work with. They also take better care of their skin than men. He laughed softly at this. Okay, so you've already finished your suit, I said, sweating heavily. So let me go.

I have nothing to do with this. He smiled an insane rickdis grinned behind his leathery mask. I only need one more piece, and that is the soles of the feet, he answered in his cold, psychopathic way. I'll get those from you. Goodbye, Dennis. It was nice seeing you again. At that moment, Charlie stumbled in the room, his movements loud and ungraceful. Sloan turned, surprised.

A heartbeat later, Charlie slammed his heavy body against Sloan's back, sending him flying. The pistol went off, the bullet missing me by inches. I heard it was over the top of my head and smash into the ceiling above me. Cold dread worked its way down my spine as I realized I had just missed death by inches. Sloan landed on his stomach at Charlie's feet. Screaming, Sloan put his left hand up. revealing a zippo lighter there. He flicked it, throwing it at the pile of gasoline.

I backpedaled quickly, trying to go around the blazing ball of fire and get to Sloan. Get the gun. I screamed at Charlie. Charlie looked down at Sloan with slow comprehension dawning in his face. He took one massive sneaker and stomped down on Sloan's right hand with the pistol in it. I heard the bone crack like twigs snapping. Sloan shrieked, trying to pull away, but Charlie continued leaning down on his arm, preventing him from moving it. The fire was creeping at an incredible rate, rising up the walls and across the

ceiling. Thick, black smoke filled the room, suffocating us. I ran at Charlie, my eyes watering. I realized I was still holding the meat cleaver in one hand. I looked down at Sloan in his suit of human skin, still trying to raise the gun with his broken arm. I wanted to finish this quickly. I brought the knife down into the back of his neck, hearing the bone crack. There was a wet thud and a bubbling of blood as the meat cleaver bit deeply into through his spine, and then Sloan was still. Come on, Charlie. I said, grabbing his large hand. He wrapped his fingers around mine. coughing and choking, we stumbled out into the night as police cars started pulling up. The first one had Sergeant Alvarez in it, who ran towards us, helping a stumbling Charlie

toward the back seat of her car where he could sit down and catch his breath. Both houses were on fire now, blazing pillars of flame that rose high into the black, starless sky. At that moment, I only hoped that the flames would eat away the corpse of Sloan's mother, the bone face woman. Romania in the 1990s was a country of transformation but also of traditions, myths and legends, overlapping with technology pouring in from the West after the long dark years of communism. The country had taken revenge and paid for 50 years of communism with blood by executing the

Chowsescu family. The dictators of communist Romania. But in the Romanian countryside, in the Romanian villages, time seemed to have lagged behind, and refused to pass its mystical stage. My grandmother often told me, in the long winter evenings, when we sat huddled around the terracotta stove, about the story of Lena Bonkus, who faced the devil and killed her own daughter. Lena was a witch.

A real one, my grandmother was keen to point out. She cast spells of separation, murder, financial bankruptcy, illness, madness. But for all these spells to work, she worked with the devil. The devil called Inneran. Ineran had made a pact with one of Lena's great-grandmothers. He would help her perform the spells, but in return, every time a girl was born into the witch's family, she was worshipped by the devil. That little girl would grow up, become a woman, and at the age of 18, there was a ritual

that required the girl to be raped by a number of men. Estelle's powers were unleashed, and the first people she killed with spells were her rapists. A pact signed in blood. Lena was the fourth witch of her kind. But she was also a very intelligent woman and she hid her occupation very well. She seemed to be in her community of villagers, a rich, powerful, socially involved woman, a member of the church and a businesswoman, for she had a shop in the village, by which he justified his wealth. She was actually doing spells for which she was paid.

A lot of money. Through these spells, she eliminated the rival. of those who called upon her. In the high circles of Timishwara and Romania, she was very well known, and very rich people often turned to her to solve their problems. Lina also had a daughter, a Lena, who was about to reach the age of majority, and who soon had to go through the ordeal of rape. The time was coming when she would pay the devil's tribute of blood and suffering, and Lena felt she couldn't let her daughter go through what she had gone through. So he decided not to do the ritual. Not to organize the coming of age of the girl bathed in pain.

So the girl's day had passed and nothing had happened, but one night when Lena had gone to the river to let some spells flow on the water, she met the devil in there, who warned her that her deed would not go unpunished and that the girl she will be dragged straight into the depths of hell in no time. Lina had broken the pact and there were demonic consequences for that. Desperate, Lena proposed to the devil to accept a duel of powers. And Inneran accepts. One night the two had fought in an abandoned church. Ineran challenges Lena to do a certain thing, and Lena in turn challenges Inerran to split

a curly hair, which the devil fails to do. In trouble, Ineran's fur turned black and burned, turned white. The devil was gray with rage. But being the devil, he had decided not to keep his head. his promise. Desperate not to lose her daughter, through a ruse, Lena had captured him in an old mirror that she threatened to break. Only then did Ineran admit defeat, but he also slipped in a threat to Lena. No one will be able to do any harm to your girl, except you. Lena had answered the devil that she would never harm her own daughter. The devil laughed,

and disappeared. Months past, Lena's daughter was more prosperous than ever and had fallen in love with a handsome boy from a very rich family in Timishwara. One night, however, a woman from the city came to the village to the witch and paid her a huge sum of money to cast a spell by which that woman wanted to kill her son's lover, because she considered her unfit for marriage he. Lena happily accepted, and performed the spells rigorously. Soon, however, her own daughter began to fall ill. She fell to bed seriously ill.

When the woman from the town came to bring the witch the rest of the money and tell her about the success of the spell, she came across the bed where the sick girl was lying in the house, and when she saw her, she ran away in terror. That witch realized only then that the girl for whom she had cast murderous spells was actually her daughter. Then Ineran appeared and laughingly repeated her words to him when she had said that she would never harm her daughter. In vain did the witch cry, in vain had she wailed. For nothing he had torn her clothes from her and her hair from her head. The evil had been done. The curse left on the water with the words, may the spell return, when the river returns to flow towards the mountain.

Nothing could be done. He had summoned the demon, he had enlisted the help of other witches, but to no avail. Her daughter melts down and dies before she turns nineteen in excruciating pain. No one could win a fight with the devil. Leaving, Lena donated everything she had left and went wandering around Bonot, and some say that even today she can still be seen walking like a street person, through the city of Timishwara. If you found this topic interesting, you can read all and many more such happenings on Amazon book. Look for Banatica, Volume 1, written by Cresan Daniel. The first message appeared on the back wall of an abandoned house located very close to Old Hill and read as follows, who put Bella in the Witch Elm.

Over the following months, more and more graffiti appeared, same message, same typography. And although sometimes the name Bella was replaced by Lebella, the words were always the same. Its author knew the case, knew the body, and apparently also knew the name of the victim, a name that was, until then, unknown. Let's begin. There are many stories about haunted forests, but none compared to Hadley Wood. That land, since ancient ancient... times, had been feared by all, as it was said that terrible monsters, weirwolves, and even covens of witches lived within it. However, with the outbreak of the Second World War,

people stopped fearing ghosts, the sound of anti-aircraft weapons was much scarier than the sinister laughter of a witch. So, people simply stopped fearing the forest, or at least they did, until April 1943. This story began on the afternoon of April 18, 1943, when 40s, young boys tempted fate by entering Hadley Wood. Their names were Bob Hart, Tom Willits, Fred Payne, and Bob Farmer, aged between 17 and 18. As mentioned before, at that time, fear of bombings was greater than fear of ghosts. So the boys gathered their courage, grabbed their dogs, and ventured into the forest in search of food. Food was scarce back then, so encountering a monster or a witch didn't matter, they just wanted to hunt rabbits, birds,

or anything edible for their starving families, parents, siblings, grandparents, everyone was hungry. They walked for several minutes and finally reached an area belonging to Lord Cobham. Lord Cobham was known to be unfriendly and wouldn't hesitate to shoot if he saw trespassers hunting on his land. But the teens were hungry, and the warning signs didn't scare them. Soon the sun began to set and the night crept in, so the boys decided to end the hunt. However, just as they were about to go home, Bob Farmer saw what seemed to be a witch elm, named for its ghastly appearance. Convinced that its many branches likely hid bird nests, he climbed the tree to check. It was then that, deep in a crevice, he spotted a glimmer of white.

Quickly breaking a branch, thinking it was an egg or an animal, he reached in and touched it, and realized it was a skull. He touched more of it and, though at first thinking it was a dead animal, soon realized it was a human skull, with hollow eye sockets that seemed to stare directly at him. Panicked, he jumped down from the tree and screamed, prompting all his friends to run. The four of them were so terrified they made a pact, to never tell anyone about the body in the tree, to take the secret to their graves. But Tom Willits didn't agree. As soon as he got home, he told his parents, who immediately called the police.

authorities cordoned off the area and examined the witch elm inch by inch. What they found left them speechless. Inside and around the tree were human remains. Inside were most of a woman's skeleton, a spine, ribs with pieces of rotted cloth, and a skull with teeth, between which was a piece of fabric. They also noticed the right hand was missing. Outside the tree were more bones, fingers, tibias, and other remains, as well as objects. that might have belonged to the victim. Blue shoes with crape saws and a cheap wedding ring,

gold-plated. But there was no sign of the right hand. Forensic Dr. James Webster concluded the woman was about 35 years old and had likely had a child. She stood about 5 feet zero inches, had light brown hair, and had been dead for approximately 18 months, placing her death around October 1941. But the strangest thing of all, according to him, was the cause of death. Given the cloth in her mouth, this woman died of suffocation. Her killer, or killers, asphyxiated her, cut off her right hand, and before rigor mortis set in, forced her folded body into that tree. I can't imagine a woman accidentally falling in there, nor do I think it reasonable she would climb in to commit suicide. James Webster, 1943. Given all this, the police

had several investigative leads, missing persons records, dental records, and factory logs for the kind of shoes found. But that first point was tricky, the war had greatly inflated the number of missing persons. Still, police didn't give up. They reviewed every report and compared descriptions to the woman's remains, but none matched. Next were the dental records. But British dentists maintained absolute silence. Supposedly, none of them had a patient with that dental profile. Finally, the shoes. Police tracked all nearby shoe factories that might have made that model. They found one, water company, and traced all buyers of that type of shoe. Unfortunately, six pairs had been sold at a market in Dudley, 18 kilometers from

Hadley Wood, and no records existed for the buyers. So once again, police were left with nothing. Only one potential clue remained. At the end of 1941, a businessman and a schoolteacher reported to police that they had heard a woman screaming in Hadley Wood. But after inspecting the area, officers found nothing and dismissed the report. Another key detail, at the end of that year, a group of Romani people camped in the area. Police had to intervene multiple times due to family disputes. This sparked the theory that the victim may have been a nomad, possibly explaining why her identity was so hard to determine. No one really knew who she was, where she came from, or why she was there. She left no trace behind. Still, all this was speculation. So on April 28,

1943, a judge closed the case, ruling it as a murder committed by one or more unknown individuals. Months passed, and just when police thought the case was dead, Christmas 1-943 arrived. And with it, The first graffiti. The first message appeared on the back wall of an abandoned house near Old Hill, who put Bella in the witch elm. More graffiti followed in the months after, same message, same typography. Sometimes the name changed to Lebella, but the words were always the same. The author knew the case, knew the body, and apparently knew the victim's name, still officially

unknown. The police went mad trying to find the author, perhaps the killer, or someone close to them. But they never succeeded. That's when the first hypotheses surfaced, each more shocking than the last. The first came from anthropologist Margaret Murray, who spent years studying old customs and beliefs from the region. She reached a chilling conclusion. Bella's death may have been the result of an occult ritual.

To understand her theory, we need to look at three key points. The name of the victim. The location of the body. The missing hand. First, the name, Bella or Labella, both variations of Isabella or Clarabella, names often linked to occult practices at the time. Second, the location, inside a witch elm, a hollow space barely 60 centimeters wide, too small for a person to enter voluntarily. The killer could have buried her, but instead, climbed a tree and stuffed her in before rigor mortis set in. Why?

Ancient records say when a witch was condemned to death, her body would be sealed inside a tree, believed to trap her evil soul. Third, the missing hand. Her killer cut it off with a saw and took it, possibly as a trophy. This connects to the ancient belief in the hand of glory, a magical object made from the right hand of a hanged or suffocated person. Said to unlock doors, reveal treasure, and paralyze enemies. Still, investigators disdemeanor, dismissed this theory, saying scattered bones showed animals had fed on the body, and the hands removal wasn't ritualistic, just a morbid trophy. Once the case went public, newspapers overflowed with letters, thousands of people offering their theories. Many supported Margaret Murray's. Some claimed a coven had operated in Hadleywood between 1940 and 1943. Others said

Bella was a Romani woman killed by her family for witchcraft. Some claimed she was a prostitute or vagabond. But it wasn't until 1953 that the two most compelling theories emerged. That year, the newspapers Wolverhampton Express and Star received a letter from the brother of a woman calling herself Anna of Claverly. Anna claimed to know everything about Bella. She said Bella was a spy in a Nazi network gathering intel on munitions factories. But something went wrong, and Bella never completed her mission. A journalist named Wilfred Bifred Jones arranged a private interview with Anna. He discovered her real name, Boona Masup, widow of RAF pilot Jack Mossop. She said her husband told her he had been involved with a group of spies, including a Dutchman

named Van Ralt. One day, Van Ralt picked up a woman in his car, they didn't. know her name. After drinking heavily at a pub, the woman passed out, unable to stand or speak. Van Ralt and Mossup decided to play a prank, they took her to Hadley Wood and shoved her inside the tree. But this theory doesn't explain the cloth in her mouth or the cause of death. Mossup died in 1941 at St. George's Hospital in Stafford. Van Ralt was never identified. Later, Declassified MI5 Files revealed another let. In 1941, German spy Joseph Jacobs parachuted into Cambridgeshire and broke his ankle on landing. Captured, he was found to be carrying a photo of a German actress named Clara Bowerly, also known as Clarabella.

Jacob said Clarabella was his lover and had been recruited by the Third Reich as a spy. She parachuted into the West Midlands in 1941, and was never heard from again. Could she have been the woman in the tree? No. Bella was five feet zero inches. Clara was five feet ten inches. And Clara died in a Berlin hospital in 1942. So now it's your turn.

What do you think? Who was the mysterious Bella trapped into which elm? The end. The curious case of Queen and Reed Gray, it all started like a picture-perfect fairy tale. Queen Hannah and Reed Gray were the couple that. that everyone envied. She was a dedicated nurse, and he was a successful businessman in the medical equipment industry. They were young, attractive, and had what seemed to be an unbreakable bond. Their love story officially began in October 2000 when they decided to get married, and from the

outside, everything about them looked flawless. Soon after tying the knot, they purchased a stunning mansion in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, a luxurious coastal town known for its pristine beaches, upscale neighborhoods, and extremely low crime rates. Their new home cost a jaw-dropping $4.5 million, but hey, they were the grays. Money wasn't an issue. With time, their fairy tale evolved as they welcomed two daughters into their lives. Queen decided to quit her job as a nurse to dedicate herself fully to her children, and on the surface, their lives were nothing short of perfection. They threw extravagant parties, mingled with other wealthy couples, and built a reputation as the ultimate power couple in their affluent community.

Everything looked polished, glamorous, and sophisticated. But, as we all know, appearances can be deceiving. Cracks in the perfect marriage, behind closed doors, their relationship was a mess. Infidelity was a regular occurrence, on both sides. They fought constantly, separated multiple times, but always found a way to maintain the illusion of a perfect marriage. The people around them had no clue about the chaos that was unfolding in their private private life. By 2009, things were spiraling out of control.

Reed was drowning himself in work while Queen started partying harder than ever. Her nights out became more frequent, and alcohol turned into an everyday companion. Her priorities shifted, she was more interested in dancing at nightclubs and hanging out with men ten years younger than her than spending time with her daughters. The marriage was reaching its breaking point, and a divorce seemed inevitable. on the night of September 4, 2009, something happened that changed everything. The mysterious kidnapping, that Friday started like any other day. Reed woke up early, left for work, attended meetings, and had lunch with colleagues.

Nothing out of the ordinary. But at around 5 p.m., his phone rang. It was Queen. He hesitated before answering. Things had been tense between them lately, and he wasn't in the mood for another argument. But when he finally picked up, a chill ran down. down his spine. Queen wasn't just calling to chat, she was calling for help. She had been kidnapped by a group of Albanian men who were now demanding $50,000 in ransom. She begged him to come

home immediately. Reed, panicked and confused, dialed 911. The police took his call seriously but found the whole situation suspicious from the start. When they arrived at the Grey's Mansion, they found no signs of forced entry, no broken windows, no struggle, just a neatly placed note on the dining table, allegedly written by Queen herself. The letter read, read, please, you have to stay calm. Whatever you do, do not call the police, or I'm dead. These men are professionals. There are three of them, and they have me right now. They want $50,000 in cash, and they need it by tomorrow. The letter then went on to instruct Reed on how to withdraw the money. Since banks don't just hand over that kind of cash easily,

Queen told him to visit four different branches and take out smaller amounts from each to avoid suspicion. She also warned him not to contact anyone because the kidnappers had placed a GPS tracker on his car and were monitoring his every move. The whole thing felt off. Why would professional kidnappers ask for such a small amount when Reed made over a million dollars a year? And why did Queen claim he owed money to a lone shark when they had no financial troubles? The police grew even more suspicious when they started digging into Queen's background. She seemed like an ordinary woman, a devoted mother who loved binge-watching lost, cycling around the neighborhood, and posting inspirational quotes online. Nothing about her screamed criminal mastermind. The next morning,

Reed received another call from Queen, telling him to stay alert for further instructions. The police, now fully involved, decided to play along and set up surveillance on Reed's house. And then, 45 minutes later, another call came in. But this time, Queen wasn't calm. She was screaming, hysterical, and clearly distressed. Something wasn't right. The ransom that never happened, the police were determined to get Queen back safely but refused to hand over any money.

Instead, they attempted to set up a sting operation at the meeting point where the ransom was supposed to be dropped. But just when they thought they had a plan in place, Queen called again, saying the kidnappers had spotted police vehicles and changed the meeting location. This happened several times throughout the day. Each time, a location was agreed upon, and each time, it changed at the last minute. The kidnappers were always one step ahead. Then, on September 6, they escalated things.

Reed received a photo of Queen, alive but looking distressed, with a chilling message, If you screw up again, she's dead. The police knew they had to act fast. That night, Queen's mother received a phone call from her daughter, desperately begging her to deliver the money instead. She was given precise instructions, put $50,000 in a blue bag and drop it off at a designated location. But the cops had a plan.

They swapped the cash for $10,000 and a GPS tracker. They followed the drop-off point, hoping to catch the kidnappers red-handed. Except things didn't go as planned. A group of unsuspecting German tourists found the bag and, thinking it was lost money, took it straight to the police. Meanwhile, Queen's kidnappers called her mother again, demanding to know where the money was. The case was getting weirder by the minute. The shocking truth, then, out of nowhere, Queen was released.

She called Reed, claiming she had been let go without explanation. The police immediately picked her up for questioning, expecting details about her captors. But instead of talking about the men who had allegedly kidnapped her, Queen accused Reed of setting the whole thing up. She insisted he had been acting suspiciously, delaying the ransom payment on purpose. But the police weren't buying it. The timeline didn't make sense. And then, the biggest twist of all, security footage surfaced of a man seen buying supplies at a convenience store during the supposed kidnapping.

When the police released the image to the public, they got a call almost immediately. The man in the picture. His name was Jasmine Osmanovic, a 25-year-old Bosnia mechanic. Jasmine denied everything at first, but when pressed, he cracked. He confessed that the whole kidnapping was fake and had been orchestrated by none other than Queen Gray herself. They had been having an affair, and she wanted to extort money from Reed before he could divorce her. With that confession, Queen was arrested. At trial, Queen's lawyers claimed she had bipolar disorder and wasn't in her right mind when she plotted

the scheme. But the evidence was overwhelming. She was sentenced to seven years of probation in order to pay $43,000 to cover the costs of the investigation. Jasmine got six years of probation and had to pay the remaining $43,000. And that's how a glamorous, high-society marriage turned into one of the most bizarre crime stories in Florida's history. Now, the question is, do you think their sentences were fair? We begin today's story by talking about one of the owners of Rose Hall, a Georgian-style mansion anchored in the mythical land of Jamaica. The origins of this estate's construction date back to the year 1750, when the English settler George Hall decided to start laying the foundation. of this mansion and named it Rose, in honor of his wife.

Unfortunately, George died just three years later, and Rose remarried three more times. Her third husband, John Palmer, was the representative of King George I in the Jamaican District of St. James, and he was also the one who completed the house between 1770 and 1780. Sadly, this grand mansion was never filled with the laughter of children, as both spouses died shortly after finishing the construction, leaving no descendants. For many years, the closest relatives fought over the inheritance, but it was eventually John Rose Palmer, their nephew, who inherited the great estate. He became the envy not only of his family but also of the locals, as this estate had one of the most important sugar plantations in the region, one of the most

prominent in all of Jamaica. The wealth that generated surpassed anything any nobleman could desire. It truly seemed as though life was beginning to smile upon John, until the day he met Annie Mae Patterson, a young French woman not only full of youth and dreams, but also full of love for him. Annie Mae Patterson always came across as very generous, charming, and pleasant, a girl with whom John could talk for hours and from whom he never stopped learning. To John, Annie was a true goddess. However, Annie was hiding a very dark secret, she was a ruthless killer. John Palmer and Annie Patterson married in the year 1820, and the first years of their union were the happiest of John's life, until one night, she stabbed him over and over without stopping, making sure he was truly dead. Once the massacre was complete, she ordered her black slaves to pick up the pieces from the bed and bury him on a nearby beach. From that moment on, the nightmare at Rose Hall began. Annie would go on to take the lives of hundreds upon hundreds of slaves.

Once John Palmer was declared dead, Annie inherited his entire fortune, and not only his wealth, but the Rose Hall Mansion as well. Over the following years, she delighted in wasting money, hosting lavish parties, buying the finest dresses in town, and indulging in every imaginable luxury. But money runs out, and a widowed woman in those times could fall prey to robbers, danger, or men who only sought her fortune. So she decided to find another wealthy man on her own. She went on to marry twice more, both husbands met the same fate as John Palmer.

However, their deaths weren't identical, the second husband died from poisoning, and the third was strangled. Once again, Annie relied on her slaves to bury the bodies on two separate beaches. She then spread word that her husbands had succumbed to yellow fever, a common illness during that era. No one dared to question her story, not only because she was a powerful woman in those days, but also because people feared her. Everyone in that community had their secrets, and nobody wanted to meddle in someone else's business, getting involved could cost you your life.

Annie was a woman cloaked in mystery, fascinated by the occult. She enjoyed playing with voodoo, flirting with the dark and the spiritual. It is said that she performed voodoo rituals right on her estate, rituals used to torment her more than 3,000 slaves, whom she kept in check by threatening to curse them for all eternity. She ruled through terror and malevolence. It's believed she learned the art of voodoo from one of her slaves, who, trying to gain her favor, taught her a few tricks. But Annie was never a grateful person.

So it's assumed that once she had learned everything she wanted from him, she killed him, just as she had done with her husbands and most of her lovers. The power she gained through voodoo, the fear she inspired, led her slaves to name her the white witch. Each morning, Annie would step onto the back balcony of the mansion, the one that overlooked the courtyard, and from there, she gave orders to her slaves. She dictated how the household chores should be done, who would work the fields, who would stay behind to clean, who would serve her personally, 24 hours a day. She also determined the punishments for anyone who disobeyed. Punishments ranged from lashings, to mutilation, to burning with hot irons, to entire nights in the mansion's basement, where Annie punished her slaves with total impunity. Some were even executed.

But many testimonies claim that wasn't the worst fate imaginable. The worst fate was when the White which entered the servant's quarters, selected a new lover, and forced them to spend an entire week fulfilling her every sexual fantasy. Once she tired of them, she would execute them in the most brutal way, through torture and slow bloodletting. She buried them in unmarked graves, pits with no religious symbol whatsoever, like a stray dog or cat. Still, very few managed to escape Rose Hall. In fact, almost no one dared to try. Annie had filled the estate with over a hundred traps, animal snares, deep pits hidden among the brush. And if you manage to survive the first wave of deadly traps, don't worry, Annie Palmer would wake in the middle of the

night, mount her horse, and hunt you down. She'd drag you back to the basement, brand you'll like an animal, and depending on her mood, you might never see daylight again. Annie's estate extended over 24 kilometers, a vast territory with dense plantations. The mansion itself sat like a true feudal castle, and from her bedroom window, Annie Palmer could observe everything that happened. She watched the slave quarters, the laundry fires, everything. If she saw even one suspicious movement, she'd go hunting for the escapee herself and dream up the punishment on the way. In those times, social classes were starkly defined. A minority exploited an oppressed majority, creating a system ruled by fear, an element Annie knew how to exploit very well. At Rose Hall,

fear went far beyond the physical. Slaves didn't just suffer mortal wounds, they were haunted by the fear of the occult, the fear of voodoo. With her esoteric knowledge, Annie threatened to steal their souls for eternity, to never let them rest even after death, and this idea hurt far worse than a thousand lashes. As previously mentioned, Annie Palmer was trained in Haitian voodoo until she became a fearsome witch, the white witch, the one who knew all and saw all. If a neighbor annoyed her, she'd turned to voodoo, and within days, that neighbor would fall ill and die. Annie's evil knew no bounds. Some of the legends told by the Rose Hall slaves say that she never allowed her friends or close associates to bear children. Any woman associated with her who

became pregnant would suddenly miss Gary, often after a perfectly healthy pregnancy. It was said that just having tea with Annie at Rose Hall could result in losing your baby two days later. The slaves believed these tragedies occurred because the White which had decided to rob that family of their future, because no one was allowed to be happy around her. Annie Palmer was incapable of happiness. She didn't know what true joy was, and therefore, she wouldn't allow anyone else to smile either. When exactly she became so cruel is unknown. Did it happen during her childhood in the streets of Paris? Or when she moved with her family to Jamaica? Nobody knows. The only thing that's certain is that Annie Palmer had no

heart. Annie Palmer was a true monster. In 1831, significant changes began in Jamaica's colonial society. The British government decided to abolish slavery. But the Jamaican elite chose to delay this new law as long as possible, clinging to slavery as if they had never heard of such government mandates. As if they had never heard of human freedom, a fact that caused great tension among the black population and triggered intense uprisings throughout the country. And Rose Hall was no exception, for the revolt reached directly into the lands of Annie Palmer. Annie truly believed that the terror she instilled in her slaves would be enough to quell their rage,

to calm their anger. But it wasn't enough, for their wrath became much stronger than their fear, and a group of insurgents entered her estate armed with torches. They tore down the main door, climbed the stairs, and murdered her in the cruelest way, in her own bed. They beat her over and over, cut off her limbs, disfigured her face, and once she was dead, they threw her out the window. Once she was dead, a neighbor picked up her corpse and buried her in an unmarked grave with three crosses meant to guide her soul to the afterlife, leaving one side of the grave without a cross so her soul could escape the tomb and wander through the estate. Still, this theory doesn't hold much weight, since what sense would it make to bury a noble

woman in an unmarked grave with three crosses? It doesn't make sense. Which leads us to the second version of her death, the second version that explains why Annie Palmer was buried under such circumstances. We know that white crosses are used to seal the power of a witch in Haitian voodoo tradition. So this leads us to quickly consider the second version of her burial. A legend says that Annie Palmer had hired a foreman who was a powerful bacher, a voodoo sorcerer, something he hid from her at the risk of his own life.

The foreman had a young daughter who was engaged to a very handsome young man. Annie knew about this, she knew about the engagement, and still did. decided that wasn't a reason to stop him from becoming her lover. She became infatuated with him and forced him to spend a night with her, to spend a night fulfilling all her desires and fantasies. The young man's family and his fiancée were devastated, for they knew that within a week, he would end up dead, as that was the fate of all her lovers. Even so, they had time to think of a way to protect him, to save him, and to ensure that the marriage could still happen. They had time to think of something.

But Annie didn't follow her usual pattern. Instead of spending a week with him, instead of taking an entire week, she enslaved him that very night and decapitated him. Perhaps that night, the young man refused to sleep with her, declaring his love for the foreman's daughter, and maybe that drove Annie mad. She enraged all her slaves and devastated the foreman's family, allowing fury to take hold of the slaves and spark the revolt. That very night, her slave stormed into her home, knocked down the front gate, climbed the stairs, and stabbed her, beat her, bled her out.

They fought not only with violence but also through voodoo, through witchcraft. And the foreman, being much more experienced in that field than Annie, was able to defeat her and destroy her spiritually and emotionally, a fact that made it easier for the rest of the slaves to finish what he had started and destroy her physical body. Once this was done, the foreman entered the woods and, through rituals, created a sacred tomb sealed with three white crosses, to seal not only the spirit of the witch but also her wickedness, her deep evil. There, anchored in the rock forever, leaving a space for her soul to wander eternally and to keep lamenting and reflecting in the afterlife on everything she had done in life. But that tomb would have no name, no name so that the soul could never rest, could never find peace. Because if she didn't know who she was in life, she wouldn't know who she was in death. Unfortunately, rage prevented the ritual from being completed, from being properly finished,

and so the spirit of Annie was left not only to want of the earth, not only bound to the mansion of Rose Hall. Annie's spirit had become a demon. She had become a vengeful, resentful soul filled with fury. After Annie's death, the house belonged to the British government and was later sold to three different families, the Jarrett family, the Barrett family, and the Henderson family. The first two families continued the sugar plantations, continued to exploit the land, and they did report strange things, but didn't pay much attention.

They reported the creaking of the wood, dry coldness, and thick, suffocating air in some of the rooms. But really, neither of these first two families lived in the house. They used it as a plantation, as a workplace, not as a home to live and prospery. in as a happy family. But the third family, the Henderson family, did use Rose Hall as a home. They wanted to grow there and consider Rose Hall a family legacy. During their stay, the Henderson's experienced truly inexplicable events. They reported that same dry coldness, that same thick and suffocating air, and that they felt watched, watched by something, someone that didn't seem to be there. by something that had no body, by something truly hostile.

They reported that in the darkest places of the house, one could feel a disturbed presence, a dark presence, an almost monstrous presence. But the worst wasn't what they experienced, the worst was what their servants experienced. The servants feared certain rooms because they were convinced something truly dark was hiding there. But the owners of the mansion ignored their warnings, ignored the fear of a few servants, until one day, something truly tragic happened. Out of nowhere, one of the maids fell from the same balcony where Annie Palmer used to give her morning speeches to the slaves.

She was thrown from that balcony, and during the fall, she broke her neck and died. At that moment, the Hendersons concluded that the house was truly haunted, because when the maid fell, there was no one upstairs. No one who could have pushed her. And that fact disturbed them so much that they decided to leave the house the very next day after the unexplained death. They packed all their things and moved to Kingston. Today, the Rose Hall Mansion is owned by two Americans, who purchased it in 1965 and remodeled it between 1966 and 1971, spending a total of $2.5 million to renovate the mansion and make it

livable. Still, the fury of the White which didn't end with the murder of that maid. Her rage remained alive, still pulsing through the walls of Rose Hall. And it said that during the restoration, truly strange things began to happen, disembodied laughter, whispers, footsteps, the same symptoms the house exhibited during the Henderson's time. But this time, there were new developments, new phenomena. This time, while restoring the room of Annie Palmer's first husband, stains began to appear on the ceiling, damp stains next to John Palmer's bed. Stains that, once you touched them with your finger, you realized they weren't damped. spots, they were blood stains. Fresh blood. Stains that, once you went to another room or called someone and came back, had disappeared without a trace. Intense odors, odors that floated through every

room. And this led the couple to open the doors of Rose Hall to paranormal investigators, and not only to them, but also to curious visitors eager to learn not just the history of Rose Hall, but also the terrifying legend behind it. And, in fact, To this day, the estate still receives tourist visits to showcase not only the story, but also the valuable objects and Jamaican mahogany furniture inside. And not just that, also genuine works of art from the 15th to 19th centuries. And like any good haunted mansion, everything remains practically intact, exactly as it was in the time of Annie Palmer.

The end. I wasn't expecting much that morning. Another press briefing, another policy announcement, and this one. Windshield wipers. Rividing stuff. I barely made it on time, shuffling in with a lukewarm coffee in one hand and dragging along my over-eager in turn, Ralph, with the other. Ralph was practically vibrating with excitement, clutching his notebook like it was the

Holy Grail of journalism. This is big, James, he whispered, eyes wide with the kind of naive enthusiasm that made me want to retire early. Sure, Ralph, I'm not. muttered, taking a sip of my coffee. Windshield wipers. The defining issue of our time. As Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy took the podium, I noticed something strange,

the room wasn't just filled with the usual droning murmur of reporters killing time before lunch. There was an actual buzz in the air. People were leaning forward, pens poised, cameras ready, waiting for, what, exactly? A new standard in rubber blade technology. Duffy started strong. For too long, we've overlooked the tools that keep us safe in everyday conditions, he declared, his voice full of the kind of confidence usually reserved for presidents and

infomercial hosts. Windshield wipers might seem trivial, but they're not. They're essential. I rolled my eyes and glanced at Ralph. The kid was already scribbling furiously, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. You buying this? I asked under my breath. Just listen, he hissed back, eyes glued to the stage like he was witnessing history in the making. Duffy went on, unveiling the administration's plan to standardize wiper speeds and introduce adaptive technology.

How many of you have driven in a downpour, flipping through wiper settings that are either too slow or too fast? Hands shot up across the room. Mine stayed down, though I begrudgingly admitted I'd been there. It's a small problem, Duffy continued, but it's a solvable one. And we're here to solve it. The crowd applauded. Ralph was nodding like a bobblehead. I leaned closer.

This is theater, I said. Maybe, Ralph shot back, but it's good theater. And then, the unexpected happened, a live video feed from President Trump himself. America deserves the best, Trump declared, his voice booming through the speakers. Even in the little things. Think about your own body, think about the way your p-hole works. It lets out what it needs to, in the right amount, at the right time. It's efficient.

It's natural. It's perfect. That's what we're aiming for with windshield wipers. We want them to respond just like that, no more, no less, just right. The room fell into a stunned silence. A few awkward coughs. A shifting of seats. Then, slowly, applause began to spread like an infection,

until the entire room was clapping, because what else do you do in a moment like that? Trump grinned from the screen, basking in the bizarre admiration. This administration is about solutions that make life better for every single citizen. No more squinting through streaked windshields on the way to work. The energy was undeniable. Duffy closed the briefing with more technical details, but it was Trump's weirdly effective analogy that would dominate the headlines. By the time the briefing ended, I had to admit, I was impressed.

Not because windshield wipers suddenly seemed like a world-changing issue, but because they'd somehow made people care. That was the real skill on display. As we walked out, Ralph was practically glowing. So, what did you think? I shrugged. They sold it well, I admitted. Still not sure it's the revolution they're pitching, but, they sold it. Ralph grinned.

Told you it was big. And that's when I murdered Ralph. We were in the elevator, just the two of us, and I looked over at him, his stupid, eager face, his stupid, eager enthusiasm. It was too much. Too bright. Too hopeful. I jabbed my pen into his neck and twisted, savoring the way his eyes went wide with shock. The blood spurreded, warm and immediate, coating my hands, my shirt, the stainless steel walls of the elevator. He made a wet, gurgling noise, but it didn't last long. By the time we reached the basement, he was gone. I dragged him out of the elevator and stuffed his body into a trash can. It wasn't

elegant, but it would do for now. Then, I wheeled the trash can all the way to my house, nodding politely at the five people I passed along the way. What's in the trash can? One of them asked, laughing. Oh, just a body, I joked, and they all chuckled like idiots who know, with absolute certainty, that nothing bad ever happens. Once home, I got to work. Ralph had always been a lean guy, but there was a surprising amount of meat on him. Enough to last a while. I took my time, cutting, bagging, labeling. It's important to stay organized. Some cuts went in the fridge for immediate consumption, but most went into the freezer, sealed neatly in Ziploc bags. It's okay to eat human meat, as long as you cook it. That's just science. Of course, that was all years ago. These days,

no one even remembers Ralph. His disappearance was a blip, barely newsworthy. The police never found a thing. Turns out, when a young journalist vanishes, people assume he ran off to chase a bigger story, not that he ended up on someone's dinner plate. I think about Ralph sometimes. Mostly when I'm eating. There's something poetic about it, his body, his energy, all of it, now a part of me. The windshield wiper briefing was the last big story he ever covered. And you know what? He was right. It was big.

Bigger than either of us knew. So, here's to Ralph. The intern. The optimist. The meal. He really was quite delicious. Five. It had come to this.

We could no longer wait. The sickness was spreading faster than we could control, and those who hadn't turned yet were close. Too close. The air on the ship was thick with it now, the smell of sweat, fever, and fear. None of us spoke as we dragged Jartan to the rail, his body limp and burning with sickness. He wasn't dead yet. But he was close enough.

We can't wait anymore, Eric muttered, his voice low, heavy. He stood beside me, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes. The weight of what we were about to do was written all over him, but there was no other choice left. We knew what came next, and we couldn't risk another Vigdis or Bjorn. Guna nodded grimly, his hands wrapped tightly around Jarden's wrists. Before they turn, he said, his voice cold, like he was trying to convince himself. We have to do it before they turn. Jarden's breath rattled in his chest, his eyes glassy, barely seeing us. He didn't struggle, didn't plead.

I wondered if he knew what we were about to do, if he cared anymore, or if the sickness had already hollowed him out. Eric leaned over the edge of the ship, staring into the black waves. The mist hung low on the water, swallowing everything it touched, and it felt like we were drifting into the void itself. Guna and I lifted Garton, our movement slow and deliberate, careful not to look him in the eye. The rope we had tied him with dangled from his wrists, but it didn't matter now. He was weak, too weak to fight, too weak to even speak.

With a final heave, we tossed him overboard. The splash was soft, barely a sound at all, but it felt like a stone had dropped into my chest. The water closed over him, swallowing him whole, and we stood there, staring at the ripples until they disappeared. behind us, the others lay still, their breaths shallow, their eyes closed. They hadn't turned yet, but it was only a matter of time. We would have to do the same for them soon. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like anything a man should do.

We should say something, Eric whispered, his eyes fixed on the dark water. For them. Something to send them off. What good will words do now? Guna muttered, his face said. hard. We're beyond words. And he was right. The time for prayers and rights had passed. All that was left was survival. We dragged the others to the rail one by one. Hap Thor, barely breathing, still muttered to himself as we pushed him over. Then ORM, his body stiff with fever,

but still alive enough to understand what was happening. He didn't fight, though. None of them did. as if they knew there was no point. When it was done, when the last splash had faded into the silence of the sea, we stood there, staring out into the endless black. The ship felt emptier now, quieter, but the weight of what we had done hung over us like a storm waiting to break. They were our brothers, Eric whispered, his voice thick with grief. They were dead, Gooner said, but his voice lacked conviction. We had thrown our brothers to the sea before their time, and no matter how much we told ourselves it had to be done, it didn't feel like justice. It felt like murder. The ship groaned beneath our feet, the ropes creaking in the night, but the dead men's

faces stayed with us, just beneath the surface, as if they were still there, watching, waiting for their revenge. The ship was quieter now, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the kind of silence that nodded your guts, the kind that made your mind turn on itself. The air was thick with something else now, a broth of guilt, paranoia, the weight of what we had done. The dead were gone, but they weren't far. I could feel them, just beneath the surface of the water, drifting along with the ship, their empty eyes fixed on us. We didn't speak of it. Not out loud. The act of throwing our brothers overboard had been agreed upon, but the decision hadn't settled in us. It festered, growing heavier with each breath we took.

Eric sat near the bow, staring at his hands, the knuckles white from where he'd been gripping the rail all night. He hadn't spoken since we'd sent Hapthor and the others into the sea. His lips moved from time to time, whispering something to the air, but no sound came out. He was praying, I think. Or trying to. They were already gone, Guna muttered from where he stood, but his voice was hollow. He'd said it a dozen times since we'd thrown the last of them overboard, but each time, it sounded less like truth and more like a man trying to convince himself of something he couldn't believe. We did what we had to, but I could see it in his eyes, the way he wouldn't look at the water, wouldn't look at the ropes that had held them. The others were gone,

but they weren't gone enough. The sea had taken them, but their ghosts had stayed. I felt it, too. The weight of it. Every step on the deck felt heavier, like the ship itself was carrying the burden of our debt. I found myself glancing over the edge, half expecting to see their pale faces staring back at me from beneath the waves. They're still with us, Eric muttered suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, trembling, and it sent a shiver up my spine. He hadn't spoken in hours, and now that he had, it was like a crack in the hole, small, but dangerous. I can feel them. They're gone, Gooner snapped, his eyes flashing with the kind of anger that comes from fear. We did what we had to. There's nothing left of them. They're in the sea now. Eric shook

his head, his fingers twitching against his knees. No. They're still here. Watching. Waiting. I turned away from the rail, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I hadn't wanted to say it, but I felt it too. We'd done what we thought was right, but the feeling wouldn't leave me. The sense that we hadn't sent them to the gods, but into something darker. That the sickness wasn't just in their bodies, but in the air, in the water, creeping into everything it touched. Gooner laughed, but it was forced, sharp.

You're losing it, Eric. You're letting this get in your head. They're gone, but Eric's eyes were wide now, wild, darting between Gooner and the sea. How do you know? How do we know they won't come back? Like Bjorn. Like Vigdis. How do we know they're not down there waiting, biting their time?

Gooner stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists. We threw them over before they turned. They weren't like Bjorn. They were just sick, but they had. hadn't turned. We did what we had to. Eric stood, backing away from him, his voice rising. What if it's not enough? What if they come back? What if it's in us too? We don't know who's next. The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around all of us. None of us wanted to say it, but we all felt it. That gnawing fear, that creeping doubt. We had thrown the sick overboard,

but what if the sickness was still with us? What if we were next? We're all infected, Eric whispered, his eyes darting around, full of a growing panic. I feel it. Don't you feel it? The cough, the fever, it's just waiting to take us. Guna's hand went to his axe,

his face dark with something I couldn't name, fear, anger, maybe both. Stop it. We're fine. We're alive. They were dying. We're not. Eric looked at me, his eyes pleading, searching for confirmation, for some kind of answer I couldn't give.

How do you know? I had no answer. None of U.S. did. The paranoia had taken root, and now it was spreading, just like the sickness. We were waiting. Waiting for the next cough, the next sign. The ghosts of our brothers were in the water, but the sickness, the sickness, the sickness. was still on board. We just didn't know where. Or who? The air on the ship had grown thick

with fear, a suffocating weight that pressed down on all of us. No one spoke much now, and when they did, it was in whispers, sharp and tense. Eric hadn't stopped muttering to himself, pacing the length of the deck like a caged animal, his eyes darting from the water to the sky to the rest of us, as if waiting for something to happen. We were all waiting. Waiting for the next cough, the next fever, the next sign that one of us would be next. It was unbearable. The silence. The paranoia.

The way we looked at each other, searching for any hint of the sickness in the sweat on someone's brow, in the rasp of their breath. Trust had slipped through our fingers, and now all that was left was suspicion. It started with Eric. I don't know when exactly, but something in him snapped. His mutterings grew louder, more frantic, until he wasn't just pacing, but stalking the deck like a man possessed. His hands shook as he clutched at his axe, his eyes wild and unfocused. We're all sick, he screamed into the night, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. He was standing at the center of the ship, his body trembling with the force of his panic.

Don't you see? We're all going to die here. We're all infected. Eric, calm down, Gooner growled, stepping toward him, his own hand tightening on his axe. His eyes were dark, dangerous. I knew that look. He'd been fighting his own fears, holding it together for the rest of us. But Eric's madness was pushing him to the edge.

You're not sick. None of us are, how do you know? Eric spat, his voice high with desperation. How do you know it's not already in? us. It doesn't just come for the week. It's in the air, in the water. You can't escape it. He lunged at Gunner, Wild-eyed and shaking, his axe raised high. The swing was wild, clumsy, but it was filled with the kind of madness that had overtaken his mind. Guner sidestepped, grabbing Eric's wrist and wrenching the axe from his hand with a brutal twist. Enough.

Goona roared, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. You're not sick, Eric. You're just afraid. We all are. But this isn't helping. We need to stay together. Eric struggled against him, thrashing like a madman, his eyes darting from Gooner to me, to the others who stood frozen, watching in stunned silence.

You're lying. You don't see it. You don't feel it. It's already here, already inside us. The others were watching now, their faces pale, fears spreading through them like wildfire. Eric wasn't just one of us anymore, he was a reminder of what could happen. Of how fast the mind could break when the body wasn't yet gone. Throw him over, someone shouted from the back of the ship.

It was a voice filled with terror, not reason. It made the hair on my neck stand up. The crew was turning on itself. No, Gooner said, but his voice was strained. He was holding Eric in a tight grip, trying to keep him from thrashing any further. Eric's not sick. He's just, but Eric twisted free, breaking from Gooner's grasp and stumbling toward the edge of the ship. His chest was heaving, his eyes wild with the certainty of his own fate.

I won't let it take me, he screamed, and before any of us could react, he felt. swung himself over the rail. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the splash as Eric hit the water, his body swallowed by the dark waves. We rushed to the rail, staring into the blackness, waiting for him to surface. But he didn't. The sea was silent. Gooner stood there, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. He said nothing, just stared at the place where Eric had disappeared. That's it, then, one of the crew mutter. his voice trembling. He was right.

We're all cursed. The others were looking at one another now, not with fear of the sickness, but fear of each other. Paranoia had taken root so deeply that no one trusted anyone anymore. Even the simplest cough sent men scrambling away, eyes wide with terror. I saw it in their faces, the madness creeping in, the certainty that we were all doomed, that none of us would make it off this ship alive.

Goona tried to keep order, to hold us together, but it was too late. The fear had spread faster than the sickness. Some of the crew whispered about taking the smaller boats, rowing away from the ship before they caught whatever curse had taken their brothers. Others simply sat in silence, waiting for death to come, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. And as the hours passed, more began to cough. It was faint at first, just a clearing of the throat, a subtle rasp in the throat, a subtle rasp

a breath. But we all heard it. We all knew. The sickness wasn't done with us yet and none of US were going to stop it. Six, by the time dawn broke, we were fewer. The night had stolen more of us, some to the sickness, others to the madness it bred. The ship felt hollow now, the creaking wood and lapping waves are only companions. The one still with us were shadows of the men they had been, eyes dull and lifeless, bodies worn thin with fear. None of us spoke of what happened to Eric, but the memory clung to us, suffocating. We were down to the hardest choices now. The newly sick lay bound where we'd left them, their breaths ragged, their skin waxy with fever.

But they hadn't turned. Not yet. That was the cruel part. The waiting. Gooner stood by the mast, staring at them, his axe in hand. His face was drawn, tight with the weight of command that had become a burden too heavy to carry. But he was still the one we looked to, still the one we expected to make the call. They won't make it, Gooner said at last, his voice low, but firm.

You know that. We can't risk another night. We end it now. There was no argument. The words hung heavy in the air, and I felt them sink deep into my chest. He was right, of course. They wouldn't make it. They were slipping away, already halfway gone, and when they turned, it would be worse.

We couldn't wait any longer. We'd seen what the sickness did to the body when it took hold. But doing this, ending it while they were still breathing, was something different. Something we weren't ready for. They're still alive, I muttered, though I knew the protest was hollow. My eyes flicked to Gudrun, her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. She'd been with us through more winters than I could count, her laugh once loud enough to carry across the ship. Now she was a ghost, barely hanging on, but not yet gone.

They're not coming back, Guna replied, his voice hard. We've seen what happens. You want to wait until they're clawing at our throats? Eric's last moments flashed in my mind, the madness that had gripped him before he threw himself into the sea. Then Bjorn, Vigdis, and all the others. They hadn't been men when they'd turned. They'd been something else, something beyond saving. I tightened my grip on my axe, the wood rough in my palm.

The decision had already been made. It wasn't about mercy anymore. It was survival. One of the younger men, Leif, barely more than a boy, stood frozen, his face pale as bone. His hands trembled around his sword, and I could see it in his eyes, the doubt, the terror. He wasn't ready. None of us were. But there was no time for doubt now. We have to do it clean, Gooner said, his voice sharp as a blade. No hesitation. No mercy. They deserve a quick Death, not the sickness.

I nodded, though my throat felt tight. Quick death. Easier said than done. Gooner moved first. He didn't flinch, didn't let his hand shake. With a single swing, he brought his axe down on Gudroon's neck, the sick thud of the blade echoing across the deck. There was no scream, no struggle.

Just silence. The others followed. One by one, we displead. batched the sick. Leif, Fryeis, Kinweed fought beside, laughed with, bled with. The axe fell again and again, and with each swing, the weight in my chest grew heavier. Then we came to Rolf. He had been too quiet. His breath was steady, but there was something off about him, something I hadn't noticed before. His eyes. They were wide, wild, darting around the ship like a trapped animal. Rolf?

Guna called out, his axe poised. Rolf didn't answer. He was staring past U.S., past everything, his lips moving in rapid, frantic whispers. His hands clutched at the ropes that held him, his knuckles white, and it hit me all at once, he hadn't been silent because he was sick. He was silent because he was gone. Not to the sickness, but to something darker. Rolf?

I stepped closer, my heart pounding in my chest. He snapped then, thrashing against the ropes, his eyes wild, his voice rising in a shrill, broken cry. They're coming for us. We're all going to die here. Guna moved quickly, but Rolf was faster. He broke free from the ropes, lunging at us with a strength that defied the fever raging in his body. His eyes were wide, crazed, filled with a madness that had been forced. festering beneath the surface. Get him. Guna shouted, and we closed in, axes raised.

Rolf fought like a man possessed, his hands clawing at us, his mouth twisted into a snarl. He swung wildly, catching leaf in the side, sending him sprawling across the deck. The boy cried out, clutching his ribs, but there was no time to check if he was all right. Rolf was a threat now, not just to himself, but to all of us. We moved in as one, pushing Rolf back toward the rail. His body thrashed, his face twisted in terror, but there was no mercy left in us. This wasn't the sickness. This was madness.

And madness would tear us apart. With a final shove, we pushed him overboard. The splash was the same as it had been for the others. Quiet, final. But this time, it felt different. There was no relief. no sense of survival. Only the hollow sound of the sea swallowing another of our own. Guner wiped the blood from his axe, his face unreadable. That's it, then, he muttered. The worst of it.

But I wasn't sure if I believed him. For the first time in days, the ship felt still. The weight of what we had done hung heavy in the air, but there was no turning back now. The bodies of our brothers were gone, swallowed by the black depths of the sea, and the madness they had brought with them had been swept overboard with their corpses. The three of us that remained moved in silence. We cleaned the deck, scrubbed the blood away, and lashed down what we could. It was busy work, something to fill the empty hours, something to keep our hands from shaking. The sickness seemed to have receded. We hadn't seen any new signs, no more cough.

no more fevers. Maybe the worst had passed. Maybe we'd purged the ship of whatever curse had gripped us. Gooner stood at the helm, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his grip on the wheel steady for the first time in days. He had become a rock in the chaos, his face hard and unyielding. I wondered if he felt the same weight I did, the guilt, the fear, but if he did, he didn't show it. We did what we had to, he muttered, more to himself than to me, as I joined him by the helm. His eyes were still on the horizon, as if looking away would undo the fragile piece we had one. It's over now. We'll make it through, I nodded, though my throat felt tight. It feels different, I said, and I meant it. The air was lighter.

There were no more shuffling feet, no rasping breaths of the dying. Just the soft creek of the ship, the flutter of the sails and the wind. For the first time in what felt like forever, the air didn't taste of death. We stood there for a long time, staring out at the horizon. The sky was a soft gray, the sea calm beneath us, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe it was over. The worst had passed. We had survived. But as the hours stretched on, something shifted. I noticed at first in the air, the stillness. The wind had dropped, the sails sagging against the masts, and the sea, which had once been alive with gentle waves, now lay flat and cold, like glass. The mist that had followed us for days seemed to thicken,

creeping in from the edges of the horizon, dark and heavy. Guna frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked out at the sky. The calm, once comforting, now felt wrong. ominous. The sea was too quiet, too still. It was the kind of stillness that came before a storm. Do you see that? he asked, his voice low. I followed his gaze. In the distance, just beyond the mist, the clouds were gathering.

They weren't the white, drifting clouds of a peaceful day, but dark, rolling masses, thick and heavy with rain. They moved slowly, but steadily, creeping towards. us like a shadow stretching across the sky. I felt a knot tighten in my chest. The storm was coming. And it wasn't just any storm. Leif, still pale from the blow Rolf had given him, stood at the bow, his eyes wide as he watched the clouds roll in. It doesn't look right, he muttered, his voice barely audible over the creek of the ship. The way they're moving. It's like they're coming for us. The words sent a chill through me.

He was right. The clouds weren't just drifting. They were hunting us, moving with a purpose, dark and heavy like the sickness we just cast into the sea. Gooner turned to me, his jaw clenched. We need to be ready. This storm's not like any I've seen before. We worked quickly, securing the sails, lashing down the supplies, but the unease hung in the air. The ship creaked louder now, the water lapping against the hull in short, sharp-bring.

bursts. The calm had gone from eerie to unsettling, and the dark clouds were growing closer by the minute, blotting out the last bits of daylight. What, if it's not just a storm? Leif whispered, his voice trembling as he looked out at the gathering clouds. I didn't answer. I couldn't. The sky darkened. The sea, which had been so calm, started to churn, small ripples spreading out in every direction, as though something beneath the surface had awoken. The wind, dead just moments before, began to pick up a low, keening sound in the air, like a howl just on the edge of hearing. This isn't right, Gooner muttered, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. None of this is right, I felt it too.

The weight of it. This wasn't just a storm. It was something else. Something darker, something tied to the sickness we thought we had left behind. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. a deep, gnawing dread that twisted tighter with every breath. The wind howled, and the first crack of thunder rolled across the sky. We had survived the sickness.

But this was something else. The storm loomed closer, thickening the air with its weight, casting an unnatural shadow over the ship. The sky had turned black, the clouds swirling in slow, deliberate circles like some malevolent eye watching us from above. The waves, which had been nothing more than ripples before, now heaved the ship in erratic, unpredictable rolls. There were three of us left, each worn thin, haunted by what we'd done, by the brothers and sisters we'd lost to the sickness and the sea.

The storm wasn't even here yet, but already it had begun to eat at us. The calm before had been a mercy. Now, there was nothing left but the black sky and the cold edge of fear in our hearts. Leaf was the worst. He had been quiet since Rolf went overboard, but now, as the storm bore down, I could see something in him unraveling. He hadn't been right since the madness with Eric, and the cut Rolf had left on his ribs, though shallow, seemed to be festering. He stood at the bow, clutching his side, his eyes flicking between me and Gooner as if measuring us, wondering how long we'd last. His skin was pale, slick with sweat, but it was a little.

his eyes that worried me, the way they darted from shadow to shadow, like he was seeing things that weren't there. Did you feel that? Leif muttered, turning sharply toward me. His voice was shaky, his hands trembling as he gripped the rail. The ship, it's pulling us, something's pulling us. Can't you feel it? I glanced at Booner, who tightened his grip on the helm.

His jaw was set, his eyes dark with a quiet fury. It's just the storm, he said, his voice steady but strained. Get below and rest, Leaf. You're not thinking straight, but Leaf didn't move. His eyes were wild, darting between us like a cornered animal. No. It's not the storm. It's them.

He pointed to the water, his hand shaking violently. They're still out there. I know it. I can hear them. The dead don't rest. They're waiting, waiting for us to join them. They're gone, I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though the unease was clawing at me too. We did what we had to.

Leaf shook his head, his face twisting in desperation. No. You don't get it. None of you get it. We threw them over, but they're not gone. They're just below us, under the ship. They're waiting. We're all cursed, just like.

Eric said. We're next. He was losing it, and we both knew it. But part of me understood. The way the sea churned, the way the wind howled in the distance, it felt like the dead hadn't left us at all. Maybe they hadn't. Maybe the storm wasn't just a storm. Gooner stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Leif. Enough. You're talking madness. Get below deck. Now, Leif backed away from him, his eyes wide with fear. You don't feel it, do you? You don't see what's happening.

We're all sick. It's in us, all of us. Gooner's hand went to the hilt of his axe, but Leif saw the movement and staggered back, tripping over his own feet. Stay away from me, he shouted, panic rising in his voice. You're infected. I know it. I can see it in your eyes, my heart pounded in my chest. We were unraveling, just like the others had. First Eric, then Rolf, and now Leif. We thought we had made it through

the worst, that the sickness had left us. But it hadn't. The fear was still here, spreading like a plague in our minds. Leaf, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. No one's sick. We've survived. We're almost through this. Don't let it take you now, but he didn't hear me. His eyes were locked on Gooner, wide and full of terror. I've seen it, he whispered, his voice barely audible. I've seen what it does. You're next, Gooner.

I know it. Without warning, Leif lunged toward the rail, scrambling to climb over it, his hands gripping the wood with a wild desperation. I'm not waiting, he screamed. his voice high and broken. I won't let it take me. I won't let it. I moved fast, grabbing his arm before he could throw himself into the sea,

but he thrashed wildly, his strength fueled by panic. His nails clotted my hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Let me go. Let me go. They're in the water, they're waiting for me. Guna was there in an instant, his hands wrapping around leaf shoulders, pulling him back from the edge. But Leif fought harder, his body twisting in our grip,

his voice rising into a shrill, inhuman scream. You're all sick. You're all cursed. With a final wrench, Gooner threw him to the deck, pinning him down with a knee to his chest. Leith gasped for air, his eyes rolling wildly, his body trembling with terror. I could feel his pulse racing under my hand,

his panic so palpable it felt like it could speak. spread to me. He's lost, Gooner said, his voice low and grim. We're not far behind. The words hung heavy in the air, the truth of them sinking into us like stones. Leith had broken, but the sickness, the fear, wasn't done with us yet. I could feel it creeping through me too, the edges of my mind fraying with doubt, with the weight of all we had done, all we had seen. The storm wasn't the only thing coming for us. there's a heaviness in the air that I can't shake. It clings to me like damp wool, seeping into my bones. The ship rocks beneath my feet, the water gentle now, but I can feel the weight of the dead pressing down

on us. Or maybe it's just my mind, dragging itself deeper into that darkness that's swallowed us whole. Three of us left. Leaf sits by the stern, his back against the rail, eyes half open, but seeing nothing. Gooner still moves, still breathes, still walks like the sickness isn't scratching at the back of his throat. But it is. I can see it. I can hear it in his breathing, a rasp too deep, too wet. He hasn't said a word since dawn, but I know he's watching me.

They're both infected. Leaves gone already, might as well be a corpse. His lips move, mouthing words that never come. Maybe he's praying. Maybe he's just talking to ghosts. Gooner's holding out, but it won't be long now. He's always been the strongest, the last one to break. But I can see the way his hand shakes when he grips the axe, the way he winces with each breath.

It's only a matter of time. I watch him from across the deck, my knife hidden beneath my cloak. I haven't slept. Not with them still here. I feel it tightening around my chest, the need to finish this. Gooner is the biggest threat, always has been. But he's slipping. His face is pale beneath the grime, his eyes bloodshot, skin stretched too thin across his bones.

He knows, too. I can see it in the way he looks at me. The way he avoids getting too close. He's waiting for me to act, just like I'm waiting for him. It's a dance, slow and deliberate, and I wonder which one of us will move first. I glance at Leaf again. He's not long for this world. He'll die on his own, but I can't leave him like this.

He's breathing shallow, rattling breaths, sweat dripping from his face like the life's already been wrung out of him. He doesn't even know I'm there as I approach. The knife feels heavy in my hand, like it knows what's coming. It's not quick. It's never quick like they tell you. His eyes flutter, his body twitching as the blade slides between his ribs. He lets out a small gasp, a wheeze that barely sounds human. Then it's over.

I pull the knife free, wiping the blade on his shawl, though the blood stains the deck darker than the night. Guna watches from the helm. His hand rests on his axe, but he doesn't move. Not yet. We both know this is the night. the moment. It has to be. I stand, the knife still keen in my hand, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. The space between us feels impossibly small, like the ship

itself is shrinking under the weight of what has to happen next. You've lost it, Gooner says, his voice low, raspy. I'm not sick. But there's something hollow in his words, something that says even he doesn't believe it anymore. He's sick. It's only a matter of time before it gets him too, before it turns him into whatever the others became. I can't wait for that. I can't let it happen. I've seen it, Gooner, I say, and my voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. I know what's coming, he tightens his grip on the axe, takes a step toward me, slow and deliberate, like he's measuring the distance.

You're the one who's lost, he says, but there's fear in his eyes now. Real fear. He swings, the axe slicing through the air, but it's a desperate swing, too slow. I dodge, barely, and the weight of it sends him off balance. I don't wait. I lunge at him, the knife catching him in the side, just beneath the ribs. He grunts, staggers back, his hand clutching at the wound. But he doesn't fall. Not yet. He's still too strong. He swings again, this time weaker, more desperate. I duck, driving the blade in deeper, twisting it until I feel him buckle. His breath comes in short gasps, his eyes wide with shock, like he hadn't expected it to end like this.

He drops to his knees, his axe clattering to the deck. His hand reaches out, as if he's trying to hold on to something, anything. But there's nothing left for him to grab. Just the cold wood beneath him, slick with his own blood. He looks up at me, his mouth opening like he's about to speak, but no words come. I don't wait for him to finish. I pull the knife free, wiping it clean on my sleeve, though the blood sticks to my hands like it's part of me now. The ship creaks beneath us, the water slapping gently against the hole.

The world feels impossibly quiet. I step over Gooner's body, his eyes already dimming, his breath slowing. I'm the last one. The last one left. I tell myself it's over. But deep down, I can feel it, the tightness in my chest, the ache in my bones. I'm not sick. I'm just tired.

Just tired. But the thought lingers, creeping in around the edges. What if I'm wrong? I cough, once, then twice. It's nothing. Just the cold. Just the air. I've survived. The sky is still, painted with streaks of pale light, and the ship rocks

beneath me like a cradle. There's an odd piece to it now. No more whispers, no more fevered mutterings. Just the sound of the sea, the steady creak of wood, and my own uneven breaths. I rub at my chest, trying to ease the tightness that's settled there. It's been days since I've slept. The weight of what I've done drags behind me, pulling my legs, making each step feel heavier. The wind bites at my skin, cold and sharp, and I pull my cloak tighter around me. It's just exhaustion, I tell myself. Just the guilt of surviving when the others did not. I walk across the deck, passing over the bloodstains I couldn't wash away, the memory of their bodies lingering in every shadow. Guner's axe still lies where he dropped it,

slick with salt and blood. I step around it, avoiding the sight, not wanting to remember how it felt, watching him fall. I've only done what I had to do. There was no other choice. They were sick. I'm not. I keep telling myself that as I make my way to the helm. I'm the last one left, and it's up to me to steer us home. I can see the faint line of the coast now, just a smudge against the horizon. We're close. I cough again, harder this time. The sound rattles in my chest, wet and thick. I swallow it down, trying to steady my breath, but the tightness in my lungs won't let go. The salt air, it's heavy today. It's clogging my throat, filling my lungs. I rub at my chest again, as if that will stop it, but the ache doesn't go away. I look out at the sea, the water calm

beneath the sky, and for a moment I feel it, the pull of it, the vastness of it. I could let go, just stop, let the ship drift. But no. We're close now. I'm close. My legs feel weak as I brace myself against the helm, trying to focus on the task at hand. The sail is still full, the wind carrying us forward, but I can't seem to keep my hand steady on the wheel. The weight of it all, of everything I've done, everything I've seen, it's pressing down on me, making it harder to breathe. I cough again, harder this time, doubling over as the air is ripped from my lungs. I spit into the sea, watching the flex of red disappear into the water below. It's nothing, I tell myself.

Just the cold. Just the wind. I'm not sick. I can't be. But the thought is there now, a dark shadow. creeping through my mind. I push it away, gripping the wheel tighter. I've survived. I've made it this far. I'll make it to the shore. But as I look out at the horizon, the land growing closer, I can't help but wonder if I'm too late. I cough again, and this time, the taste of blood

lingers on my tongue. Epiloch, they saw the ship early in the morning, a dark shape on the horizon. At first, just a speck against the pale sky, but as it grew, they stood in silence, watching as it cut through the still water. There hadn't been a ship for weeks, not since the last of the raids, and this one came slow, dragging through the sea like something broken. Villagers gathered at the shore, wordless. There was a wrongness to it, even from a distance. The way the sail hung limp, the way the ship listed slightly as if it were being pushed along by some something unseen. No shouts came from the deck.

No sound of men calling out. Just the groan of wood, the whisper of the wind. They're back, someone said quietly, but it wasn't a statement filled with certainty. More like dread. It didn't feel like a return. It felt like something else. The ship scraped the shore, the hull grinding into the sand, but no one moved closer. They could see the figure now, alone at the wheel, barely standing.

He was a shadow of the men who had sailed out, hunched and gaunt, his skin pale even at a distance. That's not them, one of the elders whispered. The figure stumbled, his hand gripping the wheel like he needed it to stay upright. They watched as he pulled himself forward, each step labored, his body shaking with the effort. He made it to the edge of the deck, but there was no triumphant return, no sign of the men who who had left with him. He was alone. He's sick, a woman's voice trembled from the back of the crowd.

The man swayed, his hand rising to cover his mouth. Then came the sound, low and wet, a cough that cut through the silence like a blade. He doubled over, spitting blood onto the wood, his body convulsing as the sickness racked him. None of them moved. They stood frozen at the edge of the village, staring as the man collapsed to his knees. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving like a bellows, his skin glistening with sweat. That's the last of them, an elder muttered under his breath, his voice thick with dread.

He's the only one left, but the truth was worse than that. He wasn't just the last, he was the herald. They could hear the sickness in his breathing, in the rattle of his chest, and see it in the blood that pooled beneath him. Each cough was louder, each breath more strained. The man tried to rise, his hands grasping at the railing, but his body was too weak, too far gone. He was dying before their eyes, and still, no one moved. The ship rocked gently, the last of its crew now crumpled on the deck, his life spilling out in red streaks.

The villagers watched, motionless, as he convulsed, the sickness gripping him in its final, brutal throws. And then he lay still. There was something hanging in the air now, Something they could feel pressing down on them, thick and cold. It wasn't just the man who had come back. He had brought something with him. Something they couldn't see, but it was there, drifting with the mist, crawling toward the shore. One of the women backed away first, pulling her children with her, her eyes wide with terror.

Then another and another, until the crowd began to scatter, moving as if the sickness itself was already upon them. They didn't wait to see him die. They turned and fled like dust in the wind, scattering back to the safety of their homes, leaving the ship and the man on it behind. The ship sat in the shallows, silent, unmoving. Yet as the mist curled around it, thick and unnatural, the shadow of its mast stretched further inland. It crept slowly, darkening the sand, inching toward the village with the weight of something

long buried and stirring to life. Black against the dying light, it seemed to swell in the gout. gathering fog, its dark shape reaching further with each breath of wind. Behind their doors, the villagers closed their eyes and prayed. But outside, the shadow kept coming. I remember the last time I spoke to them. It was exactly two weeks ago. We were joking around, talking about random things, making plans we never got to follow

through on. Now, they are gone. Vanished into thin air. And nobody knows how or why. Their names were James, George, Peter, Lloyd, Ben, and Adam. We all lived in a small town, the kind where everyone knew each other's names. A quiet, peaceful place with only 5,000 people. Nothing ever happened here.

Well, nothing except that one case 15 years ago when someone disappeared. And now, my friends have all mysteriously vanished. The police jumped into action. Reports were issued. Searches were organized. But deep down, I could feel something was terribly wrong. Day one, the beginning of the nightmare. At exactly 8.32 a.m., the news station made an announcement. The headline read, Mysterious disappearances shake small town. They reported that due to the alarming nature of the case, our school would be closed until the police found answers. At the bottom of the screen, a message appeared, if you have any information about the missing individuals, call the following number.

At 11.25 a.m., a knock on our door startled me. A police officer stood there, his face unreadable. He told us that several clues had been found, items belonging to my missing friends. Their phones, wallets, backpacks, and even Lloyd's glasses had all been discovered near the woods on the outskirts of town. That was when fear truly set in. Later that day, at 2.11 p.m., the news spoke about a series of bizarre incidents. First, the local radio station had stopped working for a few hours. A strange coincidence, or something more. Then came reports of a break-in at the hunting store. Whoever was responsible had stolen rifles, ammunition, and bear traps. The culprits remained

unidentified. By 6.45 p.m., the chaos escalated. Another break-in was reported, this time at someone's home. The burglars had taken a radio, a radio transmitter, and a family photo. Nothing else. The police suspected that the criminals might be linked to my friend's disappearances. Something was going on in this town. And I had a horrible feeling that it was just beginning. Day two, the first clue, morning came, but it didn't bring any relief. At 10.22 a.m., the police made a chilling discovery, blood trails near the road. At first, everyone feared the worst. But when the tests came back, the blood was identified as belonging to a deer.

False alarm. Maybe. But it still sent shivers down my spine. Then, at 4.30 p.m., we find out of it. had a breakthrough, George was found. He had been hiding in an abandoned house on the far side of town. When the police found him, he looked pale, shaken, and absolutely terrified. They took him in for questioning. Here's how the conversation went. Policeman, P. Were you hurt? Why were you inside that abandoned house? George, gee, I was hiding. Someone was chasing me. He wore a mask and a lumberjack

costume. He had an axe. It was covered in blood. P, why didn't you try to leave? G, I thought he was waiting for me. I didn't know the time, and I couldn't hear any noises. I was too scared. P, the house had a basement. Did you hide there? G, yes. P, was there anything you could have used to defend yourself? G, there was an old pickax. and a hunting rifle. But it only had two bullets. P, why didn't you use it? Gee, I was afraid.

I felt like he was right above me. If I made a noise, if I tried to leave, he would kill me. That was all the information the police could get from him. But it was enough to start a search for someone who fit George's description. There was only one match, Ben Franks. But there was one problem, Ben Franks. Franks had died years ago. He was killed by a wolf in the woods. And yet, George had seen him. That night, whispers started spreading through town. People started calling him the lumberjack.

Others called him the hunter. A ghost? A copycat? Nobody knew. But the fear was real. Day three, another friend returns. At 10.25 a.m., Adam was found. But the way he was found made everything even stranger. He was inside someone's car, tied up. The driver of the car was immediately taken in for questioning. His name was John McAllister. The interrogation went as follows. Policeman, P.Y. was the boy inside your car. John McAllister, J.M. I don't know. I swear I don't know. P, I hear lies every day. Tell me the truth. Why was the boy inside your car? J.M., I swear, I don't even know him. Then Adam spoke up. He said that someone else had carried him to the car and left him there. Meaning, McAllister wasn't guilty. But that only deepened the mystery. Who had taken Adam? And why leave him there?

Day 4, the message, at exactly noon, the local news station was hijacked. The screen went black for a few seconds. Then, a message appeared in white text on a dark background, you will never find us. We hide everywhere. And then, something even stranger, a cipher, AFSLB-T-P-V-T-T-K-N-P-U-S-H, and another 73 trillion 102 billion 1111111117-114 billion one hundred and 1 1197-101197-1917-1111915 billion 111 111 111 111 111 117 111 14 trillion 112 billion 114,105,111111. 110 billion 101 101 114,11115, 119-119-119-116,116,11111111112, 112.

Nobody knew what it meant. We were waiting for an answer. Waiting for someone to crack the code. And waiting for the next move. The mystery deepens. This wasn't just about my friends anymore. Something far bigger was happening in our town. People were scared to go outside.

The streets were nearly empty. Every shadow seemed suspicious. Every sound felt like a warning. But I wasn't going to sit back and do nothing. My friends were still out there. And if nobody else could find them, I would. even if it meant facing the lumberjack myself. All of us, at some point, have felt something unexplainable, a strange, chill as we stepped

into a room or the weight of an unseen presence lingering nearby. We've maybe heard whispers with no source, seen shadows that shouldn't be there. But how many of us have dared to truly explore this side of reality, let alone share these experiences openly? For most people, it's easier to shrug it off and move on, but Ed and Lorraine Warren embraced the supernatural as part of their everyday life. Together, they built a life around the eerie and unexplained, ghostly encounters, demonic possessions, strange noises, and bizarre phenomena were just another day at the office. But before diving into their legendary paranormal investigations, let's start by getting to know the people behind the legends.

Lorraine was raised in a strict Catholic school for girls, where beliefs in anything paranormal were dismissed as nonsense. Despite this, she began to notice something extraordinary when she was just seven years old. Around people, she saw a kind of light, a radiant aura that seemed to reveal a person's true nature, their inner essence. Lorraine didn't fully understand what she was seeing. Was it real, or some kind of optical illusion? She didn't know whom to ask, so one day, she casually mentioned to a nun at her school that her light was brighter than the mother superiors.

That innocent comment didn't go over well. Lorraine ended up doing penance for days. This response taught her to keep provisions to herself, yet it also saw her. sparked a deeper curiosity. This gift, she realized, was more than a curiosity, it was a doorway into a reality beyond the physical world. Meanwhile, Ed's childhood was equally touched by the mysterious, but in a different way. Born in 1926 in Connecticut to a policeman, Ed started experiencing unexplainable events between the ages of five and twelve. Every night, his closet would swing open around two or three a.m., spilling out glowing orbs that would float across

his room. Within these lights were faces, the most haunting of which was an old woman's. This ghostly figure seemed to despise him, often hovering close to his bed as he lay terrified. Ed's parents brushed off his stories as childish fantasies, forcing him to keep his fears and his curiosity about the supernatural hidden. By the time Lorraine and Ed met in their teens, both had lived with these secrets for years. Lorraine and her mother had a weekly ritual of going to the movies, where Ed happened to work as an usher. The two struck up a friendship and eventually began dating, drawn together by a mutual sense that the world was far stranger than most people realized. They soon opened up to each other about the experiences they'd kept

hidden from everyone else. For Lorraine, it was admitting that she could see beyond the physical into something deeper, a trait that would later label her as a medium and clairvoyant. For Ed, it was confessing his lifelong fascination with the paranormal. Once married, Ed served in the Navy during World War II, and afterward, they started their family, welcoming a daughter named Judy. Ed initially pursued painting as a career, but not just any paintings, he was drawn to depicting haunted houses and the supernatural beings that seemed to inhabit them. As the couple visited allegedly haunted locations, Lorraine would approach the homeowners, asking if they'd ever felt something they couldn't explain, odd sounds, shadows that shouldn't

be there, a general feeling of unease. When skeptics prepared to close the door on her, she'd motioned for them to look at Ed's painting, often featuring terrifying details like shadowy figures or ghostly faces peering from windows. More often than not, the families were shocked at how much the images captured their own unsettling experiences and invited the Warrens in, hoping they could rid the house of whatever lurked inside. The Warrens never charged a dime for their investigations. Their aim was to help families in need, even if that meant taking on dangerous, draining cases. Eventually, they founded the New England Society for Psychic Research in 1952, one of the first

organizations in the U.S. devoted to investigating paranormal and demonic phenomena. Over time, their reputation grew as they traveled the globe, sharing stories of their encounters and speaking on the nature of the supernatural. In 1970, the case of a particular doll named Annabelle solidified their fame. Annabelle wasn't an ordinary doll, she was believed to house a dark, manipulative spirit. It all began when Donna, a nursing student, received the doll as a gift from her mother. Initially, it seemed harmless, but soon, she and her roommate noticed that Annabelle would change positions on her own.

Even more disturbing were the eerie messages scrawled on pieces of paper they'd find next to the doll. At first, they thought someone must have been playing a joke, sneaking into their apartment to move the doll and leave these notes. But as Annabelle's behavior grew more violent, the girls became genuinely afraid. Desperate, they consulted a medium, who claimed that the doll was inhabited by the spirit of a young girl named Annabelle. Feeling sorry for her, Donna and her roommate treated Annabelle with kindness, hoping this would

keep her at peace. Instead, this seemed to empower the spirit, leading to a terrifying encounter for Donna's boyfriend, who dreamed one night that Annabel was trying to strangle him. Waking up, he found scratch marks on his neck and the doll staring at him from the foot of the bed. At their wits end, Donna contacted the Warren's. Right away, the couple realized Annabelle wasn't inhabited by a lonely child's spirit but by something far darker, a demonic presence that wanted to possess a human. They took the doll with them, but even on the way back to their home, they faced bizarre occurrences, the car's brakes failed, and the radio went haywire. Ed eventually pulled over, doused the doll with holy water, and only then did the eerie presence

subside. Back at their house, Annabel continued to cause chaos, moving around at will, causing Lorraine intense headaches whenever she touched it. At one point, they had to call in a priest to help contain its power, though even the priest's involvement didn't end things. For years, the Warren's kept Annabelle locked up in a specially built case, where it remains to this day as as part of their occult museum. The Annabelle case was just one of many that brought Ed and Lorraine Warren into the spotlight. In 1971, they investigated another famous haunting, this time involving the Perron family. Carolyn and Roger Peron had just moved into a sprawling Rhode Island farmhouse with their five daughters

when they began experiencing strange events. Lights would flicker, doors would slam on their own, and strange, unsettling odors would waft through the house. But it wasn't until the ghost of a woman named Bathsheba, a supposed 19, century which, appeared that the family understood the dark history of their new home. Bathsheba's spirit, angry and malevolent, seemed to target Carolyn especially, often driving her to the edge of sanity. The Warren's investigation helped reveal the grim backstory of the house, and though they couldn't fully rid the home of its dark energy, they provided the parents with

enough insight and support to face it together. From battling notorious hauntings like the Amityville case to helping individuals plagued by sinister spirits, the Warrens encountered spirits and demons that most of us only hear about in horror stories. Their stories remind us that perhaps the boundary between the living and the dead is thinner than we like to think, and that for some, the paranormal isn't just the stuff of nightmares, but a reality they confront head on every day. For context, my husband's best friend, Eric, is an average height but is stout enough that he fills up a doorway. This guy has shoulders that are as big as thighs and he has worked as a bouncer for years. Now to the story.

Eric was going to Denny's after a long shift bouncing at a bar. He pulled into the parking lot to see a group of 12 people standing and looking the same direction huddled by their cars just watching something at the other end of the parking lot. Eric pulls past them and his headlights flash over what they were all staring at, a woman being chased by a skinny, erratic man. Eric was parking his car, watching like a hawk to try to figure out what was happening when he seized the the woman grabbed by the skinny man, who slams her against a fence and just starts punching her in the back and the back of her head as hard as he can. The woman is yelling for help and the group of onlookers just kept still, doing nothing despite her pleas. Eric jumps out of his car and rushes to the woman being attacked and yells at the skinny man to stop and get off

of her. The skinny man tells him, this bitch is mine. Get your own. Eric shoves the skinny man back to make distance between the guy and his victim. Eric turns to the woman and asks, Do you even know him? She shakes her head crying and just whispers, please help me. No one is helping. The skinny man flies into a rage and screams, I saw her first and I'll do whatever I want. Fuck off. The skinny man rears his fist back to punch past Eric and Eric just responds in kind. Eric gives him one sharp haymaker of a punch with his massive fist and lays the skinny man out cold. Eric spends a few minutes comforting the woman while calling 911. The woman is grateful and terrified, clearly in shock after this brutal assault from a random stranger.

He tells her to sit in her car and wait for police. Eric jogs up to the group of onlookers and choose them out for being idiots and bystanders and tells them that they could have helped and didn't. He tells them they should be ashamed of themselves and they need to stick around to give a statement to the police. They agree to wait for law enforcement. The cops and an ambulance show up. The cops start talking to Eric and the victim and then they are interrupted by the paramedic whispering something, having checked on the skinny man. He's dead.

His jaw is broken and he's dead. We aren't getting this guy back. Eric's whole world shifted for a moment. The police got statements from everyone present and then returned to Eric. This guy is a frequent flyer with us. He's covered in track marks and has been arrested several times before for being high on methamphetamines. By witness accounts, you only struck once to protect this woman so we won't be taking you to the station tonight. We will call you to update you on the case when we have more information.

Eric calls my husband and I after this whole ordeal at six in the morning and asks to come over. and talk because he needs some support. We talked about it for hours in our backyard and he cried, devastated that he had killed a man, even if it was considered a justified homicide. My best friend heard about it much later. She told me that she doesn't feel safe around Eric because he's taken a life with his own two hands. I told her she should feel more safe around him, because he only did what he did in defending a woman when no one else would and that it had really messed him up. She insisted that he's violent and not safe to be around. I told her she's an idiot and that without Eric that woman could have been raped or worse. No one should discredit a good man for doing

the right thing and protecting someone weaker than himself. Eric's name has been changed to protect his identity. This was in the news and I know how good at research Reddit users are. One, the fog was thick as wool, so dense you could carve it with a blade. We rode in silence. the creek of the oars swallowed by the mist, the sea of black, dead thing beneath us. I stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the smudge of land just beyond the veil. We were close now, close enough to smell the damp earth of their fields, the smoke that should have risen from their hearths. But the air was wrong.

It carried no sound but the faint lap of the tide and the pulse of our own breath. I knew the rhythm of a village, the sounds it should make even at rest. No dogs barking. No children running through the shallows. Just silence. I thought of the feast we'd have, of the riches waiting to be plucked from the hands of men too weak to defend them. Yet still, the quiet nod at me. The hull scraped the beach, and we disembarked without a word, slipping into the pale light of the shore.

The mist parted and slow, dragging curls, revealing the village like a corpse pulled from the sea. houses sat half sunk in the mud, their doors ajar. The people moved through the streets like cattle, their heads bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. They were pale, too pale, as if something had drained the blood from their bodies. Bjorn was the first to step forward, his axe gripped tight in his hand. He moved like a hunter-stalking lame prey, no fear in his eyes, no hesitation. The rest of us followed, the mist clinging to our boots, our weapons drawn, though it felt more like habit than need.

The people, or what remained of them, barely registered us. Their movements were slow, dragging, as if their bones had turned to lead. Too easy, Gooner muttered beside me, his voice low and hard. I could hear the sneer in his words, but I couldn't shake the cold coiling in my gut. This wasn't right. Bjorn swung first, his axe splitting the skull of a man who barely lifted his head to see a coming. The crack of bone rang out, a hollow sound in the fog, but there was no cry of pain. The body crumpled to the dirt in silence, like it had never been alive to begin with.

I glanced around, the others had begun to move, swinging swords and axes with practiced ease. Each strike brought down another villager, no fight, no resistance. Just bodies hitting the ground like sacks of grain. The air filled with the dull thud of meat and bone. The air filled with the dull thud of meat and bone, but none of the men were laughing. None of them spoke. I took a man down myself, a swift blow to the neck, and the way he folded was wrong. It wasn't the violent collapse I'd seen so many times before. He didn't clutch at the wound, didn't gasp for air. He just slumped, eyes open and empty, face slack like the life had been gone long before I struck. They're sick, Eric said from behind me, his voice tight. He just felt a woman, her eyes wide and glassy,

mouth hanging open like she'd forgotten how to close it. It's not right, any of it. Bjorn swung again, splitting the back of another skull with a grunt. They're weak. We'll take what's ours and be gone. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something had taken what was there's long before we arrived. We moved through the village like shadows, blades drawn but hands growing heavy with doubt. The air hung thick, not with the smell of death, but with something worse. Rot, yes, but something old, something that had been left to fester too long in the dark. It clung to the back of my throat, turning the taste of the sea into ash. The bodies piled up, limp and lifeless in the mud. But there was no satisfaction in it. No spoils worth the taking,

no challenge to fuel our bloodlust. Just the slow shuffle of those left standing, their eyes blank, their faces slack. They stumbled over the dead without a glance, without care, as though they couldn't feel the cold creeping up their limbs, couldn't sense their own dying. Look at them, Gooner said again, but this time there was no sneer.

He stood over a man he had cut down, the body splayed in the dirt at his feet. The man's skin was waxy, stretched tight over his bones, and his eyes were still open, staring up at the sky. His mouth hung slack, as if in the middle of a word he'd forgotten how to finish. Something's wrong with them, Eric muttered. He stood nearby, wiping his blade clean, though there wasn't much blood to show for it. This isn't just sickness. Bjorne spat into the dirt. They're dead. Does it matter? We take what we came for. But there's

There was nothing to take. The houses were bare, their hearths cold, their walls empty of life. Food rotted in pots, untouched. We found no coin, no treasure, only the signs of a people who had stopped caring, who had left their lives behind without ever leaving their homes. I glanced toward the shore, the mist still thick, swallowing the edges of the village, making it feel like we were caught in some half-world, stuck between waking and dream. wasn't right, but I couldn't say what. The quiet was too deep, the sickness too old.

We should leave, I said, my voice low. There's nothing here for us. Bjorn shot me a look, but he didn't argue. He could feel it too, the wrongness that seeped up through the mud, the weight of something unseen hanging in the fog. He nodded once, a silent agreement, and we turned back toward the shore, our steps quicker than before. The bodies we left behind, behind didn't move, didn't breathe. But the village felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl. Two, the sea felt like an endless void beneath the hull, black and cold, with nothing to it but the steady groan of wood against water. We had pulled away from that cursed shore, but none of U.S. could shake the weight of the village, the silence we'd left behind.

It clung to us like the mist that still hadn't lifted, like something we couldn't outrun. Bjorn was the first to fall. It wasn't sudden. It crept in, slow, like the sickness itself was biting its time. At first, it was just the cough. A rasp in his throat that he blamed on the damp air, on the cold. He tried to laugh it off between pulls of the oar, but the laugh came out hollow, forced. His skin was pale, but we all were.

The sea did that to a man. By nightfall, though, he'd gone quiet, slumping against the side of the ship with sweat beating on his forehead. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising falling like a bellows that had been worked too long, too hard. Just a fever, Hapthor said, though his eyes lingered on Bjorn longer than his words would admit. He'll shake it off, but there was something in Bjorn's eyes that wasn't right. They were glassy, unfocused, like he was looking through us. past us. He was still breathing, still there, but something about him felt, distant. As if a part of him had stayed behind on that shore, lost to the fog. He needs rest, I said,

but even as I spoke the words, I felt a knot of uneaseed titan in my gut. Rest wouldn't help him. I knew it, even then. Whatever had taken hold of Bjorn, it wasn't something a man could sleep off. We laid him down on the deck, his chest still heaving, his hands clutching at the air like a drowning man reaching for something that wasn't there. The others kept their distance. They wouldn't say it aloud, but they were afraid. They wouldn't meet his eyes, and neither would I. The wind died with the sun, and the night closed in around us. Bjorn's breath was the only sound, faint but constant, like the slow pull of the tide.

I stood watch, my back to the sea, and prayed for dawn. The sickness crept through the ship like a shadow, slow at first, unnoticed. Bjorn still lay where we'd put him, his breath now shallow and rattling, as if each pull of air was a fight he couldn't win. We gave him water, we spoke of getting him back to shore, to the healers, but no one really believed it. Whatever had him wasn't something that could be fixed with herbs or chance. By the second. Second day, more men began to cough. It started small, just a tickle in the throat, a moment of discomfort that passed quick enough. But we saw it, the way it spread, like ripples in still water.

First it was Gjartan, leaning over the side of the ship, his face pale, his shoulders trembling. Then Gooner, his hands shaking as he tried to grip the oar, the sound of his breath wet and strained. They're weak, Hapthor muttered, but I could see the worry in his eyes. the way he glanced over his shoulder at Bjorn, still unmoving. It's just the cold. Nothing more, but the cold hadn't touched them like this before.

We'd sailed through harsher winds, colder nights. We'd faced hunger, frostbite, and wounds that cut deeper than anything this sickness could. But this, this was different. They weren't themselves. Something had taken root in them, deep in their blood, and no matter how hard they tried to shake it off, it clung. The others started pulling back, huddling closer to the center of the ship, away from the sick. There were no words for it, no orders given, but the space around Eric grew wider, a chasm that none of us dared to cross.

It felt like a slow retreat, though no one wanted to call it that. I watched Gjarton from the corner of my eye. His hands trembled as he clutched the oar, his breath shallow, just like Bjorn. had been. He was trying to row, but there was no strength in him anymore. I saw it before he did, the way his grip loosened, the way his body slumped forward like a rag doll, his face pale as bone. He's gone, someone whispered, though it wasn't true yet. But we all knew. There was no fighting it, no shaking it off. One by one the rest of us drew further away, eyes fixed on the horizon that never seemed to get any closer. I could feel it in my chest

too, faint but growing, like a seed-taking root. The cold sweat, the heaviness in my limbs. But I kept it to myself. There was no sense in naming it. Bjorn was always the last to fall. It was how we'd known him, the one who held the line, the one who kept us moving when the rest of us faltered, raised his cup past the dawn itself. He didn't some of him. He didn't speak of fear, never let it show, and that was enough for the others. But by the third night, even he couldn't hide it anymore. I watched him, lying there with his back against the mast, his chest rising and falling with slow, labored breaths. The sweat glistened on his brow, his skin pale as the moonlight that seeped through the heavy mist. He said nothing, but the silence

around him was telling. His hands shook, just like Jartan's hat. His cough, once a stifled, came louder now, a wet, guttural thing that clawed its way up from deep inside him. He'll be fine, Gooner said, though his voice had no weight to it. He's Bjorn. But we all knew what was coming. Bjorn did too. When dawn came, he hadn't moved. His axe, always within arm's reach, sat untouched beside him. He was still breathing, but just barely. The color had drained from his face completely, his skin cold to the touch. Guna moved to him, crouching by his side, but even he couldn't meet Bjorn's eyes anymore. There was no strength left in him, only the sickness. Let him rest, I said, but the words felt hollow. Rest. Rest wouldn't help him. Nothing would.

The sickness had him now, the same way it had taken the others. It wasn't until midday that his breath finally stopped. We stood in a circle, staring down at him. There were no rights this time, no words of glory or honor. What could we say? Bjorne had been a warrior, and now he was just another body on a ship full of the sick and dying. We should burn him, Eric said, though his voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. Before, before. No one wanted to finish the thought. But there was no fire, no flames to send him off. We didn't move him. We couldn't bring ourselves to. Instead, we left him there, leaning against the mast, eyes closed, his face as still as the dead sea that surrounded us. He was the strongest, Gooner whispered, his voice hollow now, stripped of its

earlier bravado. If it took him, he didn't finish. He didn't have to. Bjorn was gone, and we knew it wouldn't be long before the rest of us followed. Three, it was sometime past midnight when I heard it, a soft rustle, like cloth against wood, barely louder than the whisper of the waves. At first, I thought it was the wind, or maybe one of the crew shifting in his sleep. We'd been up for too long, the weight of the sickness pulling us into restless half-dreams. But the sound came again, and this time I knew it wasn't the wind. It was Bjorn.

I turned slowly, my eyes catching the faintest movement near the mast where we'd left him, cold and still. His body had slumped forward, his hands twitching against the wood, his head lulling to one side like a puppet cut loose from its strings. His eyes were still closed, his mouth slack, but he moved. Not much, just a slow, unnatural shift, like something had stirred beneath his skin, something that didn't belong there. For a moment, I thought it was a dream. Bjorn had been dead for hours. I had watched the breath leave his chest. But now he was shifting, his fingers brushing the deck in slow, scraping movements.

His legs twitched, the muscles stiff, but trying to move as if life had returned to them in some cruel way. Bjorn. Eric's voice cut through the silence, hoarse and weak, barely more than a whisper. He was the closest, lying. not far from where Bjorn had been propped. His face was pale, slick with fever, his eyes wide as he watched our dead brother move. What, what is this? Bjorn's head jerked suddenly, his mouth moving as though he was trying to form words, but only a low, guttural sound escaped him. His eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, staring at nothing. His body shuddered,

every movement sharp and wrong, like he was fighting against some unseen. force pulling his limbs in directions they weren't meant to go. Gods, someone muttered from behind me. I didn't know who. It didn't matter. None of the gods were here. He's sick, Gooner said, though his voice cracked as he spoke. It's just the sickness.

He, he's not, but I could hear the lie in his words. This wasn't sickness. This was something worse. Eric was backing away now, His breath coming fast, panic rising in his throat. Bjorn, he's, he's moving. I wanted to move, to speak, to tell them what I didn't even know myself, but my legs felt rooted to the deck.

Bjorn was standing now, slow and jerking, his mouth hanging open as he made that same low sound, a sound that wasn't human. He took a step, his legs unsteady, his hands reaching out blindly. This was no longer Bjorn. We stood frozen, watching the thing that had been our brother stagger across the deck, his hands reaching out like a man lost in a dream. His movements were slow, jerky, as though his own body resisted each step. The man we had known, the brother we had fought beside, was gone,

and in his place was something that wore his face but moved like a puppet, pulled by invisible strings. What do we do? Eric's voice trembled, barely holding together. He had backed himself into the corner of the ship, eyes wide, watching as Bjorn stumbled toward him. What in the name of the gods? No one answered. We had no words, no explanation. We only had the sight of our dead walking among us, as if death herself had been cheated, twisted into some horrible joke. We, we have to stop him, Guner said, though there was no conviction in his voice. He stepped forward, axe in hand, but his grip was loose, unsexual.

certain. He looked at Bjorn like he was still a man, like somewhere in that cold, stiff body was the brother we had known. But there was nothing in Bjorn's empty eyes, only a hollow hunger that drove him forward. Bjorn's head jerked toward Gooner at the sound of his voice, his neck twisting unnaturally as his body followed. He took another step, and then another, his pace quickening, but still slow enough that it felt more like a nightmare than something real. There was no rush to him, no rage. Only the strange, cold intent of something that shouldn't be moving at all. Stop him. I muttered, more to myself than to anyone. Stop him. How could we? He had been one of us. He was one of us. But Bjorn wasn't Bjorn anymore, and the longer we stood there,

the clearer it became. The cough, the fever, the slow decline, none of it had prepared us for this. We hadn't known what the sickness really was, what it could do. But now, looking at the shambling figure before us, there was no doubt. The sickness didn't just kill. It took something from the men it touched, leaving behind only the shell, something twisted and empty, driven by nothing but the same hunger we had seen in their eyes in the village. Gooner, I said, my voice low, we can't leave him like this, but Gooner didn't move. His axe hung at his side, and he took a step back as Bjorn came closer.

He's still Bjorn. He, he might come back. No, Eric's voice was thin, strained, but there was no mistaking the fear in it. No, he won't. Look at him. Look at what he is now. Guna faltered, his hand tightening on the axe. He took one more step back, shaking his head, his face twisted with a mixture of rage and fear.

We can't. Not Bjorn. Not him. Bjorn was close now, too close. His hands reached out for Gooner, slow but relentless, his fingers twitching, his mouth still open in that wordless moan. Guner lifted the axe, but it was half-hearted, hesitant, like he couldn't bring himself to strike.

We don't kill our brothers, Guner whispered, his eyes locked on Bjorn's empty face. I stepped forward, though my body felt head. heavy, my legs weak. He's not your brother anymore, and that was the truth. But the truth wasn't enough to move us. Not yet. The weight of it pressed down on us like the fog that clung to the ship, a slow, creeping realization that this sickness had stolen more than our strength. It had taken the men we knew and left only this, this hollow thing. But still, no one swung the axe. No one raised a hand. We were too slow, too afraid to act, and that fear, that hesitation, was what doomed us all. Bjorn's hand shot out, faster than we'd seen him move since the sickness took

him. His fingers latched onto Gunner's tunic with a grip that belied the lifelessness in his eyes. Guner stumbled back, eyes wide in shock, but Bjorn held fast, his mouth twisting into something like a snarl, a sound, a guttural growl, rising from deep in his chest. God's help us, Guna gasped, his axe dangling uselessly in his hand. It all happened at once. Bjorn lunged, pulling Guna closer, his dead weight crashing into him like a wave. Guna was thrown to the deck, Bjorn on top of him, hands clawing at his throat, his body jerking with violent spasms. The sounds he made were almost human, but not quite, A guttural noise that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Get him off. Guna choked, his hands wrestling against the dead weight of Bjorn's limbs. His axe was out of reach, and his strength was fading fast. There was no more hesitation left in any of us. I moved, as did Eric and Charten. Together, we grabbed Bjorn, pulling him off Garner with a strength that came and not from bravery, but from pure, cold fear. Bjorn thrashed in our grip, his limbs wild and uncoordinated, but stronger than they had any right to be.

His eyes were wide and empty, but his body fought with a primal, unnatural energy. Eric cursed under his breath as Bjorn's hand lashed out, catching him across the face. Damn you, Bjorn, he spat, but we all knew it wasn't him anymore. Over the side. I shouted, and we forced him toward the edge of the ship. It was the only thing we could think to do, the only way to end it, to get rid of whatever this sickness had turned him into. Bjorn writhed, his body twisting in our grip as we dragged him to the rail.

His mouth opened again, that horrible moaned spilling from his lips, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. But it was gone just as fast, replaced by that same hollow hunger. With a final heave, we pushed him overboard. Bjorn's body hit the water with a sickening splash, but he didn't sink right away. He flailed in the surf, his arms still reaching out, still clawing at the air as though trying to pull us down with him. For a moment, we watched in stunned silence as he thrashed in the black waves, until finally, mercifully, he disappeared beneath the surface. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive.

We stood there, breathing hard, staring at the spot where Bjorn had gone under, the water are still rippling as if unwilling to let him go. Bjorn, Guner whispered, his voice cracking. We, we shouldn't have, I gripped the rail, staring into the endless blackness of the sea. We had no choice. But the words felt hollow, even as I said them. Bjorn had been our brother, our strongest.

Now, he was something we couldn't even name, lost to a sickness we barely understood. Eric wiped a hand across his face. face, his breath ragged. How many more? No one answered. We all knew. Four, the sun hung low, bleeding into the horizon, and the air on the ship was thick with sickness and fear. We stood, huddled close together, but not from camaraderie, this time because none of us dared get too close to the others. The coughs from the sick were louder now, more frequent. Men we had known all our lives, men we had trusted, were becoming something else.

Not yet like Bjorn, not fully, but more like him than us. Guna glanced toward them, three of our crew who sat slumped against the railing, shivering despite the heat still in the air. Their skin had turned pale, their breaths shallow. They muttered under their breath, their words drifting into the rising mist. We have to do something, Eric muttered, his eyes flicking between the sick men and the rest of us. We can't just wait for them to, for them to become like Bjorn. They're not dead yet, Gooner snapped, though his voice cracked with the strain of it.

They're still our brothers. We don't kill men who still draw breath, then what? Eric's voice rose, a tremor running through it. What do we do when they turn? When they come at us like Bjorn did? Do we wait until they're clawing at our throats? We had all seen what happened to Bjorn, but none of us could speak it a little. loud. The memory of his wild, empty eyes still haunted me, but the men lying there now,

I couldn't look at them without thinking of the times we had fought together, drank together. They were still there. But for how long? I stared at them, at Gjartan, whose breath rattled in his chest, at Vigdis, who had once been the loudest of us, now a quiet, shivering heap against the mast. They were dying, that much was clear. The sickness had them in its grip. But to end it now, while they still breathed. They're not lost yet, Gooner said, softer this time, as if saying it loud would make it real. They could fight it off. We've seen men recover from worse.

You didn't see Bjorn, I muttered, the word spilling out before I could stop them. None of us can fight it. The silence was heavy, and the only sound was the labored breathing of the sick, the scrape of their boots against the wood as they shifted, their bodies slid. slowly betraying them. We can't let it get to that point again, Eric said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes were wide with fear. We can't wait until it's too late. If they turn like Bjorn, we'll have no choice. Gooner's hand tightened on his axe, his knuckles white. I won't kill my brothers. I said nothing. I didn't have the words. All I knew was that the

sickness wasn't stopping. It was creeping through the ship, claiming more of us each day. And we stood there, paralyzed by fear and loyalty, too slow to act, too afraid to admit that the men we had sailed with were already lost. Then what do we do? Eric pressed, his voice tight, desperate. What's the plan, Gooner? Do we wait until it's too late? Until they're tearing us apart, Booner's face hardened, but his eyes were dark, unsure. We'll wait. We'll wait until they stopped breathing. It wasn't enough, and we all knew it.

But we didn't have the strength to say otherwise. We didn't have the strength to do what needed to be done. Night fell like a heavy blanket over the ship, dragging the air into a thick, uneasy quiet. The sick huddled where they lay, their breaths shallow, interrupted only by the coughs that echoed in the silence. They hadn't gotten any better, but they hadn't turned either, not yet. That was the cruel part. The waiting. We couldn't let them roam free. Not after what happened with Bjorn. But we couldn't kill them either. Goner had made sure of that. We tie them, Goner said, though his voice was low, like he didn't quite believe in the decision himself. He stood over them,

axe in hand, but there was no strength left in his grip. His eyes darted from one sick man to the next, never resting too long on any one of them. We'll restrain them. They won't hurt anyone if they can't move, tie them. Eric's voice cracked. What are we, farmers? You saw what Bjorn became. Ropes aren't going to hold them when it happens.

No, Goner said sharply, the bite of authority returning to his voice, though I could hear the strain in it. We tie them. We don't kill men who aren't dead. They're still ours. When they pass, we'll deal with it. The ropes were old, worn, but they would have to do. Eric and I moved together, keeping our distance, but the task was clear.

We weren't warriors anymore, just men trying to keep the dead from rising in the night. We bound their wrists first, then their ankles, tying them to the posts, making sure the knots were tight. Gjarton muttered something under his breath, words slurred and soft, but he didn't resist. None of them did. They were too far gone already. Vigdis looked at me as I tied the rope around his wrists. His eyes were glassy, fever-bright, but there was still something of him in there, something human.

Don't, he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. Don't do this. I'm still here. I paused, my hands trembling on the rope. He was still here. But for how long? His skin was already pale, his breath shallow, and I could see the sickness crawling across him, taking him inch by inch.

I couldn't look him in the eye. It's for your own good, I muttered, though the words felt hollow, meaningless. I'm not gone, Vigdis whispered again, a hint of panic rising in his voice now. His hands jerked in the ropes, weak but determined. I'm not like Bjorn. Please. I pulled the knots tight. Behind me, Guna watched in silence, his face grim, though I could tell he was fighting his own battle inside.

The lines were blurred now, between life and death, between brotherhood and survival. Tying them like this, our comrades, our brothers, felt wrong. But leaving them free to turn felt worse. As we finished binding the last of them, the ship fell into a tense quiet. The ropes creaked against the wood, and the sick men's breaths were ragged in the darkness. We stood there, staring at them, unsure of what came next. We had bought ourselves time, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

They'll break those ropes, Eric said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would bring the sickness down on us all. When it happens, they'll break them. They won't, Goner said, though there was no confidence in his tone. He turned away, his axe dragging at his side. They won't. But we all knew better. We were only delaying what was coming, too weak to admit what needed to be done. The sickness wasn't something you could tie down.

It would come for them, just as it had come for Bjorn, and when it did, ropes wouldn't be enough to hold it back. We had spent the night watching. waiting, the silence pressing down on us like a weight we couldn't shake. The creak of the ropes was the only sound, the sick men shifting weakly against their restraints, the occasional cough breaking the stillness. No one slept. Not really.

The air was too thick with dread. When it happened, it was sudden, faster than we expected. Vigdis had been quiet most of the night, his breathing shallow and uneven, his skin slick with fever. He was one of the strongest man on the ship, always laughing, always pushing us to row harder, fight fiercer. But now he was just a shell, bound to the post with nothing left in him but that damned sickness. I was on watch when he started convulsing. His body jerked violently against the ropes, his muscle straining, his eyes wide open, fixed on something none of us could see. He thrashed, harder than I thought a dying man could. His head snapped back,

His mouth opening wide, a guttural scream ripping from his throat, a sound that didn't belong to any living thing. God's. Eric yelled, leaping back from where Vigdis was tied. The others stirred, panic flickering in their eyes as they scrambled to their feet. Vigdis pulled against the ropes with a strength I didn't think he had left. The ropes groaned, the wood creaking beneath the strain. His body twisted unnaturally, his wrists raw against the bindings, his movements

frantic, animalistic. He's going to break free. Eric shouted, his voice high with fear. He reached for his axe, but there was no confidence in his grip. The others moved to act, but none of us knew what to do. Gooner stood frozen, watching Vigdis fight against the ropes, his axe limp in his hand. It was happening again, the sickness taking him, turning him into something else, something wild and ravenous. But we hadn't prepared. We had known it was coming, but still, we weren't ready. With one final jerk, the ropes snapped. Vigdis surged forward, his hands free, his body lurching toward us like a man possessed.

He stumbled at first, but then his movements grew more deliberate, more focused. His eyes, wide and empty, locked on Eric, and in that instant, I saw it, the same hunger, the same emptiness that had taken Bjorn. raised his axe, but it was too late. Vigdis slammed into him, knocking him back against the rail with a force that left Eric gasping for air. They struggled, Eric fighting to keep the axe between them, but Vigdis was relentless. His hands clawed at Eric's throat, his face twisted into something monstrous, no longer recognizable. Get him off. Eric's voice was a strangled plea, but no one moved. We were paralyzed, just like before.

It was Gooner who acted now, rushing forward with his axe raised. He swung it hard, burying the blade deep into Vigdis' back. The sound was wet, brutal, but it barely slowed him. Vigdis turned, snarling, his hand still clawing at Eric's throat, but Guna kept swinging. The second blow was enough. Vigdis collapsed, twitching, his headless body falling limp to the deck. We stood there, panting, watching as Vigdice's body spasmed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic jolts. It took a long time for him to stop moving. No one spoke. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

We had known this was coming, but it didn't make it easier. It didn't make the fear any less. That's too, Eric gasped, his voice shaking as he pulled himself to his feet. Two of our own. There'll be more, Guna muttered, his eyes fixed on Vigdis' body, still twitching. There'll be more before this is over. We looked around at the other sick men, still tied down, still breathing, but for how long? We were losing them, one by one, and we were too late to stop it.

We can't just stand here, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. We need to decide. Now. before it happens again. But there was no decision left to make. The sickness had already made it for us. But the overtime hours were actually spent with Juan. She would leave work and go straight to Juan's house,

and there she acted like they were literally married. She had two families. Richard suspected something was going on, but Stacey would tell him it was his imagination, that he was being paranoid, jealous, that what he was saying made no sense. But the truth is, she was cheating on him. And meanwhile, Richard was fighting to save his marriage.

He bought her roses, sent her messages, called her constantly, tried to make her happy, took care of the grandparents and the kids, and Stacey, meanwhile, was out with Juan. In fact, on February 14, Richard wanted to meet with her for a special date. Something unique. They hardly spent any time together and he just wanted to be with her. her. So at that moment, Stacy felt incredibly guilty. She regretted everything, having lied to him, having cheated. She deeply regretted it. Then the police asked her if one knew about the date, if he was aware that on the 14th she would be seeing her husband. Stacey said yes. The interrogation

paused, and the police went to Juan's house at 4 a.m. They knocked and knocked, tried the windows, walked around the house, but no one ever answered. The next morning, the police went to his workplace and, miraculously, found him there. But I must tell you, he looked quite different. One Reyes, according to witnesses, had a full beard, but now he only had a goatee. This suggested he changed his appearance so as not to be recognized, perhaps he went to the scene, committed the crime, then shaved and altered his appearance. So they asked him to come to the station and share his side of the story.

He agreed, had no problem doing so. At the station, he admitted Stacy was his lover, but that they had recently broken up. He took a deep breath, told his story, his experience, and confessed that they had been together in the past, that Richard came into the picture, they broke up, and now the romance had rekindled. Now he shared his version of events. In truth, he wasn't a little. a single father, and Stacey knew that perfectly well. He was still married and living with his wife

and their children. Stacey paid his rent, his car, his phone bill, gave gifts to his kids, and was at their house almost every day, right in front of his wife. His wife suspected something, but unfortunately couldn't confirm it. Juan told her Stacy was just a friend. He told the police that on February 14th, he was home with his family. At the time of the murder, he was with his wife and children. To confirm this, the police called his wife, and she confirmed everything. She said they were together. Juan bought her a bouquet of flowers.

At 8.40 p.m., he went to the video store with their youngest son, came home, they all had dinner together, watched a movie, and then went to bed. Juan's alibi was solid, and so he was released. But I must tell you, his wife. wife asked for a divorce after all this. On February 20, 2010, Richard Sheck's funeral took place. It was a very emotional event. All his friends and family attended. Stacey announced that black attire was forbidden. After the ceremony, his remains were cremated, placed into a hot air balloon, and released among the clouds. Of course, several undercover officers attended the ceremony and

observed everyone present. People were sad, emotional. Stacey was completely devastated, she didn't look guilty at all. But at the same time, no one could ignore the fact that she had been cheating on him for six months, pretending to love him. Time passed. The investigation continued. And it was discovered that Richard had a life insurance policy worth $500,000, a policy Stacey would inherit upon his death. Still, There was no proof of anything. Yes, it was a lot of money, and yes, he had taken out the policy shortly before his death. But there was no concrete evidence against Stacey.

Weeks passed. Then months. The case was stagnant, until someone stepped forward and went to the station. That person was a co-worker of Stacey's. This man worked in IT, and according to him, something very strange happened the week of the crime. The clinic had different departments, medical staff, nurses, administration, IT. The administration handled all appointments, emails, calls, and paperwork. But what happened?

Each week, they received many emails, so the IT department deleted old emails every seven days. Whenever an email arrived, it was handled. Every week, IT reviewed all names and emails. But on February 14, Stacey neither sent nor received any emails, suggesting she had deleted them herself. That was not her usual behavior. She had never done that before. Given Richard's death, it looked suspicious. So after months, the IT guy went to the police and told them. The police asked if there was any way to recover the emails, and he said yes, because the company made backups. They agreed he would retrieve everything and send it. A few days later, the police

received 4,000 emails, and among them, two stood out. The first was a bank transfer dated January 26th for $8,900. The second was dated January 12th, a transfer of $1,100. Both transfers were to the same person, a woman named Lainitra Ross. They investigated this woman, Lainitra Ross. They investigated this woman, and found out she was Stacy's co-worker and lived in one of Stacy's rental properties. Stacy owned several apartments, all rented out. They went to that apartment, knocked on the door, spoke with Lanitra. She claimed the money was for a repair, because in January, a pipe burst. She said it cost around $1,000, they couldn't afford it, and Stacey decided to send her the money to handle it. So far, that made sense. But as the

police were leaving, they saw a car parked outside, a Chevy Impala. The tires? Good Your Integrity, the same brand found at the crime scene. This didn't prove anything, but they took pictures of the car, license plate, and tires, and showed them to Richards and Stacey's family and friends. Stacey's cousin identified the car. It was supposedly the grandparents' car. She told this story, Stacy cared for the grandparents and took them in. But the issue was, they had no income. They were elderly, sick, and broke. So Stacey made a deal.

She talked to the family, organized a meeting, and proposed selling the grandparents' car and using the $14,000 to cover medical expenses and treatments. The family agreed. It seemed like a good plan. But suddenly, the car disappeared, and so did the money. Stacey never brought it up again. No one ever saw the car again, until that moment. This made the police suspicious. Two bank transfers.

A missing $14,000 car. These seemed like payments for something. Possibly for a crime. So the police did something very interesting, they tracked the phone locations of La Nita and Stacey on the day of the murder. La Nita was far from the scene, and so was Stacey. She arrived late in. and found the body. So the police checked the phones of other women in their contacts.

And they found one in common. Stacey had it saved as Mr. Results, and La Nita had it saved as Reggie. On February 14th at 8.40 p.m., that phone called Lanitra. Three minutes later, she texted Stacy, I forgot to tell you I'll be late tomorrow. By the way, happy Valentine's Day, she received that message and didn't move toward the crime scene. So the police checked Reggie's phone location, and found that it connected to the tower near the crime scene. At the time of the murder, he was there. They investigated the man. His relationship to the women? He was a friend of both. Mr. Results, or Reggie, was Reginald Coleman, a personal trainer who worked in the same building as Stacy and Lanitra. La Nita was his girlfriend

and the mother of his child. Reggie, I must tell you, had a criminal record, related to drugs. He was the one who would commit the murder. He went to the meeting spot, killed Richard, but La Nita would be the one to receive the money, and Stacey would negotiate the price. Not only were their bank transfers, but a car was involved too. Everything was clear. So, putting the pieces together, the police decided to arrest them all at once, to prevent them from fleeing. This plan required a lot of coordination, seven search warrants across four counties, plus three arrest warrants. The first of fall was Reggie. The second, La Nita. The third, Stacy. But she didn't make it easy. Someone must have tipped her off

at work. She locked herself in a room. But after hours, they got her. Someone told Stacy the police were there and that she should run. She went to the hospital and locked herself in a secure room accessible only by keycard. Unfortunately, they couldn't get to her right away. Eventually, all three were arrested and taken to the station. After hours of interrogation, Stacy allegedly confessed. She admitted she wanted Richard dead because her middle son, kind of confessed that Richard had touched him, not directly, but hinted at it. Hearing that, she wanted him dead. She wanted him dead. She spoke with Lanitra, her co-worker, who said her boyfriend could do it, for a price. They agreed. Made the transfers. Gave him the car. Planned the fake date.

And on February 14, Reggie killed Richard. It was supposed to be one quick, painless shot, but things got out of hand. She didn't want police. Didn't want divorce. She just wanted him gone. If someone's harming my children, but with time, and Richard gone, Stacey discovered he had never touched her kids. Her middle son never said that. He only complained that Richard was very strict. The police never believed Stacy's story. For them, the real motive wasn't abuse, it was money. Richard had it all as a husband.

He tolerated everything. Took care of the grandparents. Raised the kids. gave them his last name. If they divorced, Stacey would lose everything. But if Richard died, she'd gain a lot of money. On the way to trial, as the mastermind, Stacy was offered a deal. If she confessed and gave up her accomplices, her sentence would be reduced.

She could have faced the death penalty. But if she confessed, she'd get life in prison. She accepted. All three were sentenced to life without parole. So now it's your turn, what do you think of the case? Do you think the sentences were fair? The end. The rain had been relentless, turning the ground into a slush of mud and regret.

Detective Clara Leclair stood at the base of Renwood Highlands, staring at the trailhead where Elias Rami was last seen. Somewhere up there, the answer waited. She just had to see the right pattern. The vanishing, Elias had been careful. He had mapped his route. kept a record, never strayed from his plans. And yet, he was gone.

The first few days were easy to dismiss, hikers lost their way all the time. But then came the boot. Blood-stained, oddly placed. A clue left too perfectly, as if it wanted to be found. Clara traced the calls Elias had made before he disappeared. The last one went to a landline registered to Marla Vexley. The first misdirection. Marla's farm was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of rescued animals in the background.

Because of lawsuits by shadowy companies designed to stymie her farm and officials constantly grilling her about the fake complaints against her farm, Marla was constantly flooded by paperwork. Elias was one of the few people known to be Marla's friends who tried to help with all this. Elias? He came by a week before he disappeared, she admitted. asking about what I knew about old land records when I worked with the government department decades back. He thought something was off about the highlands. Said the terrain didn't match the maps.

Clara frowned. Why would a hiker care about that? Marla hesitated. I don't know. I guess whatever he found, but he said that someone didn't want him talking about it. The outlier murder, Clara wondered if a famous closed case was related to this. The Chloe Mason case had never sat right with her. Shot in her own front yard five years ago. The perpetrator was a 80-year-old man who died within a month due to stage three-bone cancer, while in prison.

There was no apparent motive. The victim had worked in land permits. And just weeks before her murder, she had requested zoning records of the Highlands. Too much overlap to be coincidence. The scientist's papers. That night, Clara returned to her car to find it broken into, but nothing stolen. Instead, a stack of research papers sat on her back seat, old but neatly arranged. A printed note lay on top, you're asking the wrong questions.

The papers were signed by a team of scientists, linked to a council-back geological survey decades ago. The project had been abruptly shut down. The quarry that wasn't empty, Clara had seen the satellite images. The supposed abandoned quarry had been disturbed recently. Something was buried. When she arrived, the site was lifeless. But the ground told a different story. Recent dig marks.

Disguised, but there. She dug with her hands until they ached, uncovering something metallic. A sealed container. Inside, a torn page from Elias's missing journal. The rocks don't match the map. the toxins in the air, strange things started happening to her vision. It began as mild blurriness, a slight haze that she dismissed as exhaustion. But by the time she left the quarry, lights had started haloing, colors dimming, shadows stretching unnaturally. The doctors found

nothing wrong. But deep down, Clara knew, something in the air, in the ground, in the quarry was doing this. The disappearance within the council, Clara's research uncovered another name, Dr. Vance Kessler, a geologist who had worked on the original Highland survey. He had resigned suddenly and vanished years ago. A visit to his last known address revealed a boarded-up house, abandoned, but not empty. Hidden in a rusted filing cabinet was a handwritten letter, and signed. It was never about the land. The ground breathes, the watcher in the shadows. Twice, Clara noticed the same figure in her periphery. A hooded silhouette near her car.

A flash of movement in her rearview mirror. Then, her apartment was broken into again. This time, something was stolen. Her notes on Elias. The pattern she had been piecing together was being taken from her, piece by piece. But whoever was watching wasn't just covering tracks. Someone was leading her forward. The villains with no face, the council didn't operate like a monolith.

The scientists weren't powerful figures in the shadows. They were fragmented, desperate, covering up something they had failed to control years ago. One of them was protecting her. But who? And why? A voice in her head mocked her. You'll never know. The dead don't stay hidden, determined, Clara traced the missing pages to a hidden records facility.

under a defunct research center. The documents there confirmed her worst suspicions, Elias had been part of something larger. A test subject. And he wasn't the first. The missing hikers over the decades, the geological inconsistencies, it was all tied to an abandoned experiment.

An experiment that never fully ended. Following a final lead, Clara made her way back to the quarry at night. She dug further, her breath heavy, her fingers scraping against something cold and solid. Not metal this time. Bone. Her search was over.

But the truth was far from complete. The attempt on her life, the attack came swiftly. Someone waited for her at her apartment. A shadow, a blade, an intent to silence her forever. Then, a gunshot. Not hers. Not the attackers. By the time she took.

turned, the assailant was gone, and so was her unknown savior. The blind detective, her vision collapsed entirely soon after. The toxins had done their work. She was blind. The council's secrets could be exposed. The Highlands would become a crime scene, an investigation, a disaster for everyone involved. But the person protecting her, whoever they were, would be sacrificed in the fallout. Clara decided it wasn't the wrong. route she wanted to take. At least not yet. So she hit her files, scanned everything and waited before making her next move. She had an unknown benefactor who had arranged for her transfer to another police unit. She was flying out this afternoon. Clara sat in the back of the plane

with a colleague sent to accompany her. Her eyes itched and hurt and tears involuntarily flowed out. She reached out for some tissue papers in her satchel. There was something there that she hadn't placed herself, a Braille book. She tried to make sense of it, her hands tracing the raised lettering on the first page of this new braille book placed in her lap. Clara had done volunteering during her teenage years and had learned braille and sign language at that time. These would prove handy at a time like this. But something about the book felt off. The texture of the dots.

The arrangement of words. It wasn't just any Braille book. It was a series of messages. A number of clues. As the plane lifted into the sky, Clara ran her fingers over the first line. And the mystery began again. Counselman, he's here.

The old councilman raised his head. He was knee-deep in reading the research reports and the account statements about their ventures in Renwood Highlands, but he would have to multiplex right now. Invite the boy in. The young man walked in and made himself comfortable on the other side of the table. So what brings you here, Elias? This is the story of Amanda Knox, a 20-year-old girl from Seattle, Washington, who found herself

at the center of an international controversy. Born on July 9, 1987, to Edamela, a math teacher, and Kurt Knox, a vice president of finance at a local company, Amanda's life began in an ordinary way. However, her childhood was marked by the divorce of her parents, which led to her mother remarrying a man named Kais Malaw. From there, Amanda's family expanded, with Edda having three more daughters. Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Amanda was a passionate and active individual. She was especially talented in sports and was known for her exceptional skills in soccer, where people would praise her speed and agility on the field. Amanda even gave herself the nickname

Foxy Noxie as a tribute to her skills. But she was not just a star athlete, Amanda also had a passion for singing and acting, participating in many school musicals. Her peers admired her for her outgoing and adventurous nature, as she was always up for trying new things. In addition to her talents in sports and the arts, Amanda had a deep love for fantasy worlds, being a big fan of Star Wars and Harry Potter. As she grew older, she began to attend more parties, and despite being academically strong, she balanced her studies with the occasional break to let loose.

In 2002, Amanda and her family went on a trip to Italy, visiting cities like Rome, Pisa, the Amalfi Coast, and the ruins of Pompeii. While Amanda found the country fascinating, it wasn't until she read under the Tuscan sun, a book her mother had given her, that she truly fell in love with Italy. From that point on, she made a decision to return one day, although she didn't know when. After graduating from Seattle Preparatory School in 2005, Amanda enrolled at the University of Washington, where she began studying linguistics. However, as time went on, Amanda experienced what could be described as a crisis of direction. She felt that her studies weren't enough, she needed to experience more of life before she

could focus on her career. So, in a bold move, Amanda decided to return to Italy, but this time she would go alone. To fund her trip, Amanda worked multiple part-time jobs in Seattle, and when she had saved enough money, she packed her bags and left. Her family, however, was not completely supportive of her decision. Her father, Kurt Knox, thought she was too naive for such a journey, while her mother and sisters worried about her being too reckless. Despite their concerns, Amanda remained determined. Her destination was Perugia, Italy, where she planned to study Italian.

But before she could settle into her dream, she needed two things, a job and a place to stay. For the first, Amanda found work at a cafe called Puffel Sheik, owned by Patrick Lumumba, a man from Congo. As for the second, she rented a room at a room at a place to stay. shared house on Via della Pergola, number seven. The house was divided into two floors, with two Italian guys living downstairs and four girls on the upper floor, including Amanda. Among her roommates was Meredith Kircher, a British student studying in Perugia, who would become central to Amanda's life and, ultimately, her infamous story. At first, things went well for Amanda. She got along with her roommates, especially her Italian housemates, and was known

for her sociable and outgoing nature. But there was one person with who, whom she struggled to connect, Meredith. Meredith, born on December 28, 1985, in London, was the complete opposite of Amanda in many ways. A bright student, Meredith had fallen in love with Italy during a student exchange program when she was 15. She went on to study European politics and Italian at the University of Leeds, and she worked part-time as a waitress and tour guide. Meredith was not the partygoer that Amanda was, she was more focused and driven, with clear career goals. Despite their differences, Amanda and Meredith tried to make their living arrangement work. At one point, the two even attended a classical music concert together, and it was during

this event that Amanda met Raphael Solicito, a young man who would become her boyfriend. Raphael was smart, kind, and reminded Amanda of her teenage crush, Harry Potter. The two hit off and began spending more time together, much to the dismay of Meredith, who had her reservations about Amanda's lifestyle. The night of November 1, 2007, was the turning point in the story. After a busy night at Puffel Sheik, Amanda's boss, Patrick Lumumba, sent her a message telling her not to come into work the next day due to a lack of customers. Amanda, now free for the night, decided to spend it with Raphael at his place. The two cooked dinner, watched movies, smoked some marijuana, and had sex. By 9.30 a.m. the following day, Amanda had finished up and left

Raphael's place, walking back to her house, which was only a short distance away. When Amanda returned to the house, she noticed something strange, the front door was open. Initially, she didn't think much of it and entered, heading straight to her room. She went to the bathroom, where she noticed small droplets of blood on the floor, the sink, and the rug. She brushed it off, thinking that perhaps someone had cut themselves. But it wasn't until she saw that the toilet had not been flushed that she began to feel uneasy. had used the bathroom but hadn't flushed, which seemed odd.

Panic set in, and Amanda quickly gathered her belongings and left the house, running straight to Raphael's place. She told him about the blood and the unflushed toilet, and they both decided to return to the house to investigate. When they got there, they noticed that one of Amanda's roommate's rooms was completely ransacked. A large rock had been thrown through the window, and it was clear that someone had broken in. Amanda called the roommate whose room had been destroyed, and the roommate confirmed that she was out of town. Raphael also tried to open Meredith's door, but it was locked. He called his sister, who was a

lieutenant in the carabinieri, asking for advice. She told him not to force the door open and to contact the authorities. However, before they could do that, two police officers arrived at the house. They had found two phones in a nearby garden, one of which belonged to Meredith Kircher, and they began their investigation. Amanda called Meredith again, but there was still no answer. The police eventually forced the door to Meredith's room open, and what they found was horrific, Meredith's body, covered in blood and partially undressed.

She had been brutally murdered. The scene was horrific, and the investigators quickly became suspicious of Amanda and her boyfriend Raphael. There were several inconsistencies that didn't add up. Amanda's behavior seemed odd, she had walked into the house, noticed the open door and the blood, but had not acted alarmed.

Furthermore, she seemed overly calm as the police inspected the crime scene. The police soon began to interrogate both Amanda and Raphael. Amanda initially denied any involvement in Meredith's murder, but after hours of questioning, the pressure mounted, and Amanda changed her story. She claimed that Patrick Lumumba, her boss, had come to her house that night, and she had heard Meredith scream. But she didn't do anything to help. Amanda's admission led to the arrest of Patrick Lumumba, but there was no solid evidence to connect him to the crime. As the investigation continued, it became clear that Amanda's story didn't match the evidence.

Meredith had been brutally murdered, and the forensic evidence pointed to the involvement of multiple people. DNA evidence found on a knife at Raphael's apartment and in various parts of the house suggested that Amanda, Meredith, and another man, Rudy Geed, were all involved. Rudy had been a casual acquaintance of Meredith and had been at the house the night of the murder. When police finally tracked him down, he confessed to being there, but his version of events differed from Amanda's. In the end, Rudy Gede was convicted of murder and sentenced to 30 years in prison, while Amanda Knox and Raphael Solicito were also convicted of murder, despite their protests of innocence. The trial was highly publicized, and Amanda's actions and statements were scrutinized.

The evidence against her was circumstantial, but it was enough to convict her, and she was sentenced to 26 years in prison. However, in 2010, an appeal was filed, and Amanda and Raphael's convictions were overturned. New evidence, including Rudy's confession and the lack of solid proof connecting Amanda and Raphael to the crime, led to their release from prison. The case remained controversial, and opinions about Amanda's innocence or guilt are still divided to this day. We begin. Richard Kevin Sheck was born on June 25, 1963, in Glen Ridge, New Jersey, as one of three children of Marion and Edward Sheck. There really isn't much information about him. His family has stated that he was a kind and compassionate man who didn't live a very hectic life. He graduated from Debar University with a degree in art and from there held multiple jobs, each one different from the last.

He liked to change, experiment, try out a thousand different things. and everything he did, he did with passion. He believed that if you don't do something with passion, you're wasting your time. He was a salesman, a soccer coach, and by 2010 he worked as a facilities manager. But it wasn't all about work, he had a deep passion for hot air balloons, for riding motorcycles along winding roads, and also for watching and playing football. My brother was always a big kid. He always had to be going from one place to another.

He was a very good athlete. Everyone who knew him said he was loyal, kind, and sincere. He was a good friend, a good brother, a good son, and above all, a big kid. He loved being with his nieces and nephews, playing with them, being with the family. He loved being surrounded by people, and his dream was to get married and have kids. That's how he met his future wife, Stacey Morgan. him. Stacey was born on August 19, 1974, which made her 11 years younger than him, but I must tell you, their life experiences were completely different because Stacey had been through a lot more.

She had more life experience, she had simply lived more than he had. People even said she seemed older than him. Her father died when she was just a little girl, and she was raised by a single mother. Over time, she went to Jacksonville University, where she studied two different majors, psychology and nursing. She got married a total of four times, and from her last marriage, she had three children, Douglas, better known as DJ, Kit Morgan, and Kevin Thomas. By 2010, she was working full-time as an administrator in a major medical practice. Between work, the kids, and the house, she was always very busy. And I must say, she was very level-headed.

She was a responsible, kind woman devoted to her kids and her family, an honest and sincere person, and according to everyone, the perfect partner for Richard. He was more childish, a dreamer, while she was more rational. So, in some way, they complimented each other perfectly. They met, liked each other, started dating, and not long after, they decided to get married, in 2007, to be exact. From that moment on, Richard became the father of her three children, even adopting the two youngest in a very short time. He signed the papers, gave them his last name, took care of them day and

night. He was a fantastic, devoted father, and Stacey seemed genuinely happy. As time passed, Stacey's grandparents started having issues. They were getting old, sick, and financially they were struggling. They couldn't afford a retirement home or to hire someone to care for them. So Stacey volunteered to take them in. But this presented a problem, she had a full-time job, whereas Richard had a more flexible one. He had more free time, more time for himself, so he became their caregiver. The grandparents moved in, and the family continued on. But months went by, and the relationship began to suffer, between work, the grandparents, lack of time, the kids, adolescents, bills, everything piling up, and their middle child became

very rebellious. Richard and Stacey tried to find time for themselves as a couple, but every time they went out, something happened, whether it was the kids fighting, getting home late, grandma having a problem, falling down, something always came up. So in 2010, they decided to make a change. They decided that no matter what, they would have a day just for them. That day would be February 14th. They agreed that Stacey would do her regular workday, and Richard would leave a little early, go home, see the kids and grandparents, cook dinner, and then take the car and meet her in a romantic, isolated spot. A peaceful place with no phone signal, where no one could bother them, far from home.

A classic teenager-like spot, a park, forest, path, or river, something secluded and intimate. The chosen place was a small place. small park called Belton Bridge, a dimly lit, little-known place where practically no one ever went. I should mention, there was no playground, no picnic area, just a forest with a parking area, a river, and several trails. But it was perfect for them. The idea of the date was exciting, like being 15 again, leaving class, buying a small gift, rushing to the secret meeting spot where no one would see you. It was exciting, romantic, something completely knew for them. Stacey couldn't have been more excited. She left work, jumped in the car,

did her make-up quickly, started the engine, and drove to the meeting point. When she arrived, she saw Richard's truck parked in a corner, with the door open and the headlights on, he was there, waiting for her. To her, it felt like a movie. And to top it off, it had snowed. The setting looked like something out of a fairy tale. She got out of the car, practically skipping toward his truck, only to realize something was wrong. Richard wasn't inside the truck. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. She looked around, turned back, got closer to the truck, and saw a large pool of blood next to it.

A little further away lay his lifeless body. Her first reaction was to scream, but after a moment, she threw herself on him and checked for a pulse. His heart was no longer beating, but his skin was still warm, indicating the attack had happened just minutes earlier. She pulled out her phone, called emergency services, and within minutes the whole place was swarming with police. The crime scene revealed some interesting details. First, Richard's truck, a pickup, had its doors open and the keys still in the ignition. The truck itself was quite expensive, they could have stolen it, sold it, made money, but the killer or killers didn't seem to care.

Another interesting detail was that Richard had valuable items on him, his ring, watch, and wallet, which still had cash and cards inside. So the motive wasn't robbery. Secondly, in the snow there were tire tracks, three sets in total, Richard's car, Stacy's car, and a third vehicle. Based on the tread pattern, the third car had Goodyer Integrity tires. But here's the issue, that tire brand was very common in the area. Lots of people used it.

So without a matching vehicle, it didn't help. The police waited for the autopsy report, which arrived shortly after. It revealed that Richard had been shot six times, three in the chest, two in the head, and one in the hand. The killer unloaded the weapon on him. It was clear the intention was to end his life. The manner of death, the location, everything suggested it was an execution, some form of revenge. But Richard was a completely normal man, not involved in anything shady. He lived a very peaceful life.

He didn't drink or use drugs, was a good father, brother, son. At work, he had no enemies. Neighbors said he never made noise and flew under the radar. His wife was devastated. Still, just in case, the police investigated her and found her record was clean. So they decided to investigate the crime scene more thoroughly. Maybe the location itself was dangerous. And indeed, over the past 30 years, many crimes had occurred there, revenge killings, kidnappings, all sorts.

But none were connected. They had different motives and MOS. Most of them had already been solved. So they returned to square one. They brought Stacy to the station to ask her more about Richard, about his life. She fully cooperated. She told them how they met, when they got married, if he was a good father, and so on. But when they asked about their relationship as a couple, she broke down and confessed

something that left the police in shock. She admitted that she loved her husband, adored him, couldn't live without him, but that for the past six months she had been having an affair. As I mentioned earlier, things had been rough, work, the grandparents, the kids, bills, stress took its toll. Richard tried hard to save the marriage, he was always thoughtful, always trying to make things better. But Stacey didn't feel the same. In the middle of that routine, she started sleeping with a co-worker, Juan Reyes. But this wasn't a fling or a one-time thing, it was much more.

She had known Juan for many years. After divorcing her fourth husband, she wanted to move on, met Juan, and they were briefly together. But he was married at the time. Stacey then met Richard, left Juan, and moved on. But in April 2009, Juan moved close to her house, and the romance rekindled. According to Stacy, one was a single father, unemployed, looking for work, struggling financially. So she offered him a job at her clinic, specifically as a surgical assistant. Morally questionable.

Yes. But here's the worst part, one had no qualifications. He hadn't studied medicine. He knew nothing about it. He was hired simply because he was her lover. And to top it off, Stacey was supporting him. He couldn't pay rent. She paid.

Couldn't pay his phone bill. She covered it. When they went on vacation, she paid for everything. She bought gifts for Juan's kids, acted like a mother, and every day she worked extra hours. But those extra hours were spent with Juan. She would go from work to Juan's house and act as if they were married, literally. To be continued. It was traumatic.

I lost my first love. I never even got the chance to cry for her, to properly grieve her. Life moved on, and now I have a wonderful husband and an adorable son, but people still have their misconceptions about me. There's this perception of who I am that just doesn't align with the truth. All I want is to clear my name. I've got nothing to hide. But let me tell you a story, a story that will shake you to your core.

It's one of mystery, heartbreak, and unanswered questions. It starts in the glamorous world of cruise ships, a place that seems like paradise for many but hides its own dark secrets. The allure of cruise ships, since the 1980s, the cruise industry has been on a steady rise. Ships turned into floating cities, destinations in themselves. People dream of sailing to idyllic places, soaking up the sun on luxurious decks, and escaping the monotony of daily life. What's not to love, right? Yet, what most people don't know is that cruise ships can be a haven for unsolved mysteries. According to various sources, over 313 people have been reported missing from cruise ships since the year 2000.

Here's the kicker, only 10% of those cases have been solved. Unbelievable, isn't it? What's even crazier is that cruise companies aren't legally obligated to publicize these cases. Between 15% to 20% of incidents make it to the media. The rest? Silenced. Swept under the rug. If it weren't for the persistence of families, some of these stories would never see the light of day.

Today, I'm bringing you one of those stories, a story about a bright, adventurous soul named Rebecca Corium. Meet Rebecca, or Bex, as her friends lovingly called her, was born on March 11, 1987, in Chester, England. She was the kind of person who left an impression wherever she went. Active, independent, and fiercely loyal to her loved ones, Rebecca was a natural when it came to making friends. She wasn't just a social butterfly, she was also a sports enthusiast.

She threw herself into every sport she could find, traveling great distances just to compete. Her school days were spent at Chester Catholic High School. Even as a teenager, Rebecca was driven. She took on different jobs to save up money, working at Chester Zoo and even joining the British Army cadets. Later, she attended Plymouth University to study sports science. But Rebecca wasn't one to sit still. She went on to pursue another degree at Liverpool Hope University and spent four months teaching sports at Camp America in Maine, USA. It was clear, Rebecca was always on the move. She thrived on adventure,

constantly seeking new challenges. So, when she heard about a job opening with Disney Cruise Line in 2010, it felt like the perfect fit. The idea of traveling to a new country every day while working on board a luxurious ship. She was sold. The Disney Wonder, Rebecca didn't waste any time. Even though she was from Chester, she packed her bags and traveled to London for the interview. She nailed it, of course. But before officially starting on the cruise ships, she had to undergo a training period at Disney's theme parks in Orlando, Florida. Rebecca didn't mind, she loved the challenge. After completing her training, she was assigned to her first cruise, sailing in the Bahamas for four months.

Afterward, she returned to Chester to rest and spend time with her family before heading back to work. This time, her new assignment was aboard the Disney Wonder, a ship that departed from Los Angeles and cruised along the Pacific, stopping in places like Porta Viarda and Cabo San Lucas. The calm before the storm, Rebecca was thriving. She stayed in constant contact with her family, especially her mom, Anne-Marie, and her sister, Rachel. She'd post songs, photos, and little updates on Facebook daily. Whenever her schedule allowed, she'd call her family on Skype. Everyone knew Rebecca was happy. She had made friends, was traveling the world, and loved her job.

But everything changed on March 21st, 2011. The disappearance, this is where things get murky. Some sources say the story starts on March 20th, while others insist it was March 21st. For the sake of clarity, I'm sticking to the timeline that appears most frequently, March 21st. The Disney Wonder had just left Los Angeles, and Rebecca had sent her mom a message on Facebook. promising to follow up with another one in a few hours. But hours passed, 12, to be exact, and Anne-Marie didn't hear a peep from her daughter. The family started to worry.

They checked Facebook, messages, Skype, anything that could explain why Rebecca had gone silent. Meanwhile, on board the ship, her absence was also causing concern. Rebecca was supposed to start her shift at 9 a.m. on March 22nd. When she didn't show up, her coworkers began searching for her. At that point, the Disney Wonder was cruising along the Mexican coast, heading toward Porta Viarda and Cabo San Lucas. The crew searched Rebecca's cabin, thinking she might have overslept, but she wasn't there. They checked common areas, called her name over the intercom, and combed through every possible location on board. Nothing.

When they reviewed the ship's surveillance footage, they found something. Out of hundreds of cameras on the ship, only one captured Rebecca. The last known footage, at 5.45 a.m. on March 22nd, Rebecca appeared on a camera in a cruel area. She looked upset, possibly arguing with someone over the phone. A co-worker approached her, seemingly concerned, and asked if she was okay. Rebecca nodded, said she was fine, and continued her call. At one point, she ran her hands through her hair, looking visibly stressed. Then, she put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, turned, and walked out of the camera's frame. That was the last time anyone saw her.

A city at sea, the Disney Wonder was massive, a floating city with about 2,400 passengers and over 1,000 crew members. Searching for one person on a ship that size was like finding a needle in a haystack. When the crew couldn't locate Rebecca, they alerted the U.S. Coast Guard, the Mexican Navy, and even the Bahamian authorities, as the ship was registered in the Bahamas. The search extended to the waters around the ship, but there was no sign of Rebecca. Three days later, a detective from the Royal Bahamas Police Force boarded the ship to investigate. However, the entire investigation was conducted behind closed doors.

Passengers were kept in the dark, unaware that anything unusual had happened. The next morning, when Rebecca didn't show up for her shift, the alarms were raised. Tracy, D, and anyone who had been closed to Rebecca in the days leading up to her disappearance were questioned. But their stories were either vague or conflicting, which only made things murkier. The security footage of Rebecca pacing and talking on the phone was the last confirmed citing of her. People speculated endlessly, was she really upset because of Tracy's reconnection with D?

Could this love triangle have taken such a toll on her mental state? Or was there something far more sinister happening behind the scenes? As Tracy recounted later in interviews, Rebecca was an incredibly emotional person. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and when something shook her deeply, it showed. But the idea that she could have ended her own life didn't sit well with those who truly knew her. For starters, Rebecca was fiercely ambitious. She had plans, dreams, and a life she was excited about.

It seemed too drastic a leap to assume she would throw it all away over heartbreak, even if the situation with Tracy had been a blow. Then, there was the peculiar matter of her belongings. When her parents were finally allowed into her cabin to collect her things, they found details that didn't add up. For one, there was the odd sandal in the middle of the room. It wasn't Rebecca's size, and it even had someone else's room number written on it. Whose sandal was it? And why was it there? The mystery only deepened. But the most unsettling detail came later, when her bank account showed signs of activity.

Someone, or something, had accessed Rebecca's account after her disappearance. Her family was convinced this wasn't random. Could Rebecca still be alive somewhere? Or was someone covering their tracks? The cruise company, Disney, had been frustratingly tight-lipped throughout the entire ordeal. They seemed more concerned about preserving their pristine reputation than helping the Coriums get answers. The ship kept sailing, passengers kept partying, and Rebecca's parents were left to wrestle with a thousand unanswered questions. In interviews, her mother Anne-Marie described feeling like the investigation was little more than a facade.

It was like a performance, she said, reflecting on the way Disney handled everything. The company seemed eager to brush the whole incident under the rug, going so far as to prevent the coriums from interacting with any of the other passengers on board. And then there was the Bahamian detective, a single officer sent to investigate a case this complex. He was aboard the ship for only one day before concluding that Rebecca had most likely fallen overboard. Case closed. But how could they be so sure? For starters, the area where Rebecca supposedly fell had barriers and safety measures in place to prevent exactly this kind of accident. The idea that she could have been swept away by a rogue wave seemed far-fetched, if not outright impossible.

Rebecca's family was adamant that there was more to the story. They began reaching out to journalists, sharing their side of the story and urging anyone with information to come forward. That's when a man named John Ronson entered the picture. John was a journalist with a reputation for digging into complex and often controversial stories. He agreed to investigate Rebecca's disappearance and even managed to go undercover on a Disney Wonder as a passenger. His goal. To talk to as many crew members as possible and piece together what might have happened to Rebecca. During his time aboard the ship, John encountered a culture of

silence. Many crew members were reluctant to speak, citing fears of losing their jobs. But a few were willing to share snippets of information, often anonymously. One person claimed that Rebecca had been struggling emotionally in the days leading up to her disappearance. Another hinted at tension between Rebecca and some of her colleagues. But the most explosive revelation came from a crew member who suggested that Rebecca had been involved in a romantic relationship with another female employee, and that this relationship had been a source of drama on board the ship. The story became even more complicated when Tracy, Rebecca's alleged girlfriend,

gave her own account of their relationship. According to Tracy, the two women had been deeply in love. But Tracy's relationship with her ex, D, had caused friction. Rebecca had reportedly walked in on Tracy and Dee together, which had left her feeling heartbroken and betrayed. But Tracy insisted that Rebecca's disappearance had nothing to do with their relationship. In fact, she claimed that Rebecca had been grappling with deeper issues, issues that may have driven her to take her own life.

Of course, not everyone bought this version of events. Some people speculated that Tracy and Dee knew more than they were letting on. Others wondered if Rebecca had been the victim of foul play, either at the hands of someone she knew or a stranger on board the ship. The lack of concrete evidence only fueled these theories. Why was there no clear footage of Rebecca's movements that night? How could a ship with so many security cameras failed to capture what happened to her? And why was Disney so insistent on keeping the investigation under wraps?

Over time, more and more people began to suspect that the truth about Rebecca's disappearance had been deliberately hidden. Whether this was to protect Disney's reputation or for some other reason, no one could say for sure. But one thing was certain, Rebecca's family wasn't giving up. They continued to push for answers, even as the years went by and the trail grew colder. In the years since Rebecca's disappearance, her case has become a cautionary tale about the dark side of the cruise industry. It's a story about how easily people can vanish on the high seas, and how difficult it can be to get justice when they do. Today, Rebecca's family continues to honor her memory. They've set up a

foundation in her name, dedicated to supporting families who have lost loved ones under similarly mysterious circumstances. They've also worked tirelessly to raise awareness about the risks of cruise travel and the need for greater transparency and accountability within the industry. For the Corioms, the fight for answers is far from over. They still believe that someone, somewhere, knows what happened to Rebecca. And they remain hopeful that one day, the truth will come to light. The car was found seven meters underwater, and if it hadn't been for some rocks, it could have sunk as deep as 30 meters. Whoever put the car there knew what they were doing.

They understood that if the vehicle went into the water, it might never be seen again. So, here's the big question, did the young couple orchestrate all of this, or did someone else do something to them? This chilling case began on the night of August 23, 2017, when a young couple decided to spend a few days at the Saskata Reservoir. They were Paula Moss, 21, and Mark Hernandez, 23. According to witnesses, they have been dating for a while and got along wonderfully. They shared a love for outdoor adventures, mountain trips, and beach outings.

In everyone's eyes, they were the perfect couple. Mark was described as a noble guy with a heart of gold. He loved riding his motorcycle and playing basketball. He was well known in his hometown for participating in local events and had a deep connection to nature, which he shared with Paula. Paula, on the other hand, was cheerful and adored dogs. They were beloved by their community. So, who could have done something so horrible to them?

On Wednesday night, August 23, Mark picked Paula up from her job at Carpi Pizza, a pizzeria in the Lasser de March. Afterward, they went to Paula's house, where they organized everything for their trip. They loaded her father's blue opal zafira, setting up the back with a mattress for sleeping, and packed an inflatable kayak, documents, food supplies, and clothes. At 1.32 a.m. on August 24th, they arrived at the parking lot of the Bar La Parada in Amher, Gerona. They parked and settled in to sleep. Just four minutes later, Paula sent a WhatsApp message to her best friend, Paul Reku.

The message read, Tomorrow we're here, see you this weekend. She also shared her location. The next morning, the couple went to an ATM in Salent de Tur, Gerona. Security cameras captured them entering the bank. They appeared cheerful. wearing hoodies. Mark withdrew 40 euros, and Paula deposited 70 euros. However, this is where witness accounts start to diverge. Some sources claim the couple return to La Puraada for water and refreshments, asking for directions before leaving again. Yet, the bar owner stated they came during

lunchtime, which doesn't fit the timeline. Additionally, she noted that the kayak was on top of the car, but the kayak had been packed inside. The bar owner vividly recalled that the couple ordered drinks, non-alcoholic, and a large bottle of water. She distinctly remembered Paula in a sleeveless shirt and mark in short sleeves, not dressed as warmly as in the ATM footage. Days later, when their friends came asking about them with photos, she immediately recognized Paula. By August 26th, the disappearance was reported, and an extensive search began. However, the area was vast, 500 hectares of rugged terrain, frequented by kayakers, fishermen, and hunters. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Investigators initially questioned family and friends, wondering if the

couple had run away or had problems. But everyone insisted they were happy and had no reason to flee. Days later, some clues emerged. Three days after the disappearance, an inflatable kayak was found semi-submerged in a remote corner of the reservoir. It had been slashed, filled with rocks, and partially sunk. The discovery raised fears of foul play. The next day, police found the blue old Opel Zafira in another area of the reservoir. The vehicle was submerged in the deepest part. The driver's window was shattered, with glass fragments inside, suggesting it had been broken from the outside.

Inside the car, the first gear was engaged, and a rock had been placed on the accelerator. In the back, investigators found spare clothes, Paula's letters, and the mattress they had planned to sleep on. The car was seven meters underwater. Without the rocks, it might have sunk to thirty meters, making it nearly impossible. to recover. Whoever left the car there clearly knew what they were doing. This raised the question, did the couple stage this, or was someone else involved? Further analysis of the car revealed no signs of violence or struggle. The items inside seemed to suggest the couple never

left the area. With the kayak found in one location in the car in another, it seemed likely the bodies wouldn't be far. This story quickly gained national attention, becoming known as the Saskata Reservoir crime. The media buzz prompted witnesses to come forward. On August 24th, three different people reported hearing gunshots and screams at the reservoir. These witnesses were in separate locations but all heard the same thing, two gunshots, a scream, and another shot. To pinpoint the source, police conducted an acoustic study. Officers placed themselves in various positions around the reservoir while others fired shots. This led them to the suspected crime scene. On September 26, 2017, about 14 kilometers from where the car was found, the body of Paula Moss was discovered.

The water level had dropped, exposing her remains. She had been shot in the head. The next day, Mark's body was found in the same area. His arm was tied to a backpack filled with rocks. Both bodies were found naked. Mark's injuries indicated violence, and he, too, was believed to have been shot. Investigators concluded that both victims were killed with a 9mm parablem firearm. However, the weapon was common in the area, and no shell casings were found.

Police then analyzed the cell tower that last connected to Mark and Paula's phones. Mark's phone remained active until 10 a.m., while Paula's lasted until 12.30 p.m. When they checked other devices connected to the same tower during that time, they found over 400, visitors, fishermen, hikers, and attendees of a nearby festival. This made identifying the perpetrator nearly impossible. Several suspects emerged. One was a Belgian citizen who returned to his home country after the bodies were found. Another was Igor the Russian, a man accused of killing three people in Terwell,

who might have been in the area. Others included a Frenchman with suspicious injuries, a pair of locals seen arguing with a couple resembling Mark and Paula, and even a known thief from the area. However, none of these leads panned out. The most significant lead came from a man named Bartomo Solar. Bartomo lived near the reservoir and had a habit of noting the license plates of cars entering and leaving. On the day of the crime, he claimed not to have heard any gunshots or screams but mentioned seeing a white land rover belonging to Jordy Magenti.

Jordi, 59, was notorious in the region. In 1997, he brutally murdered his wife, shooting her multiple times in broad daylight. He served 13 years of a 15-year sentence. Upon release, he returned to his hometown and later moved to Columbia, where he married a second time. Back in Spain, Jordi was described as solitary, manipulative, and short-tempered. He frequently visited the Saskata Reservoir, where he was believed to help his son maintain a marijuana plantation. On August 24, 2017, security cameras captured Jordi's land rover entering the reservoir area 20 minutes before Mark and Paula arrived. He was seen leaving at 3 p.m. and returning the next morning.

This led to speculation that Jordy might have encountered the couple and, in a fit of rage, killed them. However, there was no solid evidence to prove this. In January 2018, Jordy bought tickets to Columbia and transferred money abroad. Police arrested him on February 25, just days before his planned departure. His son was also detained. Authorities searched Jordy's home, his mother's house, and a rustic property but found no incriminating evidence. Even a reconstruction of the events yielded no cooperation from Jordi. Despite the lack of direct evidence, police believed Jordi was the primary suspect.

His criminal history, psychological profile, and suspicious behavior made him a compelling candidate. However, his lawyer criticized the investigation, arguing that police had ignored other leads and failed to analyze critical evidence, such as unidentified hairs found on Mark's body. To this day, the case remains shrouded in mystery. Was it Jordy? His son? Someone else entirely. But Saskata Reservoir Crime continues to haunt those who seek answers.

And she would return to Union Station at 1.15 moments when she was seen without her suitcase. The girl, at some point, went to the station's parcel service and paid to have her suitcase sent to her parents' house. This may sound very normal for the time, but it's very strange considering two points. The first is that this custom was very typical of the upper classes, as paying to have your suitcase sent was very expensive. However, it seems that Hazel, at that moment, had enough money. And the second point is, why would Hazel pay to have her suitcase sent? Why wouldn't she carry it herself? Was the suitcase too heavy?

Well, the answer to that question is no, because her suitcase was practically empty. In that suitcase, there were several sets of underwear, a comb, a toothbrush, a nightgown, a kimono-style robe, and a small purse inside of which there was a heart-shaped locket, a handkerchief, and a newspaper clipping dated October 7, 1907, a clipping in which the following words could be read, Edward Leboe has gone to Chattanooga, Tennessee, where he will remain all winter. Who was Edward Leboe? That is a mystery.

And why did Hazel have that clipping on? her. That is also unknown. Another very interesting thing Hazel did was not only to pay to have her suitcase sent to her parents' house but also to have her belongings picked up from the Carrie family's house. Supposedly, at the Carrie's house, Hazel had a trunk with all her things, her clothes, her money, her shoes. So she paid someone not only to take her suitcase to her parents' house but also to collect her beloved trunk, a trunk whose contents we will review a bit later. From 1.15 p.m. on Monday, July 6th, to 6 p.m. on Tuesday, July 7th, no one saw Hazel Drew again. No one knew where she spent the night or with whom.

But what does seem certain is that an elderly man named Peter Sippel, while driving through Al Park in Albany, saw a pair of young people sitting on a bench. The girl was wearing a white blouse and on her arm had a black hat with three feathers of the same color. Both youngsters were between 19 and 20 years old, and the boy accompanying her didn't take his eyes off her. According to Sipple, the boy was tall and slender, but apart from that, he said nothing more. Hours passed, and no one saw Hazel again. No one talked to her, no one saw her pass by. But at 7.15 in the evening, two men saw her walking along Thornton Road in Sand Lake.

These men were Frank Smith, 17 years old, and Rudolph Gundrum, 34. They were both riding in a car driven by Rudolph, and Frank was sitting in the passenger seat. At this point, you might ask how these men knew Hazel. And the answer is very simple, as I mentioned earlier, practically all the boys in Sand Lake were in love with Hazel Drew. She was beautiful, educated, with refined taste, and practically all of them were crazy for this girl to. simply smile at them. Frank Smith was her number one fan, so he greeted her very happily, very cheerfully, while she did so by nodding and smiling. She was walking along Thornton Road idly swinging a hat as if she had a special errand. According to Frank, Hazel was wearing

Victorian-heeled boots, a long black skirt, a white blouse, white gloves, a decorative pin with the letter H, and a black hat with three ostrich feathers, three feathers that, by the way, were the same color. Her hair was well styled, her clothes neatly ironed, and her attitude was the same as always, she was smiling, cheerful, happy. And when they asked her where she was going, she replied that she was going to look for raspberries. In the direction the girl was walking, she could reach two different places, the first was her uncle William Taylor's farm, and the second was the Sulski family's farm, where her little brother William Drew lived, a boy approximately seven years old. It was quite late, but the girl was going for raspberries and

was walking toward two places she knew perfectly well, her uncle's house and the Sulskies. But it's worth noting that from this moment on, no one ever saw her again. On July 11, 1908, a group of men who were hiking near Teal's pond found Hazel's lifeless body floating in its waters. Among these men were Frank Smith and William Taylor. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition and also showed signs suggesting it hadn't been an accident. First, we have that the body was found in the water, and the lungs had no trace of it, so the girl hadn't drowned. Then, we have that the back of the skull had a strong blow, a blow that supposedly caused her death. Third, we have that the girl was fully dressed,

white blouse, ribbon at the neck, long black skirt, the same clothes she was last seen wearing by Frank Smith and Rudolf Gundrum. Fourth, her belly was slightly swollen, which many said indicated that the girl was either pregnant or had undergone an abortion. And lastly, the body was so decomposed that they only identified her by her teeth, teeth with multiple gold fillings. Another interesting point is that on the shore of the pond, police found several of Hazel Drew's belongings, belongings that had been placed very delicately on a rock, her black hat,

her white gloves neatly folded, and her decorative pin with the letter H. From here is when all the alarms went off. As has been repeated many times throughout this case, Hazel was a very beloved girl in Sand Lake. All the boys were after her, boys from high class and boys from low class were crazy about her. So any of them could have killed her. First, there was Frank Smith, who was the last to see her alive and the first to find her body. Then, there was William Taylor, Hazel's uncle, who had been depressed for several years and had

recently tried to take his own life. These men seemed suspicious, but more suspicious was the behavior of some people very close to Hazel Drew, people like her dear favorite aunt, Minnie Taylor. When Hazel's body was found, Minnie Taylor asked for silence from many people. She went to the homes of friends, acquaintances, family members, she went to many people's homes and asked them all to burn the letters they exchanged with Hazel when she was strangely ill. Remember how earlier Hazel was sick for three weeks and never told anyone what exactly was wrong with her? Well, Minnie asked all those who had written letters to Hazel then and received letters from

her to burn them immediately, especially Mina Jones, the friend who replied to Hazel with the following phrase, I'm so very sorry, dear. I know exactly how to feel for you. Why would Minnie ask everyone to burn the letters? Was she hiding something? According to William Clemens, who at that time was the most important criminologist in the world, Hazel had been at her uncle's house in the winter of 1907 after inducing an abortion. Hazel had gone to get an abortion and then spent weeks at her uncle's house recovering,

isolated from the world. That's why no doctor, parent, or even her aunt went to see her, because if the people of Sand Lake found out about this, shame would fall upon the Drew family. Now, the question remained, whose baby was it? The baby Hazel Drew decided to abort. Was it true that Minnie Taylor was really a prostitute? Was it true that Hazel accompanied her several times? And could it be that the baby belonged to a client?

To these questions, the police found no answers, but they did find strange points in the routine Hazel Drew followed in the days leading up to her death. After closely examining her final days, the police discovered the following, that Hazel Drew cancelled her trip to Lake George and quickly bought a new blouse, that she left her job without giving explanations, that she traveled without telling anyone where she was going, that someone believed they saw her with a boy her same age. And that afterward, among many other things, she asked for her suitcase to be sent to her parents' house and also requested that someone pick up her trunk from the caries and take it

to her parents' house. So the police looked in her suitcase and in her trunk. In her suitcase, as I said earlier, there was underwear, a Japanese-style kimono, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a purse inside of which there was a heart-shaped locket and a newspaper clipping that didn't say much. So after this, they decided to look in her treasure trunk, and it must be said that there they did find something very important, approximately six letters from secret admirers. Six letters from men saying how much they loved her, always signing with initials. Among all the letters, there were a couple that stood out above the rest, these were signed by someone identified only as CS. You are a joyful smile and bright eyes that torture me.

Your beautiful face haunts me. Why can't I be happy again? You've stolen my freedom. Don't forget that you promised you'd write to me when I arrive at B again. I'll see you at the tavern. I must see you soon, or I will starve. Signed, C.S. The police moved heaven and earth to find C.S., but they never found out who he was, they didn't know his age, his background, or his profession. They only knew that this man

wrote to Hazel from the three places she had visited completely alone, Boston, New York, and Providence. At this point, the agents asked the family if Hazel Drew had a boyfriend, and they said no, it wasn't possible. She didn't have a partner, wasn't seeing anyone. Hazel was a normal, respectable, single girl. To the police, this was unbelievable. All the boys in Sand Lake were crazy about her. She had letters from secret admirers, a supposed lover who traveled across the United States,

but still, her family knew nothing about it. And to make matters worse, on July 15th, practically all the newspapers began to publish all kinds of reports, many of which weren't even verified. The police focused on numerous suspects, including a dim-witted farmer who was the son of the Sulskys, a drunken coal vendor, a train conductor, and even a man who supposedly proposed to Hazel while being married. After reviewing several rumors, the police concluded that Hazel Drew was seeing a businessman named Henry Crot, whose glasses were found near Teal's Pond. Henry was the owner of several properties, properties where strange parties were allegedly held. The people of Sand Lake denounced him on several occasions because,

at a camp he owned, they said they heard women screaming. They said this man hosted parties in which he did things to women who were held there against their will. People said that many women escaped from his property half-naked and screaming, that many women were kidnapped and turned into slaves, and that Hazel Drew was probably one of them. But it must be said that this man denied everything. He denied being with Hazel, denied throwing strange parties, and of course, denied kidnapping women. So for one reason or another, the police eventually ruled him out. The theories surrounding Hazel Drew's death are many and varied. But among the most striking are the following. The first theory says that Hazel Drew went to her uncle's house after undergoing

another abortion, but this time, her parents or Aunt Minnie found out and wanted to silence her, so they directly killed her and threw her in the pond. The second theory says Hazel became pregnant and blackmailed the baby's father for money, but the man got fed up and decided to end her life. The third option involves Hazel's lover, the one who sent her letters. It said that this man found out he wasn't the only one for her and, in a fit of jealousy, took her life. Another option says several boys from Sand Lake might have joined forces to kill her,

boys like Frank Smith, Rudolph Gundrum, and the oldest son of the Sulski family. Then there's the theory provided by Julia Drew, Hazel's mother. Julia was convinced that a man with hypnotic powers hypnotized Hazel and made her do whatever he wanted. This man probably got her pregnant and later ended her life, or simply tricked her and, at some point, got tired of her and killed her. Whatever the real theory is, the case of Hazel Drew still raises many questions. to this day. So now it's your turn, what do you think happen to her, and which theory do you believe fits best? The end. This story begins on September 19, 1972, in Springfield. No fences, yes,

when a man was taking one of his usual walks through the forest with his dog, as usual. The man, while walking, would pick up sticks and throw them far away for the dog to fetch and bring back. Sometimes the stick fell too close, and the dog took only a few seconds to bring it back. But at other times, he had thrown the stick so far that the dog took a long time to find it. And in one of those instances where the dog took a bit longer to return to him, when it did, it brought back a very strange object in its mouth. That was clearly not the stick its owner had been throwing, as it was the decomposed remains of a hand and a forearm. The man quickly called the authorities, and they began a search using bloodhounds throughout the area. It didn't take long

until the rest of the body was found, specifically in the quarry known as the devil's teeth. The body belonged to a young woman lying face down and fully clothed. Unfortunately, it was so decomposed that at a glance it was impossible to determine either her identity or the cause of death, so her remains were immediately sent to the morgue for an autopsy, which, as expected, clarified nothing. On one hand, the possible cause of death was strangulation, and on the other, toxicological analyses determined she had not consumed drugs, but her body did contain a high level of lead, something experts could not explain. The only discovery came from dental records, which revealed that the name of the victim was

Janet De Palma, 16 years old, who had gone missing on August 7th of that same year. According to her parents, that sunny afternoon she left their house located on Clearview Road, her mother she was going to take a train directly to a friend's house. However, when the sun set and they hadn't received a call from her, they feared the worst. Janet's mother called her friend's house, and no one had seen her, she hadn't even shown up at the arranged time. For days, the police carried out exhaustive searches, but they found nothing. So they concluded it was just a typical teenage runaway case, an excuse that let them stop searching, unaware that six weeks later, when the body was found, the autopsy would reveal that when she was declared

missing, she was already dead. However, although the question of what happened to Janet was resolved, the real mystery was about to begin. Around the girl's body, they found a large collection of logs and branches that at first glance looked carelessly placed, as if they were simply put there to pointlessly cover the body. But soon the police realized that those logs and branches had been arranged in a specific way, to create a terribly sinister scene. The body was not only inside a rectangle formed by four large branches, but around it were smaller branches tied together, forming dozens of crosses. Additionally, above her head were several stones forming a kind of halo. The whole scene gave the impression of being some kind of improvised occult altar.

Because of this, the police began to believe the murder had been committed by practitioners of black magic, worshippers of the, underscore, underscore, or members of a cult. And this last theory made the press rubbed their hands in glee and begin flooding the case with sensationalism. Rumors and horrifying stories made it very difficult to determine what was real and what was pure fiction. There was no newspaper that didn't cover the story, and soon Satanism, witchcraft, strange rituals, and human sacrifices became the talk of the entire town.

Witchcraft had always been present in the area, as Springfield has a long history related to it. In fact, according to local tradition, covens of witches were well known in the area, and it was rumored that the nearby Watching Reservation had been the center of such activity for hundreds of years. It was also said that 13 witches were buried under Johnston Drive, a lonely stretch of road that runs from Watching to Scotch Plains, and in this area many people claimed to have witnessed human sacrifices, sacrifices, sacrifices that the authorities tried to cover up. The strange part of all this speculation is that nothing in Janet's history suggested she

was connected to these kinds of activities. Though her friends described her as a bit wild, Janet had always been a devout evangelical Christian and regularly attended church, where she helped with all kinds of activities, including assisting Reverend James Tate in his talks with victims of alcohol and drug abuse. Many acquaintances said that thanks to her faith, Janet overcame her attention. addiction to such substances, so it would make no sense for her to be secretly involved with practitioners of black magic. Still, speculation ran wild, with some even saying she was doing it secretly to try to convert the unfaithful. As you can see, the police had nothing solid to go on,

everything was false leads, rumors, and dead ends. The only suspect they interrogated was a homeless man named Red, but they had no evidence to accuse him, so they simply released him, and he took the opportunity to flee the city. Just two weeks after the body was found, the story went silent. The newspapers stopped talking about it, the police stopped investigating, and everyone who had ever known her pretended they hadn't. It seemed as if Janet De Palma's death had become a taboo subject, something that should never be mentioned again. And of course, without public awareness, suspects or witnesses, the case of the death that the devil's teeth went cold and was forgotten. 30 years later, the magazine Weird New Jersey revived the case, as co-founder

Mark Moran and writer Jesse Pollack decided to investigate the clues that the police had apparently ignored. But things wouldn't be as easy as they hoped, absolutely no one was willing to cooperate with them. Accessing the case files was impossible because Springfield police claimed they were either damaged or outright missing. No one from the police would let them view them. The final blow came in 1999, when Moran and Pollock were directly informed that the case file had been destroyed by the floods caused by Hurricane Floyd. So officially, there was no file. Nine years waiting to get the records, only to be told they would never be able to. This fact fueled speculation that the records were not really lost, but that there was in fact a hidden hand trying to bury

the case so no one would ever speak of Janet De Palma again. Another strange rumor that complicated the investigation was that the police supposedly never took crime scene photos. But with no case file, this rumor could never be proven. Without records and without police cooperation, the authors had no choice but to turn to witnesses who once spoke openly about Janet De Palma. But guess what, no one wanted to. Some were afraid, and others simply didn't want to remember. The few who did offer vague and poor descriptions, and asked that their names not be mentioned in the final article. In fact, not even the police department wanted to be cited in the article. So Weird New Jersey published a simple piece mentioning the case and the few clues they

managed to gather, assuming Janet's name would never be spoken again. After the article's publication, Mark Moran received a flood of anonymous letters, truly chilling ones offering information about Janet De Palma's case. Some simply spoke poorly of her, claiming she was always an addict who never overcame her problems or even alleging she had an inappropriate relationship with Reverend James Tate. But others offered deeply disturbing information that could be cross-referenced with old rumors. Among them, the following stood out. I was a teenager when Janet De Palma's discovery happened. I lived in the neighboring town. About two years earlier, there were a lot of rumors at my school about a cult in the area. They were known as the witches. The police didn't let it be known.

but they were planning to kill a child around here, either by poisoning or sacrificing him on Halloween. I remember being terrified. That year I didn't go out for trick or treating. Another supposedly came from a relative of one of the officers who visited the crime scene and surprisingly corroborated old rumors. When the dog brought the arm to its owner and the search began, they found carved arrows in the trees that led them directly to the body. Around the body were dead animals, some in jars, others nailed to trees. Not long after, there were reports of mutilated animals hung in the same way in Wachung Reservation, which is also very close to the crime scene.

As you've seen, nearly everyone believed that Janet's murder was caused by some sort of cult and that authorities tried to cover it up and destroy the evidence. Almost everyone thought the same, that the killer was a satanic cult. But luckily, there are several other theories that could give a face and identity to the person who killed this poor girl. Some believe the entire town was involved in the crime, including the police, and that's why they tried to cover up the case. Perhaps everyone knew who killed her and, for some reason, chose to look the other way. Others think the case was covered up to preserve the town's good reputation, since it wouldn't look good to say that one of the most atrocious crimes in human history happened in Springfield. From here we get to the more solid theories.

The first suggests the murder was committed by a local figure, and that person could have been Reverend James Tate himself. This man knew the victim very well. In fact, she was his assistant. He knew all her secrets, including her issues with alcohol and drugs. He had her full trust. He also worked hard to get the press to stop talking about the case. When they discovered the body was Janet's, he wrote. ran to the newspapers and said,

This is the work of unscrupulous worshippers of the underscore underscore. He also claimed Springfield was being plagued by demonic forces spreading like a disease in the minds of the youth. But while his apocalyptic excuse made headlines, many pieces of evidence began to point to him. For one, the victim's body was found in the forest, which was very close to the church she attended,

and where he obviously worked. This could make us doubt that he was the killer, because if you murder someone, the last thing you want is for the body to be found near where you work. But if we remember how the body was arranged, in a religious funeral context, with crosses around it and inside an improvised coffin made of four large branches, we can't call it a satanic ritual. It looks more like a pitiful attempt to help the victim's soul reach heaven. If we also consider the rumors and gossip of that time, we might find the motive. Everything pointed to Janet, 16, having an inappropriate relationship with Reverend James Tate. Perhaps she pressured him to leave his wife, and he, refusing to do so, took her to the forest,

strangled her, and made it look like the work of a sinister satanic cult. But once again, these are only speculations, and the theory could easily be discarded. The second theory is a bit more consistent, some believe Janet was killed by a serial killer. In 1974, the Hudson Reporter newspaper reported the discovery of two bodies in Montvale, 45 minutes away from where Janet was found. These two new victims, girls the same age as Janet, had been beaten, sexually assaulted, and finally strangled. As with Janet's case, the killer was never found.

Unfortunately, this theory could also be discarded, as no evidence of sexual assault was found on Janet's body, and the way she was found had nothing to do with the other two deaths. It's worth saying that there are many theories about the case, but beyond the ones mentioned, everything starts to fall apart. If you look up information on the case, you'll see hundreds of inconsistent theories. The only real information that exists is a few newspaper clippings and the articles from Weird New Jersey, not to mention, of course, the theory everyone believes in, witchcraft. In 2012, Mark Moran once again interviewed Reverend James Tate and his son. He got absolutely nothing.

They acted as if they knew nothing about the case, as if the story had nothing to do with them. On several occasions, they became very nervous and tried to avoid many questions. Some say they were just anxious, others say they had something to hide. If you're interested, Mark Moran and Jesse Pollitt published a book in 2015 about the case, compiling all the evidence and interviews they gathered over the years. The title is, Death on the Devil's Teeth, the strange murder that shocked suburban New Jersey. If you're interested, its price on Amazon, if I recall correctly, is between $20 and $30. But now it's your turn. Who do you think killed Janet De Palma? Was it a satanic cult, a serial killer, or someone she personally knew?

The end. The story begins in the mid-20th century, in a rural area near Pyrardis, a town in the province of Seville, Spain. Don Francisco Delgado Y. Duran, a wealthy landowner, had acquired a large estate of nearly 500 hectares just four kilometers outside Paredes. The estate, which was one of the largest in the region, held great potential for agricultural production. This land was primarily used for the cultivation of various crops, such as wheat, barley, sunflower, and olives, and became a prosperous property over time. However, in 1969, tragedy struck. On January 19th of that year, Don Francisco tragically died in a car accident in Portugal. With his death, the ownership of the estate passed to his parents.

Over the years, the estate was eventually handed down to one of his daughters, Maria de Las Mercedes Delgado Y. Duran. In 1954, Mercedes married Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova W. to Pete, a man who was initially in the military but decided to leave his career in the armed forces to help manage the family's lands. He took over the administration of the large estate, particularly focusing on El Cortijo de Los Galendos, one of the wealthiest farms in the province. As the estate was vast, it required many workers to manage it. Gonzalo appointed several people to help run the property. One of them was Antonio Gutierrez-Martine, who served as the administrator of the estate. Antonio had previously

served as an officer in the military before transitioning to managing the estate. Another key figure was Manuel Zapatah, a 59-year-old foreman, who lived on the property with his wife, Juan Martin, who was 53 years old. Together, they oversaw a large number of workers, some permanent and others temporary, who worked the land or handled machinery. The estate was divided into several sections. To access the property,

one had to go through a large gate that led to the main courtyard. Surrounding the courtyard were four houses. On the right side was the house of the foreman, Manuel Zapata, and on the left was the house of the Marquez and his wife. Mercedes. Additionally, there were two large buildings in the front of the property used for storing farming equipment and machinery. Beyond the courtyard lay the fields where the agricultural work took place. Everything was relatively calm until the afternoon of July 22, 1975. The morning had been

uneventful, but as the day progressed, temperatures soared. Several workers were busy in the fields when, around 4.30 p.m., they saw a strange sight, a column of smoke rising from the direction of the buildings. This was highly unusual, as nothing in that area was ever burned due to the inherent risks. Antonio Fennet, a 36-year-old worker, decided to leave his post and investigate what was going on. When he reached the site, he opened the gate and saw that the smoke was coming from one of the storage buildings. The smoke smelled strongly of diesel fuel, and it was clear that someone had set fire to a pile of straw in the building, which was now spreading rapidly. Antonio immediately ran to the foreman's house to alert him, but despite knocking on the door

multiple times, no one responded. What was even more shocking was that Antonio noticed a trail of blood leading from the door into a room of the house. This sight was puzzling and unsettling, so he hurried to alert the others. Soon, workers from all over the estate arrived, and together they began to extinguish the fire. Meanwhile, Antonio and another worker, Antonio Escobar, rushed to the nearby Civil Guard barracks to report what was happening. The alarm was raised at 5.15 p.m., and within minutes, three civil guards arrived at the estate. As the fire was put out, they entered the foreman's

house and began to follow the trail of blood, which led them to a disturbing discovery, the lifeless body of a woman in the main bedroom. The woman was identified as Juan a Martine Messias, the wife of the foreman, Manuel Zapata. At first glance, it was clear that she had suffered a brutal beating. She had been struck multiple times with a heavy metal bar, known local as a, Padgerido, which was typically used in the threshing process. The injuries to her body were extensive, particularly around her face, which had been partially washed with water. It was clear that her death was violent, and the manner of the attack suggested that the killer had been someone close to her, perhaps a friend, a family member,

or even her husband, Manuel. However, just as the police were about to wrap up their investigation of Juana's death, those extinguishing the fire alerted them to two additional bodies found beneath the burning straw. The bodies were identified as Jose Gonzalez Jimenez, a 27-year-old tractor driver, and his wife, Asuncion Peralta Montero, a 34-year-old woman who was six months pregnant. These bodies were also badly burned, but there were additional clues suggesting foul play. Notably, a small bullet was found at the scene, though it was never investigated, leaving a significant unanswered question. The police were now faced with three bodies, and they initially believed the case might be straightforward.

Three people were dead, Juana, Jose, and Assuncione, but then another clue emerged. A trail of blood led the police to a fourth body, Ramon Perea, a 40-year-old tractor driver. Ramon had been killed in a markedly different manner than the others. He had been shot multiple times with a shotgun, first in the arms, then in the back, and finally in the head to finish him off. His body had been covered with straw, and a news had been tied around his neck, either as a finishing gesture or as a marker of where the body had been hidden. At this point, the investigation became chaotic.

The crime scene had been heavily contaminated by police, journalists, and curious onlookers. People touched everything, the weapons, the bodies, the bloodstains, and even a police officer reportedly left the scene briefly to relieve himself, which disrupted the preservation of any potential evidence. Adding to the chaos, it was reported that the police cleaned up the crime scene in anticipation of a visit from the Spanish television, further contaminating the investigation. The situation seemed out of control, and the authorities struggled to piece together what had happened. Several individuals were initially considered suspects. One of the primary suspects was Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordoba,

the Marquez, but he was ruled out quickly because he was not in the area at the time of the fire, he had been in Malaga attending a funeral. Another suspect was Antonio Gutierrez-Martine, the estate's administrator, who had been present in the morning but had left the estate by noon. Finally, there was Manuel Zapata, the foreman and husband of the first victim, Juana. He was nowhere to be found at the scene, and there were rumors that he might have had an affair with Asuncione, Jose's wife. This led to the first theory about the murders, that Jose had discovered the affair and, in a fit of rage, had decided to confront Manuel, Juana, Asuncione, and others at the estate.

The theory suggested that during this confrontation, Manuel had lost control and killed everyone, including his wife, Jose, and Asuncion. Afterward, Ramon arrived at the scene and was also murdered to ensure there were no witnesses. This explanation seemed to make sense at first, but it had serious flaws, especially the strange fact that the Marquez and the administrator were allowed to stay on the property for several days after the murders, despite the ongoing investigation. Three days later, a fifth body was discovered on the property. This body belonged to Manuel Zapata, the very man whom everyone had initially thought was the killer.

His body was found in an advanced state of decomposition, hidden under straw in an area that had already been searched. The police had reportedly overlooked this area only a few days earlier, and one officer had even urinated near the spot where the body was eventually discovered. The cause of death was consistent with the other victims, he had been beaten to death with a Pajorito, the same object used to kill Wana. The fact that Manuel was the first victim cast serious doubt on the theory that he had killed the others. It seemed increasingly unlikely that he had been the murder.

For several months, the investigation stalled. The crime scene had been so thoroughly contaminated that it became almost impossible for the police to gather any meaningful evidence. Despite their efforts, the authorities were unable to make any real progress, and they ultimately invented a theory that seemed to fit their narrative but made little sense in reality. According to this theory, Jose was the killer. Years before the murders, he had been in love with one of Manuel's daughters, but Manuel had not approved of the relationship.

From that point on, Jose had harbored a grudge against Manuel and his family. It was suggested that on the day of the murders, Jose had snapped and killed Manuel, his wife, and everyone else on the estate. This theory was problematic, though, as it made little sense that Jose would suddenly go on a killing spree, especially when he had a happy life with his pregnant wife, Asuncione. Moreover, Jose had no apparent reason to murder these people. However, the police were determined to close the case, and this was the explanation they said. settled on. In 1981, the case took an unexpected turn when a letter surfaced, dated February 18, 1976. The letter, sent to Jose Gomez Salvego, the mayor of Paredes at the time, claimed that the person responsible for the killings was not Jose, but rather someone else entirely.

The writer of the letter confessed to having killed Manuel Zapata and stated that he had been paid 10,000 Pesettas to do so. The letter also claimed that the deaths of the other victims were accidental and that they had been killed by other individuals. This revelation led to the reopening of the case, and a second autopsy was conducted by the renowned forensic expert, Dr. Antonio Medina. The new investigation brought to light new evidence and led to a surprising conclusion, the real killer was not Jose, but rather an outsider who had been hired to carry out the murder. The motive was traced back to a business dispute related to the ownership of the estate. The new investigation also revealed that the deaths of the other victims had been connected

to this larger conspiracy, and the truth behind the massacre at El Cortijo de Los Galendos was finally uncovered. The case remains one of the most chilling and complex murders in Spain's history. Hazel spends practically the entire month telling everyone about her trip to Lake George, she tells the neighbor, the family, her aunt, her parents, she tells everyone. But now is when things seem to take a turn. We begin on July 1, 1908. A group of boys who were hiking found the lifeless body of a young girl floating on the waters of teal's pond in Sand Lake, New York. The name of that girl was Hazel Drew, and she was one of the most beautiful in the entire town, blonde, blue-eyed, educated, respectful, well-dressed, she was always a beloved and cherished girl.

And no one, absolutely no one, had anything against her. But the way she was found made it clear she had been murdered. Her body was quite decomposed, on the back of her head, she had a strong blow, and since she had been in the water, her lungs were empty. So she hadn't drowned, and it didn't appear to be an accident. Years passed, and the police had many suspects, friends, neighbors, family members, many men were accused, but none of them were prosecuted. So little by little, a legend was created around the pond, a legend that said the ghost of Hazel wandered among the trees. And that legend, in the 60s, reached the years of young Mark Frost,

who in adulthood, alongside David Lynch, created the series Twin Peaks, a series based on this strange death. Hazel was born on June 3, 1888, in Poughkeepsie, New York, one of the daughters of the humble couple Julia and John Drew. As was common at the time, Hazel was not an only child. Some sources say she was the second of 13 siblings, and others say the second of seven, but either way, what we can be sure of is that the Drews were a very large family. Shortly after her birth, they moved to a small village called Sand Lake, located in New York, a land that, by the way, had a very good reputation. In the year 2000, Sand Lake had approximately 7,900 inhabitants, so we can imagine it had far fewer at the time.

It was an area mainly populated by upper-class people, lawyers, businessmen, new money, judges. However, the Druze were a working-class family. weren't poor, but they didn't have much money either. Still, they were so well-educated and respectful that all of Sand Lake adored them. They dressed well, had good manners, and had many contacts. Julia Drew, like her sister Minnie Taylor, worked as a domestic, she cleaned houses, washed clothes, ironed, and had the keys to all the houses. So when Hazel turned 13, her mother brought her into the business, first as a cleaner, and later as a governess. She first worked in the house of Thomas Hisslop, then at John Tappers, and finally ended up in

the Carrie's house, where she mainly looked after the children. It said that as she grew up, Hazel caught more and more attention from all the men. Her skin was very pale, her features fine and delicate, her hair blonde and voluminous, and her eyes an intense blue. She was educated, charming, charismatic, sweet, and knew exactly what words to use to win everyone over. So all the boys, rich or poor, fell in love with her. In 1907, when she was 19 years old, she became best friends with her mother's sister, Minnie Taylor, who at that time was 39 years old.

Minnie and Hazel apparently did everything together, they went shopping, traveled, shared secrets. But gossip said Minnie was a bad influence on young Hazel. It was said that Minnie was a prostitute and had convinced Hazel to work the streets with her. But in the end, these were just rumors, and those who knew Hazel saw her as incapable of doing something like that. She was refined, sweet, and had too much class for that life, or at least, that's what everyone believed. Over time, Hazel's parents moved to Troy, 20 minutes away from Sand Lake.

But for some reason, Hazel didn't go with them. In fact, she continued working in Sand Lake until the Carrie family called her to their house to work as a governess. Edward Carey and his wife hired Hazel as a live-in worker, meaning that from Monday to Friday, she would live with them, and Saturdays and Sundays she would be free to go wherever she wanted, to travel, see friends, or return to Sand Lake. And it's worth noting that although her salary was quite low, it was very good for the time. In 1906, Hazel became engaged to be married. She was very happy, very excited, and told everyone. But shortly after, she caught the flu, and her fiancé left her and married someone else.

This part of the story isn't very clear, we don't know if they broke up because of the illness, infidelity, or an argument. Nothing at this point is clear. But the interesting part of the story comes next. In the winter of 1907, Hazel missed work. She wrote a letter of apology saying she couldn't go because she was very ill. She didn't tell anyone what illness she had, whether it was the flu, a cold, or a toothache. For three whole weeks, she hid at her uncle William Taylor's farm.

During those three weeks, she was cared for by her older brother Joseph and his wife Eva. During that time, no one saw her go out, she didn't look out the winter. didn't walk in the fields, nothing. She just spent three weeks in bed, writing letters to friends, family, and acquaintances. And in all of them, she never specified what she was sick with. She never told anyone, at least in writing, what was happening to her. But one of her friends, Mina Jones, replied to one of the letters with the following sentence, I'm so very sorry, dear. I know exactly how to feel for you. What was Mina referring to?

Did Mina know what was happening to Hazel? What's interesting is that during those three weeks, Hazel was not visited by a doctor, her aunt Minnie, or even her parents. Three full weeks completely isolated from the world, without her parents, without a doctor, without her aunt who was supposedly her best friend. Hazel simply spent three weeks locked in a room, in bed. So rumors began to spread,

rumors will return to a bit later. As I mentioned earlier, Hazel always had very refined taste, she dressed fashionably, styled her hair, took care of herself. But something her friends often pointed out was that she seemed to live beyond her means. She ate in expensive restaurants, wore tailored clothing, traveled by train and trolley, she went to Boston, Providence, New York. A governess's salary couldn't cover all that. But her lifestyle didn't raise eyebrows until early 1908. She has been and remains a constant source of amazement to Miss Weber, her friend, for how she managed to live so well, where such elegant hats, take so many and such long trips, and enjoy so many luncheons at such expensive inns, all on a governess's salary.

New York Evening World, July 29, 1908. Obviously, all of this raised many questions, how was it possible that a girl with a normal salary could afford all that? Was she a a good saver, or did she have a double life? A double life that gave her double income? Some said she might have had two jobs. But the more twisted theories said Hazel had a rich lover who paid for all her whims. Never had a man accompanied her during all the time I was in Troy, and she told me more than once that she didn't have any lover. Really, she could make a dollar go further than any other woman I've ever seen. Carrie Weir, Hazel Drew's friend, in early May 1908, Hazel packed her bags and went to New York. What was curious about the trip was that

supposedly she went alone, she didn't go with friends or family. No one knew who she traveled with. But on May 30th that same year, Hazel took that same trip with her friend Carrie Weir. Mrs. Green, Carrie's boss, paid them for affordable lodging in a modest inn to ensure they had a nice trip. But Hazel, at the last minute, rejected the offer, canceled the reservation. and paid for more upscale lodging. This change shocked Carrie, because she knew Hazel couldn't afford it. But Hazel told her not to worry about anything, she would take care of it all. On June 1st, Hazel Drew and Carrie were returned together to Sand Lake.

On the way home, Hazel told Carrie that on the weekend of June 4, she planned to go to Lake George. She said she was very excited, that she had never been, and that she was thrilled. She spent the whole trip back talking about the wonders of her future trip, how much fun she would have, how happy she was, and especially how much she was going to miss her. Hazel spent practically the entire month telling everyone about her trip to Lake George, she told the neighbor, the family, her aunt, her parents, she told everyone. But now is when things seemed to take a turn. On July 3rd, Hazel went to see her dressmaker, Mrs. Shoemaker, and practically begged the on her knees for her to quickly make her a new blouse. She brought a special fabric, one she supposedly had just bought, and pleaded with Mrs. Shoemaker, almost in tears, to make a blouse,

for yesterday. She wanted a new blouse, wanted it now, wanted it yesterday. Her desperation reached such a point that she offered to pay all her debts and add the cost of the blouse on top. Obviously, to the dressmaker, this behavior seemed very strange. Hazel was quite, quite picky, but she had never acted this way before. She was always patient, calm, kind, and had never shown up like this. She had never demanded anything or seemed so desperate. So the woman simply accepted, quickly made the blouse, gave it to her, and said goodbye. Hazel paid all her debts and added more for the blouse. Remember that trip to Lake George Hazel was so excited about. Well, it turns out the trip never happened.

On Saturday, July 4th, in a sudden change of plans, Hazel packed her bags and went with Minnie Taylor to Troy. Apparently, she spent the whole weekend with her aunt and supposedly had a great time. On Monday, July 6th, she woke up as usual, dressed appropriately, did her hair, got ready, perfumed herself, and began working with the Carrie family's children. But when the clock struck ten, her attitude changed drastically. A governess's job is mainly to educate and instruct the children of a family, to care for their education, clothing, upbringing. But at a certain point, Mrs. Carey asked Hazel to wash the house's clothes, do the laundry, iron, clean.

Since the age of 13, Hazel had done that kind of work, cleaning houses. But at a certain point, she had stopped to take care of children. Her job was different, better paid, more respected. and maybe hearing that woman treat her like before made her feel her pride was being hurt. So the girl took off her apron, threw it on the floor, and said she quit. She didn't say anything else, just took off her apron, threw it on the ground, and said she quit. She then went to her room, packed her suitcase, and left. Between 1120 and 11.30, a girl named Mary Robinson saw Hazel Drew at Union Station in the city of Troy.

Mary said she was surprised for two reasons. First, she knew Hazel should have been working at that time, and second, the girl had a suitcase with her. This was strange because supposedly that weekend Hazel had gone to Lake George. She had spent a whole month telling everyone she would go that weekend, July 4th and 5th. She had repeated it for an entire month. And now, after traveling, she was back at the station with another suitcase. Making two in such a short time was very expensive, something a simple governess couldn't afford. So Mary approached Hazel and started talking to her. She asked me where I was going, and I told her my destination. Then I asked her where she was going, and she said, oh, down the river. That was so vague that I asked where exactly down the river, and she said, maybe as far as New York. At that moment, a train was called. Hazel went to the ticket window, bought one, and then walked to the train shed.

The only train from Union Station going down the river was the one to Albany. So two possibilities were considered, the first was that Hazel went to the city of Renssela, where supposedly some of her relatives lived. But none of them saw her that morning. So the second option was that Hazel had arranged to meet someone between Albany and Troy, someone no one else seemed to know. The girl could have boarded a train, gotten off at some station, met someone, boarded another, and returned to Union Station at 1.15 p.m., at which time she was seen without her suitcase.

At some point, Hazel had gone to the station's parcel service and paid to have her suitcase sent to her parents' home. To be continued. They don't ask the guard any questions, they don't search the car, and they don't even take his passport away. They know he works in Argentina, that he's probably heading back there soon. But not one person thinks to confiscate his passport, and this decision infuriates the family to no end. Let's rewind to May 10, 2002. A 61-year-old woman came across a scene that looked like something straight out of a crime thriller.

By the roadside, she spotted a lifeless, naked body partially covered with plants. The whole thing felt surreal, so instead of immediately calling the police, she called someone else. Together, they checked everything out again. It didn't take long before they realized they were looking at the aftermath of a crime. That's when they finally contacted the authorities, and this marked the start of a grim and disturbing case. Who was Deborah Fernandez-Servera Nara? Deborah was born in Vigo, the third of four kids in the family of Rosa Nara and Jose

Carlos Fernandez-Servera. She was the life of the party, always upbeat, unapologetically outspoken, and a big fan of dark humor and the arts. By 2002, she was wrapping up her final year in graphic art studies. Her taste in music was eclectic, to say the least. On one hand, she was a die-hard red hot chili peppers fan, but she'd just as easily binge-listened to Maria Collis rendition of Madam Butterfly. Deborah's friends and family adored her.

She was a magnet for laughter in good times, always cracking people up with her sharp wit. Some sources mention she'd been dating a guy who was seven years older for about three years by 2002, Their relationship was mostly long distance since he worked at a shrimp fishing company in Argentina. They'd meet up in Vigo during his visits, hang out often, and then he'd jet back to Argentina. They stayed connected through calls and messages, professing their love for each other and even making big plans for the future. They dreamed of living together so much so that Deborah had already started designing their future homes decor. But then came January 2002. They said their goodbyes, and he headed back to Argentina while Deborah stayed in Vigna.

to continue her studies. By February, things took a turn. Deborah started getting strange phone calls, calls from a woman in Argentina. The woman demanded to know who Deborah was to Pablo, her boyfriend. Deborah confidently said, I'm his girlfriend. But the other woman hit back, claiming that she was Pablo's real girlfriend. The argument escalated into a full-blown fight. Furious, Deborah called Pablo to confront him. That conversation marked the end of their relationship. The breakup shattered her. She'd envisioned a life with this guy, and now it was all gone. Her family and friends rallied around her, offering support.

Even so, her classmates' Iria and Gonzalo noticed something was off. In March, they recalled seeing her leave class in tears a few times. It was unusual for someone as cheerful as Deborah, but given the circumstances, it wasn't too surprising. A month earlier, she came out of class crying a few times, one classmate said. She never told me why, but something was clearly eating at her, a strange TV appearance. Fast forward to April 2002. Deborah appeared on a Galician TV show called Bravo Porlos Amigos, a matchmaking program.

Unfortunately, there's very little documentation about her appearance. A couple of videos exist online, but beyond that, not much is known. The key detail here is that shortly after the episode aired, Pablo returned to Vigo from Argentina. In the days leading up to his return, people said Deborah seemed down. On April 30th, the day Pablo was supposed to arrive, Deborah stuck to her usual routine. She got up early and went to her classes. But she left a bit earlier than usual, claiming she had stomach pains. In reality, she had an appointment at a salon called Gala, just 500 meters from her home.

Around 1.45 p.m., she bumped into a friend. By 2 p.m., she was at the salon, supposedly to get run. waxed. She wanted to look her best. When she first arrived, Deborah seemed in good spirits. But during her appointment, she got a short phone call that lasted just over a minute. That brief call was enough to change her mood completely. She left the salon at 2.45 p.m. and went back home to have lunch with her parents and two of her three siblings. The family meal that day consisted of stuffed potatoes and meatballs. According to her mom, Deborah seemed a bit sad but tried to hide it. After lunch, she retreated to her room, supposedly to work on assignments on her computer.

Back then, it was common for young people to lock themselves in their rooms to chat with friends on messenger or forums. We don't know if Deborah did this, but the idea becomes relevant later on. At around 4.30 p.m., her cousin Muria called the house. Deborah still seemed a little down. By 7 p.m., though, she left her room dressed for her usual evening walk. Normally, she'd throw on a simple track suit and sneakers, but this time was different. Witnesses said she was more dressed up than usual, wearing leggings, sneakers, a cropped sweatshirt, and a fleece jacket tied around her waist. Interestingly, the fleece had been a gift from Pablo. She told her mom she was heading toward Sammel Beach, a popular and picturesque spot in the city. Here's where things get strange,

Deborah didn't take her watch, phone, or any money. This made it clear she intended to return home after her walk. A witness later reported seeing her talking to a slightly taller guy while wearing the outfit described. Around 7.45 p.m., she ran into her cousin Nuria along the beach promenade. They spent about an hour together. According to Nuria, Deborah seemed her usual self, cheerful and normal. But Nuria found her outfit odd, noting that Deborah looked more put together than usual. She was also missing the fleece. Nouria asked if they'd be meeting up later with some friends, but Deborah declined, saying she planned to rent Amelie from the video store and watch it at home. The witness said she seemed to be waiting for someone,

possibly to meet them on foot, by car, or maybe even by bike. Unfortunately, we'll never know who she was waiting for. The morning after, by 8 a.m. the next day, Deborah's parents were worried. It wasn't like her to leave without a word, especially without her phone, watch, or money. They called everyone they could think of, friends, family, acquaintances. When no one knew anything, they went to the nearest police station. At first, the police brushed them off, assuming she was out partying or with a boyfriend. But Deborah's family knew better. Something was wrong, so they insisted until the authorities took their report.

Soon, the entire city of Vigo was mobilized. Search parties were formed, posters with Deborah's photo were plastered everywhere, and new areas were scoured daily. Under mounting pressure, the police finally began investigating. The initial theory was that Deborah had left voluntarily, maybe to meet someone. But this idea quickly fell apart when they realized she'd left home without any essentials. She had no money, no phone, and no ID. She left with nothing but the clothes on her back.

In the days that followed, the family received countless tips and supposed sightings. But none of these leads held up. Meanwhile, strange things began to surface, particularly concerning Pablo. Pablo's suspicious behavior. First, let's talk about the night Deborah disappeared. Around 11 p.m., the husband of Deborah's older sister received a bizarre phone call. He was home alone watching a soccer match when Pablo called out of the blue. Pablo asked repeatedly if he knew anything about Deborah, where she was, what she was doing,

or how to find her. The man was baffled. For one, he had no information to share. And second, his relationship with Pablo was more casual than anything else. They weren't close friends, so this call felt out of place. When he said he didn't know anything, Pablo started asking what he was doing. The entire interaction left him unsettled. Second, when Deborah's family gathered to discuss her disappearance, someone referred to her in the past tense.

This detail came to light in a documentary by La Sexta, where Deborah's brother shared that someone, possibly Pablo, slipped up and said things like, I loved her. This alarmed the family because, at that point, there was no confirmation that Deborah was dead. Third, Pablo's behavior took another odd turn when he asked to stay overnight at the home of Deborah's older sister. He claimed he was distraught and had nowhere else to go. Out of compassion, she let him stay.

But that night, he casually mentioned hooking up with another woman just days earlier. The comment was inappropriate and unsettling, considering how much Deborah had cared for. him. Finally, there was the infamous story Pablo shared about his car. He claimed that while parked near Vigo's port, a security guard told him his car smelled like something had died inside. Pablo said he'd forgotten a box of shrimp in the trunk, which had rotted and caused the stench. Instead of throwing the shrimp away, he supposedly took them to a cafe to see if they could still be used. The family found this story bizarre and disrespectful given the circumstances. Talking about a smell of death, while Deborah was missing was beyond incensed.

The investigation. On May 9, 2002, the police finally interrogated Pablo and collected his DNA. However, they didn't question the parking lot guard, search Pablo's car, or seize his passport. This oversight outraged Deborah's family. They knew Pablo was likely to return to Argentina soon, and without his passport being confiscated, they feared he'd slip away, possibly for good. And that's exactly what happened. The mystery of Deborah Fernandez, a story that won't rest, On May 10, 2002, something strange happened just 40 kilometers outside Vigo. A woman made a chilling discovery on the side of a rural road in O'Rosel. At first glance, it seemed to be just a doll, its private areas carefully covered with leaves,

as if someone had deliberately staged the scene. It was so meticulously arranged that it looked like a shot straight out of a movie. At first, the woman thought it couldn't be real. It had to be a doll, right? But soon, reality hit her. What she was looking at wasn't a doll, it was a human body. Horrified, she immediately called the authorities. That moment set off a chain of events that would turn this case into one of Galicia's most

perplexing and chilling mysteries. Every TV station seemed to have its own spin on the story. Some reported that the body showed signs of violence, a disfigured face, and bruises everywhere. Others claimed the official story was the opposite, with no such evidence. The scene was so bizarre it was almost incomprehensible. It can be broken into two main parts, the crime scene itself and what was later uncovered during the autopsy. Let's start with the crime scene.

A grim discovery, the body, belonging to 21-year-old Deborah Fernandez, was completely naked, with leaves carefully placed over her private areas. Underneath her body, investigators found a strange detail, a piece of thread or tape. Nearby lay a used condom, which contained two different DNA profiles, one male and one female. Here's where things got weird, the female DNA didn't match Deborah's, and the male DNA wasn't in any police database. It quickly became clear that the condom had likely been planted there to throw investigators off. The autopsy, more questions than answers, then came the autopsy, which added even more layers to this baffling case. Unusual marks, experts noted peculiar markings on Deborah's body.

On her left leg, near the knee, there were pale, hook-shaped impressions. Similar pale areas were found under her armpit and on the insides of both thighs, two narrow bands, about one centimeter wide. At first, these looked like signs of aggression. But upon closer examination, they turned out to be marks left by her clothing. This indicated that Deborah had been dressed for several hours after her death before being stripped. Her last meal, the contents of Deborah's stomach also raised eyebrows. On April 30th, just days before her death, she had shared a meal of stuff. potatoes and meatballs with her family. But during the autopsy, none of this food was found

in her stomach. Instead, they discovered traces of acidic fluids and leafy greens, vegetables like spinach or charred. This confirmed that Deborah had eaten again shortly before her death. Evidence of semen, despite there being no signs of sexual assault or struggle, seamen was found in Deborah's intimate areas. What was especially disturbing was that some sperm cells were still alive, suggesting that this substance had been placed there shortly before the body was abandoned. Even more puzzling. The male DNA in the seaman didn't match the DNA from the condom found at the scene. That meant there were at least three unknown DNA profiles connected to the case, one female and two male.

Body preservation. Deborah had been dead for seven days when her body was discovered, yet it was clear she had been kept in a cool, clean environment during that time. Her body had been washed meticulously, almost as if someone was trying to erase it. evidence. Because of death, determining how Deborah died was the most complicated part of the autopsy. The pathologists presented two possibilities, sudden cardiac arrest or asphyxiation by suffocation. Authorities initially accepted the sudden death explanation, but Deborah's family refused to believe it. She was a healthy, active young woman who didn't smoke, drink, or have any underlying health issues. A sudden cardiac event made no sense to them.

They pushed for the second possibility, that someone had intentionally ended her life and staged the scene afterward. A suspicious ex-boyfriend, as the investigation unfolded, one name appeared over 200 times in a case file, Pablo, Deborah's ex-boyfriend. From the start, he was considered suspicious, but there wasn't enough hard evidence to connect him to the crime. Nothing tied him to the scene, and arresting him without concrete proof wasn't an option. However, his behavior during the timeline of Deborah's disappearance raised plenty of questions. Here's what investigators pieced together. On April 30th, Pablo had returned to Spain. That afternoon, while Deborah was at a hair salon, she received a brief, unexpected phone call that seemed to change her demeanor entirely. Police traced the call back to Pablo.

Initially, he denied making it. But when confronted with the evidence, he admitted to it, claiming it was a short, meaningless conversation. Around 4.30 p.m. that same day, Pablo reportedly asked a friend to drop him off at an internet cafe. What he did there remains unknown, but some speculate he might have used Messenger to chat with Deborah and possibly arranged to meet her later. By 8.40 p.m., Pablo claimed he was driving to a football game at the club de Campo. However, Deborah was last seen around that same time near the Matadero curve. Oddly, Pablo called his gym at 8.50 p.m., saying he'd left his watch behind. Witnesses confirmed he arrived late to the game, around 9.10 p.m., even though it was supposed to start at 9 p.m. Later that night, Deborah was

seen renting a movie at a video store near Pablo's house. Her demeanor appeared normal, but this was the last time anyone saw her alive. Pablo's timeline was riddled with inconsistencies. He initially claimed he'd gone straight home after the game to shower and retrieve his watch. But in 2006, he changed his story, saying his parents weren't home that night. By 2010, he was contradicting himself again, offering yet another version of events. One of the most suspicious details was the presence of a deep freezer at Pablo's parents' house. Deborah's body had clearly been stored somewhere cold for seven days, and this freezer seemed like a plausible location.

Yet when investigators searched for it, the freezer had mysteriously disappeared. A flawed investigation. Unfortunately, the investigation into Deborah's death was plagued by missteps from the beginning. Back in 2002, Galicia didn't have a dedicated homicide unit, so the case bounced between the Civil Guard, the National Police, and eventually the central authorities in Madrid. Critical information was lost along the way. Key opportunities were missed, no one checked security cameras in the area. Witnesses weren't thoroughly interviewed. Deborah's computer wasn't analyzed, leaving gaps in understanding her communications.

Frustrated by the lack of progress, Deborah's family took matters into their own hands. They launched a Facebook page, Justice for Deborah, to gather tips from the public. Over the years, they received numerous leads that kept the case alive. Connections to another tragedy, in 2016, the murder of Diana Keir, a young woman from the same region, brought Deborah's case back into the spotlight. Police investigated whether Diana's killer, Enrique Abouin, could be linked to Deborah's death. Although no connection was found, the renewed attention helped pressure authorities to reopen Deborah's case in 2021. New evidence, old suspicions. On May 18, 2021, Deborah's body was exhumed to search for new evidence.

Despite years of degradation, investigators discovered two intriguing clues. Fibers from a blanket suggested she had been kept somewhere specific after her death. A tiny strand of hair, too small for traditional DNA testing, was analyzed using advanced techniques. It belonged to an unidentified man. That same year, Deborah's hard drive was finally handed over to a specialized lab, nearly two decades after her death. 30 volunteers also provided DNA samples to aid the investigation. A race against time. In 2022, the case faced a grim deadline.

The statute of limitations was about to expire. On March 11, Pablo was called in for questioning as an official suspect. While he denied involvement, he once again offered a new version of events, one that conflicted with his previous statements. Deborah's family, especially their lawyer Ramon Amoido, criticized the handling of the case. They felt authorities were rushing to close it without properly examining all the evidence. Ramon expressed his frustration on mine, saying,

if you have someone accused of murder, you interrogate them thoroughly. You challenge their contradictions. You dismantle their lies. Will Deborah's case ever be solved? Today, Deborah's story remains an open wound for her family and a haunting mystery for those who followed the case. Despite new leads and technologies, justice still feels agonizingly. out of reach. What do you think? Will this year finally bring closure to the case of Deborah Fernandez? Or will it remain one of Galicia's unsolved tragedies, forever shrouded in mystery? We begin.

In this world there are a multitude of mysteries that have not been answered over the years. A clear example of this was the case of the Istal woman, whose death left the world with countless questions. Who was she really? A woman of high status? A spy. Why was no one ever able to discover her identity? And it is a very similar topic that we will talk about today, about a man who left his mark on the world by becoming one of the greatest enigmas in history. But let's set the scene, after the terrible events that struck the United States on September 11, 2001, prejudice deepened more than ever, and the fear of the other grew exponentially.

The country began to take a series of measures, and any immigrant could be suspected of being part of a terrorist cell. Precautions and security measures were heightened, and fear inevitably became the daily life of many. However, in the midst of fear and absolute chaos, a person emerged who would mark a before and after in the country's history, Lyle Stevik. This story begins just three days after the aforementioned attacks, specifically on Friday, September 14th, 2001. Lyle Stevik, a pleasant young man between 20 and 30 years old, booked a hotel room facing Lake Quinault, Washington. It was a very popular place among young people in that age range, as it was ideal for outdoor activities such as hiking or fishing. The young man, of

Canadian accent, from the first moment seemed cheerful and positive for having arrived at such a splendid place. He displayed the typical attitude of a young man his age, the very reflection of the old plaque that rests at the entrance of the Lake Quinault Hotel, welcome. The surfs up. Life is good. At that time, the building was designed to accommodate large groups of tourists. In fact, since its construction in the 1960s, it had been designed to host a few families on weekend getaways. Therefore, it only had six rooms in the main complex and two more in an annex building. In addition, it only cost $50 to spend the night there, making it one of the cheapest hotels in the area, and, of course, a draw for students in the year 2000 to 2001.

Lintin was still a family-run business. In fact, all members of the same family worked there and tried to share that spirit of unity with all their guests. Barbara, affectionately called Aunt Barb, was in charge of reception, while her nephew Gabriel was the owner of the hotel and the souvenir shop. Barbara was the one who attended to Lyle Stevik that Friday, September 14th. He was looking for a quiet room. She spoke with him, had him write down his information in the registration book, and charged him in cash. After that, she handed him the key to his room, located at the far end of the hotel, and also offered him a tourist map of the area and informed him about room service. Lyle seemed like a charming young man and was grateful for every word that came from Aunt Barb's lips.

However, he also seemed to be in a hurry to get to the room he had been assigned. So, the woman didn't want to hold him up any longer and let him go on his way. That's when strange things began to happen. Approximately 60 minutes after entering the assigned room, young Lyle returned to reception. Nothing was left of the charming young man who had been there minutes earlier. He was now a different person and very upset. He was waving his hands while shouting and complaining that the area behind the assigned bedroom was very noisy. The young man swore over and over that he heard screams and banging everywhere and that this, rather than a pleasant getaway, felt like an incursion into hell itself.

Aunt Barb found this statement very odd, as she had never received a complaint like that before. Generally, Lake Quinalt was a very quiet place. However, the customer is always right, so without asking many questions, she gave him the key to another room, this time, room number five, located right in the center. of the main building. Once the young man left for his new room, Aunt Barb went to the room he had just vacated, intending to resolve the noise problem. But there was no sign of the ruckus the young man claimed to have heard. The only thing she found was the usual quiet room, a double bed, a glass dresser at its foot, simple furniture, an old and dusty carpet, and yellowed curtains darkened by the smoke of past guests. Lyle Stevik was in contact with the hotel staff

during the three days of his stay. The first encounter was face to face with the receptionist, a total of two times on Friday, September 14th. The second was on Saturday, the 15th, when he exchanged words with Maricella, a member of the hotel's housekeeping staff. The reason was that Lyle called reception and requested extra towels.

The third and last occasion was Sunday the 16th. This time, Maricela knocked on the door of room number five and was answered by a voice, someone from inside who absolutely refused to allow her to enter the room, even for cleaning. So, the woman had no choice but to leave. On Monday, September 17th, Maricella was sent again to the room of that strange guest. However, after knocking several times, she received no answer. It was already almost noon, so the checkout time had passed. All the guests had already left, but there was no sign of Lyle Stevik.

Since it was the only occupied room, Maricella decided to try again and again until she got a response. But no matter how many times she knocked, there was no reply. Finally, she decided to open the door cautiously. And there, in a corner of the room, was the young man, his back to the door, head tilted back and looking upwards. Do you remember the extra towels Lyle requested on Saturday the 15th? Maricella found two of them spread out on the wooden table and the remaining three carefully placed on a chair. Analyzing the scene, the employee thought the young man was praying. So, she apologized for the intrusion and quickly closed the door.

Still, that surreal scene made her suspect something was wrong. The man had not moved an inch, not even said a word, and during the previous days, he had at least been able to speak through the door. So she immediately called Gabriel, the hotel owner, and informed him of what had happened. The man immediately took charge of the matter and cautiously went to room number five to demand an explanation from the sinister guest. But once again, he got no response, neither from knocking on the door nor from entering the room. Lyle didn't even flinch. Gabriel found the same silence and the same chilling scene as Maricella. At first glance, Lyle appeared to be in a posture. similar to someone silently crying out to the heavens.

Still, there was something very strange about his posture, his arms hung down, his fingers were relaxed, and his pants hung loosely from his thin waist. That's when Gabriel approached the strange figure and understood everything. He could see the belt tied around Lyle's neck and fastened to the coat rack hanging on the wall. His knees didn't even touch the floor,

and he had no pulse. Lyle Stevich had hanged himself. The scene couldn't have been more grim. On the nightstand was a folded card with the words for the room written on it. Inside were $820 bills, more than enough to pay for each of the nights he had stayed there, including a generous tip. Immediately, and with a trembling pulse, he called 911, and both the police and paramedics arrived within minutes.

However, this case would not be resolved so easily. When Detective Lane Humans entered the room, he placed his coffee cup on the nightstand and carefully analyzed the scene. Lyle was still hanging in that corner with the belt around his neck. Dozens of photos were taken, and through these, a map of the room and the arrangement of all the elements involved in the enigmatic suicide was created. The bedspread had been removed from the mattress and placed over the only window in the room. Hangers were scattered across the floor.

The bathroom door was ajar, and its light was still on. pillows had been placed between the wardrobe and the wall on both sides. The reason for this? Lyle likely assumed he might instinctively struggle for his life in his final moments and had built this makeshift barrier to muffle any sound. His suicide was true torture. The coat rack from which the belt hum was very low, so until he came face to face with death, he had to resist the urge to place his feet on the ground while slowly suffocating. In one of the back pockets of his pants, they found $5.20 bills. Inside a drawer on the nightstand were a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush, and on the bed's

headboard was a Bible left by the hotel in each room. Inside this Bible, police found a key clue that would shed some light on the investigation. There was a bookmark placed between pages 1050 and 1051, where the first passage read the following, I am he that liveeth, and was dead, and, behold, I am alive forevermore. Among many other items such as a newspaper and an empty glass found in the trash bin, there was a crumpled piece of paper on which the word suicide was clearly written in capital letters. Comparing the handwriting on that note with the one in the hotel's registration book, Detective Humans reached a firm conclusion. The person who wrote both was the same.

Considering the subject wore good clothing and had hands showing no signs of heavy labor, he assumed that Lyle Stevik had been raised in an upper middle class family. At this point, the only thing left to discover was the identity of the mysterious guest. However, he carried no identification, no bank card, no driver's license, and certainly no passport. So they turned to the address he had written in the registration book. But it was fake, it belonged to another hotel, the best western in Meridian, Idaho, where, of course, no one recognized him. Police began searching for anyone who could identify the young man, but there were no leads. No one reported the disappearance of a man with his characteristics.

No one asked about him at any train stations. Nothing. Suspecting that, Lyle Stevich was a false name, the police analyzed his DNA and fingerprints to compare them in all databases. But guess what? There was no match. Lyle Stevick was nowhere, not in any data. database, phone directory, census, or voter registration. He simply did not exist. On Wednesday,

September 19th, Dr. Daniel Dill, the medical examiner, analyzed Lyle's corpse and wrote the following, his hands had small wounds, he had an old scar indicating his appendix had been removed, he was circumcised and had lost a large amount of weight in a very short time, approximately 18 kilograms. But the rest of his body was a blank canvas. He had no tattoos or birthmarks. He was in perfect health, didn't smoke, and was sober when he hanged himself. His teeth were in good condition, and he had had a total of four teeth extracted, two upper premolars and two lower ones, likely to make space for an expensive orthodontic treatment.

His ethnicity could not be determined. Stevik had fair skin but could have been Native American or Hispanic, as he had black hair and hazel eyes. The coroner's office also suggested he might have African ancestry. But whoever he was, wherever he came from, he became a mystery no one could solve, a mystery buried in an unmarked grave at Fernhill Cemetery. No one attended his funeral. In fact, no funeral was held, as no one could afford it.

Years passed, and the investigation into the identity of Lyle Stevik was swallowed by the earth, until 2006, when the case appeared online and hundreds of amateur sleuths began to investigate the available evidence. That's when many theories began to emerge, among which the following stood out. The first was a comparison to the 1987 novel You Must Remember This by Joyce Carol Oates. In that book, a 15-year-old boy falls madly in love with his uncle, a professional boxer. But his father, named Lyle Stevik, upon discovering this fact, falls into depression and hangs himself in the loneliness of his own home. Could the mysterious suicide victim have wanted to

emulate this death in every sense? The second theory suggests the man may have lost a loved one in the 9-11 attacks, which led him to commit suicide in a way that no one would ever discover his true identity. Within this theory, there's another that points to Stevik possibly being directly involved in the attacks, thus, a terrorist. I always saw him on the corner of 7th and Morris Street behind the minymart. He was always hanging with the other delinquents, as my mother called them, she was always worried about me as we didn't live in the best part of town and the crime rate was really high. For that reason, I always had to be walked to and from school by the meanest jock Henry Davis. We've known each other since kindergarten he seemed like a great guy until high

school, and just like any other day I was being walked like a dog back home. Tara, why do you always walk so fast when we talk home, because I don't ever get one day where I can walk and think to myself alone. One day is all I want is one damn day alone. I yelled knowing it would make his blood boil, but I wasn't expecting his anger to be this violent. He backed me into the wall. He had a good foot over me so he hovered over me like I was a child getting scolded by their parent. You don't get to talk to me like that. I'm the only reason you haven't been kidnapped or murdered. Not like anyone would miss you anyway, Henry stop you scaring me. I whimpered with tears in my eyes.

Do you think I care? I tried pushing him away so I could run, but he pushed me back into the wall slightly knocking the wind out of my lungs. I shut my eyes bracing to get slapped, but nothing. I opened it to find the guy behind the mini-mark pushing Henry away from me. My heart started pounding, I didn't see him while we were walking. Who raised the hell raised you? You never hit a woman, why do you care? You're just a dirty delinquent.

Henry said spitting at him. Henry pushed the boy and attempted to swing on him, but he missed only getting punched by Minimart boy knocking Henry to the ground dazed. I looked on with amazement. I couldn't believe my eyes someone actually took him down a notch. While being in complete shock he Minimart walked closer to me. Hey, are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he? He pushed me into the wall a little hard, but I'm fine thanks to you.

I smile being completely nervous. I'm Jordan, Jordan Poole, Tara, Tara Mason. My heart was about to explode his short chestnut hair barely touching his brow. He hard-worn dark brown amber eyes that glistened in the sun almost like a magic gem. I know we just met, but could I walk you home? Sure I'd love that. Anything sounds than walking with him ever. again. I glanced over at Henry with pure disgust. He put his leather jacket on my shoulders it smelled like motor oil and pine a strange smell that I couldn't help but fall in love with I didn't want the walk to end, but unfortunately we got to my house. So this is your place? Yeah, it's not much, but it's home. Hey, I know we just met, but I want you to meet my mother. I don't know mothers

don't normally like me, please. I begged, knowing my puppy dog eyes would get her. him, they always got me out of trouble before. He looked at me and smiled like he had something planned from the start. Fine on one condition. What's that? You and I go on a date on Friday at 7.30 p.m. I'll pick you up. I was in complete amazement they guy I've stared at for almost a year asking me on a date must be dreaming. Deal. I said feeling my face burst into a full cherry red. Perfect. We walked up the apartment steps I could smell my mom's award-winning pasta sauce. It was a rarity when she made it since it would take her all day to make it. Hey, Mom, I brought a friend over. Is that all right? That's fine. Just wash up and set the table. We washed you and set the table we all sat down the look on her face when I introduced her to Jordan was a pure shock I knew she didn't approve of me hanging with him, but he bark was bigger than his bite. I have seen it up close. So how was school? It was great until the walk home. What? What? happened. Henry got mad at me for defending myself so he pushed me into a wall and was about to hit

me, but Jordan here stopped him. I could feel the anger radiate from her. I haven't seen her this anger in a while. To be honest, it scared me but she collected herself. Thank you for protecting my baby. I'm forever grateful. Actually, Mrs. Mason, if it was all right with you, I'd feel better if I walked with Tara. I live only a few blocks so it wouldn't be a bother to me. My mother thought about it for a minute, him being a complete stranger and only him for a mere 15 minutes, she nodded still in shock and anger about the news with Henry. We finished with dinner and cleared the table and I walked Jordan outside. I tried handing him his jacket, but he just smiled. Hold on to hit it's going to be chilly tomorrow, so wear it. He walked off the porch steps my arms clutching his jacket the

smile on my face never faded that night. The entire night all I could think about was him, I've never had my heart beat so fast, not like this. I drape his jacket on the corner of my bedpost and I lay down trying to sleep, but my mind kept racing thinking of today. I grabbed his jacket and laid it next to me the smell was intoxicating the smell wrapped me in a blanket of comfort. I eventually drifted off to sleep finding myself in fantasy land. My alarm wakes me I can hear my mother yelling that breakfast is ready. I jump out of bed eat and get ready. I hear a knock on the door. I eagerly open it to find Jordan, I tell my mother I loved her and headed out the door. Jordan grabbed my books the first part of the walk was quiet and I was so nervous I needed to say

something but the words were stuck. I took a deep breath and relaxed. You got this I thought to myself. My self-esteem wasn't the greatest, but I needed not to be awkward. Thank you for stopping Henry, that stupid jerk. No problem, no man should never lay hands on a woman for any reason. I'm finally free. I'm so relieved I never have to walk with him again. Why walk with him anyway? We grew up together. My mom trusted him.

Before we knew it we were at school he walked me to my locker. I handed him his jacket. I watched as he slipped at one, looking at him like I was crazy, he smirked. Meet me outside after school. They'll walk you home. I also would like you to meet my friends if you are up to it. Don't be late. I winked.

School went slowly I deep pass him through the halls. I'm sure he could see. see me turning red. I couldn't help it. He was like this. I couldn't help but stare at the clock waiting for the bell to ring. The day ticks away the bell rings. I rush to my locker. I put my books away and make my way to the courtyard. I felt someone grabbed my wrist. I let out a small scream that turned into laughter it was Jordan. He smiled. Did I scare you? A little but only because I wasn't expecting it. I didn't hurt you, did I? No, of course not. Good, come with me. He grabbed my hand and I followed him to the edge of the football field close to the woods. He introduced me to his friends,

Thomas Mayfield, Danielle Harbor, and Artie Robbins they had clearly been friends since childhood. Everyone This is Tara. Mary Loran Venom was born on April 16th, 1864, in Midford, Iroquois County, Illinois. She was one of the daughters of Eurinda Jane Smith and Thomas Jefferson Venom. The Venoms were a deeply devout Christian family, and between the years 1857 and 1874, they had a total of seven children. Tragically, only four of these children survived to adulthood. When Luron, affectionately nicknamed Rancy, was born, the family was on the move. They relocated several times, but by the time she was seven years old,

they finally settled on a farm about 11 kilometers south of Watshaca. By all accounts, Ransy was a healthy child, which was notable considering the high mortality rates of the time. In fact, the only recorded illness she experienced was a mild bout of measles in 18. Aside from that, she never caught a cold, the flu, or even ran a fever. She was an unusually strong and active little girl, always bounding down the stairs, running, jumping, and laughing. She loved sharing secrets with her older sister, Florence Isabel.

Luron had a strong personality. She was stubborn but also fun-loving and cheerful, always eager to help with household chores. She embodied the Venom family values, respectability, helpfulness, and a cheerful demeanor. The Venoms were highly regarded in their community. Their last name, Venom, wasn't particularly common, but it carried weight in the region. Thomas Venom's grandfather was among the first settlers in the area, and his brothers played significant roles in the community, one founded the first local bank, and another became the town's mayor.

They weren't the wealthiest family, but their names symbolized dignity and honor, and their children were expected to uphold these values. Life seemed idyllic for the Venoms. The children were well-behaved and polite, and everything seemed to be going perfectly. That was until Luron turned 13. Just three months after her birthday, things took a disturbing turn. The morning of July 6, 1877, started like any other, but it quickly turned into a nightmare. Rancy woke up screaming, terrified, and begging for help.

She cried out for someone to check her room, insisting that there had been people in there the night before. She kept repeating, they were calling my name, Rancy, Rancy. I could feel their breath on my face. Her family rushed to her side and tried to calm her down. She was just 13, a young girl with a vivid imagination. They thought it must have been a bad dream, so they reassured her, hugged her, and dismissed it as a one-time occurrence. But a week later, the nightmare repeated itself, only this time, it was even more unsettling.

Ransy was in the dining room with her mother, working on a rug together. Out of nowhere, she touched her head, stood up, and said, Ma, I don't feel well. I feel really strange. Seconds later, her body stiffened, and she collapsed unconscious. For five hours, no one could wake her. She seemed completely lifeless, her body unmoving, her breathing shallow. Then, as suddenly as it had started, her eyes fluttered open, and she came to.

To her family's shock. she had no memory of what had happened. She didn't remember feeling unwell, fainting, or even sitting with her mother moments before. The family brushed it off as an isolated incident, but it wasn't long before it happened again, and again. Ransy's episodes became more frequent and more alarming. One moment, she'd be playing and laughing, and the next, her body would go rigid, her eyes rolling back as she collapsed to the floor.

There were no convulsions, no signs of epilepsy, just an eerie stillness. Her pulse would slow to the point where it was barely detectable, and her skin would grow cold. Each time, she seemed to be on the brink of death. At first, her family thought it might be a form of narcolepsy, but her condition didn't fit the symptoms. Over time, the episodes evolved. Initially, she would simply collapse and lie still, but soon her lips began to move. At first, it was just sounds, then words, and eventually full sentences. During these episodes, she would cry out about intense stumbus.

pains, sobbing and lamenting as if she were in agony. She also began describing strange visions, claiming she could see angelic beings. She would detail what she saw and felt, and these episodes sometimes lasted up to eight hours. The Venoms, being a respected family, had connections to various professionals. They sought the help of two renowned doctors, Dr. L. N. Patwood and Dr. Jett, both of whom had years of experience. But despite numerous tests, neither could find anything wrong with her. Physically, she was in perfect health, and mentally, she seemed sound when she wasn't having an episode. The doctors recommended sending her to the Illinois State Hospital for the Insane, also known as the Peoria State Hospital. The Venoms, however, were adamantly

opposed to this idea. For one, they had heard horror stories about the asylum's extreme treatments, which included isolation and what they considered torture. They couldn't bear the thought of subjecting their daughter to such conditions. Secondly, Rancy was still a cheerful, normal-seeming girl outside of her episodes. To them, she wasn't insane, just afflicted by something they didn't understand. Lastly, sending her to the asylum would tarnish the Venom name. They couldn't risk their hard-earned reputation. But as time passed, Rancy's condition worsened.

Her episodes became more vivid and disturbing. She began describing shadowy figures that followed her around the house. She'd vividly narrate her experiences, detailing places she had never visited and even speaking languages she had never learned. Her voice, demeanor, and personality would shift dramatically, as though she were a completely different person. After waking from these trances, she'd sometimes carry over the emotions of the episode, waking happy if she'd been joyful in the trance or enraged if she'd been angry.

The Venom still refused to send her to the asylum, clinging to the hope that this was something temporary. They turned to their faith, and the Reverend B. M. Baker, a Methodist minister in Watseka, offered to pray with the family. But after seeing Ransy's condition firsthand, he took matters into his own hands. Without consulting the Venoms, he wrote to the hospital, describing Ransy's episodes and requesting a spot for her after Christmas. When the hospital accepted, he informed the family, insisting that this was the best course

of action. Reluctantly, they agreed, but only on the condition that if Rancy improved by Christmas, she wouldn't have to go. The Venoms shared their decision with a few close friends, believing they could trust them to keep it private. But the story was too sensational to stay quiet. Gossip spread like wildfire, and soon the entire town was talking about the cursed Venom girl. In 1877, a story like this was the talk of the town, and opinions were sharply divided. Some believed Rancy was mentally ill and needed help, while others were convinced she had a spiritual gift. Spiritualism was at its peak, and many locals believed she was a medium.

One day, a couple named Asa and Mary Roth knocked on the Venom's door. The Roths were well-respected members of the community, known for their successful shoe business. But behind closed doors, they were devout spiritualists, something few people knew. The Roths had their own tragic story. Twelve years earlier, they had lost their daughter, Mary Roth, to what they believed was a similar a condition. Mary had experienced episodes just like Rancies, fainting spells, trances, and strange voices. At the time, the Roffs had listened to doctors and sent Mary to the asylum, where she ultimately died. They were determined not to let the same fate befall Rancy. The Roffs insisted

that Rancy wasn't sick, but rather a medium. They believed her episodes were the result of spirits trying to communicate through her. They urged the Venums to consult a spiritualist doctor rather than sent her to the asylum. Desperate for answers, the Venoms agreed and contacted Drive E. Winchester Stevens, a physician and spiritualist from Janesville, Wisconsin. After the holidays, the Venoms canceled Rancy's spot at the hospital and invited Dr. Stevens to evaluate her. Over several sessions, he observed her behavior and conducted experiments.

His conclusion. Rancy was indeed a medium. He believed her trances allowed spirits to use her body as a vessel to communicate. To explore this further, he hypnotized her and recorded the results. On January 31st, 1878, Dr. Stevens conducted a session in front of the Venoms and the Roffs. Rancie was placed near a stove to keep warm and slowly guided into a trance. As her body relaxed, strange voices began to emerge from her throat. Some were male, others female, and they overlapped in a chaotic jumble.

Among them, one voice stood out, a woman who identified herself as Katrina Hogan. Katrina claimed to be 63 years old, filled with anger and bitterness. After her, another voice took over, a man named Willie Gunning. Willie said he was from Watseka, that his father had abused him, and that he had run away, only to fall into bad company and meet a tragic end. These sessions continued, each one more bizarre than the last. Ransy spoke in voices that didn't belong to her, told stories of people long dead, and revealed details she couldn't possibly have known.

The Venoms, once skeptical, began to wonder if the wrong. and the spiritualists were right. Could their daughter truly be a medium, caught between the physical and spiritual worlds? The story of Mary Loran Venom became the talk of the town and beyond. Dr. Stevens published his findings in various journals, including the religio-philosophical journal, and wrote a book titled The What Seca Wonder, a narrative of the surprising phenomena that occurred in the case of Mary-Lauron Venom. The Venoms faced a choice, cling to their traditional beliefs and risk losing their daughter or embrace the spiritualist explanation and see where it led.

Regardless of the truth, one thing was clear, Rancy's story was far from over. The story begins with a strange turn of events. In a small, quiet town, a girl named Lurency Venom was at the center of something that defied explanation. Her voice, usually her own, suddenly changed one day to that of a man named Willie Gunning. Willie, as he introduced himself, claimed he was from Watseka and started recounting his tragic life. He talked about how his father used to beat him, how he ran away from home, got caught up with bad people, and eventually lost his life. This strange conversation went on

for about an hour and a half, leaving everyone in the room baffled. After the session, Lurency seemed to relax, and Dr. Stevens Naseb, Roth, a family friend, decided to step out for a moment to give the family some privacy. While alone with her parents, Lurancy's body suddenly went rigid. Her temperature dropped dramatically, alarming her parents. who quickly called for the doctor to come back. When Dr. Stevens and Asa returned, they immediately noticed that something was very wrong. It became clear that Lurancy's body was being controlled by some unseen force. Dr. Stevens held her arms gently but firmly and began asking questions.

This time, the voice that came out of Lurancy was calm and sweet. She spoke about Willie and another spirit named Katrina, saying they had both left and were now at peace in heaven. She assured everyone that no evil spirits would take control of her again. When Dr. Stevens asked if she could allow pure and kind spirits to come through, Lurancy began listing names. These were names of family members, neighbors, and even people she had never met before. The most shocking name she mentioned was Mary Roth. Everyone froze when they heard Mary's name. Asa B. Roth, standing there in stunned silence, knew exactly who Mary was. She had been his daughter.

Mary had passed away years ago, but it seemed she wanted to communicate through Lurancy. This was the moment when everything changed, and the story of Mary Roth began to intertwine with Lurancy's life. Mary Roth was born on October 8, 1846, in Warren County, Indiana. Her family moved to Middletport when she was a baby, and life seemed normal enough. But when Mary was just six months old, she had a mysterious seizure. Her parents were terrified but hopeful that it was a one-time event. Unfortunately, the seizures became a recurring nightmare, happening every three to five weeks for years. By the time Mary turned ten, the episodes became even more severe. They no longer lasted hours but stretched into days. During these episodes, Mary would become rigid,

her temperature would plummet, and she'd be unresponsive for long stretches of time. Despite her struggles, Mary was a bright and talented girl. She loved literature, art, poetry, and music, excelling at the piano and impressing everyone with her intelligence and calm demeanor. She was known for her gentle and peaceful nature. But her worsening condition disrupted her education and daily life. One moment, she'd be laughing and playing, and the next, she'd collapse into an unresponsive state. Desperate for answers, the Rofs consulted every expert they could find. Eventually, they decided to send Mary to the Peoria Hospital, which was known for its innovative

treatments. These so-called treatments included ice baths, scalding water baths, and shock therapy, methods that were seen as cutting edge at the time but were, in reality, incredibly damaging. Mary's time at the hospital was devastating. She stopped eating, lost a significant amount of weight, and sank into a deep depression. Feeling isolated and misunderstood, she attempted to take her own life on July 16, 1864. Her parents happened to visit her that very day and found her just in time. Although she had lost a lot of blood, doctors managed to save her. However, Mary's despair only deepened. She became increasingly violent, lashing out at anyone who came near her.

For five days, she was in a delirious state, weak from blood loss, but filled with rage. Eventually, Mary fell into a deep, 15-hour sleep. When she woke up, she discovered she couldn't see. The Roths bandaged her eyes to prevent her from further harming herself. But something strange happened. With her eyes covered, Mary claimed she could see better, not with her physical eyes, but with some other sense. She began demonstrating abilities that stunned everyone around her.

Mary requested an encyclopedia, opened it to a random page, and traced her finger over the words. With her eyes still covered, she read aloud, accurately pronouncing every word. Skeptical, her father and the doctors tested her further. They handed her letters from friends, and Mary read them flawlessly, even describing the handwriting. To ensure there was no trickery, they gave her letters that weren't addressed to her. Mary immediately recognized they weren't hers and angrily threw them to the floor. Word of Mary's abilities spread quickly. People in Watseka began to believe she was a medium, someone who could communicate with

spirits. The Roth's, initially skeptical, started to believe it too. But the newfound attention brought scrutiny. authorities, including police, doctors, and religious leaders, pressured the Roffs to send Mary back to the hospital. Reluctantly, they complied. This time, Mary wouldn't return home alive. On July 5, 1866, the Roffs visited Mary at the hospital. She seemed unusually calm that day, even taking a walk with her parents in the garden. At one point, Mary mentioned she wasn't feeling well and wanted to rest in her room. Minutes turned into hours, and when her parents

went to check on her, they found her lifeless body. Some accounts say she suffered another seizure and never recovered. Others claim she took her own life. Either way, Mary Roth's story didn't end there. After Mary's death, her parents became deeply involved in spiritualism, a movement focused on communicating with the dead. They vowed that if they ever encountered a case like Mary's, they would do everything in their power to help. Fast forward to the present, and here was Lurency Venom, seemingly channeling Mary's spirit. When Mary took over Lurency's body, the transformation was undeniable. Lurancy began speaking like Mary, recalling details about her life that only Mary could know.

Her voice, mannerisms, and even her interests changed. She no longer recognized her own family, referring to them as strangers. Instead, she begged to be taken to the Rhoff family, insisting they were her true parents. On February 1st, 1878, the Venoms arranged for the Rofs to visit their home. When Asa Rof and his daughter Minerva arrived, Lurancy, or rather, Mary, immediately recognized them. She ran to them, calling them her mother and sister, and embraced them with overwhelming joy. After this emotional meeting, the Venoms agreed to let Lurancy stay with the Roffs temporarily,

hoping it would bring her some peace. For three months, from February 10th to May 21, 1878, Lurancy lived with the Rofs. During this time, she continued to act as Mary. She played the piano flawlessly, read poetry, and talked about memories only Mary could have had. Whenever the Venoms visited, Lurancy didn't recognize them, insisting she still needed more time with her real family. Dr. Stevens continued to observe and test Lurancy during this period. He claimed that over 100 spirits communicated through her, but Mary's presence was the most

consistent. In one session, Lurancy described in detail the day Mary died, including the flowers at her funeral and the people who mourned her. She even spoke about Dr. Stephen's own deceased daughter, providing details about her appearance and personality that Lurency couldn't have known. As May approached, Mary's spirit began to say her goodbyes. She told the Roves that Lurancy would soon return to her family, fully healed. On May 21, 1878, Mary left Lurancy's body for good.

When Lurancy woke up, she was herself again. She no longer had any memory of the past three months but appeared completely healthy, both physically and mentally. The Venoms were overjoyed. Luensi's mother described her as, perfectly and completely well. Dr. Stevens confirmed that she was in excellent health. In 1882, Luency married George Binning, a farmer, and together they had 11 children. She lived a normal life, free from any further episodes of possession or illness. However, Luency did occasionally return to Watseka to visit the Roths.

these visits, she allowed herself to be hypnotized, enabling Mary's spirit to briefly return. These sessions were a source of comfort for the Roths, who cherished every moment they could spend with their daughter. So, what do you think? Was Lurency truly channeling Mary's spirit? Or was this something else entirely? The story of Lurancy Venom and Mary Roth remains one of the most fascinating and debated cases in the history of spiritualism.

Julia gave very specific instructions, so that everything would go well, and that everything would go well, and among all, of them there were two rules, the first, not, to give it all at once and the second, to pretend. Let's begin. To understand this story, we must place ourselves in the 15th century. Those times, despite their great artistic, wealth, were very dark, especially, for women, who were used, as bargaining chips. If they belonged to, the upper classes, marriages were, arranged to establish commercial and respectful ties, unions between, clans, between merchants. And if, they belonged to the lower classes, these, ties were mostly made for, protection. As these were times in which, religion was very important, it was believed that the woman was

weak, that she was a, compliment to the man, that she tended to, sin, and all those ladies who dared, to talk back deserved to be punished. And now, many of you may ask, why, despite what, could happen, did many women get married? And the answer is very simple, because on the one hand it was the safest, option, and on the other, they couldn't choose. If they didn't get married, they wouldn't have much money, as women earned less than, men, and single women, over time, would, end up prostituting themselves. Married women, on the other hand, could have the bad luck of, getting a violent man, and at the same, time could catch infections through childbirth, therefore the best option was to become a widow.

The best option of all was to get married and then become a widow, since widows were very respected, they had their house, their children, their independence, their inheritance. And although they did not manage the money directly, someone did it for them, and thus, they would feel more or less free. And in that, context arises a woman about whom, little is known, Tofana da D'Ammo. We don't know where she was born, in which year, nor do we, know the names of her parents. But, according to the sources consulted, she had a, very striking profession. Apparently this, woman created a poison with which, she killed her husband, and seeing that it worked, she decided to commercialize it among women who needed her help.

It is said that Tofana created powdered cosmetics, and that these, in the same, in the way of her In small dew, SES, poured in food, were very powerful, poisons. She sold them, said what they were for, and the clients used them. But, unfortunately, one of them made a mistake. During a meal, she separated two, plates, one for herself and one for her, husband, and in his, she poured poison. Unfortunately, it seems that the man was a notorious prankster and at a certain moment when the woman looked away, he switched the plates and the woman poisoned, herself. On her deathbed, asking for a thousand blessings, she, confessed that Tofana sold her the, poison. And this caused the, woman to be

imprisoned and judged. Tiafania de Damo was executed on July 12, 1633, in Campo de Fiore, Rome. But, fortunately or unfortunately, that was not all. And here, once they ended her life, They dismembered her and threw her to the dogs, to be eaten. From here, the sources disagree, some say, Tofana had a daughter named Julia Tofana, and others say she really wasn't her daughter. Be that as it may, at the time of Tiafania's death, Julia was around 13 years old, and upon becoming orphaned, she began working, as an apothecary's assistant. First, she, helped, and later she began creating cosmetics and perfumes,

which allowed her to found a great empire. Eventually, Julia got married, and from this union she had her only daughter, Girolamaspera, to whom she taught everything about ointments and potions, especially about a lotion that would change their lives, forever. Some sources say that Julia, married very young and that her husband, died shortly after, maybe because he was very old, maybe very sick, or maybe because he was poisoned. It said that Julia inherited the recipe for,

this poison from her mother and that she perfected it. Tofana de Damo dealt in, powder poisons, and Julia took those recipes and created Aqua, Tofana, a liquid poison, without color or taste. No one knows, exactly what Aqua Tofana was made of. Some say plant extracts, others say arsenic, lead, Symbolaria, Belladonna, and Spanish Fly. Unlike her mother, Julia put, a lot of work into the bottle. She didn't, want the poison to be obvious, didn't, want people to look at it and know what it was.

So she put it in, glass bottles labeled, Manna of St. Nicholas of Bari. Now you'll ask, why Saint, Nicholas of Bari? What sense did it make? This saint, when alive, was, able to perform miracles sick, people approached him and he healed them. And once dead, from his marble tomb, began to seep a kind of ointment, a liquid that many said had, incredible powers, it healed the skin, removed blemishes, removed wrinkles. The oil of St. Nicholas of Bari, in the 15th century, could be found in, almost every home. Women used it to put a few drops, on their faces and look better. They truly believed that this liquid, was the best there could be. the best cosmetic product of the time. And Julia, used that to her advantage, created her,

glass bottle, labeled it, and, any woman who wanted it could hide, it among her cosmetics, among face, powders, blushes. Among all that, the bottle went unnoticed. The poison had, no color, no flavor, so, it was perfect for clients to, add directly into their husband's food. But, and here's the catch, she gave, very specific instructions for, everything to go well. And among all of them, two rules, first, don't give it all at once, second, pretend. Between four and six drops were enough, to kill an adult man, and, Julia trained each client very well. These drops were added to tea, wines, soups, and each time, only one drop.

The first drop, made the man cranky, tired, fatigued, wheat, Barely noticeable symptoms, so he wouldn't call the doctor. The second drop brought more weakness, extreme thirst, intestinal pain. Slowly, the man would feel, worse and worse, and the woman would start to act, look worried, sad, call the doctor. The doctor, would say it was a cold, prescribed some meds, some, remedies. The woman would follow, his orders, be a good wife, a good neighbor, look very, very sad.

Then came the third drop, with this, the husband would fall apart, vomiting, dizziness, pain, no strength. Realizing, he was dying, he'd write a will, ask forgiveness from the wife, for what he'd done, say sorry to the kids, and slowly fade away. All while the, woman kept acting and poisoning. Within just a few more weeks, the husband would die, doctors would, say it was a cold,

dysentery, or some other illness. But, Aqua Tofana's job wasn't done. The woman had to keep acting, ask for an autopsy, which of course, would say the man died of disease. And then, the woman would be, free. In a world full of problems, Julia's clients increased rapidly, and the woman had to rely on a team of assistants, including her, daughter Jurillama Spara, a woman, named Giovanna de Grandis, and, Father Juroravala.

who is said to be the one, who gave her the arsenic to create, her powerful poison. Things were, going very well for Julia, and it is said, she also created all kinds of, cosmetics, creams, powders, perfumes. But her star product was Aquatofana. All clients always asked for, Aquatofana. But Julia wasn't stupid. She knew perfectly well who she, could sell it to. Her entire team investigated clients, studied their families, surroundings, friends, and if the person really had problems, they got Aquitofana. If not, they were rejected. It was a very, complicated and dangerous job, and, at a certain moment, according to Rororo.com, Julia decided, to retire. I haven't found out why she chose to do that, maybe stress, problems, or.

she made a lot of money. What we do know is she moved to a beautiful apartment located on Lungara, in the Trastavir district. She began to dress, like a high-class lady. Some say, she even spent some time in Naples, and in the court of Philip V. Life outside the business was, going quite well. But at some point, everything turned. A friend came, seeking help, said her husband, was beating her, she couldn't take it anymore, and Julia returned to the business, which in time, would end her life. She always had, very discreet clients, who, followed instructions. But two, messed up badly. One was, Mari-Aldo Brandini, Countess of Carrie, who belonged to one of the most important clans in Rome.

She was, married at 13 to Francesco Carey, who was about 30 years older. According to writings, the man, was healthy, hunted, went to parties, and after nine years of marriage, he suddenly died. Maria wasn't sad, she seemed upbeat, wanted to move on, and even talked, to her family about marrying, another man. Later confessions, by Giovanna de Grandes, Julia's assistant, say Maria was in love, with Count Francesco Maria Santonelli, and decided to use Aquatofana. Her friends had used it, their lives had changed, they were, independent, respected widows, married, to their lovers. So she did the same. She went to the church of Santa Innes in, a gone in Rome, and spoke directly, to Father Gerolamo. She exaggerated, her case, and the priest, without consulting anyone, gave her, the poison. Of course, explained, how to use it, one drop, wait,

another. But Maria was desperate. She got home, opened the bottle, poured it all. Obviously, it was suspicious. She didn't pretend to be sad, or worried. Once widowed, she, wanted to marry Santonelli, something her family didn't allow. Time passed, and in 1651, a low-class woman used Aqua Tofana to get revenge, on her abusive husband. One night, she added a drop to his his soup. She set the table, served plates, and just as the man was about, to eat, she stopped him. Didn't say why, just said, not to eat it. The man got up, beat her, forced her to confess. She was dragged to the authorities, who tortured the truth out of her. After hours of suffering, she said the name, Julia Tofana. Julia's informants warned her, and she and her daughter,

Jirala Spara took refuge in a church. At first, they were given shelter, food, warmth. But rumors spread, in Rome that Julia had poisoned, the water supply. Some say though, authorities invented it, others say it was the people. But the church, under pressure, handed her over. Once in prison and tortured, Julia, her daughter, and their accomplices confessed to killing 600 men in 18 years. They also, gave client names, some low-class, some high. The low-class women, were tortured and executed. The high-class were jailed briefly, then released. Many of them, denied knowing what the ointment was for, said it was simply,

manna of St. Nicholas of Bari, used for their face, never in food. That was enough to escape punishment. Julia, her daughter Juralama, and three more partners were executed, in July 1659 in Campo de Fiori. After her death, her body, was thrown at the walls of, the church that once sheltered her. Still, her legend and legacy lived on, for centuries. Men feared being poisoned, and women's vanity tables became, the stuff of nightmares. And to show, I'm not exactly. There was, a very important man who, believed until his death he'd been poisoned with

Aquatofana, none other than Wolfgang Amadeus, Mozart. According to his wife, Constance, six months before dying, Mozart was convinced of it. Convinced someone had added, Aquatofana to his food, even, calculated the moment of his death. Someone gave me aqua tofana, and picked the precise moment, I would die. The musician had, enemies, and many lovers, anyone could have wanted him dead. We'll never know if he was, poisoned. Mozart died in pain, vomiting, on December 5th, 1791, so now it's your turn. What do you think?

Do you believe Mozart, could have been poisoned? End. A few years ago, I decided I needed a major life change. Everything seemed to be going downhill, my finances, my mental health, my life. I would go weeks without sleeping sometimes as the heavy traffic passed through the city streets down below. Every time I went outside, I saw more homeless people, more needles and crack pipes littering the ground, more muggings and assaults and overdoses and deaths. The city had become a wasteland, and I knew it was time to leave. I had no girlfriend,

no wife, no kids. My parents had both died a few years prior and I barely talked to my siblings anymore. I had nothing to tie me down to this place where I felt like I was dying inside a little more each day. That was when I sold nearly everything I owned, got in my car and drove up to Alaska to try starting anew. I bought a small cabin and a plot of land in the middle of its majestic mountains and dark, enchanting forests. In the winter, the northern lights would be able to be. In the winter, the northern shine through like the eyes of God, sending out divine trails of light that danced through the sky in cosmic waves. And while the move did help give me some peace of mind, in the end, the source of all my problems had ultimately followed me thousands of miles into this endless

wilderness. It would take me a long time to realize the cause of all this misery was myself. Because, as a wise man once said, wherever I go, there I am, I lived in that cabin for three months without any major issues other than the constant threat of bears, moose and wolves. I had a rifle and a shotgun for hunting, a small garden in the backyard and a solar panel to generate electricity. This is the life, I said, relaxing on a hammock I had strung across the corner of the cabin while staring at the endless beauty directly outside the window. White-capped mountains loomed like giants in front of thick clusters of evergreens. A virgin covering of fluffy snow made the entire world glisten and sparkle. There wasn't a house or road in sight. No work, no stress,

no pollution, no cars honking all the time, I closed my eyes, breathing in the clean air. I ended up falling asleep for a couple hours, waking up just as the sun had started setting. Bright orange streaks mixed with the bloody smears of the fading light as it disappeared behind the mountains. I grogily arose, stumbling over to make a cup of instant coffee. As I sipped it, I wandered around the room, looking for something to pass the time. There were still quite a few random objects left behind by the last owner that I hadn't gotten rid of yet. I had moved in to find a stocked bookshelf filled with classics by Philip K.

Dick, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein. Bored, I started rifling through the collection, looking for something good to pass the time. time. As I shuffled past, a maze of death, and, Eubic, something caught my eye. A black, leather-bound book with no title or author name stood there, its cover faded with time and where. Curious, I pulled it out and opened it. I saw the cursive scrawled across the pages in a neat, copper-plate script and realized it was a diary left behind by the previous owner. The first entry was dated January 9, 2015. This is what it said. I don't know if I'm going crazy or not. I went into town to talk to my therapist yesterday and she said I should try writing everything down.

She talks to me like it's all in my head. But I know it's not. When I first moved into the cabin, it seemed like paradise. I never thought in a million years that something would be slinking around at night. I never thought it would be hiding under my bed, peeking in windows and following me like a shadow. Right now, I'm snowed in with a cup of coffee in one hand and my pistol in the other. I can't sleep anymore. I keep hearing something shuffling around under the bed. Sometimes, I think I even hear ragged breathing, as if a corpse with dirt in its lungs had come back to life. I've caught glimpses of that thing in the darkness. Whatever it is, its skin is loose, almost falling off the bone. It almost looks like a naked, emaciated man. Its eyes are rotted and dark, its back hunched,

its spine twisted and jutting out like tumors. It moves in this slow, jerky way, but I can never seem to catch it. Its body seems broken and out of alignment. Its legs bend the wrong way sometimes. By the time I turn on the lights or try to take a video of it, it's always disappeared. But its fetid odor remains. It lingers in the cabin like a sweet-smelling, spreading infection. I don't know what it wants from me. I want to leave, but with the storm raging outside, I'm stuck here, unable to get all the way back to town. The snow surrounds the cabin in mounds five feet high. I feel like a prisoner caged with a rabid beast, not knowing when it will strike. My wife claimed she hasn't seen or heard anything, but she keeps vanishing on me.

Last night, she disappeared in the middle of a snowstorm. Where did she go? I asked her in the morning, but she said she was here the whole time. She didn't remember anything. There's no way she went into town. There wasn't time and the trails were impassable that far down. Something's going on here, but I don't know what it is. I'm truly scared for our lives. I slammed the diary shut, not wanting to read anymore. I didn't want to become infected by some kind of contagious cabin fever. If the last owner had gone insane in the mountains and started hallucinating naked corpses crawling around, I really didn't want to know. I shoved the diary back in the bookshelf, going for a maze of death, instead.

I tried to forget what I had read in the diary as I flew through the novella. All night, I tried to get the image of the naked, twisting man with rotted eyes out of my head, but I couldn't. I eventually fell asleep right before dawn. But, as my eyes were closing, I thought I saw a silhouette in the window, a starved man with excited, black eyes that seemed to be rotting out of his skull. I thought I saw him put his inhumanly long fingers against the glass as he leaned forward. I blinked, sitting up and glancing out into the white, snow-covered Wonderland.

There was nothing there. Another hunter occasionally followed the deer trails near my cabin. A frozen lake stood a quarter mile away, the surface white and covered in thick drifts of snow. I bundled up, deciding to go outside for a hike in the frigid dawn. I strapped on my snow shoes and grabbed my shotgun, as I always did when I went outside. I never knew when a polar bear might be waiting around the next tree, after all. I opened the door, seeing footprints pressed into the snow all around my house. At first, I thought it was that silhouette I had seen, the nightmarish thing from the diary.

But the footprints didn't go over to my window. They followed the trail 20 feet away, veering off towards the forest. frozen lake at the bottom of the hill. I glanced down in that direction, seeing a black figure plotting slowly forward. Steve! I cried, recognizing my only neighbor in a four-mile radius. He had a cabin about a mile away on his own little plot of land. He jumped, clearly startled by the sudden noise. His black snow pants and heavy fur coat swished together as he spun, raising his rifle high. When he saw me, he immediately lowered it and put a gloved hand up in a friendly greeting. Hey Josh.

Surprised to see you up this early, he yelled over the muted wintry landscape. Sounds always seemed different after it snowed, as if all the noise in the world had become faded and dead. Yeah, I've been having a little trouble sleeping, I said, slinging my shotgun around my shoulder. What are you doing anyway? Just a little hunting, you know, he said, giving me a sly wink. Animals are always most active around dusk and dawn, it seems. That's when I always have the best luck, anyway.

He stepped close to me, staring me in the eyes. You do look like shit. Those bags under your eyes are big enough to carry groceries in. Yeah, trust me, I know. Hey, this might sound a little weird, but did you know the previous owner of this cabin? I asked. Steve's wrinkled, old face fell into a scowl. His expression immediately became guarded and distant.

Sure, sure, we met, he exclaimed bluntly. He seemed to be searching my face for something, but I didn't know what. His reaction left me feeling off balance and nervous. Is he still around? I said. Steve's scowl deepened. Buddy, I don't know what this is about, but he's dead. He's been dead.

He died in that cabin, actually. He pointed a finger at my home accusingly. With those words, my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. Waves of dread flowed through my body like water. How? How did he die? Like a heart attack or something? I asked.

Steve's gaze turned downwards. He didn't meet my eyes. Do you know that Alaska has the highest missing person's in the entire United States. It's not even close. In fact, for the population size, we have far more people who go missing and never get found than anywhere else. They even have a name for it, the Alaska Triangle, Steve said. And we're square in the middle of it. I stared blankly at him, wondering where he was going with this. It seemed like a way to avoid answering my question. No, I didn't know that, I responded.

Steve nodded, raising his head again. He heaved a deep sigh. Look, the thing with the last owner and his wife, it's somewhat disturbing. If you really want to know, I'll tell you, but it's certainly not going to help your peace of mind. And it definitely isn't going to help you get some sleep. I want to know, I insisted instantly. The wind started to whip past us. Flakes of ice and snow flew sideways in the sudden currents.

Let's go back to your cabin then, Steve said, pulling his heavy fur-lined hood off and shaking out his long, black hair behind him. I could use a bit of whiskey to warm up. We sat down with a bottle of Johnny Walker and two shot glasses. I wasn't much of a drinker, but Steve certainly was. He chugged three shots in the span of a minute. I sipped at mine, drinking half and putting it back down on the coffee table with a thunk. Steve grunted, hissing through his open mouth for a moment. Ugh, that's the good stuff, he said, slamming his chest as the burning liquor worked its way down. Steve looked up at me with a new sparkle in his eyes. Huh, so you want to know about what happened to Will Lening?

Well, I'll tell you that no one really knows the whole story. I used to see him occasionally, come down and have a drink and talk. We all know each other around here, obviously. I nodded, motioning him on. He seemed like a normal, upstanding guy. He kind of reminded me of you, actually. A young guy trying to escape the hustle and bustle of the city life, the cancer of the American dream.

Well, he was here for maybe a couple months, I don't know. Everything seemed fine. We used to go skeet shooting occasionally, have a beer, you know. We'd get together with a couple other hunters who live. live closer to town and sometimes play some poker. I never saw anything odd about Will. I never could have predicted what happened to him. He heaved a long sigh at this, looking out the window at the sharp mountains with an expression of nostalgia. Well, what happened to him? I asked, encouraging him to go on. He started talking about seeing someone peering in

through his window at night. He talked about hearing sounds from under his bed while he was laying there in the dark sounds like diseased breathing and shuffling. He started keeping all the lights on in his cabin 24 hours a day. Steve leaned close to me. A glimmer of fear rippled across his pale, wrinkled face. He started to lose his mind. Started digging holes all over the place, looking for something. Even in the middle of snowstorms, I would occasionally see him outside, digging. It seemed like he never slept anymore. It was classic cabin fever if I ever saw it.

It was only a few weeks later that I came over here, concerned. I hadn't heard from him in a few days, which was fairly unusual. I found the door hanging wide open. Propped up in a chair in the exact spot where you now sit, will lay with a blast hole showing clear through his skull, a shotgun laying at his feet. And next to him, I found a bloodstained diary open to the middle page. The last entry was stained with blood spatter, but still visible. I remember leaning down and reading it.

It was only a few sentences long. I glanced over at the bookshelf with the same diary, saying nothing. It said something like, I see now what's going on. The twisted man is leading me to the truth. Today, I will finally find it, and that was his suicide note. I asked, my heart hammering in my chest. He nodded. Yeah.

I went into town and got some rangers to come check it out. Eventually, they got cops and CSI there. They took all the stuff as evidence, including the diary, he said. Good riddance, I say. Reading something like that is never beneficial. Sometimes delusions spread like a virus, you know what I mean. I did, but I said nothing. I glanced back at the diary.

its black leather cover gleaming like a crouching snake. And I wondered if the police took the diary as evidence, how did it get back here? You said he had a wife living here with him, too? I asked. Yeah, she went missing around the same time, he said. Pretty bizarre. The cops thought maybe she just moved away, but, he shook his head grimly. As far as I know, she was never seen again.

It was like she had a very very bad. evaporated into thin air. After Steve left, I walked stiffly over to the bookshelf, taking down the diary. I flipped open through the pages. In the middle, I found the last entry. Spatters of old, darkened blood were scattered over the page like raindrops. I found the suicide note and read the date. January 27, 2015, it read, Will Lenning had not lived long after he started seeing the twisted man. I wondered if my fate would be the same. The sun had started to set outside as I sat with the diary at the small circular kitchen table, eating some stewed venison and rice as I read through the entries. At the end, Will Lening said the twisted man had been trying to guide him somewhere, that, in fact, the twisted man had been trying to protect him from some great evil, rather than being the source of it.

I scoffed, feeling a flash of anger at his stupidity. His naivity obviously led to his death. But then a flash of insight struck me like lightning. What if I was committing the same kind of stupidity? Perhaps I should just grab my gun and valuables and leave. I could take off on the snowmobile and be in town within a couple hours. But, in my heart, I knew I would not. Something about the mystery of all this beckoned me to stay.

Like a siren leading sailors to destruction, my curiosity. called out to me, and I knew I would not be leaving that night. I needed answers. And, sadly, I would find them. I had fallen asleep with an empty bottle of beer in my hand. I sat in front of the TV, which only got satellite reception. There were, of course, no cable or phone lines threading their way through the forest. All of my power came from stored solar energy. Since I rarely watch TV and really only used it to cook or heat up water for bathing, the energy produced was sufficient even in winter. Tonight, though, I needed it sound, its mindless flashing of light and colors and canned laughter. It seemed to drive away the

creeping, suffocating presence like a candle. I woke suddenly. The TV flashed with static. The repetitive hissing of the white noise spit from the speakers like thousands of the TV. of snakes. I glanced up at the clock. 3.33 a.m. I looked around the dark cabin, confused for a long moment. I didn't understand what had woken me so abruptly. The satellite had never gone out before either, even with the howling winds and freezing hail of the Alaskan winter. The TV started flickering as if the static were rising upwards. Black lines traced their way horizontally across the screen.

The hissing deepened into a gurgle, and for a second, I thought I heard faint words behind the white noise. I thought I heard breathing, slow and diseased, like the death gasp of a drowning man. A black line rose across the TV and an image came into view. The cabin was suddenly plunged into silence, except for the shrieking, wintry wind outside. I leaned close to the screen, confused at what I was looking at. It looked like a live camera feed of a room. As I took in the details, I realized it was my cabin. I saw myself in the chair, leaning close to the screen.

I raised my hand, and the miniature version of me on the screen did likewise. Ice water seemed to drip down my spine as waves of dread coursed through my body. What the fuck is this? I whispered, looking back to where the camera should be. It was just a coarse wooden ceiling in the world. that corner. I turned back to the screen and nearly screamed. The TV showed a pale, naked man crouching directly behind my chair now. With jerky movements, he rose, his broken spine twisting and shivering. A hissing voice rang out from the speakers. It spoke as if it had dirt

and writhing maggots in its throat. He is a killer. The shadow of death, it gurgled. Many have fallen. Many lie buried across this forest. You will be next. He is watching you, long, broken fingers with blackened nails reached out to touch my shoulders. I jumped out of the chair, stumbling back as I spun around in terror. My back smashed into the TV, and it fell to the floor with a shattering of glass and an explosion of light. In those few moments before the darkness descended on me like a blanket, I thought I glimpsed a pale, sunken face with rotted, blackened eyes peeking out from behind the chair. I turned on every light in the cabin, but there was no sign of the twisted man now. I knew I had to get out of there, though. I thought about the warning that

the voice had spoken. If the creature wanted to attack me, then why hadn't it just killed me while I was sleeping? None of it made sense. Who was watching me? The twisted man, the twisted man, And if he was, why warn me? Perhaps it was psychological warfare, I thought to myself. Perhaps the twisted man simply liked to play with his food before he ate it. Thoughts raced through my head at a thousand miles an hour as I threw on snow pants and a couple heavy sweaters and coats. I covered up my entire body as much as I could to try to prevent frostbite. I had made up my mind to flee. There was no snowstorm tonight, though the entire landscape was blanketed in it and I knew the wind chill would be like an ice blade whipping

against my skin. It was extremely dangerous to travel in the middle of the night like this in temperatures that might reach negative 30 degrees. Steve had been right, after all, Alaska had the highest missing person's rate of any state, and many of them were never found, their bodies likely frozen solid in the deep snow dozens of miles from the nearest town. I grabbed my shotgun, jumped on my snowmobile and started heading to Steve's cabin. I hoped I could wait there until the sunrise and then figure out what to do next. But fate would take the decision out of my hands. I felt like there were eyes watching me as I drove along the narrow, winding deer trail.

The boughs of the evergreens reached into the path like greedy hands, grabbing at my coat and legs. More than a couple times, I thought I saw a pale, naked figure standing in the snow, but it had always gone when I turned to look. I gave a sigh of relief when Steve's place appeared in the distance. I could see the lights twinkling through the small windows of his log cabin. I pulled up next to his door, looking down. I saw two pairs of footprints there, one much smaller than the other. I found it odd, but shrugged it off. The snowmobile cut out with a sucking gurgle.

I knocked on the door hard a few times. Steve appeared after a few moments, groggy and half-dressed. He blinked slowly as he looked me up and down. His wrinkled face fell into a frown. Steve, I need a favor, I said quickly. Something weird is happening in my cabin. Can I stay here until morning, until maybe I can go to town or something? I can't stay at my place tonight. I just can't. He nodded, yawning and motioning me in.

You can sleep on the couch, I guess, Steve said. Put that shotgun somewhere safe, though, boy. He had a partitioned bedroom in his cabin. It was significantly larger than my little one-room cabin, though it was basically still just a joint kitchen living room, a small bedroom and a bathroom. He pointed to a well-worn couch in a corner and gave me an apathetic wave as he stumbled back into his bedroom, slamming the door. I couldn't sleep, though. I tiptoed around the room, looking at Steve's bookshelf. He had a rather strange taste in books lots of and rule and true crime there. I saw dozens of books about Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Richard Chase, Herbert Mullin, Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez among the collection. At the end, a large

large, black binder stood, unlabeled and worn looking. It reminded me of the look of that leather-bound diary for a second, and my heart dropped. But logically, I knew this was just a coincidence. Yet, still, I pulled out the binder, my curiosity peaked. What I found inside filled me with dread and horror. Countless news clippings covered the length of it. The first clipping was from nearly 20 years earlier, about a woman who went missing in the Alaskan forest while hiking. A later one confirmed that her body was never found, and that her family was still hoping that she might turn up alive somewhere. A reward was offered for any information, it said. And every page after that was more of the same, missing woman, murdered prostitute,

missing man, no leads. I kept flipping through until I found clippings about Willening's suicide and the sudden disappearance of his wife. On the article about the suicide, Steve had used red marker to scrawl, H-H-H-H-A, next to it. I heard the click of a gun being cocked from behind me. I froze as Steve's voice traveled across the room like a whisper. How do you like my work, friend, he asked, his tone jovial and mocking. I still held the binder of horrors tightly in my hands as I stared open-mouth at this man I thought I knew. It's you.

What, you killed Willening and his wife? And a lot of other women, apparently. Everything felt unreal, as if I were stuck in a dream. Steve's grin spread across his face, but his blue eyes stayed cold and dead. Yes, well, she was cheating on him with me anyway. Just another whore, you know. They always get what's coming to them in the end, he hissed with hatred oozing from his voice. It's too bad, really.

I just killed another slut tonight. I was planning on saving you for later. The urge isn't too bad yet right now, after all. It comes in cycles, you see. It comes in waves, I saw a glimmer of pale, naked flesh writhing behind Steve. With jerky movements, the twisted man came up behind him. I said nothing, just watching with wide-eyed horror and amazement. You need help, man, I whisper.

Steve laughed. Help. The only help they give people like me is a needle in the arm. You know that. That's why it's important to always cover your tracks, the twisted man ran along, broken finger across Steve's neck. Steve gave a strangled cry and jumped. He spun around, screaming. I glanced over at my shotgun next to the couch. I jumped for it as Steve turned back to me, firing his pistol twice. The first bullet soared high above me, raining wood splinters down on my head, but the second ripped into my leg. A cold, burning pain ran like fire up my shin. I screamed in agony in battle fury as I gripped the shotgun, spinning and firing. Steve's head exploded as the slug ripped through his brain. His forehead collapsed like a smashed melon as bone splinters and blood

sprayed the wall behind him. The twisted man stood there, hunched over, grinning up at me. I felt warm blood gushing from my leg as I stared back at him, breathing hard. I wondered if I was dying. You, you weren't after me at all, were you? I asked. You were after. Steve. But the twisted man said nothing. After a long moment, he slinked back into the shadows of the bedroom and disappeared. As night crawled its way toward morning, I thought back to the words the twisted man had spoken through the TV, suddenly understanding everything. He is a killer. The shadow of death. Many have fallen. Many lie buried across this forest. You will be next. He is watching you. He hadn't been trying to hurt me at all. He had been trying to warn me. He had probably tried to warn

Will Lening in his wife, too. I wrapped my leg in gauze, gritting my teeth. The wound looked puckered in deep, but I could still move my foot, and the bullet had gone clean through the flesh. I poured alcohol on it, screaming in pain as it burned its way through my skin. After rummaging through Steve's bathroom, I found some prescription painkillers and swallowed a handful of them with a beer. I knew I would need the opiate high to get through the pain of riding into town with a mutilated leg. As the sun finally rose, I made my way outside the blood-stained floors of the cabin to my snowmobile. Before I left, I glanced back at that horrid place, the scene of so much torment and death. In the open doorway, the twisted man stood, his back

hunched, his rotted lips grinning at me. His hand lifted up into the air with jerky movements and waved. I waved back as I started the engine and headed into town. Mrs. Pollock was astonished when she gave the twins the dead girls dolls. When I got these two dolls out, one said, oh, that's Mary, and that's Susan. And it was exactly the same names my other daughters had given them. And that was the sort of real turning point in my way of thinking. Let's begin. On May 7, 1957, a terrible accident forever marked the lives of Florence and John Pollock. Their beloved daughters were run over while playing on.

their way to church. The incident left them devastated, filled with questions that no one could answer. And then they received what seemed to be an answer, because just one year later, they became parents to twin girls who appeared to be the reincarnation of their deceased daughters. But were these girls truly those they had lost? Or had they been led to believe so? Let's find out. Before diving into the details of the case, we must understand the parents deeply, for the Pollocks were a peculiar your couple. John Pollock was born in 1920 in Bristol, England, into an Anglican family. However, throughout his life, he questioned his beliefs. He wanted to believe in life after death, that the soul could be reborn in another body. At the age of nine, he read a book about reincarnation,

and from that moment, he was convinced, life after death was real. At some point, and rather contradictorily, John converted to Catholicism, a religion that does not recognize reincarnation. It was during this time that he met Florence, who was a member of the Salvation Army. To marry, one of them had to convert to the other's religion, and it was Florence who made the change. In their early years of marriage, the couple had two boys, and in 1946, they welcomed their first daughter, Joanna Pollock. A year later, the family moved to Hexham, a town in Northumberland, where they had their second daughter, Jacqueline Pollock. Life smiled upon them, and the Pollocks decided to open their own business, a grocery store that also offered home delivery. The couple

devoted countless hours to making it successful, so Florence's mother had to take charge of raising the children. The children were, surprisingly, very special, especially the two girls. It said they got along so well they could read each other's minds. Joanna, being a year older, often acted like a mother to Jacqueline, who followed her sister's orders without question. Physically, they were very different. Joanna was slender, while Jacqueline was rounder. In personality, they were different too, Joanna loved attention, often dressing up and performing. She was also generous.

Jacqueline was equally generous but more introverted, struggling to speak in public. Up until this point, they seemed like normal children, just with a little. special bond. But there are two important things to note. First, when Jacqueline turned three, she had an accident. She allegedly tripped over a bucket and fell, hitting her face. As a result, she had a small scar above her right eye, near the bridge of her nose. She also had a round, dark birthmark on the left side of her waist. Second, Joanna, the eldest, at one point began and telling her parents that she would never grow up, that she would always be a little girl. And she didn't say it playfully or imaginatively.

She said it with full conviction. She even declared, I will never grow up. I will never become a lady. No one took her seriously. Everyone assumed she was being dramatic. But soon, they would realize this statement made all the sense in the world. On May 7, 1957, Joanna was 11 and Jacqueline 6. That Sunday morning, the Pollocks had arranged to go to church with friends.

The older children walked with their parents, while Joanna and Jacqueline ran ahead with their friend Anthony, who was nine. The three kids were laughing, running, jumping, pushing each other, they were having fun. But suddenly, a car sped up onto the sidewalk and struck them. Joanna and Jacqueline were killed instantly. Anthony survived until he reached the hospital. What's most shocking about the accident is that it apparently wasn't an accident at all. The driver was a local woman who had just lost custody of her children that very day due to a court ruling.

She reportedly said, there's nothing I can do to get them back, and decided to end her life that morning. The woman took a large quantity of aspirin and phenobarbital, but when that didn't work, she got in her car intending to crash. She planned to hit a truck or another vehicle, but then, in the middle of the street, she saw those happy children. And she thought, if I can't have my kids, no one else can either.

So she hit the gas and ran them down, thinking she would kill them and die herself. The incident was covered in every newspaper. It left all of Hexham in shock. Everyone knew the woman and never imagined she was capable of something like that. She was tried and sent to spend the rest of her life in a psychiatric institution. Sadly, for Florence Pollock, this punishment wasn't enough.

She was devastated. She tried everything not to think of her daughters because the pain was unbearable. She couldn't understand why God would let them die like that. What if there was no heaven? What if there was no afterlife? What if her girls went straight to hell? These questions slowly led her into a deep depression. Meanwhile, her husband couldn't stop talking about the girls.

Once again, John Pollock turned to the idea of reincarnation. As you know, in Catholicism this isn't accepted, but John was convinced it was real. After the accident, he began having strange experiences. First, he had visions of the girls in heaven. Then he felt their presence in his room. Finally, he dreamed they were reborn in his own family. At first, John thought these were divine punishments, signs he was being punished for believing in something false.

But later, he interpreted them as confirmations, signs from God that reincarnation was real. This created tension in the marriage. Florence didn't believe in reincarnation and demanded that John stopped talking about the girls, about ghosts, about coming back. But John insisted, it was real, he said. The girls would return. Then Florence became pregnant again. The doctor told the couple they were expecting a boy. John again brought up his theory, he was convinced they would have twin girls. This led to

another argument. There were no twins in their family history, and the doctor had clearly said they were expecting a boy. But on October 4, 1958, Florence Pollack gave birth to healthy twin girls, Jillian and Jennifer. Gillian and Jennifer were very special from the very beginning. They had many things in common with their deceased sisters. First of all, at birth, the Pollocks noticed that both girls had marks on their bodies very similar to those of Joanna and Jacqueline, especially Jennifer. Jennifer had a small mark above her right eye, exactly where Jacqueline had her scar.

She also had a round, purplish birthmark on the left side of her waist, precisely where Jacqueline's birthmark had been. This could have been coincidence, so the Pollocks didn't think too much of it at first. When the girls were three months old, the family decided to move on. Living in Hexham caused them too much pain, so they packed everything and moved to Whitley Bay, a coastal town in the northwest of England. Life there seemed much easier, no one knew about their deceased daughters, so they were able to live in peace for several years. Until the girls started to speak. That's when the nightmare returned. Gillian and Jennifer talked to each other about things they couldn't possibly know.

They spoke of places and events from the past they had never experienced. They even talked about toys they'd never had, especially two dolls named Mary and Susan, which they claimed were their favorites. That was when the Pollux realized something shocking, those were the names of Joanna and Jacqueline's favorite dolls. Immediately, John went up to the attic, brought down some card-beckes, board boxes and emptied them on the dining table. The boxes contained the toys of their deceased daughters. As soon as the boxes were opened, Jillian and Jennifer ran toward them. The girls correctly identified which toys had belonged to whom, Jennifer picked out Jacqueline's,

and Gillian chose Joanna's. There was no hesitation. They were completely sure about which toys were theirs. As the girls continued to grow, they began to resemble Joanna and Jacqueline, more and more, not just in looks, but in personality. They had the same favorite foods, same mannerisms, same way of speaking. Jennifer, like Jacqueline, was stocky. Jillian, like Joanna, was slender. Jennifer, just like Jacqueline, had difficulty writing because she held her pencil in a strange way.

Jillian treated Jennifer like an older sister, she gave her orders, and Jennifer abate. Jillian also loved to dress up and perform, just like Joanna. Despite all this, Florence still didn't believe in reincarnation. She thought they were just coincidences. After all, the girls were sisters, so some similarities were to be expected. But then she noticed something she couldn't ignore. The girls had a terrible fear of cars. Whenever they heard a car break, they would scream, oh God!

The car. It's coming to get us again. When the girls turned four, the family took a short trip back to Hexham. And once there, the girls seemed to know everything. They recognized shops, streets, people, they knew places they had never been to. They even asked their parents to take them to a specific park, a park that Joanna and Jacqueline had loved. And while walking through the town, the Pollocks overheard their daughters talking about the day of the accident. At that time, no one had told them about their older sisters or how they had died. But Jennifer and Gillian seemed to know every detail of the story. They spoke of blood, pain, flashing lights, and most of all, the fear they felt when they saw a car. Given all this, in 1963, when the twins were six years old, they were taken to see psychiatrist Ian Stevenson, a specialist in cases of past life memories in young children. For Stevenson, the case was clear, either the girls had been reincarnated, or they shared identical DNA with their deceased sisters, something we now know isn't possible. He continued to visit the girls over the years.

His first visit was when the girls were six, the supposed age limit for remembering past lives. His second visit was in 1967, when they were ten. By then, the memories had faded, just blurry images, fragments. And finally, in 1978, when the girls were 20, they remembered nothing at all. However, in 1981, Gillian began to have recurring dreams. In them, she saw herself playing in a sandbox, one she had never seen or been to. But Joanna had played in one just like it when she was young. The story of the Pollock twins was shared widely.

Documentaries, films, and TV series were made. But two publications stand out, the book by Ian Stevenson titled Children Who Remember Previous Lives, a question of reincarnation. An interview with the Pollock couple, where John explained his belief in reincarnation and presented various arguments that, according to him, proved his daughters were reincarnated. Of course, not everyone believed the story was real, and multiple theories emerged. The first was proposed by historian Ian Wilson. He said the case didn't hold it.

up, because the only witnesses to the girl's strange behavior were their parents. And one of them, John, was a firm believer in reincarnation. It's entirely possible, Wilson argued, that he fed the girls this narrative and unintentionally manipulated their minds. The second theory, also from Ian Wilson, suggests that the similarities between the girls were the result of maternal impression. This theory claims that during her twin pregnancy, Florence may have repeatedly visualized the lives and deaths of her deceased daughters, and that this could have influenced the development

of the fetuses, their psyches, and even their birthmarks. The third theory is that the entire case was a hoax. Authors like Richard Rockley and Miles Warren have dismissed the story, arguing that John Pollack's strong belief in reincarnation likely shaped the entire narrative. They claim he may have manipulated the girls, and that Ian Stevenson may have simply continued the cycle. But now it's your turn. What do you think about the case? Do you believe it was real, or was it a fabrication? The end.

This story begins with a woman named Sarah Barris, born in 1984 in Sheffield, England. If you try to dig into her family's past, you'll find a confusing mess of details. Most of what's known comes from neighbors and casual observations because her upbringing was anything but ordinary. Sarah grew up in a chaotic and unstable environment. She had four siblings, but here's the kicker, each of a family. them had a different father. And not one of these men ever stuck around. They were absent, leaving Sarah's mother to handle everything, though, handle, might be too generous a word. The house they lived and wasn't a home, it was a disaster zone. There were no rules, no meal

times, no structure, just pure chaos. The kids were left to their own devices, doing whatever they wanted whenever they felt like it. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Sarah's mother had a revolving door of questionable men coming into the house. Some accounts suggest these men behaved inappropriately toward the children, either in front of their mother or behind her back. The specifics are murky, but whatever happened was bad enough to catch the attention of social services. By the time Sarah was a young child, social workers stepped in and took all five kids away, splitting them into different foster homes. For years, they bounced from one house to another, separated from each other and from any sense of stability. When Sarah turned nine,

though, she and her siblings were sent back to live with their mother. You'd think this might be a happy reunion, but it wasn't. At nine, Sarah had already been shaped by trauma. She was shy, reserved, and seemed to avoid trouble at all costs. But when she reconnected with her older brother, Brandon, everything changed. Brandon, for years her senior, was the polar opposite of Sarah. He was violent, reckless, and downright mean. He thrived on conflict and cared about no one but himself. For reasons no one fully understands, Sarah looked up to him. She saw his defiance and cruelty as strength, something to emulate. Before long, she began mirroring his behavior. Gone was the quiet, helpful girl. In her place was a girl who bullied classmates,

lashed out at her siblings, and grew increasingly aggressive. Sarah and Brandon became a team. They spent their time watching gory horror movies and torturing animals, which escalated to killing them. It was a terrifying transformation, and by her early teens, Sarah was unrecognizable. But at 14, something shifted again. Sarah walked into a police station and reported abuse she'd endured over the years. The details of this case remain unclear, but someone was arrested, and Sarah seemed to turn a corner. Her life appeared to settle into something resembling normalcy, at least on the surface.

Fast forward to 2019. By now, Sarah was 35 years old and living in a charming, Little House on Greg House Road in Shiregreen. She had six children, ranging from 14 years old to just seven months. From the outside, her life looked perfect. Neighbors described her as a devoted mother who adored her kids. The four oldest were Blake, 14, Tristan, 13, and two others aged 12 and 11, while the youngest were just three years and seven months old. Blake and Tristan, the two oldest boys, stood out the most. Blake was the sweetheart, kind, polite, and the soccer enthusiast. He had an infectious sense of humor and was always making people smile.

His best friend. His younger brother, Tristan. But while Blake was the golden boy, Tristan was the wild card. He was loud, mischievous, and loved being the center of attention. Tristan's brightly colored hair and extroverted personality even landed him a spot on a BBC program about kids transitioning from primary to secondary school. He told the presenter he dyed his hair yellow to support a friend battling cancer and wanted to raise money for cancer research. It was a touching story, and Tristan became a bit of a local celebrity. To outsiders, the Barris family seemed like a dream, well-behaved kids, a loving mom, and a closed-knit household.

But behind closed doors, things were far more complicated. By late 2018, Sarah was deeply worried about Tristan. He'd been diagnosed with autism and ADHD, as had the other three older kids. Being a single mom to six children, four of whom had special needs, was overwhelming. She turned to social services for help, but the kind of help she got wasn't what she needed. Tristan's behavior was becoming more concerning, he was obsessed with pornography, aggressive toward his younger siblings, and had even stolen his aunt's car. When social workers visited, they found a clean and loving home.

Sarah seemed like a dedicated mom, and the kids were polite and well cared for. But Sarah's refusal to talk about their father raised. eyebrows. When pressed about the kid's father, Sarah would shut down. She insisted he wasn't in their lives and refused to say more. Meanwhile, her older brother Brandon, now 39, was living nearby and frequently helped out with the kids. The children adored him, and he seemed to be a supportive uncle. Social services didn't dig much deeper, offering Sarah advice but little practical help. They had no idea how dire the situation really was. As Tristan's behavior spiraled further, Blake began exhibiting similar issues.

He, too, developed an unhealthy interest in explicit content and was caught having inappropriate online conversations. Sarah was horrified and begged social services for psychological support for her kids. But instead of meaningful action, she got more advice and empty reassurances. By early 2019, Sarah's fears reached a breaking point. Her sons were mirroring the same chaotic patterns she'd experienced in her own childhood, watching violent movies, stealing cars, and engaging in deeply troubling behavior. Then came the tipping point.

In May 2019, the father of one of Tristan's classmates accused him of sexually inappropriate behavior. Sarah was informed that social services were planning to take action, possibly even removing Tristan from her care. She was devastated. On May 21st, a meeting was held about Tristan's case, but Sarah wasn't invited. The next day, she learned that he might be placed under child. child protection. To Sarah, this was unthinkable. Losing Tristan would unravel everything. What happened next is almost impossible to comprehend. On the morning of May 24, 2019, a friend of Sarah's called the police, saying she feared for the children's safety.

When officers arrived at the Barris' home, they were met with a horrifying scene. All six children were unconscious, and the oldest three showed signs of violence. Blake and Tristan were dead, their bodies bearing marks of strangulation and with plastic bags over their heads. The other four were rushed to the hospital, but Blake and Tristan couldn't be saved. Sarah and Brandon were arrested at the scene. As investigators pieced together what had happened, a disturbing picture emerged. Sarah had been spiraling in the days leading up to the murders. She'd sent cryptic messages to friends, quoting Stephen King and posting unsettling updates on

Facebook. One of her posts read, Murder is like potato chips. you can't stop at just one. She also sent chilling messages to Brandon, saying they needed to act fast before their secret was exposed. The secret? Brandon wasn't just the kid's uncle, he was their father. Their incestuous relationship had started when Sarah was just 14 and Brandon was 18.

Despite their mother's attempts to intervene, the relationship continued, resulting in six children. To the outside world, they maintained the facade of a brother-sister duo, but inside the family, the truth was a poorly kept secret. On the night of May 23rd, Sarah and Brandon gave the kids a cocktail of medication, hoping to poison them. When that failed, they resorted to manual violence. After killing Blake and Tristan, they attempted to drown one of the younger children but were interrupted before they could finish their plan. During the investigation, the surviving children revealed they'd been told their father was dead, sometimes even hearing the absurd claim that he died

in World War II. The truth was far darker. Sarah and Brandon's toxic relationship had created a cycle of trauma that culminated in unspeakable tragedy. In September 2019, Sarah Barris and Brandon MacKinn were convicted of two counts of murder, conspiracy to murder six children, and five counts of attempted murder. They were sentenced to life in prison, with a minimum of 35 years before they could be considered for parole. This case shocked the nation, raising questions about how such a horrific situation could unfold unnoticed. Was the sentence fair? Could the system have intervened sooner?

That's for you to decide. According to her version of events, the voices were so loud that they wouldn't let her sleep. They screamed and screamed, spoke among themselves, and when she finally managed to understand what they were saying, she was stunned, they claimed that Mazatlan had disappeared and that all of Quaritara was now spirit. Let's begin. My children are asleep in the house. I love my children very much, they are very good kids. and not mischievous. These were the first words spoken by Claudia Mahongos after waking up in a

hospital bed, surrounded by people she had never seen before. She was apparently disoriented and remembered absolutely nothing. Although her wounds and bloodied clothes spoke for themselves, she had coldly murdered her three children. The whole world was shaken by this case, not only because of the multiple and confusing versions given by the murderer, but also due to the brutality of her acts. No one could understand how a mother could have committed such a crime. Newspapers filled their pages with this case, especially with the following words, the voices made her do it. It was as if the ghost story that shook the United States in 74 had come back to life in Mexico 15 years later. Had this crime been the work of ghosts or of a

sick mind? Claudia Mahongos Arzac was born in Mazatlan on May 25, 1956. Little is known about her childhood, and the few details we have come from anonymous sources or people who claim to have known her during adolescence. Even so, they are worth considering, as their words may hold the key to her future actions. On the one hand, we have the official version, which states that Claudia's childhood was entirely normal, she didn't suffer abuse and never lacked anything, as she was born into a very wealthy family. On the other hand, there's the version from people who claim to have known her, and this version states that her parents were first cousins, and many of Claudia's siblings had mental illnesses such as schizophrenia or epilepsy.

However, both versions agree on one thing, Claudia was apparently a healthy young woman, very pleasant and studious. In fact, she went on to study commerce. Her beauty was also widely noted, and it said that during her teenage years, she was crowned beauty Queen of Mazatlan. However, this point is also unclear, as there is no official documentation, only some photographs that can be seen on screen. Unfortunately, I must inform you that the woman in the photos is not Claudia Mahongos, but Evangelinea Tehera, whose case is quite similar. Over the years, Claudia met a man named Alfredo Castanos Gutierrez, whom she married at the cathedral in Mazatlan.

After their honeymoon, the newlyweds moved to Quaritaro, where Alfredo began working at a bank and Claudia opened a boutique selling exclusive clothing, located in the Passa de la Lata. Over time, the couple had three children, Claudia Maria, Anna Bolin, and Alfredo Antonio, who attended the Fré Luis de Leon School, where Claudia occasionally taught catechism, ethics, and religion to be closer to them. Up to this point, everyone who knew them spoke highly of them, they were a completely normal couple, respectful toward each other and others, and their children were well-behaved, polite, and affectionate. But their perfect life was about to change forever.

After Claudia's mother died, nothing was ever the same. When the emotional wound was still fresh, rumors began to spread, rumors suggesting that Alfredo was cheating on her. As you can imagine, arguments became their daily bread. To try and fix the situation, the couple began attending. marriage counseling, both with psychologists and Catholic priests. But unfortunately, all efforts were in vain. The problems became so unbearable that they decided to divorce. By this time, Claudia had started experiencing severe psychological problems. Her depression was mixed with

extremely strange behavior, she talked to herself, mumbled, and stared at a fixed point for hours. But no one paid attention, assuming she was simply going through a phase. This unusual behavior did not stop Claudia from being granted full custody of her three children. In fact, according to various testimonies, Alfredo didn't even fight for shared custody. He simply left the children with Claudia and walked away. From then on, he would act as a father only when and how he wanted. Although Claudia sometimes asked him for more help with raising the children, Alfredo refused. One could say that Claudia was left completely alone, with three children aged 11, 9, and 6, running a business, teaching at school, and under a great deal of stress, stress that slowly deteriorated her mental health.

Her surroundings gradually began to notice something was wrong in her head. In the midst of this chaos, Claudia met someone, Father Ramon, a young priest who taught at her children's school. This is the point where the story splits into two versions. The first says that Don Ramon and Claudia became lovers. The second claims the relationship existed only in Claudia's mind, that her obsession made her imagine an entirely unreal romantic story involving him. Whichever version is true, what we do know is that Claudia approached Father Ramon and Father Rigoberto to ask for advice on religious matters, as she intended to seek a religious

annulment of her marriage. Both priests disagreed with this, as it went against their religious beliefs. and they tried to convince Claudia that she could not separate what God had joined. On April 23, 1989, Alfredo Castanos took his children to a school festival. When he returned them home, he had a heated argument with Claudia Mahongos. The reason for the argument isn't completely clear, although it seems Claudia asked Alfredo to stay the night with the children because she wasn't feeling well. But Alfredo clearly had other plans, and they began to argue.

According to neighbors, two more topics came up in the argument, Claudia's supposed relationship with Father Ramon and Alfredo's desire to reconcile, which Claudia refused to entertain. She locked the door and wouldn't let him in. Hours after the argument, Claudia called her friend Veronica Vasquez and told her what had happened. She admitted she wasn't feeling well and had too many things on her mind. Veronica tried to calm her and promised to visit her and the children the following morning. Claudia, now calmer, hung up the phone, tucked the children into bed, prayed with them

for a while, and went to sleep. At 5 a.m., just before dawn, Claudia Mahongos woke up. According to her version of events, the voices were so loud that they wouldn't let her sleep. They screamed and screamed, talked among themselves, and when she finally understood what they were saying, she was stunned, they claimed that Mazatlan had disappeared and that all of Quarotara was now spirit. She listened for a while, trying to decide whether what they said was true or not. Finally, she got up, got dressed, went to the kitchen, and grabbed three knives. Then, she climbed the stairs and went directly to Alfredo Antonio's room. She attacked him with such brutality that she amputated his left hand. I won't go into too much detail about the children's deaths.

Let's just say that she stabbed this child repeatedly until she said. She stabbed this child repeatedly until she was certain he was dead. Once she finished, she switched knives and went to find Claudia Maria, 11 years old. She stabbed her six times and, assuming she was dead, left her in the hallway. Then she went after Anna Bolin, nine years old. This little girl couldn't defend herself and received a stab to the heart. After taking her life, Claudia decided, gather everything she decided, underscore underscore, to pile the bodies in a room and act as if nothing had happened. But when going back to pick up the body of Claudia Maria, she realized that it was no longer where she had left it and following the trail of blood she went down the stairs and

ended the life of her eldest daughter stabbing her a couple more times at. This point many of you might think didn't the children scream, didn't the neighbors hear them scream? The answer is yes, the neighbors heard everything, but they thought it was just a simple argument a family quarrel. That's why no one came to help something that everyone regrets today they heard everything and when the children went silent they went. Back to bed not knowing that while they were doing so while closing their eyes, Claudia Mahongos was piling up her children on a bed covering them with a quilt and slitting her wrists to try to take her own life unsuccessfully since she was so exhausted that she could barely do it the next morning Veronica Vasquez

knocked on the door of that house. After a few minutes of waiting Claudia Mahongos opened the door with blood-stained clothes and a lost look Veronica at first thought her friend had been attacked so she went in and tried to talk to her, but Claudia wasn't responding so unintentionally she started looking around everywhere. All the walls were stained with blood and the smell of iron, was unbearable after a few minutes wandering around the house Claudia finally showed her the corpses of the three little ones and told her they were not dead but covered in ketchup the woman, horrified, quickly fled the house and called the police when the officers arrived, they practically broke down the door and found a truly gory scene. Everything was just as Veronica

Vasquez had described there was blood everywhere on the stairs on the walls in the hallways, and the place with the most blood was the upper floor specifically in the room where the, corpses of the three children had been found and that curled up next to them and sleeping peacefully was Claudia herself at first the officers upon seeing her cuts thought she might be dead, but Commander Adolfo Durand took her pulse on the neck and realized she was still alive so she was immediately sent to the Social Security Hospital Claudia. Mahongos opened her eyes at 11 a.m. on April 27th, 1989 she appeared disoriented, confused, but still the officers had to take her statement.

So half an hour later agent Sarah Peregrino began her questions to which she received the following answer, My children are asleep at home. I love my children very much. They are very good kids and they are not. Naughty after a while Claudia Mahongos gave more details about what could have happened that Fateful night, however, everything she said was full of delusions and inconsistencies. Father Ramon spoke to me telepathically he influenced me to get divorced, but my mother was a break a hindrance for me to be with him. Father Ramon with Dark Arts killed my. Mother, he keeps working on me mentally to possess me and also my husband wants to come back to me and is working on me mentally the pressure was so much that I lost control later.

Claudia changed her statement and said she didn't remember anything. In fact, she gave a completely different version according to her that night she put the kids to bed, prayed with them and went to sleep the next morning she woke up to the sound of the doorbell opened the door, and there was her friend Veronica she let her and they chatted for a while she showed her the children who were sleeping together in the same room she said goodbye and got back in bed with them. Her last memory is waking up in a hospital bed, surrounded by people she had never seen before the newspapers instantly condemned her crime and dubbed her the hyena of Quarotaro from there a slow and difficult legal process began her defense attorney at first tried to

blame her ex-husband Alfredo Castanos assuming that he somehow took advantage of Claudio as mental state to kill the children and, staged the whole sadistic scene to make her the guilty one, however, neurological tests showed that this woman suffered from a mental disorder which was epilepsy in the temporal lobe accompanied by a paranoid personality disorder and as expected on September 19th, 1991 Claudia Mahongos was found guilty of philicide and sentenced to 30 years of confinement in a psychiatric institution the maximum sentence at the time on January 23rd. She was transferred from the South Women's Prison in Mexico City to the psychiatric annex of the Teppapan Prison, and there she gradually began to undergo a series of changes that have made her beautiful face today look as you can see in the image it's worth noting that in all these years she has never received visits in fact when she underwent. Thyroid surgery in 2007 no one called, no one asked about her not even letters were sent after the crime.

All the people who had ever been involved with her like Father Don Ramon or Veronica Vasquez disappeared without a trace the only one we know so. something about is Alfredo Castanos Claudia Mahongos's ex-husband and the information we have isn't. Very positive it's known that he has been reported several times by his own siblings' reports for threats and allegedly occupying his mother's house who is supposedly very ill and bedridden after the crime a large number of enthusiasts broke into the house and began testing the supposed paranormal phenomena that were said to happen there many, claimed that the ghosts of the children were unable to go to the afterlife and relive the day of their death over and over again the rumors or supposed paranormal activity of the house reached such a point that it was claimed

neighbors had called the police many times because they said the lights in that house turned on every night and that they could also hear children screaming but I'm sorry to tell you that this is not true there were never any police reports much less about lights turning on and children screams yes. Many over the years have recorded EVP, electronic voice phenomena. In the house there is a large number of investigations that have been published on television and in print but I'm telling you Nobody, absolutely nobody has reported the house for having paranormal events still today. There's a rumor that has not been proven or disproven, and it is, said that Claudia Mahongo suffered a nervous breakdown while watching a program showing EVP captured in her old

house EVP as heartbreaking as the following. Can you give a sign any of the three can come to me, Mommy, yes, but now it's your turn. Do you think this house could be haunted and most importantly do you think Claudia killed her children or, was she helped by someone else the END? Everyone would expect that a mother whose daughter has been kidnapped would appear devastated, unable to speak. However, as the days went by, her attitude began to change, according to many, as if each gesture were planned. We begin. This story starts on July 20, 2005, when Lizette Farah, pregnant at 25 weeks, began having contractions. She quickly went to the emergency room with her husband, Mauricio Gabara, and their she

gave birth to their second daughter, whom they would name Paulette. The little girl battled between life and death for weeks, as not only was she premature, but she also had a hemorrhage on the left side of her brain, which made everything much more complicated. But finally, almost as if by magic, she managed to survive. Sadly, she would never have a normal life because the hemorrhage affected her motor skills on the left side, and she also had difficulties communicating. As she grew, she learned some words, but she was unable to pronounce complete sentences, although, of course, she could understand everything others said to her.

With great difficulty, she also managed to learn to walk, something that doctors initially thought would be impossible. Even though Paulette was a very strong girl, she needed assistance 24 hours a day, so her parents hired two caregivers, the Cosimiro sisters, Erica, and Martha. These two women not only took care of Paulette, but also. her older sister Lizette, and at the same time were responsible for household chores, they woke up the girls, dressed them, fed them, took them to school, and were with them 24-7. They also took Little Paulette every Thursday to the hospital for check-ups.

Paulette's treatment was very expensive, but her parents had a lot of money and it was not a problem for them, at least not outwardly. In March 2010, Little Paulette, aged four, and Lizette, six, went on a trip to Valle de Bravo with their father. The girl's mother did not attend this family trip, and it is said the reason was that the marriage was going through a rough patch. There were rumors that Lizette Farah was cheating on Mauricio Gabara and at the same time, the marriage was facing financial problems. Be that as it may, the father and the girls returned home, located in Hossienda del Servo and Huxquilukin, on the night of the 21st of that same month. Once there, they were received by Lizette Farah, who took care of putting the girls to bed.

She helped Paulette put on her pajamas, brush her teeth, tucked her in, prayed with her, turned off the lights in her room, and closed the door around 9-10 at night. From that moment, the woman did her chores and finally went to bed at 12.30. At exactly 8 o'clock the next morning, Erica Casimiro, Paulette's caregiver, entered her room to wake her up and get her ready for school. However, after searching everywhere, she could not find her. So, around 8.10, she entered the parents' room and informed them of the little girl's disappearance. From here, there are two versions. The first is the caregivers, and the second is Lizette Farras.

Erica Casimero said that when she entered the couple's room, neither of them got out of bed. They told her that Paulette had probably hidden or was in her sister's room. So Erica left the room and kept looking, but Paulette was in her sister's room. was nowhere to be found. She went back to call them, and finally, they got out of bed and started looking for her, but in a very calm manner, Mauricio very lazily, and Lizette pausing to drink coffee and smoke a cigarette. However, Lizette Farah denies this version and says that she and her husband jumped out of bed as soon as they were informed and began looking for her, terribly desperate. In any case, both the caregivers and the parents searched for the girl both inside and

outside the building, but she was nowhere to be found. It was then, in the middle of the search, that Mauricio Gabara called his sister and told her what was happening. It was his sister who directly called the authorities. The authorities arrived at the house half an hour after receiving the call, and from there began an exhaustive search. Sadly, all efforts were useless. There were no signs of robbery or kidnapping, no forced doors or windows, and reviewing the building's cameras, they saw no suspicious people entering or leaving the house. Also, no neighbors had seen anything. That was when the media show began. On the afternoon of March 22nd, the Attorney General of the State of Mexico, Alberto Bazbas, released a poster with the image of Little Paulette.

My name is Paulette. I am four years old. I have motor and speech disabilities. I have a scar on the left side of my back. I cannot fend for myself. I need my parents. Arlet Farah, Lizette's sister, sent emails and uploaded a picture of the girl on social media, and in less than 24 hours the case had gone viral. Singers, politicians, and famous actors from all over the world echoed the story, and the Gabara-Fara-Fara marriage began appearing on all media, TV, newspapers, and radio. They begged the supposed kidnappers to return their daughter, assuring that there would be no retaliation. These are her favorite animals.

She loves horses because, due to her disability, when I brought her home from the hospital, they told me she would never walk. And thanks to therapy and a horse, she now walks. Thanks to a horse. She is a child, she is an angel, she is a sweet child. She doesn't cry, she doesn't throw tantrums, she is the sweetest thing there is. How many days has she been missing? Since Sunday night.

And today, what day is it? Today is Friday. Yes, today is Friday. However, in their statements, there were inconsistencies that everyone began to notice, until finally, on March 29th, Alberto Bazbas publicly highlighted this fact. For starters, the caregiver's statements did not match those of the parents. The caregivers spread the images, helped the police, participated actively in Paulette's search, and always kept the same version.

But the parents, every time they opened their mouths, uttered constant contradictions. On one hand, Lizette Farah claimed that she had always been very close to her daughter, attending to her every need, being very affectionate, and playing hide-and-seek with her. However, the caregivers claimed this was not true, that she completely ignored little Paulette, was not affectionate at all, and certainly never played hide-and-seek with her, because, due to her condition, Paulette did not know how to hide. On the other hand, there are Lizette Farah's own statements. In one of the first interviews she gave, inside her daughter's room, she made a statement that shocked many mothers. Whoever has your daughter must know that she cannot ask for food or water,

it must be given to her. She needs medication, yes, she needs medication, especially therapy. But right now, a medication she needs. I cannot say it, but she needs special medical attention. I mean, just in case whoever has her can give it to her, they must administer it. Her pediatrician, it's not that easy. The question then was, how could a mother not know what treatment her little girl was following? But nerves can betray us all, although her gestures, her expressions, and the way she spoke about the girl started becoming a cause for suspicion. Everyone would expect that a mother whose daughter has been kidnapped would appear devastated, unable to speak.

However, as the days passed, her attitude began to change, according to many, as if each gesture were planned. I am coming to the conclusion that they took her, the eyes. That's it I'm already there. I'm already in my madness you're going to take the microphone like this and look at me like this there, it's fine and you just look at me like that. No problem, hey, can we rehearse a little bit? Yes, yes, welcome, of course, you are all invited to the point. party we are going to have it was never really consider the possibility, that it had been a kidnapping because, as I have said before, they did not find any forced doors or windows so clearly the culprit had to be inside the house, but which of them could have done it against Mauricio Gabara Justice only had the testimony of one Pablo Garcia, a gesture reader according to

this guy both Mauricio and his wife while making. Certain statements their gestures said the complete opposite and I will explain their lips said they were sad, but their hands, their eyebrows and their head movements said they felt nothing their movements even expressed disgust. repulsion towards their own daughter against Eric and Marza Casimiro they only had suppositions the two sisters had serious financial problems so the justice theorized that they could have kidnapped the girl to be able to demand the juicy ransom from the parents but something went wrong and they aborted the plan and finally against Lizette Day again had her behavior and the fact that she really seemed not to know her daughter on Tuesday March 30th in the morning both Pollitt's parents and the nannies

were taken to the prosecutor's office and afterwards they were transferred to a hotel while the family home was searched again this time with rescue dogs once at the hotel before. Suspects were interrogated for the last time and during one of the breaks Lizette grabbed the phone and called her eldest daughter. She says, Don't say anything more. We are just very sad because that's all why mom is that all you have to say mommy because otherwise things start to be misinterpreted they can accuse us of having stolen her or that you pushed her out to lose her so better not to say anything okay because we don't know anything that same afternoon the police carried out between the parents a reconstruction of the events and following to the letter both their testimony and the nannies, however, they did not get anything new or at least not during the day at 12 midnight on March.

31st the police received a notice and it was Paulette's room. Apparently it smelled very bad. The authorities entered camera in hand and found at the foot of the bed the lifeless body of little Paulette. There is a video online of the removal of the corpse, but I will not show the images out of respect for the family. I will simply show you a diagram. So you know more or less how she was found right at the foot of the bed, but underneath the mattress half tucked and inside half tucked inside. and completely wrapped in blankets, and it must be said that the autopsy did not help much to clarify the events either, but let's go step by step. The analysis revealed the following the little girl had. Ingested food five hours before dying and also in her body they did not find any drugs externally she had no signs of violence or sexual abuse, although she presented bruises on the left side of her body specifically on the elbow and the knee injuries she had gotten while alive so probably while playing she tripped and hurt herself especially because, In that part of her body she had motor difficulties on her cheeks there were traces of adhesive tape,

but this was not indicative that they had tried to kidnap her because every night her parents would put orthopedic tape over her mouth so she wouldn't open it while sleeping the time and day of death could not be determined, but it was estimated, that she had been dead for five to nine days and finally it was said that the body was not manipulated after death, and this last part was the most shocking of all, especially when Alberto Bazbas declared before the media the cause of death along with some words that chilled everyone's blood, and supposedly Paulette Gabara Farah had died accidentally, by mechanical asphyxiation due to obstruction of the nasal cavities and thoraco-abdominal compression, according to the official version the girl while sleeping rolled around the bed until getting stuck at the foot of it having motor and speech problems.

She could not get out or ask for help and die there of asphyxiation. However, this would not. Explain why internally the corpse had an accumulation of blood in the frontal part of the body a clear indicator that the asphyxiation occurred when the body was face down and not in a position it was found in nine. days decomposing at the foot of the bed more than 100 people coming in and out of the room the little girls and sleeping there for. Five nights the bed constantly being made and unmade and nobody ever noticed anything. Did no one smell the odor coming out of there? Did no one

when making the bed notice the bulk at the foot of it according to the police? The answers to these questions were very simple on the one hand no one smelled the odor because the corpse was wrapped in. Blankets and the blanket supposedly blocked the smell and the trained dogs that searched the house did not find the corpse because they were basically trained to find living people, but of course absolutely no one believed this story if what we have seen so far seemed surreal wait to see what comes next and little by little multiple law. Enforcement agents and even the prosecutor Alberto Bazbas resigned from their jobs. The major authorities involved in the case gradually disappeared according to many because they

knew the truth and allowed the culprit to go unpunished. It was even unofficially suggested that the Gabara-Fara marriage had connections with corrupt politicians and that they had pulled strings so the truth would never come to light and in this chaos of rumors theories emerged some of which personally give me goosebumps like that a cult sacrifice the girl that this case is practically identical to that of John Meney Ramsey and therefore the older sister is the perpetrator of the crime although the theory that currently has the most weight is the one that seems the most obvious that Lizette Farrah mother of Paulette committed the crime her contradictions her inappropriate words the little attachment she had to

her daughter and a detail not many paid attention to and that is that days before the corpse was found this woman gave an interview in the girls. Room and in it as always she showed the press her favorite toys and of course her favorite clothes among which was this beautiful pajama guess what the girl was wearing when she was found I think you can already imagine it but of course after the removal of the corpse no officer opened the drawers to look for that pajama because after all the body had not been manipulated in doing that apparently would be a waste of time months after Paulette's death very compromising images of Lizette Farah came to light and that's because while any parent would be immersed in depression for having lost their daughter,

she was partying a fact that inevitably reminded many of the case of little Kaylee Marie. Anthony, but of course the controversy did not end there because Lizette, after all, divorced her husband and began a fight to gain custody of her eldest daughter custody. She eventually won and afterwards started a battle against the media and Mexican justice demanding a juicy compensation for damages specifically. She demanded 531 million Mexican. Pesos and her arguments were the following a market study was done on how much much a television costs, how much my daughter's education costs, how much psychological

attention costs ballet classes, and if you want even the dogs, because I have four pets all that transferred to a life in the United States like the one I used to have here, but of course now, it's your turn what do you think about this case? Was it an accident or a murder the END?