Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Ultimate 9-Hour Horror Experience

Episode Date: December 22, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #darknarrations #truehorror #nightmarefuel #hauntingaudio Welcome to The Ultimate 9-Hour Horror Experience — a relentless, spine-tingling journey through the darkest corners of Reddit’s most terrifying tales. This is not for the faint-hearted. Featuring real-life paranormal encounters, eerie mysteries, and deeply disturbing confessions, this collection will pull you into a world where fear never ends. Turn down the lights, put on your headphones, and get ready to face nine straight hours of pure horror immersion. An intense 9-hour compilation of Reddit’s scariest horror stories — packed with paranormal events, haunting mysteries, and chilling real-life nightmares. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, darknarrations, paranormalactivity, hauntedstories, supernatural, nightmarefuel, truehorror, ghoststories, nosleepstories, psychologicalhorror, eerieaudio, terrifyingcompilation, scarylistening, hauntedtales, creepynarrations

It's hard to imagine a case that starts with such a chilling opening, anonymous posts on a forum, eerie images, and cryptic messages. But this is exactly what happened on November 4, 2014, when a series of unsettling events unfolded in Port Orchard, Washington. What began as an anonymous internet post ended with the horrifying discovery of a woman's body and a sinister confession. Let's unpack this case step by step, from the chilling post to the ultimate consequences for the man responsible. A post that shook the internet, at 2.30 p.m. that Tuesday, an anonymous user on 4chan, a notorious online forum, posted something that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The post included several photos of a naked woman who appeared unconscious, or worse, dead. Her skin bore bruises, and her neck showed marks consistent with strangulation. Along with the images, the user posted

an ominous caption, it's much harder to strangle someone than it looks in the movies. She fought so hard. Look at the news in Port Orchard, Washington, in a few hours. Her son will be coming home from school soon, he'll find her, and then he'll call the cops. Just wanted to share these photos before they find me. At first, many users thought it was a tasteless joke or some kind of trolling, common occurrences on that platform. But as hours passed, and moderators deleted the post,

local news outlets began reporting a horrifyingly similar crime scene in Port Orchard. The realization hit, this post wasn't a hoax. It was chillingly real. Amber Lynn Copland, a glimpse into her life. Amber Lynn Copeland was a 30-year-old woman living in Port Orchard, a small town in Kitsap County, Washington, with a population of just over 16,000 people. The town was known for its quiet, family-friendly vibe. Amber grew up in a large family with five sisters and two brothers, and she dreamed of creating

a similar family life for herself. Born on May 30, 1984, Amber idolized her parents and hoped to emulate their close. close-knit family dynamic. However, her parents' divorce during her adolescence shook her belief in love and family unity. Despite this, Amber remained optimistic. As an adult, she married Paul Coplin and together they had five children, Adam, Bryce, Timothy, Jason, and Jay. For a time, life seemed to fulfill Amber's dream. But just like her parents, Amber and Paul's marriage eventually ended in divorce. Though the reasons for their separation remain private, the couple appeared to part amicably. They agreed on shared custody of their children, with one child living full-time with

Amber. Amber was juggling a full-time job, raising her kids, and studying for a general insurance license in 2014. Her life was hectic but fulfilling, and she even found time to volunteer with the Boy Scouts, as all her children were members. Enter David Callick. In the midst of her busy life, Amber met David Callick, a 33-year-old man. The two quickly fell in love and decided to move in together. By all appearances, David seemed like a good match. Amber's family described him as respectful, caring, and someone who got along well with her children. However, David's past told a different story. He had a long criminal record dating back to his teenage years. In 1997, he began using drugs and racked up numerous charges, including reckless driving, driving under

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

lay ahead. A night of tension. On the night of Monday, November 3, 2014, tension boiled over in Amber's home. She, her 13-year-old son, and David were the only ones there. According to her son, the couple had an argument that escalated throughout the evening. At one point, Amber entered her son's room and asked to borrow his sleeping bag. She thanked him and walked out, yelling at David that she would sleep on the couch that night. The boy retreated to his room, trying to block out the noise of the argument. Eventually, he fell asleep. When he woke up at 6 a.m. on Tuesday, the house was eerily quiet.

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

A horrifying discovery, Amber's son entered the house first. The eerie silence remained, and his mother's bedroom door was still shut. He decided to open it. Inside, he found a scene straight out of a nightmare. The blinds were drawn, and someone had written bad news. on them. Her belongings were scattered across the floor, and her ID card lay on a pillow with the word dead, scrawled over her face. The boy took a few steps closer and saw Amber's lifeless body on the bed, partially covered by a pile of sheets. Her body was bruised,

her face bore signs of a brutal beating, and she had been strangled. Insults were written all over her skin in marker, and the entire scene radiated hatred. Shaken, the boy called his father, who immediately told him to call the police. Officers arrived at the house at 3.25 p.m. Forensic experts confirmed Amber had been beaten, bitten, bitten, and strangled. The discovery of a note on her nightstand added another layer to the mystery. It revealed Amber had recently undergone an abortion. While the exact motive for the crime remained unclear, detective suspected David was behind it. The hunt for David Calick. David was nowhere to be found, and neither was Amber's car, a gold Ford focus. Police issued an alert and began

searching for him. Meanwhile, users on four chan pointed investigators to the chilling post featuring Amber's photos. Only someone deeply familiar with the crime scene could have written such a post, and David quickly became the prime suspect. At 5.33 a.m., hours before the post appeared, surveillance cameras captured Amber's car crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. Later that morning, David texted his boss, confessing he had done something terrible and would likely appear on the news. He also messaged a friend, hinting at his involvement in a horrific act, before turning off his phone to avoid being tracked. By 1 p.m., David was spotted at a pawn shop, where he sold a laptop for $100. He then visited a nearby store to buy vodka

and juice. At 2.30 p.m., he entered a Walmart and purchased a realistic-looking toy gun. He sat in Amber's car in the parking lot for several minutes, likely the time he used to upload the photos to Fort Chan, before driving away and disappearing into the woods. A surprising surrender. Despite an extensive manhunt, David managed to evade police for most of the day. Then, at 8.45 p.m., he walked out of a wooded area in Wilsonville, Oregon, and approached a patrol car. calmly, he surrendered. Police later discovered a makeshift campsite in the woods where David had been hiding. Among the items found were vodka bottles, juice cartons, pills, and a sign reading David's last place. Inside his tent, investigators found a note that read, I killed Amber Coplin.

I strangled her with a cord. There was no reason other than I was drunk and she made me mad. Running from the police was fun. The handwriting matched the writing found at the crime scene, leaving no doubt about his guilt. David's trial and conviction. David's defense was as bizarre as his crime. He admitted to killing Amber but claimed he couldn't remember the details because he was heavily intoxicated. He suggested that the notes found that the scene might have been written by him but insisted he wasn't sure. He admitted he would have been angry if Amber had told him about her abortion but denied that it would have driven him to murder. His vague and inconsistent statements didn't help his case, especially when surveillance footage and

forensic evidence painted a clear picture of his actions. The timeline of events showed he was fully aware of what he was doing. From the moment he left the crime scene to the chilling post on 4chan, every step was calculated. In the end, the jury didn't by his claims of memory lapses. David Callick was convicted of first-degree murder, vehicle theft, and robbery. He was sentenced to 82 years in prison. Final thoughts. The murder of Amber Coplin is a haunting reminder of the dangerous lurking behind closed doors. It's a case that combined modern technology, social media, and age-old violence to create a story that shocked an entire community. David Callick's actions were cold and calculated, leaving little room for doubt about his guilt.

But what do you think? Was David truly unable to remember the details of that night, or was it all an act to escape accountability? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain, Amber's family will never forget the horror of that day, and her children will forever bear the scars of her loss. It all began with a holiday gift, the kind of present that seems innocuous, but ends up changing. changing everything. For 23-year-old Jenna Roger Botovsky, a Michigan resident with a love for animals, music, and dancing, life seemed pretty ordinary.

She shared her joys and quirks openly on social media, often showcasing her strong bond with her family, her mother, her sisters, and the grandmother she adored. Her grandmother's passing had left a void, but their connection was something Jenna cherished deeply. So, when her best friend unwrapped a DNA testing kit from ancestry during the holidays, it sparked Jenna's curiosity. This wasn't just about science or family trees, it was a way to connect, to dig into the roots of her family history, and maybe even feel a deeper connection to her beloved grandmother. Intrigued, she decided she wanted one too. The journey begins,

why not, she thought. She ordered her kit, spit into the little tube as instructed, and mailed it off. The whole process felt simple, almost fun. A month later, her results arrived, just as they had for her friend. The two compared findings, laughed at the overlapping bits, and joked about how their distant ancestors might have been frenemies. It was all light-hearted, a quirky pastime to break up the monotony of life. But that's when things got weird. The first call, it was a regular workday, nothing unusual about it, until Jenna's phone rang.

She glanced at the unfamiliar number and hesitated. Should she answer? Curiosity got the best of her. On the other end was a man claiming. to be a Michigan State Police Officer. His tone was serious, almost ominous. Jenna's mind raced. Was this about a traffic violation?

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

The officer explained they believed she might be a distant relative of the baby and asked for her cooperation. Although shocked, she agreed. After all, what harm could it do? Suspicion creeps in. Things got stranger when the officer referred Jenna to a woman in Chicago who specialized in DNA databases for cold cases. That same evening, the woman called Jenna to explain more about baby Garnett. The story was tragic. the baby had been found in 1997 at Garnet Lake, a tiny, unassuming body of water in Hudson

Township, Michigan. The child had been discarded in an outhouse at a nearby campground, suffocating shortly after birth. The woman from Chicago seemed professional at first, but then she asked Jenna for something odd, her username and password for ancestry. Alarm bells went off in Jenna's head. That's personal, she thought. Was this a scam? Had someone seen her DNA results and decided to take a advantage of her. She hung up, deciding to let the situation simmer for a bit. Chaos at home, a week later, Jenna's mother called her at work, panic in her voice. You need to come home right now, she said, offering no explanation. Heart pounding, Jenna rushed out, unsure what to

expect. At home, her family was in chaos. Her cousin, looking pale and shaken, explained that police had shown up at his door that morning, asking for his DNA and informing him that their family was connected to Baby Garnet. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation hit Jenna like a freight train. This wasn't some elaborate scam. This was real. Digging into the past, as Jenna began piecing together the details, the story grew darker. Garnet Lake wasn't well known, even among locals.

Hidden away in Hudson Township, the campground was tiny and had reopened just months before Baby Garnett's body was discovered. On June 26, 1997, a maintenance worker had been clearing out the campground. Cantground's outhouse when his equipment jammed. Investigating the blockage, he made a horrifying discovery, the lifeless body of a newborn baby. An autopsy revealed the baby had been carried nearly to full term, between 36 and 42 weeks. Death by suffocation. The most heartbreaking revelation.

Her death could have been prevented. The tragedy shook the tight-knit Hudson community. Whispers and rumors spread like wildfire. speculated, accused their neighbors, and pointed fingers at any woman who might have been hiding a pregnancy. But despite extensive interviews and investigations, law enforcement hit a wall. A case on ice. At the time, DNA technology was in its infancy. Investigators collected and stored samples, hoping future advancements would unlock answers. Baby Garnett was given a name in honor of the lake where she was found, and she was laid to rest. The case was shelved,

seemingly forgotten. But in 2010, a new sheriff in Mackinac County, Ed Wilk, decided to breathe life into the department's cold cases. Among them was Baby Garnett's file. Sheriff Wilk couldn't shake the feeling that this case could be solved. His team began exploring new forensic methods, including something called genetic genealogy. Science meets justice. Genetic genealogy had been making waves in law enforcement, solving decades-old mysteries by cross-referencing DNA with public ancestry databases. Sheriff Wilkes' team reached out to Identifinders International, a pioneer in the field. Led by Dr. Colleen Fitzpatrick, the agency specialized in using familial DNA to identify unknown individuals. Dr. Fitzpatrick received Baby Garnet's DNA sample and

uploaded it to international databases. While many people use sites like ancestry and family tree DNA to trace their heritage, law enforcement often uses these same databases to find familial matches for victims and suspects. Jenna's connection. For years, baby Garnett's DNA sat in the system with no matches. But in 2020, Jenna's test changed everything. The result suggested a distant familial connection, setting off a chain reaction of investigations. When Jenna and her mother submitted additional samples, the results were staggering,

Baby Garnett wasn't just some distant relative. She was Jenna's aunt, her mother's half-sister. Suddenly, the focus shifted to Jenna's maternal grandmother, a woman Jenna barely knew. Growing up, Jenna had been told little about her mother's mother. The relationship between her mom and grandmother was strained, and Jenna only learned snippets about her when she was a teenager. The truth emerges, the investigation uncovered shocking details. In 1997, Jenna's grandmother, Nancy Sherwitowski, had been a 32-year-old woman living in Newbury,

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

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

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

perhaps tipsy, wanders through the streets. Many theories swirl around her disappearance. One possibility is another taxi driver, someone who might have intercepted her. Not her usual driver but someone else, someone predatory, lurking for an opportunity. Or maybe it wasn't a taxi driver at all. Perhaps it was a man hiding in the shadows, someone who was. who saw her vulnerability, someone waiting for a moment like this. The theories are endless, and speculation runs rampant. One particular man even recorded everything he could about the case.

When the police asked why he made those videos, his answer was simple, he just wanted to help. But, of course, there's always skepticism. Was his motivation really pure? Despite his actions, the police still had nothing concrete. They were stuck. And with no new leads, Thomas Sr., Adrian's taxi driver that night, became the focus of their investigation. Over time, the authorities dug into his past and, yes, discovered he had committed some crimes. However, Thomas vehemently denied having any connection to Adrian's disappearance. His argument? Whatever he might have done before had no relevance to this case.

To him, the police were wasting their time chasing shadows. Months passed and the trail went cold, until August 6, 2013. That day, after heavy rains caused severe flooding, a man made a chilling call to the police. On his property in Apache Junction, about a 40-minute drive from Adrian's home, he had found human remains. For hours, vultures had been circling above his land, drawing his attention to the grizzly discovery. This revelation hit the media like a storm. Newspapers, magazines, TV stations, and radio shows couldn't stop talking about it.

Everyone was glued to the updates. Forensic experts arrived at the scene and, after an initial assessment, believed the remains could be Adrienne's. However, the condition of the body was appalling, badly decomposed, little more than mummified bones. But there was one critical detail, a scar that hinted it could indeed be her. Later, DNA tests confirmed the remains belonged to Adrian Salinas. Sadly, that's where the answers ended. The body was so deteriorated that determining the cause of death was impossible.

And to make matters worse, there was no clear crime scene. Where had she died? How did she end up there? Nobody knew. There were a few theories about how her body got there. One possibility was that it had been buried nearby but dislodged by the torrential rains. Another was that animals had unearthed her remains. And the third, more sinister theory.

Someone deliberately placed her body there. The missing pieces of her body, her head and hands, only deepened the mystery. Why were they gone? Forensic experts speculated three scenarios. First, scavenging animals might have taken them. Second, the floodwaters could have washed them away. And third, her killer might have taken them as some sort of gruesome trophy. It sounds like something out of a horror movie, doesn't it?

But here's the unsettling part, similar crimes had occurred in the same area back in the 1990s. Victims back then were found in eerily similar conditions, decapitated, with missing body parts. Those cases remained unsolved for years. And without new leads, Adrian's case, like the others, was shelved once again. Fast forward to 2015. Advancements in DNA technology allowed investigators to connect one man to two of those earlier crimes. His name. Brian Patrick Miller

The victims linked to him were Angela Brasso, murdered in 1992, and Melanie Berners, killed in 1993. The case against him progressed slowly, inching forward until. his trial finally began in 2022 and concluded in 2023. But what does Brian Patrick Miller have to do with Adrian Salinas? That's where things get interesting. Back in 2013, Brian was a divorced father in his 40s, working at an Amazon Logistics Center. At first glance, he seemed like an ordinary guy, nothing remarkable. But he had an unusual hobby, cosplay. Brian loved dressing up as a zombie hunter. In Arizona, he was well known for his quirky out fits. He'd wear gas masks, carry fake weapons, and even customized his car to match his

persona. His license plate read Zombie Hunter, and he'd proudly drive around like that. To most people, he was just a harmless nerd, a guy with a weird passion. But his past was far from harmless, it was terrifying. Let's rewind to 1989. Teenage Brian underwent a psychological evaluation that revealed some disturbing findings. He had above-average intelligence, but he struggled to his emotions, often retreating into fantasies and escapism. He was also on medication for depression and anger. And here's the real red flag, he had significant issues with his sexuality, which led professionals to recommend he enter a program for sex offenders.

But guess what? Nothing was done. No real action was taken. And just months after that report, Brian attacked a 19-year-old girl in a mall parking lot, stabbing her. When the police arrested him, Brian confessed. His chilling reason. He wanted to see how it felt.

For that crime, he spent two years in a juvenile detention center. At 18, he was released back into the world, unsupervised and unmonitored. Not long after, in May 1992, Brian became a suspect in the disappearance of Brandy Myers, a 13-year-old girl who vanished while walking in Phoenix. Brandy had been collecting donations for a charity with her sister, but at some point, the two were separated, and Brandy never returned. Brian lived nearby, in a neighborhood that had a canal, a detail that would later become significant. Police questioned him but, without evidence, dismissed him as a suspect. Later that year, tragedy struck again. On November 8, 1992,

Angela Brasso, a 21-year-old woman, went for a bike ride near that same canal. It was a route she often took with her boyfriend. But that night, Angela rode alone while her boyfriend stayed home to bake her a cake for her upcoming birthday. The next day, Angela's lifeless body was found in the canal. She was naked and decapitated. Her head was missing for weeks until it was discovered frozen, a detail that suggested her killer had preserved it. Then, in September 1993, another young woman, Melanie Berners, also vanished near that canal while riding her bike. Her body was found in the same way, stabbed and dumped in the water. Over the years, similar crimes were reported in the area, but suddenly, everything stopped. Brian moved to Everett, Washington,

in 2002, where his violent tendencies re-emerged. While driving one day, he offered a woman a ride to work. Once she got in, he stabbed her in the shoulder. Miraculously, she escaped and reported him. However, Brian was acquitted after claiming self-defense, arguing that she had tried to rob him. Despite his crimes, it wasn't until 2015 that DNA evidence tied him to Angela Brasso and Melanie Bernas. As news of his arrest spread, people who knew Brian began sharing disturbing stories. His ex-wife, Amy, testified about his violent tendencies and his obsession with knives. She described terrifying moments during their marriage, saying, he enjoyed seeing me suffer. I often wondered if he loved me enough not to kill me.

She also revealed that Brian had once confessed to a murder, providing chilling details about how he captured, killed, and disposed of the victim. At the time, Amy didn't believe him, but she lived in constant fear. Another friend of Bryan's contacted the police, suggesting he might be connected to Adrian Salinas' death. While no physical evidence linked him to her case, the similarities were undeniable. Angela Brasso had been decapitated, and Adrian's remains were missing a head and hands. Brian lived close to Adrian's home and was known to frequent the area where her body was found.

The timeline also raised suspicions. Around the time Adrian disappeared, Brian had posted melancholic updates on Facebook about his struggles with women and his mental health. Just days before her disappearance, he had planned a solo bike trip. Coincidentally, Adrian vanished on the same night he intended to ride. Her remains were later discovered in a location Brian was known to visit. Everything seemed to align, the proximity, the patterns, the behavior, but there wasn't enough concrete evidence to charge him. In 2022, Brian was finally convicted for the murders of Angela Brasso and Melanie Berners.

He was sentenced to death in 2023. But the cases of Brandy Myers and Adrian Salinas remain unsolved. Did Brian have something to do with Adrian's death? Or was it someone else entirely? So, what do you think? Could Brian Patrick Miller be the key to unraveling this mystery? Or does another shadowy figure still lurk out there, waiting to be caught? In early 2014, a 30-year-old woman named Agnes Clavina received two life-changing pieces of news.

First, she had secured a position at one of the most prestigious clubs in Marbella, a sunny coastal paradise in Spain. Second, her boyfriend proposed a wedding plan for after her contract ended and she returned home. The future looked dazzlingly bright, and Agnes Co. couldn't contain her excitement. She shared the news with everyone she knew, family, friends, and even casual acquaintances. Her joy was so immense that she flew back to her home country, Latvia, to celebrate with her parents. It seemed that nothing could cloud her happiness.

But life had other plans, once steeped in mystery and heartbreak. Agnes packed her bags and headed to Marbella, starting her dream job at the exclusive Ocean Cloud. Tragically, she never returned home. This marked the beginning of one of the most perplexing cases to ever emerge from the sun-soaked streets of Marbella. Agnes Life Before Spain, Agnes Clavina was born on June 8, 1984, in Riga, the bustling capital of Latvia.

She was the second child of Daiga and Vladimir Clavina and grew up close to her elder brother, Gunta. Gunta often described their relationship as inseparable, with the siblings doing everything together from a young age. Their parents, supportive and loving, encouraged both children to pursue whatever careers they Agnes, full of charisma and charm, made friends easily and had a knack for leaving a lasting impression on people. As she reached adulthood, Agnes envisioned a future in tourism or entertainment. She studied languages and tourism while juggling various service industry jobs

and a busy social life. However, Riga soon felt too small for her ambitions. Conversations with her parents led to a bold decision, she would move to the UK in search of broader opportunities. Initially, the move was intended to be temporary, a year or two at most. But once in London, her plans changed. She met Michael Mills, a charismatic club owner, and fell deeply in love. Michael ran the West Bend Studios Club, a vibrant space offering everything from a cinema to arcade games. Their relationship blossomed quickly, with the couple traveling together, exchanging gifts,

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

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

By the end of her contract, Agnes had made a considerable amount of money and valuable connections. Weddings are expensive, and she saw an opportunity to save even more by staying a few extra months. Michael agreed to the extension, but he missed her dearly and decided to visit. During his brief trip, the couple enjoyed the beaches, partied with Agnes' new friends, and made wedding plans. After Michael returned to London, Agnes began working.

at a restaurant called Way. She loved the job, the people, and the ambience, but her streak of luck took a hit when she was fired for an incident that shocked her colleagues. One busy night, Agnes disappeared mid-shift. She was eventually found outside, drinking and smoking with friends, and act her employers couldn't overlook. Though charming and hardworking, Agnes was also known for her love of partying, and this trait seemed to have caught up with her. A night out gone wrong, on September 5, 2014, Agnes decided decided to go out with friends. The plan was casual, they didn't even settle on a specific destination. Agnes informed her family and Michael of her night out, sharing photos of her

simple yet elegant outfit, a white Louis Vuitton handbag being the standout accessory. Two friends, Nicholas and Joachim Broberg, picked her up from her apartment. Their first stop was a bar called Living Room in Portabannis. After it closed at 3 a.m., part of the group decided to call it a night. But Agnes wasn't ready to go home. She reassured her friends that she would take a taxi later and stayed behind. The last known sighting of Agnes was at Aqua Mist, a glamorous nightclub frequented by celebrities. Surveillance footage showed her enjoying herself, but things took a darker turn when she was seen outside the club's parking lot. The footage captured Agnes with three men.

She appeared to be hesitant, shaking her head and pulling away from one of them as he tried to lead her to a car. Eventually, she entered the vehicle, but not without resistance. At one point, she opened the door as if to exit, but one of the men stopped her. The car drove off, and six minutes later, Agnes' phone went silent forever. The aftermath, the next day, Michael tried calling Agnes. When she didn't answer, he assumed she was sleeping off the night's festivities. But as the hours turned into days, his concern grew. Michael contacted her family, friends, and anyone else who might have heard from her.

her. No one had. Even her usually active social media had gone quiet. Friends checked her apartment and found her car parked outside. Inside, everything was untouched, her passport, clothes, and belongings remained as they were. Michael and Agnes family flew to Marbella to report her disappearance. Frustratingly, Spanish authorities required them to file the report in person, wasting precious time. When the investigation began, it was slow and disorganized. Surveillance footage from Aqua Mist revealed unsettling details, but by then, much of the evidence had been erased due to the delay. Agnes family and friends plastered Marbella with missing person posters and spoke to local media, desperately trying to keep her case in the spotlight.

Suspicious figures, the investigation eventually identified three key individuals seen with Agnes that night. Wesley Capper, the son of a British millionaire, was the man seen leading her to the car. His close friend, Craig Porter, was in the passenger's seat, and the club's doorman, Siam Usman, was also present. Each man told conflicting stories. Kapper claimed that Agnes willingly got into the car to continue partying at his villa but later asked to be dropped off. He alleged that she got out in an isolated area, far from her apartment.

Porter claimed to have fallen asleep during the ride and woke up to find Agnes gone. Usman, meanwhile, said he had no idea what happened after he closed the car door, believing she had entered willingly. Further investigation revealed suspicious behavior. Surveillance footage from a marina showed Capper and Porter loading a large suitcase and a rolled-up carpet onto a yacht days after Agnes disappeared. The boat, owned by Capper's father, returned without the items. A forensic search of their car revealed traces of organic matter and a blonde hair strand, but the evidence was inconclusive. Lingering questions, as the months dragged on, the case remained unsolved. Speculation ran wild, was Agnes kidnapped. Murdered. Her body was

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

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

an ordinary family, hardworking father, devoted mother. However, this family had a dark legacy of mental illness. Albert's mother experienced hallucinations, an uncle suffered for mania, his older brother was institutionalized, and a sister allegedly had severe depression. It's no wonder Albert's future took such a grim turn. Until Albert's was five, life was relatively stable. There was food on the table, and the family managed to get by. But in 1875, his father passed away from a heart attack. Suddenly, Ellen was left alone with four children and no means to support them. Desperate, she sent Albert to St. John's orphanage, hoping he'd receive proper care and education. Unfortunately, orphanages at that time

were far from the safe havens they were supposed to be. They were often dark, cruel places where children endured strict discipline and frequent abuse. For Albert, the experience was nothing short of hell. The harrowing years at St. John's orphanage, at the orphanage, Albert suffered immensely. The other children teased him mercilessly, mocking his name, Hamilton Howard, and calling him ham and eggs. Feeling humiliated, he decided to change his name to Albert Fish, in honor of a deceased sibling. The verbal torment was just the beginning. The physical abuse was relentless. Albert began wetting the bed, a symptom of the trauma he endured, and became the staff and children's punching bag. But something even darker began to take root. Over

time, Albert started associating pain with pleasure. The beatings, though horrifying, ignited something within him. He began seeking out trouble, wanting to provoke punishments just to experience the twisted comfort they brought him. He became addicted to the pain, creating a vicious cycle where his suffering fed his cravings and vice versa. By 1880, when Albert was 10, his mother managed to secure a government job and take him out of the orphanage. However, the damage had already been done. The years of abuse had left deep psychological scars, setting the stage for the atrocities that would come later. A disturbing adolescence, at 12 years old, Albert began exploring his sexuality with a boy of the same age.

Some sources claim they were in a relationship, but it seemed more like experimentation. Together, they delved into euralagna and coprophagia, practices that would disturb most people. They also frequented public restrooms to spy on other boys. Albert's fascination with sex became an obsession. By 1890, he had started selling his body and preying on children as young as six. Around the same time, he began responding to personal ads in newspapers. These ads, posted by men and women looking for everything from jobs to romantic partners, became a tool for Albert. He wrote letters to women, describing graphic fantasies about making them his slaves.

It said he sent dozens of such letters, but unsurprisingly, no one ever replied. Despite his unsettling behavior, societal norms pushed Albert toward marriage. In 1898, his mother arranged for him to wed a woman nine years his junior, Anna Marie Hoffman. They went on to have six children. To outsiders, Albert appeared to be a loving husband and father. But behind closed doors, his sinister tendencies continued to grow. The mask of a family man, Albert worked various jobs, including as a handyman and house painter. The latter occupation allowed him to travel across the United States, meeting new people

and gaining access to countless homes. With his frail frame and unassuming demeanor, he seemed harmless. Parents trusted him, unaware of the danger he posed. Albert claimed to have attacked over 100 children during his travels, often targeting those who were disabled or from marginalized communities. He believed these victims wouldn't be missed, a chilling reflection of his predatory mindset. The birth of a monster, in 1903, Albert was arrested for grand larceny. While serving his sentence, he engaged in sexual relationships with other inmates, further indulging

his masochistic desires. But it was in 1910 that he met someone who would play a significant role in his twisted story, a 19-year-old named Thomas Kedden. Some accounts described their relationship as consensual, but Thomas had an intellectual disability, meaning he likely didn't fully understand what was happening. After a brief period of dating, Albert lured Thomas to an abandoned farmhouse, where he held him captive for two weeks. During this time, Albert tortured the young man mercilessly.

Eventually, he decided not to kill Thomas, fearing the summer heat would cause the body to decompose too quickly and attract attention. Instead, Albert mutilated him, cutting off half of his genitals. He cleaned the wound with peroxide, left Thomas ten dollars, kissed him goodbye, and fled. A descent into madness. Albert's wife, Anna Marie, tolerated his strange behavior for years, but in 1917, she reached her breaking point. She left him for another man, taking their children with her.

This abandonment sent Albert spiraling further into madness. He began hearing voices, which he claimed were messages from saints and apostles. One voice, in particular, told him to perform bizarre acts, like wrapping himself in a carpet or howling at the moon. His self-harm escalated. Albert drove needles into his pelvis, some of which became permanently lodged in his body. He would later set fire to cotton balls soaked in alcohol and insert them into his rectum. He even fashioned a paddle studded with nails, using it to beat himself.

Logically, he involved his children in his sadistic rituals, turning them into unwilling participants in his twisted games. The man in Gray, Albert's violent tendencies continued to escalate. In 1924, he attempted to lure an eight-year-old girl named Beatrice into going fishing with him. When she refused, her mother intervened, chasing Albert away. But he wasn't deterred. That same year, he targeted a nine-year-old boy named Francis MacDonald. reported seeing Francis with an elderly man who matched Albert's description.

Days later, Francis's mutilated body was discovered in the woods, earning Albert the nickname, The Grey Man, the disappearance of Billy Gaffney. In 1927, Albert abducted a four-year-old named Billy Gaffney. A witness, Billy's three-year-old friend, later described the kidnapper as, the boogeyman. What Albert did to Billy remains one of the most horrifying chapters of his life. He tortured and killed the child, later confessing to cannibalizing parts of his body. Grace Budd and the letter of confession, in 1928, Albert responded to a job advertisement from an 18-year-old named Edward Butt. Disguising himself as a kind, elderly man named Frank Howard, he visited the Bud family's home.

However, when Albert met Edward's younger sister, Grace, he changed his plans. Claiming he needed to attend his niece's birthday party, Albert convinced the Buds to let Grace accompany him. Years later, in 1934, the Bud family received an anonymous letter detailing Grace's gruesome fate. Albert described luring her to an abandoned house, strangling her, and consuming her remains over the course of nine days. The letter ultimately led to Albert's arrest and revealed the depths of his depravity. Justice for Albert Fish's victims, Albert Fish was apprehended and confessed to numerous crimes, though the true number of his victims remains unknown. He was convicted of Grace Budd's murder and executed in 1936.

The legacy of his horrific acts continues to haunt the. It's wild how some memories just stick with you, like glue. Even though more than ten years have slipped by, I can still see that day in my mind like it happened yesterday. Not just see it, but feel it, the weight of it, the air, the silence. It's burned into me like a permanent scar. Back when life felt whole, I was married to Mia. And man, she was everything.

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

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

I called her name, no answer. My heart started doing somersaults in my chest. I walked through the living room, up the stairs, and when I got to our bedroom, I saw her. She was lying there on the floor, completely still. Cold. Lifeless. I don't even remember screaming, but I know I did. It didn't sound like me. It didn't sound human. Cops came, they put up tape, snapped photos, collected things in little baggies. No forced entry, no fingerprints, no signs of struggle. It was like she just, stopped existing. Weeks turned to months, and eventually the detective started saying things like, we've hit a wall, and, we're doing our best. Then it was a cold case. Her name became a number in a file, filed away like a book

no one wanted to read again. I couldn't feel anything. It was a cold case. It was a number of like I turned into a shell. People say grief hits you in waves, but for me it was just one long flood that never receded. Then the post-mortem report came in. That's when I found out she was pregnant. Four weeks. She hadn't told me. We'd been trying, on and off, but I guess you wanted to be sure first. I collapsed when I read that line. That I lost two people. One who had my heart. One I never even got to meet. Two years passed. I waited for a call from the police, hoping for something, anything. But nothing ever came. Life became this muted thing. Colors looked dull. Food tasted bland. The world moved on, but I couldn't. I never remarried.

Couldn't. Every woman I met reminded me of what I lost, what I would never get back. and I couldn't bring myself to leave that house. It became this museum of pain. Every creek in the floorboards, every photo on the wall, every little note she left me in the kitchen, they all screamed her name. I lived among ghosts. For seven years. Then came the day I decided to move. It wasn't easy, but I figured it was time to let go.

Or at least try. I was packing up the bedroom, going through old. drawers and shelves when I reached the top of the cupboard. Way in the back, I found a small box. Inside was a leather-bound book, kind of worn around the edges. A diary. It was Mia's. I didn't even know she kept one. Her handwriting danced on the pages, looping and soft, just like her voice. I read the first page and instantly fell apart. She had written everything, how we met, our wedding day, our honeymoon on the coast, the night we danced in the rain on our third anniversary. It felt like she was right there, telling me these stories. But then things

started to change. The tone of her writing shifted. Confusion crept in. Then guilt. Then temptation. And then a name appeared. One I never expected. My father. At first I thought I read it wrong. But the more I turned the pages, the more real it got. Mia had been writing about an affair with my dad, my actual, biological father. She said it started as support while I was away on work trips. She was lonely. He was there. And somehow, it became more physical.

She hated herself for it. The words were soaked in regret. And then she wrote the part that broke me in ways I didn't think possible. The baby wasn't mine. I dropped the diary. I couldn't breathe. My whole body felt like it was rejecting reality. I wanted to scream, break something, erase everything I just read.

But I couldn't. I needed to know the truth. I needed to know what happened, really happened. So I hired a private investigator. I figured, worst case, it was a waste of money. Best case, maybe some closure. But what he found? It blew my world apart all over again.

He pulled in a retired homicide detective, someone who still had ties to the department. Together, they dug through the old case files. And they found something. A smudge on the inside lock of the front door. It was dismissed back then, not tested because it didn't look like. much. But the new team tested it. DNA said it belonged to my father. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Why? Why would he do this? Why would he take her away? They brought him in. Reopened the case. And eventually, under the pressure, he confessed. He killed her. She had told him she couldn't lie

anymore. She wanted to come clean. She was going to tell me everything that night. About the affair. The baby. All of it. But he panicked. Afraid of what it would do to his image, to the family name, his legacy, whatever the hell that means. He said it was an accident. Said he just wanted to scare her. But the evidence said otherwise. It was calculated. Cold. He wiped everything down, got rid of the gloves, made sure the door was locked behind him. Then he walked out like nothing happened. Like he didn't just destroy everything. He's in prison now. Life without parole. But you know what? That doesn't bring her back. Doesn't erase the nights I wake up reaching for someone who's not there.

Doesn't silence the echo of that empty house or undo the pages of that diary. Sometimes I wish I never found it. Never read those words. Ignorance would have hurt, yeah, but at least I could have kept the good memories untainted. Instead, I got truth that burned everything down. Now, I live smaller. Quietly. I moved to a different city.

Got a little apartment, nothing fancy. I work, I sleep, I read, I walk. That's about it. I keep to myself. People ask if I'm okay, and I nod. But I don't think I'll ever really be okay. Because grief like that? It doesn't fade.

It just changes color. Morphs from sharp pain into this dull ache that follows you around. Like background noise. Always there. And forgiveness? That's not even on the table. My father? He's dead to me.

I don't care how old he gets, how sorry he pretends to be. There's no coming back from what he did. Sometimes I go to the beach, the one Mia and I used to visit. I sit there with my feet in the water and I talk to her. Out loud. People probably think I'm crazy, but I don't care. It helps. In some weird way, it keeps her own.

alive. I tell her about the sunsets she's missing. The books I'm reading. The songs that make me think of her. I keep her diary in a box under my bed now. I don't read it anymore. I don't need to. Her words are etched into me. And that's both a blessing and a curse. I miss her. Every single day. And the child we never got to raise. The life we were supposed to have. So, yeah, it's been over a decade. But some stories, they never really end. They just echo. Forever.

On a cold Christmas Eve in 1945, Fayetteville, West Virginia, was a buzz with the excitement of the holiday season. The Sauter family, comprised of George and Jenny Sauter and their ten children, was preparing for a festive evening. Little did they know that this Christmas would end in unimaginable tragedy and mystery. As the clock struck midnight, a fire broke out in the solder home. George and Jenny were awakened by the crackling flames and the acrid smell of smoke. Panic set in as they rushed to save their children. They managed to escape with their two youngest children, but five of their children, ages five to fourteen, were still inside.

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

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

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

claiming to have seen their children. She reported that they were living in a nearby town, apparently unharmed. This revelation rekindled the Sauter's hope, but it also added to the uncertainty surrounding the tragedy. As time went on, George and Jenny were bombarded with odd reports. In one instance, a truck driver claimed to have seen their children being loaded into a car by two men just after the fire. Another report suggested that the children were being held by a local family who had ties to the

mafia. With each new lead, the Saughters grew more determined to uncover the truth. They hired private investigators, but the results were often inconclusive. Despite the setbacks, George remained convinced that his children were alive and that someone knew where they were. In a bold move, George decided to take their search public. He erected a billboard along the highway, featuring pictures of the missing children and the words, What Happened to Our Children?

The billboard captured the attention of travelers, reigniting interest in the case. media began to cover the story, leading to more tips and sightings. George even took to the radio, pleading with the public for information. He described the children in detail, hoping that someone would recognize them. As the investigation unfolded, several theories emerged about the fate of the Sauter children. Some believed they had died in the fire, and their bodies had simply never been found. Others theorized that they had indeed been kidnapped, perhaps as part of a larger conspiracy. Some even suggested that the fire had been deliberately set to cover up the abduction.

The Sauter's persistent efforts led them to connect with other families who had experienced similar tragedies. They discovered a pattern of mysterious disappearances of children across the country, further fueling their belief that their children were still alive. In 1947, the Sotters received a chilling lead that would haunt them forever. A woman approached them, claiming she had seen the children at a neighboring farm. She described them as being well cared for, which absolutely, added another layer of complexity to the case. The family investigated, but the trail went cold.

The final piece of the puzzle came when George discovered an intriguing photograph in a local newspaper. It showed a group of children, and one of them bore a striking resemblance to one of the missing solder children. George felt a surge of hope, but as the investigation into the photo began, it led to nothing concrete. The solder children were never found. the years, George and Jenny continued to search, driven by a mixture of hope and despair.

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

The unanswered questions and the shadow of doubt continue to loom over Fayetteville. For George and Jenny Sotter, the search for their children became an all-consuming quest, leaving a legacy of sorrow and an enduring mystery that still resonates today. As we reflect on their story, we are reminded of the fragility of life and the lengths to which a family will go to seek the truth. The Sada children's fate may remain a mystery, but their story endures, echoing the chilling reality that sometimes, the past holds secrets we may never uncover. The car waited. The driver stepped out, lit a cigarette, and wandered around the area. He glanced around, checking his phone after a while. Nothing. No sign of her.

Frustrated, he tried calling, but by then, Adrian's phone was turned off. With no other choice, the taxi driver drove away, leaving the scene behind. This story begins with Adrian Celeste Salinas, a 19-year-old from Tempe, Arizona. At the time, she was studying journalism at Arizona State University. She lived in an apartment she shared with two roommates, Sammy Dugan and Rebecca Flores. Adrian didn't have much public information about her life, but she was described as sweet, kind, and someone who was always smiling in every photo. Whether it was selfies, family pictures, or shots with her.

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

eighth grade, but their relationship was complicated. To Adrian, Francisco was her one and only, her exclusive partner. But to Francisco? He didn't see it that way. Their relationship was rocky, on again, off again, filled with arguments and make-ups. It had been a messy situation for years. Now, let's jump to June 13, 2013. It was a Thursday, and Adrian, Sammy, and Rebecca decided to throw a birthday party at their apartment. Initially, it was supposed to be a small gathering with close friends. But like many parties, things spiraled out of control, and by Friday, June 14th,

nearly 40 people were crammed into their place. There was alcohol, music, and everything. energy drinks. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Francisco was there, along with Adrian's closest friends. But at some point, Adrian started feeling uncomfortable. According to witnesses, Francisco was ignoring her and even flirting with other girls at the party.

Meanwhile, Adrian had to watch other couples laughing, hugging, and kissing. While everyone else seemed happy, she felt invisible. The tension between her and Francisco boiled over, and they started arguing. at the party saw it, and eventually, the two left together, heading to Francisco's house in Scottsdale. No one knows exactly what happened at his house, but it's clear they fought again. By 2.30 a.m. on June 15, Adrian had had enough. She decided to leave and started walking home on foot. Francisco, however, wasn't ready to let her go like that. He grabbed his car, caught up to her, and begged her to get in. He promised to take her home, saying everything would be

fine. Reluctantly, Adrian got in the car. But the peace didn't last long. The argument reignited, and once again, Adrian had enough. She told him to pull over. Francisco stopped the car in Tempe, and Adrian got out, determined to walk the rest of the way alone. At 3.20 a.m., she left the car. By 3.30, she had made it home. From here, the story splits into two perspectives. The first version, told by a few partygoers, paints Adrian as visibly upset when she returned home. They described her as emotional, angry, sad, and distressed. It wasn't just a fight with Francisco, she seemed overwhelmed by everything.

She had been drinking, she was exhausted, and on top of it all, the house was still packed with people. Her room wasn't a refuge, it was just as chaotic as the rest of the apartment. She couldn't sleep, couldn't change clothes, and couldn't find any privacy. It was all too much. The second version, supported by most of the apartment, supported by most of the apartment. the party guests, is different. They claimed they didn't even notice Adrian return. The music, the alcohol, the laughter, it all drowned out her presence. To many, she was invisible

that night. But one key witness saw Adrian leave the apartment. This person described her as furious, storming out, getting into her car, and driving off at 3.44 a.m. Not long after Adrian left, a 911 call came in. A witness had just seen a car driving erratically before crash on a curve. The collision was severe, blowing out two tires. The driver got out to inspect the damage. It was a chaotic scene, and the witness reported the vehicle's license plate to the police. But by the time officers arrived, the car, and the driver, were gone. Later, investigators confirmed the car belonged to Adrian. After the crash, she had driven the damaged vehicle a short distance, parked it near her apartment, and walked back home. By this time,

her apartment was still full of people, but few noticed her return. Adrian went into her room, changed clothes, and made a decision, she needed to see Francisco. She had to talk to him, figure things out, and resolve their issues once and for all. Between 4.10 and 4.50 a.m., Adrian called Francisco's phone nearly 30 times. She sounded desperate. Tired, emotional, and likely still intoxicated, Adrian was spiraling. After several unanswered calls, she decided to take action. First, she called a taxi, giving detailed instructions to pick her up at the corner of Hardy Drive and University Drive, near a gas station and convenience store.

Then, at 4.43am, she sent Francisco one last text, I'm on my way. That was the last message she ever sent. Francisco didn't respond. Maybe he was asleep, or maybe he just didn't want to answer. Either way, Adrian's phone went silent after that. The taxi arrived at the designated corner a few minutes later. The driver waited, stepped out, smoked a cigarette, and wandered around. When Adrian didn't show up, he tried calling her.

By then, her phone was off. Frustrated, the driver eventually left. According to police, Adrian's phone was turned off at 5.07 a.m., and after that, there was no further activity. On Saturday, June 15th, no one had heard from Adrian. Her roommates assumed she was with Francisco, and Francisco thought she was with her roommates. Her parents didn't worry at first, thinking she was recovering from the party. But by Sunday, June 16th, Father's Day, her dad, Rick, started to get concerned. Adrian always called him on Father's Day, but this year, the phone never rang.

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

shared the same name, Thomas Simon. To differentiate, they were referred to as Thomas Simon Jr. Thomas Simon Sr., the police arranged a three-way phone call to speak with them, as both were working different routes at the time. During the call, they gave their accounts of what happened that night. But things took a strange turn when Thomas Jr., as passengers contacted the police. They reported bizarre behavior during their ride. At one point, Thomas Jr. had stopped in Sedona, opened the trunk, and pulled out a saw. The passengers were alarmed and asked why he had it, to which Thomas Jr. replied he didn't

No. Unnerved, the passengers contacted the authorities as soon as they got home. Police began surveilling Thomas Jr., but he quickly noticed. He led them on several high-speed chases, taking sharp turns to lose them. Eventually, the police brought him in for questioning and asked him to take a polygraph test. He refused. His erratic behavior raised even more red flags, prompting officers to search his home. Thomas Jr. lashed out, claiming he was being unfairly targeted and insisting he was innocent. Despite his protests, investigators collected a DNA sample from him. Shortly after his release, an anonymous tip came in from a woman claiming her cousin

had heard female screams coming from Thomas Jr. S. House. According to the cousin, the screams were horrifying, as if someone was being silenced. Police rushed to investigate, but Thomas Jr. refused to let them in, insisting nothing was wrong. When officers tried to follow up with the tipster, she vanished. They couldn't reach her again. By then, a month had passed since Adrian's disappearance. Out of nowhere, Thomas Sr. uploaded a video to YouTube.

In it, he retraced Adrian's supposed route, filming every detail, from her apartment to the gas station where she had called the taxi. He speculated about what might have happened, suggesting another taxi driver or even a random predator could have intercepted her. The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang. Crane here, I answered, half asleep. It was well past 2 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was out there. Sorry about the late hour,

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

One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them? Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer could still be inside. I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway, OK, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far, I said. Caller was a small fellow called Uriah.

nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of M with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Pale as ghosts, all of M. I turned on to the highway. Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, satanic paraphernalia all over the place. When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off, a few officers loitering outside, neighbors starting to gossip on their front lawns, and a face in the window, banging on the glass. That there's Samara, said Stinson. Let's go in.

Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't want to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place, about the whole situation. There also arose other thoughts in my head, walk away. Retire. Forget about it. I put those ones aside.

Stinson followed me in. Jesus, I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. Quite the first impression, eh. Stinson closed the door. Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, crane, chief of police, I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living, corpse. Chard. I, sorry, said Stinson. Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too. I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. Got an ID on it? Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy

called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name. We want to walked a little further. This next one I did warn you about, said Stinson. Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one tick and Miyakovsky. That includes his supposed sister. Mr. Miyakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there. Happened, I thought.

As promised, a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against a wall, headless, neck sliced clean off, and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. Jesus! Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room. Feel that? I asked. Sure. Maybe A, C. acting up.

Maybe. I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. The last time we had a killing in town was, Bakerfield, 2003. I was surprised it was that long ago. Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut, I said. No burning.

No decapitation. No, he bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. Devilry. Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle, he referred to as the murder room, small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains, wax, blood, who knows what else, encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulfur. And now, he said, the suspects. I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked.

I could hear banging from inside. Was the lock necessary? Stinson shrugged. I had to improvise, and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene. Six are inside. I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tickin's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl,

Ramundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah. I finished writing the names. Any impressions? Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both, said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered. Six people indeed. Good evening.

Names Crane. I'm the chief, anger. What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due? Let us be. Let us all be, then get out. leave leave here and never come back i i said stinson took out his gun calm down samara said one of the five people seated they won't believe you anyway they think one of us is the killer samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window why would i do it why would i kill my own brother she said with her back turned more than that we've a spiritual obligation, one of the women said. To see it through. No chance of that now that

he's ruined us all, Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken, crane, chief of police, and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, Raymondo. What I want are the facts, I said. Facts, Samara said with audible. distaste. Always with your facts, your reason. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tickin was learning how to overcome. Just tell me what happened in the order it happened, I said. Promise to hear us out. Ramundo asked. Yes. He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. Do you mind? After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever

heard, and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. Do you see? Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun. Is that a trick? I asked. No, he said, stubbing out the cigarette. It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal. You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step by step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand, faith, said Samara. I asked, a portal to where? Hell. Told you they're mad, the lot of M, said Stinson. Everything rests on faith, Samara was saying.

Tickin knew that better than anyone. Tell me from the beginning, I said. One of the other women in the room piped up, it was a seance. We were having a seance. And you are. Naomi. For God's sake, it wasn't a seance. Samara walked decisively away from the window. A seance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living. I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down,

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

Stinson scoffed. No, said Ramundo. We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere. How did you open that portal? Did it involve, Samara, we didn't kill anybody. Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual.

There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it. What happened then? I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terrible fright. You felt that, didn't you? Samara said to me, what is it?

The never-living passing through the world of the living. So this portal is still open. Laughing furiously, of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving, said Samara. I'm here to solve two murders, I said. You shouldn't be here at all. If he hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened.

You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem. That's not fair, said Jurya in a thin voice. It was already happening. Tickhan lost, shut your mouth. Let him speak, I said. He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte, Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disrepresent. regard. So he has no excuse. He's a dilettante, and he's always been nothing but a dilatante.

Uriah muttered something under his breath. What happened after you opened the portal? I asked Ramundo. Tickin made contact with a demon. Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. It's coming back, he said. It said half, and it's coming back. Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realized he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat. What's coming back? The demon, Raymondo said.

We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all, said Pearl. Once it got into Tickham, I've never seen such a possession. Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating, two more. Two more. Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eaves troughs. Two more what? I asked. Two more victims. The demon demanded payment, said Naomi without looking up. Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll. Milton, singing.

singing, 50 for the farmer, 50 for the red hen. How did the demon say this? Through Tickhan, said Pearl. It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight. So you're admitting Tickin threatened you. Stinson burst out. It wasn't Tickin. It was the demon speaking through Tickin, Ramundo calmly explained. Tickin was no longer present. Samara sighed. This is all pointless. What happened after the demon, speaking through Tickhan, threatened you? It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store? Samara asked. I corrected myself. What happened after the demon made it statement? Wait, Naomi Rose, looking at Samara, then around the room. You knew about this? You knew

there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen? We'd done it before without a price, said Yoriah quietly. We knew, said Samara. What happened next? I asked. Naomi, you used me. Oh, don't be so naive. Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk. I repeated my question, louder. He killed Lenny, said Jurya, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. He set him on hellfire. I look to Ramundo for confirmation. I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four. What did you do while Lenny was burning? We continued the ritual,

said Samara. That was what we had agreed to. Some of us, said Naomi. Pearl said, he didn't burn long. Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door.

Then Tickhan started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning. The demon, said Samara. Not Tickhan. turning and turning Milton put the bird upon the stone sharpen your axe and bring it down cleave the body from the head and watch it run until it's dead until it came off and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern the mouth still wet and alive and talking and it said either you or samara are selected or both said Naomi Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriya was speaking, the blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore.

I just couldn't. Coward. What did you do? I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up. He interrupted the ritual, said Samara. One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end.

He was going to take another. He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocence in danger. And what did you do after getting up? I asked. I watched. Tickhan, stumble, collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon, said Uriah, and staggered toward the door.

He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolled his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be. Soon the police came, said Raymondo. And here we are. Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me. A man burned alive but no other signs of fire.

A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blade it was done with. The witness who called it in, in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both. The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes, said Pearl. He always gets his due, said Samara. Why did you do it? I asked. We didn't. The demon did it.

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

Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To no existence. I think it's going to be me, your life. Gariah said, biting his fingernail again. I feel dead already. But the ritual was broken, doesn't that mean it's all over? The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed.

The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us. Can you close the portal? I asked. I can't believe you're humoring these looms, Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him. We can't, said some. Samara. That's the problem. It was unbearably hot. Ramundo said, although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed.

Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose. Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed, said Samara. I looked over my notes. The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have a already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt. I say we do the world of favor and kill all of them, said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. Not any two, said Ramundo. Only the chosen too, said Samara. That is the conundrum. I glanced at my notes again. Does anyone remember anything else said by the demon? Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part, the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh,

knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. Not something heard, but something seen. As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote, if I am indeed to go to hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damate pearl and tick and alongside me. That's what the demon showed you. I reckon, said Milton. There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire, added Pearl. His eyes, they opened wide as saucers, and he asked with this great misunderstanding, what's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is?

A moment later he was ignited. I remember that too, said Naomi. Anything else? Silence. Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence, no rain, No wind, no tapping branches, no breathing. What in God's name? Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question,

because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tickhan entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot. Once, twice, and a third T.I. But Tickhan, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders and tore him in two, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not

shriek or cry. I, said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, always, I saw, Samara crying tears of joy, Uriah peeing. his pants, Ramundo Ovarod, Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face. Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets, Pearl laughing hysterically, Get my do. Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tickon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper.

For minus two is equal to two. When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them, the way a snake consumes a rat, by distending its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey. When both halves were in him, he said, that one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of a Then the world returned, first the rain, followed by the house beyond the door, now open

on its hinges, and all of us in it, all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. There is one more thing, Samara said finally. Words tick and whispered to me when we first began our experiments. If the devil takes you, he will not take me too, then, staring at me, she asked, do you believe us now? My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm, I said. Have faith. In my notebook I wrote, who else must die? We begin with the fact that the exact date of construction of this building is not known for certain.

Even so, and purely by intuition, we might consider it to be from the mid-19th century. This enormous building is clearly of Anglo-Saxon eclectic style, with two floors and exaggerated dimensions, even for wealthy families of that era. In fact, it is said that in its origins it had a total of 365 windows. Attached to the building is a family chapel, and in its foundations, according to local rumor, there exists an endless network of passageways and countless secret rooms that connected the Cortijo with distant places, with sites kilometers and kilometers away. The Cortijo and what were once its lands are located on the outskirts

of Malaga, in the Campanilla's neighborhood. As we can see at a glance, this must have been an idyllic place, a location to enjoy nature and the good weather, and of course, to forget the stress of the big city. But nevertheless, not everything that glitter seems to be gold at Cortijo Gerardo. According to what is told, a series of dark events took place here while a family, the Heredia family, was living in it. Another family, the Larios family, who lived in the nearby Cortijo Colmenaris, which today is a golf club, was also involved in these macab events. Both families maintained a close friendship, as both had arrived in Malaga from La Rioja. According to legend, at an undetermined date, still within the 19th century, young

girls began to disappear in the area. These girls were systematically found dead in a river near the property. Their bodies, after undergoing the necessary tests, showed signs of abuse and all kinds of torture, torture that linked their deaths to sinister satanic rituals. The Heredia family soon came under scrutiny, as they were linked to Freemasonry and were allegedly importing these practices from France and England, where they had many friends also connected to the masons. The fact that the victim's bodies were found in a nearby river automatically linked the Heredia family to these events. But how did they do it? How did they transport the bodies without being seen? Through the tunnels, tunnels that were rumored to connect

the cortigio to the river. And apart from establishing this connection, many more were said to exist. In the bowels of the building, it was said there were torture rooms, rooms whose difficult access was only possible through those tunnels, tunnels through which attendees of rituals and executioners passed. Another of the secret tunnels connected Cortijo Girado with Cortijo Colmenaris, as it was in the latter where the attendees of these dark rituals stayed for weeks. This is more or less the original legend, but as with everything, it evolved over the years into a distorted image of what it once was. For much of the 20th century, this story was forgotten. But at some point in the 1990s, it resurfaced, resurfaced wrapped in a mysterious aura, an aura directly linked

to parapsychology. Paranormal phenomena began to occur when the building was already abandoned, when its condition was deplorable. In specialized publications, a series of photographs began to circulate, images capturing specters and strange mists in Cortijo Girado. In all the images appeared orbs, strange silhouettes, shadows, and odd shapes emerging from vapors. What seemed like simple spectral apparitions gradually took shape, gradually found their voice. Thanks to all that spectral chronicle, many young people were encouraged to visit the site with their Ouija boards under their arms and in the company of their friends. Everyone seemed capable of establishing contact with the beyond.

Everyone seemed convinced that this building was a portal to the spirit world. There were those who claimed the Ouija board revealed names and surnames, the names and surnames of the girls who had been tortured and murdered there. Some specters, through the Ouija board, claimed to still be buried there, or even walled in. Then came the turn of parapsychology. Multiple experts from around the world gathered once again at this site. They measured electromagnetic fields and recorded EVP sessions, really chilling voices, lamentations, echoes from the past, or even intelligent responses. What was the name of the family that lived in this cortegeo. Are you someone from this house, or someone who came with me?

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

Marquis of Larios. This man settled in Malaga at the beginning of the 19th century, shortly after becoming a widower. Here, he began his flourishing export business to Gibraltar and, much later, opened wineries and financial societies. His son, Martin Lerios, who is supposed to be a protagonist of this story alongside Manuel Augustin Heredia, didn't arrive here until 1831. Until then, it is known that he likely lived between Gibraltar and Madrid, since through these two places he controlled the family business. After gaining the Marquis and the enormous profits the family obtained from the war against Napoleon, the family became one of the most powerful in Spain. Manuel Augustin Heredia arrived in Velas Malaga in 1801, the year of

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

obtaining mining concessions in various places. His industrial career skyrocketed, and in a very short time he became the owner of mining and agricultural operations in South America. And how did he manage to reach them? Thanks to his powerful naval fleet. To further cement his social standing, he decided to marry a woman who could match all his power, and this would be Isabel Livermore, a member of a noble Malaghanan and lineage. With all this, the bond between both families.

families, Heredia and Larius, is now established. Wealthy residents of the same city, possibly with commercial ties to each other, and, of course, common origins. It's quite logical, then, that they decided to settle next to one another. The architectural similarity between both buildings suggests that they were probably designed by the same architect. We even came to think that the decision to live next to each other on the outskirts of Malaga was a joint one. Although it's worth mentioning that historical records show there was already a building on the site where Cortijo Colminari's now stands, a building dated to 1747. But most likely, that one was demolished to make way for the enormous and imposing construction

that now exists. It's difficult to reach clear conclusions when the history were dealing with dates back decades and decades. Everyone knows that word of mouth distorts stories and can even twist them 180 degrees. That's why, from this point on, we will proceed step by step, reviewing truthful and verifiable information. Between the years 1890 and 1920, five women aged between 18 and 20 were found dead on the banks of a river very close to Cortijo Girado. Apart from that, there are no records of systematic disappearances of minors in this area. There are no written

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

the testimony of a local resident named Manuel Martine. When he was just 20 years old, in 1932, he was dared by his friends to sneak into the site one night when it was unoccupied. He entered the estate from the back and had the misfortune of tripping and falling down a well, a well that led him straight into a strange cavern. The man claimed that from there, a dozen tunnels extended outward, tunnels stretching for kilometers and kilometers. Through these, one could access multiple rooms, rooms filled with bones and strange torture machines.

After following a long corridor, he reached what seemed to be a huge metal door sealed shut. He was convinced that on the other side of that door was another hallway leading directly to the Lario's cortigio. Decades after his experience, hundreds of people gathered at the site with picks and shovels, but no one ever found the entrance to that supposed cavern or those alleged tunnels that connected to the Lario's Cortijo. To further fuel the legend, it said that decades later, during remodeling work at Cortijo Colmenaris, an excavator was swallowed by the ground, swallowed by a massive sinkhole of enormous proportions. Workers discovered it wasn't just a hole, but a room from which various tunnels emerged,

some of which led directly to Cortijo Gerado. The owner of the Cortijo ordered his employees to seal the sinkhole and forget about the matter. However, this report is very difficult to verify. On one hand, the owner's request to seal the sinkhole and forget about it is extremely suspicious. On the other, the testimonies about the event don't agree with each other, not on the exact location where the sinkhole appeared, nor on the date, nor the time, not even on the weather conditions that day. At this point, many of you will remember another legend linked to Cortijo Girado.

It's said that during the Spanish Civil War, people were executed in its basements and tunnels, executed and tortured. It's also said that the bodies disappeared without a trace, both corpses and the wounded. That's supposedly why the place was eventually abandoned by the military themselves, who claimed to be afraid of the ghosts haunting the estate. Unfortunately, we have no record of this. There are no official archives and not even reliable testimonies. We only have legends and popular tales.

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

Both the Larios and the Heredia families used their corticos sporadically. Manuel Augustine and Martine spent most of their time kilometers and kilometers away, while their wives and children enjoyed the natural beauty of these marvelous estates. They lived in a peaceful and uncomplicated manner. It is very likely that they were Freemasons, as this was almost obligatory for their social class at the time. But of course, the only thing we truly know about them is what written records say, and we don't know if any real tragedy occurred in either of the two corticos. What is clear, however, is that Cortijo Girado is one of the most abnormally active places in the world.

There is a wealth of evidence marking it as a highly active location, EV piece, photographic captures, chilling images, orbs, shadows, sudden drops in temperature. And there are plenty of people who claim to have felt something inside that building. For that reason, from my point of view, this is and always will be a great unsolved mystery. In the early 20th century, Cortijo Girado was sold by the Heredia family to the Larios. The reason for this first sale is said to be that the Heradias were ruined by the high maintenance costs of the estate. Who knows? The fact is that from that moment on, the building passed from hand to hand. After the Larios, it went to the Casadas, and from the Casadas to the Vega Gerado family in 1975.

In the year 2000, the estate was sold to a hotel company that planned to restore it and build a hotel complex with over 200 rooms. However, since then, the project has been frozen. Steel structures were added to prevent collapses, but nothing else has been done. It's even been claimed that the reason is fear, fear that something tragic might happen. It is said that within its walls, old manuscripts were found that read, the nightmare comes. All will die. But now your turn has come. What do you all think about this?

Do you believe something truly terrible happened in that building? The end. When I was eight years old, I learned how to read the air in a room. Some kids memorized multiplication tables or played make-believe. I learned to gauge the weight of silence, to recognize the sharpness of footsteps on the floor, to interpret the tone of a sigh. It became second nature, a skill I didn't even know I had until much later. Survival has a way of teaching you things without asking if you're ready to learn.

My father wasn't always angry. At least, I don't think he was. I have vague memories of him sitting in his recliner, a cigarette balance between his fingers, laughing at something on the television. Those moments were rare, though, and as I grew older, they felt more like pieces of someone else's life that I had accidentally wandered into. The man I remember most clearly was the one who filled every corner of our house with his rage. It wasn't the kind of anger that exploded all at once.

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

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

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

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

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

When he finally reached my door, I could hear the anger in his voice before he even spoke. Open the door, he growled. I didn't move. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, he would leave. I said open the door, the doorknob rattled, then shook harder as he tried to force it. open. I pressed myself against the far wall, my hands trembling. I know you're in there, he shouted. Open this door right now, or I swear, the sound of wood splintering filled the room as he kicked the door open. I froze, unable to move as he stepped inside, his face twisted

in fury. What the hell is wrong with you? He demanded, his word slurred. You think you can lock me out of my own house. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My throat felt like it was closing, my chest tightening as panic took over. He stepped closer, his hand raised. I flinched, bracing for the impact, but it never came. Instead, he grabbed the lamp on my bedside table and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass made me jump, tears streaming down my face as I curled into myself. Clean it up, he said, his voice cold. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door hanging off its hinges. I didn't move for a long time. When I finally did, my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the broom.

I swept up the broken glass and threw it away, then sat on my bed and stared at the floor until the sun came up. That night was a turning point for me. I realized then that I couldn't keep living like this. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew I had to find a way out. I started saving money, taking on any job I could find. I spent hours at the library, researching ways to get emancipated, looking up shelters and resources for kids like me. It wasn't easy.

It took years of planning and waiting, of pretending everything was fine while I worked toward my escape. But eventually, I did it. I packed a bag and left, this time for good. I found a shelter that helped me get back on my feet, helped me start a new life. I wish I could say I left it all behind, but the truth is, the scars my father left, both the ones you can see and the ones you can't, will always be with me. I still flinch at loud noises.

I still have nightmares. But I'm free now, and that's something he can never take from me. The chilling presence that sent shivers down my spine deviated from the stereotypical image of a hardened criminal. It embodied the unassuming figure of a little old woman burdened with the weight of a true killer. Two years prior to our encounter, she had fatally shot her husband with a shotgun. Despite rumors in the neighborhood whispering a different tale, she had managed to avoid jail time by claiming self-defense, supported by most of multiple witnesses. Regardless of the truth, she had committed murder, and that very shotgun, resting in the corner of her foyer, could very well have been the weapon. During the peak of my

drug addiction, our paths crossed. However, I have since recovered and remained sober for six years. At that time, opioids ruled my life, and percassettes were my poison of choice. A fellow addict informed me about a new dealer, Miss Coco, who sold her monthly prescription of 70 pills. Intrigued, I decided to visit her address, conveniently located just a few streets away from my friend Selena's place. Before heading there, I dropped by Salinas to share the news. Little did I know, Selena held a treasure trove of cautionary tales about Miss Coco, stories of her dark deeds within the neighborhood. Selina pleaded with me to be careful, but I dismissed her concerns, assuming that an old woman posed no threat. Fear was

absent from my thoughts as I approached the shotgun house and knocked on the door, fully aware that I was expected. The door creaked open, revealing a short, elderly woman. Catching a glimpse of her face and one bloodshot eye, she inquired about my name and gestured for me to come inside. As I stepped into her home, my attention was drawn to the shotgun leaning in the corner. She led me further into the house, giving me a chance to observe her closely. A peculiarly placed rug on the otherwise bare floors triggered thoughts of bloodstains, reminding me of Salina's words. However, Miss Coco seemed amiable, offering me a drink and a snack.

Underneath her surprisingly kind eyes, I pondered the bizarre nature of this drug deal. I silently scoffed at Selena's warnings, considering them unfounded. I accepted the soda but declined the snack, completing my purchase of her entire script of pain pills. Miss Coco mentioned she would refill it on the same day next month. I bid her farewell, blissfully ignorant of any wild notions about this seemingly harmless old woman's capacity for violence. For several months, I followed a routine, returning to Miss Coco's place, sipping on soda, declining snacks, and leaving in a state of blissful intoxication. Over time, our interactions allowed me to catch a glimpse into her life, her struggles with diet,

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

Struggling to recall its title, I was taken aback when Miss Coco's eyes lit up, revealing a collection of bootleg DVDs, including the exact movie Shane desired. Excitedly, she allowed us to choose three movies and requested their return once we were finished. That night, at my place, we eagerly inserted Shane's preferred movie into the player. To our disappointment, the footage resembled a shaky cell phone recording, complete with people walking in front of the screen and constant chatter from behind the camera. The quality was abysmal. Laughing at our misfortune, we assumed the other two DVDs would be just as terrible and opted for a different film.

A few days later, on my way to meet Selena, I remembered the DVD. and decided to return them to Ms. Coco. Attempting to call her first, I received no answer. Undeterred, I approached her doorstep and knocked, but still, there was no response. Thinking nothing of it, I left the DVDs propped up against her door, protected from the elements by the screen on the top half of her storm door. My mind shifted to my plans with Selena, and I promptly forgot about the encounter. Later that night, as I indulged in the company of friends and the haze of my high, my phone

incessantly rang. Disinterested in conversation, I initially ignored the calls. But as they persisted, my friend urged me to answer. Retrieving my phone, I noticed it was Miss Coco attempting to reach me. The late hour and her uncharacteristic behavior heightened my concern. Normally, her number served the sole purpose of arranging my visits on the 12th each month. Today was only the ninth, anxiety crept in, and I returned her call promptly. Astonishingly, she answered before the phone even rang once. An aura of fury emanated from her

voice as she unleashed her anger upon me. I had carelessly left the DVDs in her door, and in her eyes, I had disrespected the ways of the hood. Anyone could have seen them, seized the opportunity, and stolen them. My actions were disrespectful, rude, and ungrateful, according to her lengthy diatribe. Though I maintained a calm tone, I offered my sincere apologies while also expressing my opinion on the lackluster quality of the movies. Unexpectedly, her tone shifted once more, returning to the sweet old Miss Coco I had known. She conceded that her reaction had been unwarranted, blaming her edginess that night. She apologized for her outburst, reassuring me that I had

been good to her and didn't deserve such treatment. As if to make amends, she informed me that she had obtained her script earlier than usual. In fact, she had it with her at that very moment. She invited me to collect it that night. Now, a rational and sober person would have detected the red flags instantly. But under the influence of my intoxication and oblivious to the danger, I foolishly believed I had stumbled upon a miracle. Junkie Jesus, I thought, had granted me another opportunity for an enhanced tie. Eagerly, I set off towards Coco's house. The intoxication still enveloped me as I approached her home.

To my surprise, the DVDs were still where I had left them. Coco swam opened the door as I approached the step, commanding me to retrieve the movies and bring them inside. Although her voice carried a stern tone, it lacked the earlier crazed edge. With the DVDs in hand, I asked. entered the living room, taking my usual spot. Yet, something felt amiss, a gnawing uneasiness crept up my spine. I shifted my gaze around the room, and that's when I saw it, the shotgun. It was no longer resting in the corner, instead, it was firmly gripped in Miss Coco's frail hands.

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

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

shotgun loosening ever so slightly. Taking a gamble, I continued to speak, appealing to the humanity buried beneath her hardened exterior. I shared my own journey of addiction and recovery, of the struggles and the strength it took to overcome them. I painted a picture of hope, of transformation, and of the possibility of redemption. As the minutes passed, I could see the conflict within her, the battle between vengeance and compassion. And then, in a final act of defiance against her past, she released her grip on the shotgun,

dropping it to the floor with a thud. We sat in silence, the weight of our shared secrets hanging heavy in the air. She glanced at me, her eyes filled with a mix of regret and resignation. In that moment, I realized that despite the horrors of her past, Miss Coco was still capable of change. The darkness within her could be tempered by the light of compassion and the possibility of a different future. It was a lesson I would carry with me for the rest of my life. As I left her house that night, the weight of the encounter pressed upon me. The path to recovery, I realized, was not just about overcoming personal demons, but also about

confronting the demons that lurk within others. Miss Coco had been a reminder that beneath the surface, anyone can carry a story of darkness and struggle. But within each person, there is also the potential for transformation, for healing, and for a new beginning. And as I walked away, I vowed to carry that lesson forward, embracing the power of redemption and the possibility of change in every step of my own journey. The West African diaspora population may dwindle to negligible numbers, experts say, as only one in ten are actually starting families. Only one in ten younger, millennials, and older, Gen Zurs,

between the ages of 20 and 40 are actually starting families whilst nine out of 10 are currently childless. Wayne Ferguson of Global Population Watch stated, if these statistics were global and the same for everybody around the world, it would not be hyperbolic to say that mankind would be in danger of dying out within a few generations, especially if a cataclysmic event or pandemic coincided with such a huge population bottleneck. A population bottleneck is an event that drastically reduces the size of a population. Rather bizarrely, Ferguson says that major explanations for this population bottleneck are very contradictory. On the one hand, job security, low income and lower levels of wealth in these population groups along with higher levels of

intelligence mean people are less likely to start families. On the other hand, the wealthier people in these population groups are, the less likely they are to have children. It's pretty bizarre and contradictory. Ferguson added that it's now common to see people in these population groups who had children in the late 1980s and early 1990s and Notties have childless children and thus no grandchildren at the moment. Some people could have had three or four children decades before and none of those children have started families. This is especially the case if they are male. If there were millions of African diasporans in the decades before, that number may have been drastically reduced to a six or even five-figure number right now.

Ferguson also warned against the spreading of false propaganda and misinformation. There is false information going around that African diaspirants are having many children, this could not be further from the truth. It is the complete opposite. In Great Britain, for example, they are flooding more foreigners in from Europe and Russia and the Indian subcontinent into areas where there used to be large African and Afro-Caribbean populations because these populations are not producing as many babies as. as before. It sounds apocalyptic, but it is the case now. Sadly, the lower population figures

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

Why the hell would they set up a shoot in a creepy forest? The towering mansion loomed in the distance, its gothic architecture casting long, jagged shadows against the moonlit sky. Max skidded his bike to a stop, taking a moment to collect himself. The place looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Just a horror game show, he reminded himself, forcing a shaky breath. Just another gig. Just another paycheck.

He wiped the sweat off his palms, even though the night air was chilling, and made his way up the stone steps to the entrance. Inside, the dim lighting and elaborate macabre décor made the mansion feel less like a set and more like a place where ghosts might actually reside. The other contestants were already gathered in the grand hall, some chatting nervously, others taking in their surroundings with wide-eyed wonder. A flamboyant man in a velvet suit stood at the head of the room, his grin unnervingly wide. Welcome to Demon's Lair, the host announced dramatically. You're all here to face your fears and win big.

Max forced a smile, though his nerves nodded at a heart. him from the inside. The air was thick with a strange energy, like static clinging to his skin. The contestants were led to a long, candelot table, where the host explained the rules with an almost manic enthusiasm. Here's how it works, he said, his eyes glinting. You'll answer quiz questions posed by our very own resident demon. Answer wrong, and, well, let's just say the consequences are very real. Max's stomach twisted as a memory surfaced. The game is about fear, the writer had explained during a production meeting. The set is so immersive that the contestants will start questioning what's real

and what's not. The challenge room is designed to make them feel like they're actually facing a demon. That's the thrill. That's the hook. Max clenched his fists under the table. He had signed up for a reality game show, not a paranormal experience. But he couldn't have forward to back out now, not when this was his shot at staying relevant in the industry. A loud, guttural laugh rumbled through the room, and a figure emerged from the shadows. The demon was massive, seven feet tall with horns that curled like gnarled branches. Its eyes glowed an unnatural red, and its grin was filled with too many teeth. I'm bored, the demon purred, its voice like grinding stone. Let's play a game. Answer my questions,

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

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

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

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

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

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

A cold, searing sensation wrapped around him. His vision blurred, the world spinning as shadows engulfed him. Then, suddenly, the demon turned away. Its laughter faded. Max stumbled out of the mansion, his breath shaky. The night was silent, the once lively set now completely deserted. Where is everyone? He muttered. Who's running the shoot? We were all improvising, but there should have been a crew. He fumbled for his phone. A notification popped up. Five thousand dollars received. His blood ran cold. How did they see everything, he whispered. There were no cameras, no likes. He thought back to the writer's words. The director is taking realism to a whole new level. It'll feel like no one is actually filming. And he'll be busy that night, so don't

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

It followed him long after he left the forest. The worst day of my life, August 22nd, 2016. It was August 22nd, 2016. A regular day on the calendar. Just another hot, humid afternoon in the deep south. You'd never guess a day like that could change your life forever. But it did for me. I was working at an auto part store, an old place that had definitely seen better days.

We didn't have any fancy backroom or indoor storage set up. No, sir. Instead, we had this rickety old trailer park behind the building where we kept our overstock. Whenever stuff piled up, one of us had to go back there and re-scan inventory, making sure we knew what we had. Boring, repetitive work. But that day, boring was the last thing it turned out to be. So there I was, inside the trailer with a scanner in hand, sweating my face off. It was around 3.30 in the afternoon, the kind of hour were the sun's just beating down like it's got a personal grudge.

If you've ever lived through a southern summer, you know what I'm talking about, air so thick it feels like breathing soup. The kind of heat where even the shade is hot. Right behind our store was this thrift shop. Between us, there was this narrow little strip, more of an alley than anything else, with an old wooden bench just sitting there. After school, kids like to hang out back there. Every day, like clockwork, a small crowd would form. They'd mess around, joke, sometimes even scrap with each other. Nothing too serious, usually just harmless teenage nonsense. That afternoon was no different, at first. School had just let out, and a group of high schoolers had started trickling in, laughing and yelling,

the way kids do when they've got energy and nowhere to put it. I decided to step out of the trailer for a second to catch some air, not that the air outside was much better, but at least I could stretch. a bit and take a break from that cramped metal box of a trailer. That's when it happened. Out of nowhere, this old Grand Marquis comes tearing into the lot like something out of a movie. It wasn't just rolling in, it was flying. Tires squealing, engine growling like it was angry.

I barely had time to process what was going on. A man jumps out of the car and walks, no, runs, straight toward another guy just a few steps away from me. I mean, the distance between us was so close I could have reached out and tapped one of them on the shoulder. Then the worst thing I have ever seen with my own eyes happened. The guy who jumped out of the car pulls out a gun and just starts shooting. Point blank. Bam! Bam! Multiple shots. No warning. No hesitation. Just cold-blooded violence, right in front of me. The other guy, the one who got shot, didn't even have a chance to react. He was just, their one moment and bleeding the next.

The shooter turned to bolt. In that split second, he pivoted, and I swear to God, he almost ran right into me. Like, inches away. We made eye contact. I saw his face. He saw mine. And I thought, no, I knew, that I was next. I was frozen.

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

Pure, raw fear. The shooter jumped back into the Grand Marquis, which had at least three or four other people packed inside, and they peeled out of their like bats out of hell. Tires screeched again, and they were gone. I didn't see which direction they went. My brain was still stuck on what had just happened. Meanwhile, the guy who got shot, he'd somehow managed to run off. I don't know how he did it or where he went, but when I looked around, he was nowhere in sight.

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

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

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

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

The cop called in more units, and soon enough, the lot was crawling with law enforcement. Blue lights everywhere. Radio's crackling. Even though I was clearly injured, bleeding out, everyone seemed more interested in figuring out what we saw. I heard someone yell, we've got someone in here who needs medical attention. But the cops brushed it off. One of them came over to me and started interrogating me like I was a suspect or something. It got worse.

There was this Facebook group called Where They At, though. W-T-A-T for short. Originally, it was meant to be a place where folks posted about traffic stops or roadblocks, stuff like that. But over time, it had turned into this weird local news feed where everyone spilled tea, shared rumors, or posted live updates about anything happening in town. Naturally, the shooting blew up in the group. Post started pouring in. Everyone was talking about it.

Videos. Photos. Speculation. And then, out of nowhere, someone posted, they just pulled the shooter out of the part store. They were talking about me. I was freaking out. People thought I was the one who did it. Me.

I couldn't let that stand, so I snapped a quick selfie, bloodied face and all, and posted, no. I'm a victim. I fell while running. But once something's on mine, you can't undo it. Damage done. Cops kept grilling me. One officer tried to pull me outside and told me I had to come with him. I was like, not unless I get medical attention first.

He didn't like that answer. He offered me an ambulance ride, but I didn't want to go in the back of an ambulance, I just wanted someone I trusted to take me. He wasn't having it. He opened the back of his patrol car and told me to get in. I said no again. Then he threatened me, basically told me that I either got in willingly, or they'd throw me in the ambulance, patch me up, and drag me downtown afterward. I asked if I could at least sit in the front, and he said, no.

My stuff is up here. What a joke. They treated me like I was a criminal. I was hurt, traumatized, and barely holding it together. and this guy was acting like I pulled the trigger. Meanwhile, outside, a crowd was gathering. People were shouting, crying. The victim's family had shown up,

and the whole street had turned into a scene from a movie. Back inside, another cop asked me again, sternly, what I'd seen. I stared him dead in the face and said, I saw the ground. And that was true, in part. I did see the ground, after I hit it face. first trying to run. But the truth was, I saw everything. I saw the shooters face up close.

I could describe him in detail. But I didn't. I couldn't. I was too scared. The way he killed that boy, cold and fast, he would have done the same to me without a second thought. Hours passed. No medical attention.

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

Couldn't eat. Couldn't stop replaying that moment, the gunshots, the eyes of the shooter, the fall. Over and over again. A few days later, I told my manager I didn't feel safe. I was scared the shooter would come back. Scared his friends might try something. Word spreads fast in small towns,

and I didn't want to be the next target. So they brought in security, and eventually, I was transferred to another store. I kept quiet with the police. They kept visiting, asking more questions. Even the county commissioner came by. I felt guilty for not saying more, but I was too afraid. My silence wasn't because I didn't care, it was because I cared too much. I cared about staying alive.

About a month later, they caught the guy. They arrested him, and I saw the news story. There was his face, clear as day. And I cried. I cried hard. That was the man I looked in the eyes. That was the man who killed someone five feet from me and didn't think twice. That day never left me.

It still hasn't. And I don't think it ever will. The end. This story took place in 1999, when I was just a day. 10 years old. It was the day I saw my 13-year-old brother shoot and kill our 15-year-old nephew. That moment changed everything. It's been burned into my mind ever since, dragging me down a path I never asked to walk. Our father owned a gun. He wasn't the type to flash it around or show off, he had it for one reason only, to protect my 14-year-old sister

from older men who wouldn't leave her alone. He kept it in his car most of the time. He kept it in his car most of the time, but on this particular day, he brought it inside before taking me to a doctor's appointment. After the appointment, on the way home, he told me he needed to stop at the auto part store and that he'd drop me off at the house first. I stepped out of the car, walked inside, and immediately froze. My brother was holding our dad's gun, pointing it directly at our nephew. My heart pounded. Even as a kid, I knew this was bad. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what happened next. Two sentences. Two sentences that have haunted me for years. Our nephew looked at my brother and said, if you shoot me, you'll have a witness, referring to me. My brother barely

hesitated before turning the gun on me and saying, then I'll shoot you too, I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of, I told him I was going to tell Mom. She was in the kitchen, just a few steps away, cooking like it was any other day. I turned and ran, desperate to reach her, to make her stop this before it got worse. I never even heard the gunshot. One second, I was running. The next, my brother was racing past me, tears streaming down his face, sobbing, I didn't mean to. He got to Mom first, and I was right behind him. He was right behind him. breathless, shouting about what I saw. We rushed to the front room. There, on the ground, was our nephew. A gun shot straight to the eye. His body still. The room deadly silent except

for my mother's scream. The police ruled at an accident. But I never fully believed that. Maybe part of me didn't want to believe it was on purpose. But over the years, family members have told me things, conversations they had with my brother. He laughed about it. He told them, I shot him in his good eye. Who the hell says something like that? Since that day, my brother has been in and out of jail. And the things he's done since. They only make me believe more and more that what happened that day wasn't an accident at all. The last I heard, he was locked up for animal cruelty. Turns out, he and our older sister got into an argument, and she ended up taking his phone. What she found inside was something out of a horror movie, videos of him

killing and decapitating a dog. One of the videos showed him with his hand inside the dog's severed head, making it talk like some kind of twisted sock puppet. That wasn't even the worst of it. He had a girlfriend once. She thought she knew him, thought she could love him. But he beat her. Burned her with cigarettes. Just for fun. And she wasn't the only one. He's jumped people for no reason, hurt them just because he could.

And then there's what he watches, snuff films. If you don't know what those are, don't look them up. Trust me, you don't want to know. I've kept my distance. As far away as I possibly can. But therapy has forced me to confront these memories. to think about that day all over again. And now I'm left wondering, is my brother a murderer?

This is going to be a long story, but I just need to get this off my chest. Here's what happened. Back in March 2022, I was just a regular 16-year-old kid, going through the motions of school, life, and everything in between. Then, one random day, everything changed. And I mean everything. It started with a text. Nothing particularly strange about that, except it was from my mom in our family group chat, the one that included both my parents, me, my older sister, and my younger brother. Mom never really texted much, though, she was more of a caller.

If she wanted to tell us something, she'd just pick up the phone and call. If she needed to get in touch, she knew how to use voice memos, but she almost never did. That's what made this message feel, off. I was in school at the time, sitting in class after the lesson had ended, just spacing out for a bit before heading out. The second I saw that text, my stomach twisted into knots. It wasn't even words, just an audio file. Something about it filled me with dread before I even pressed play. But I did.

I put on my headphones, took a deep breath, and hit play. What I heard made my blood run cold. Heavy breathing. A voice, shaky and uneven. My mom. She started talking, but it wasn't like any conversation we'd ever had before. Her voice was breaking, cracking under the weight of something huge. Pain.

Tears. I couldn't tell. And then she said it. She and my dad had been in a car accident. Dad didn't make it. I swear, my brain just stopped working. like literally shut down my vision blurred my chest tightened and i couldn't breathe i sat frozen in that classroom my hands shaking so badly i almost dropped my phone my mom kept talking saying things about

how much dad loved us how much they loved us how we needed to take care of each other i think she said she loved us one last time before the recording cut out and then silence just this gave leaping void of disbelief. No. No way. This couldn't be real. I lifted my head, and through the fog, I spotted my younger brother in the hallway, goofing around with his friends.

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

I didn't. Instead, with shaking hands, I pulled off my headphones and put them on his head. I pressed play. I watched as the confusion on his face turned to horror. His eyes widened, and his breathing grew uneven. He ripped the headphones off, his expression crumbling into panic and disbelief. Then the tears came, and with them, the crushing reality that nothing would ever be the same again. Before we could even figure out what to do next, my sister called.

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

We clung to each other, crying, shaking, trying to make sense of something that made no sense at all. The officers sat us down and explained what had happened. Our parents had been hit by a drunk driver. The impact was severe. Dad died instantly. Mom, well, she held on just long enough to send that message. The driver? Minor injuries.

That part made my blood boil. How could he walk away almost fine, while we lost everything? I asked questions, but I barely remember the answers. It was all a haze of words I wasn't ready to hear. The days that followed were a blur. We had no idea what was going to happen to us. My brother and I were both minors, and the thought of being split up into foster care was terrifying.

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

Other days, I'm okay, almost normal, and then I feel guilty for not being sad enough. It's a cycle I can't break. We still live in the house we grew up in. It's different now. It's quieter. Emptier. But it's still ours.

My sister works herself to the bone making sure we have everything we need. My brother and I do what we can to help, but it's hard. Sometimes we just sit in silence, all three of us, lost in memories of what used to be. We take care of each other, though. Just like Mom asked us to. I wonder all the time what life would be like if they were still here. How different things would be. Don't get me wrong, I love my siblings more than anything.

We've grown even closer through all this. But there's this hole in our lives, this constant ache that never really goes away. Sometimes, I think I hear my dad's voice when I wake up, like he's just in the other room. Sometimes, I dream about Mom calling my name, and for a split second, I forget she's gone. Then I wake up, and reality crashes down all over again. I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe I just needed someone to hear it. Maybe I needed to get it out of my head and onto something real.

If you've made it this far, thanks for listening. I don't know what the future looks like, but I do know one thing, we're going to be okay. We have to be. But just before entering, the music stopped and the baby woke up. Many of you might think that this could, be due to interference or that the device, might have connected to the frequency of another monitor. However, this story began to repeat itself every night from that point on, every time the parents put the baby to bed in, that crib, they would step away and after a few minutes, the melody would start playing. They changed the frequencies on the monitor and the melody. kept playing. They removed the batteries from, all the toys in the room and that melody kept

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

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

the child involved, was aware of what was happening. During the summer of 2014, Ben had a lot of trouble falling asleep. Every night was the same story, every night was another fight with his mother, because he didn't want to go to bed. One night he'd used the excuse that the sheets were itchy, another that he wanted a glass of milk before bed, and another that if he didn't have a specific stuffed animal, sleep wouldn't visit him. But anyway, when he finally did fall asleep, he would wake up in the middle of the night crying, and screaming at the top of his lungs. So his mother finally decided she

wanted to know, the real reason why Ben couldn't sleep, and she wasn't going to stop asking questions, until he confessed his true problem. But she couldn't be harsh with him, since Ben was barely two years old. So she did it in the sweetest way she could think of, and while gradually getting the little one to open up, she found the following scene. Bed, bad, well everyone has to go to. Bidon, do you want some more? Milk, what do you want? Then, sad, because you don't listen to me. Sad when you don't listen to me. Are you ready for bed? Now, what was that? What are you looking at? Pee, he, all right, are you ready for? Bed. ready for bedtime, perhaps many of you don't give much importance, to what I just showed you,

probably you think, it's nothing more than child's play, but let me clarify a couple of points. First, it's worth noting that when the child starts acting, as if something or someone is touching his hair, a kind of orb appears on screen, a phenomenon, that usually indicates the presence of a paranormal manifestation. And second, when the woman turned off the camera, and talked a bit more with the little one, he told her he was afraid to go to bed, because when the lights went out, a tall man dressed in black would come, and stroke his hair, preventing him from, falling asleep. Little and used to talk to herself, and when her parents asked her who she was talking to,

she always replied that it was just a game. So they never gave the matter much importance. However, one family member started getting annoyed by those games, and that was Billy, her older brother. Every time it was his turn to babysit his little sister and he sat down, for a moment, he would find things out of place, and that bothered him a lot. I'll give you an example so you understand better. One afternoon, while Billy was doing his homework, at the living room table, and was watching

TV, lying on the couch. Taking advantage, that the little one was entertained, Billy got up for a moment, went to the kitchen, got some juice, and when he returned, the notebook, he had been writing in was full of scribbles, and repeatedly denied having done it, but if she hadn't, who had? There was no one else in the house, it was just the two of them. And many more situations like this occurred. So one night, when again it was his turn to babysit, he decided to record everything that happened, when he wasn't present. He had made dinner, set the table, but before they both started eating, he decided to turn on the camera of his iPhone 4, and step away to the bathroom. He made it

very clear to Anne that she wasn't to eat anything until he got back. However, while he was gone, the camera captured something truly strange. Indeed, and tried her big brother's soda, but there was someone else there, that only she could see, and whose intentions were exactly the same as the little ones. The last video I want to show you, could have been taken by any of the people, Watching me right now. In 2010, John and Diane became parents to a beautiful baby boy they named Abai. Aside from the sleepless nights, midnight bottles, and typical colic, they didn't notice anything strange in the little one, until shortly after he turned 22 months old, when he began behaving

very strangely. When he played, he looked around, chased something invisible, or even laughed out loud, for no apparent reason. At first, his parents and grandparents thought, this was just a game, but the matter kept escalating. Every time the child raised his hands, interacting with nothing, the atmosphere in the room became tense. Absolutely no one felt comfortable, with that situation. So John and Diane started filming everything, to see if they could catch something strange, on the recordings, and finally on February 19th, 2012, they captured something that made their hair, stand on end, Talking, towing, two, are you talking, two, are you talking, towing two, John and his wife, swear

precisely by that word, that it's not the little one's voice, because at the moment Diane was recording, she didn't hear him say it. But as always, now it's your turn, what do you think about imaginary friends? Do you believe they have something supernatural, or are they just childhood fantasies? End. Let me take you back to a morning that still gives me chills whenever I think about it. I was probably in third or fourth grade at the time. You know, still young enough that I needed help getting up in the morning, but old enough to start understanding when something was off.

On this particular day, I woke up not to the usual gentle nudges or cheerful good mornings, but to my mom practically bursting into my room like a whirlwind. She was clearly in a rush, her hair wild and her eyes wide with panic. Turns out, she had overslept. And since she was the one who always woke me up, that meant I was late too. There was no way I was going to make it to the bus on time. School started at 8 a.m., and the bus usually rolled up around 7 a.m. But here we were at 6.40, and I was still in my pajamas, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, not even thinking about breakfast yet.

So my mom made a quick decision. She figured she'd just drive me to school herself. That gave me a little extra time to pull myself together. I sat at the dining table, still in my pajamas, eating a bowl of cereal, the milk starting to get warm and gross because I was eating so slowly. It was now around 6.50 when we heard it. The familiar sound of the bus breaks hissed from outside. Weirdly early. Ten minutes early, in fact.

My mom, still frazzled but trying to keep it together, peaked out the front door. It was one of those foggy mornings, the kind where everything looks gray and quiet. She waved at the bus to go on without us, then closed the door and came back inside. But here's where things started to get strange. The bus didn't leave. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. My mom opened it and found a man standing there in a bus driver's uniform. He told her he was a substitute for the regular driver, who had apparently called in sick.

He was early, he explained, because he wasn't familiar with the route and wanted a head start. Now, my mom's no detective, but even she found that a little weird. She told him again that she'd be driving me to school today because we had overslept and I wasn't anywhere near ready. The guy didn't like that answer. He got visibly annoyed and even offered to wait a few minutes since he was ahead of schedule anyway. But my mom stood her ground. She told him to leave. He didn't argue anymore, just turned around, climbed back onto the empty bus, and drove off.

I didn't think much of it at the time. I went back to eating my cereal, still clueless about what had just happened. But right at 7 a.m., another bus pulled up. Now this was really strange. My mom, puzzled, went outside again. When she came back in, she looked completely different, pale and shaken. She didn't explain anything. Just told me to hurry up and get ready.

Years later, she finally told me the truth. That second bus was the real one. It was being driven by the regular driver, and it was packed with the usual kids from our neighborhood. My mom asked him about the so-called substitute, and he looked confused. Said he never called in sick. Said there was no substitute driver scheduled at all.

He immediately called. called dispatch and reported the incident. Then he told my mom to go back inside and call the police. She did. That mysterious first bus. Completely empty. Completely unauthorized. Whoever that guy was, he wasn't from the school district.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. We never found out who he was or where he went. But one thing was painfully clear, if my mom hadn't overslept that day, If we had gotten ready like usual and I had gotten on that first bus, I might never have come home. Crazy, right? But that wasn't even the only close call I had as a kid. Let's rewind even further.

This time, I was around six or seven years old. My mom, well, to put it kindly, she was dealing with some heavy stuff. Addiction Bad choices. The kind of life that turns into stories you don't tell until you're older. because even you can't believe they actually happened. One night, we were driving. I had no clue where we were going.

It was super late, so late the roads were nearly empty. I don't even remember getting in the car. One minute I was home, the next, I was curled up in the back seat, sleepy and confused. She pulled up to this sketchy-looking house and told me to stay in the car. I waited. And waited. and waited some more. It felt like forever.

Then, out of nowhere, the car door flew open. A man grabbed me. Not gently. He yanked me out by my arm. I started screaming, kicking, doing anything I could. But then he looked me dead in the eyes and said, be quiet. Don't try to run, or I'll kill you. He had a rough beard, wild eyes, and a terrifying vibe.

that made my skin crawl. I was too scared to even breathe. So I listened. I shut up. He gripped my arm and started walking. I kept looking back at that house, praying my mom would come out and stop him. She didn't. I didn't know what to do.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't even think straight. My brain was fogged with panic and confusion. He dragged me through the neighborhood, eventually into a cluster. of run-down apartment buildings, the kind of place that looked like it hadn't seen anything good in decades. We climbed up a bunch of stairs. My feet hurt. My legs were sore. But I was too afraid to stop moving. Then something unexpected happened. Another man. Standing in the hallway. Smoking a cigarette. And then... Boom. In a blink, the kidnapper was on the ground. The cigarette guy didn't even hesitate.

He punched, kicked, beat the guy into unconsciousness. Then, with this insane strength, he picked the guy up and threw him down the stairs. Blood. Everywhere. It was horrifying. I was still just a little kid, watching this like it was a movie. But it was real. It was happening.

The cigarette guy started pacing, swearing under his breath. He looked pissed off, fists clenched. For a second, I thought maybe he was mad at me. I started crying again. He looked at me and said, okay, okay, okay, shut up. Stop crying. Weirdly, I listened.

He started asking questions. Why was I out so late? Where were my parents? Why did I talk to strangers? I couldn't answer. Not properly, anyway. I tried to explain, but everything came out jumbled and messy. Somehow, though, he figured out where my mom's car was.

Maybe he knew the area. Maybe he just put the pieces together. I don't know. He told me he'd take me back, but I had to promise, over and over, that I wouldn't tell anyone I saw him. Not the police. Not my mom. No one. He wasn't mean, but he was definitely not someone who liked the law.

I promised. We left the building, stepping over the unconscious man on the stairs. For all I know, he might have been dead. I didn't care. I just wanted to go home. As we walked, the cigarette guy kept glancing around nervously. Cops don't like me very much, he muttered. I didn't ask why.

We walked fast. I could barely keep up. When I cried again because my feet hurt, he sighed, picked me up, and carried me. Awkwardly, but still. I wasn't exactly light. Then we saw a cop car. He panicked. Ran behind some houses.

Put me down and told me to run to the cruiser. I tried, but my legs barely worked. He swore again and picked me back up. We hid from every cop car like we were in some kind of chase movie. Eventually, we reached a street where I saw my mom. She was with the police. When I saw her, all the pain disappeared. I ran to her.

She scooped me up and hugged me like she thought she'd never see me again. The cop started asking questions. I don't remember much about that part. My mom told some strange, unbelievable story. told me to stay quiet. I did. We went home. A few days later, my dad showed up and took me away.

I told him everything. That was the last time I ever stayed with my mom. Years later, I asked my dad what he thought had really happened. He said my mom was probably buying drugs, and I was snatched by some guy off the street. The cigarette guy. He probably had warrants. Maybe was a criminal himself. But that night, he saved me.

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

Because he gave me a second chance. And sadly, that wasn't the only sketchy adult I encountered because of my mom's choices. When I was in kindergarten, she dropped me off with whoever she could find, daycares, neighbors, you name it. One summer, she left me with this woman from the neighborhood. it. No idea what made her think that was a good idea. Desperation. Stupidity. Both? Whatever the reason, she left me there most days. And that woman, she had no business being around kids. To be continued. Looking back, I honestly don't know if it was stupidity, naivety, or a little of both, but whatever the case, my mom made the unfortunate choice

of leaving me in the care of a woman who should never have been allowed around kids, let alone be responsible for one. From the moment I met this woman, something felt off. I suspected she might have been an alcoholic because she always had this sickly, exhausted look about her. Her eyes were perpetually bloodshot, and her breath constantly reeked of stale vomit and something bitter I couldn't quite identify back then. She rarely ever actually watched me.

Most of the time, she just locked herself in her. bedroom. I remember feeling invisible, like I was just this burden she couldn't wait to ignore. The only time she even pretended to care was when my mom dropped me off or picked me up. The rest of the day. I was completely on my own. She barely spoke to me, and when she did, it was either to complain or to blame me for something I didn't do. One time, she claimed I broke some of her picture frames and made me clean her entire room as punishment. When I stepped into her room, it looked like a junkyard of empty glass bottles. They were scattered everywhere, under the bed, next to the closet, some even rolled into the corners. It wasn't

hard to guess what she'd really been up to. That summer, two girls came to stay with her, her nieces. I don't remember their names, or whether they were sisters or cousins, but I clearly remember their ages. The younger one was around eight, and the older was about 11. They were, without a doubt, the most awful children I have ever met in my life. The younger one was a gross little brat who was rude and obnoxious, while the older one was a straight-up psychopath, manipulative, violent, and completely heartless. When we first met, I was polite. I didn't have any reason to be otherwise. For the first day or two, they were nice back. But it didn't last. quickly, the older girl started making fun of me, calling me names.

The younger one, not wanting to be left out, followed her lead. It started small, name-calling, teasing, then escalated. They began stealing my things, blaming their messes on me, and within just a week, they were physically attacking me. The younger one found joy in dumping food and dirt on my head, pulling my hair, and stealing my lunch. One day, she even peed on the living room floor and blamed it on me. Of course, I was the one who got yelled at.

The older one, though, she was worse. She threw glass bottles at me for fun. One morning, she even put pieces of broken glass into my cereal bowl. I almost ate it. When I asked her why, she just smirked and said she wanted to see what would happen. What kind of kid thinks like that? She shoved me into walls, yanked me around by my hair, and laughed when I cried. I was smaller and weaker.

I couldn't defend myself, and when I tried, the younger one would jump in to help her sister or cousin, or whatever she was. I was outnumbered, outpowered, and completely alone. I started coming home with bruises, scratches, even blood-crusted in my hair. I'd spend my evenings picking things out of my scalp, bandaging myself. up, and scrubbing food or worse out of my clothes and skin. My parents? They didn't notice a thing. Not the bruises on my face.

Not the cuts on my arms. Not even the clear signs that something was wrong. I began having panic attacks. I'd cry as soon as I woke up, knowing I had to go back to that house and deal with those monsters. It wasn't until one morning when I was completely hysterical that my mom finally asked what was going on. I told her everything. I showed her the bruises, the cuts, even the small burn marks from when they set part of my hair on fire. I was desperate for her to believe

me. To her credit, she reacted immediately. She took the day off and drove straight to that woman's house. She was furious, demanding answers. She showed the woman my injuries and asked for an explanation. The woman, calm as ever, called the nieces' in and asked for their side. And, of course, the girls lied. They said I hurt myself to get them in trouble. They said they didn't know why I didn't like them and that they still wanted to be my friends. And my mom, she believed them. She actually believed those little psychopaths. She accused me of lying and told me to apologize. I couldn't believe it. She made me apologize to the girls and that woman, then dragged me home and gave me a spanking.

After that, she didn't care anymore. She stopped noticing the bruises. She stopped asking questions. She just assumed everything was for attention and ignored me. So the abuse continued. I had no choice. I couldn't make her believe me, no matter how bad it got. Eventually, I just shut down.

I became numb. Zoned out. I stopped crying, stopped reacting. By the end of that summer, after three straight months of hell, I felt like a zombie. Then came the pool. Out of nowhere, that woman set up a backyard pool and decided the three of us could use it. Probably so she wouldn't have to deal with us. One morning, she asked my mom if I could bring a swimsuit.

My mom hesitated, I couldn't swim yet, but the woman promised to supervise and sure I stayed in the shallow end. The next day, I packed my suit. Despite everything, I felt hopeful. Swimming sounded fun. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad. When I arrived, the woman told me to get changed and meet them at the pool. She laid out the rules, I had to stay in the shallow end, and the girls were not allowed to bring me near the deep end. Then she went inside to make a phone call, leaving us alone. At first, the girls ignored me. They sat at the edge of the deep end, watching me while I splashed around in the shallow part. For once, they left me alone. Fifteen whole minutes of peace. I laughed, smiled, actually had fun.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like a kid. Then they called my name. They started teasing me, daring me to come into the deep end, calling me a chicken. I ignored them, tried to stay in my happy little bubble. But eventually, I had enough and got out of the pool. That's when the younger one ran into the house and locked me out. I panicked, running to the glass door and trying to open it. She stuck her tongue out at me through the glass. Then I felt it, arms grabbing me from behind. The older niece had snuck up on me. She yanked me by the hair and dragged me toward the pool. Before I could scream, she threw me into the deep end.

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

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

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

I didn't even cry. I just sat there, numb, as she yelled about how ungrateful I was. How I made everything up. How my mother only left me with her because she didn't love me. She said I owed my life to the girls, and because of my behavior, I was never allowed back. She called my mom to pick me up. My mom apologized to her. Apologized to the nieces.

Then she took me home and screamed at me. the entire way. She was furious she had to leave work. My dad came home later and yelled too. I was grounded for a month. I never went back to that house. But I still drive past it on my way to work. Every time, my stomach knots. I've never told my parents the full truth. They'd probably say I was being dramatic, or just a brat. But I've had years to think about it. And every time I do, I get this sick, cold feeling. Because I'm not sure the older niece was just bullying me. I think she was trying to kill me. I think the younger one was helping her. Acting as the lookout. And when things didn't go as planned, she went to get the woman so they could

twist the story and get me in trouble. I'll probably never know for sure. But I know what I felt. I know how scared I was. And I still wonder what kind of people those girls. girls grew up to be. I'm not a hateful person. But I sincerely hope that woman's liver gave out years ago. And those girls? I hope they're locked up somewhere. Because some people really do deserve to be feared. The end. They claimed that an old woman with red eyes crept into their room every night, hiding behind the door and setting the room on fire. Of course, after calming the child down, Alan and Debbie told her it was just a nightmare. But the girl was adamant. this wasn't a dream, asterisk asterisk, hello, everyone, and welcome back to my chilling library

of horrors. Today, we're diving into a story from 1987, a tale that left the small city of Horicon, Wisconsin, buzzing and earned a family a permanent spot in the archives of the paranormal. The Tolman family, who had recently moved into what seemed like an idyllic home, abandoned it less than two years later, claiming the house was haunted. No one knows the full details of what happened in that house. The family refused interviews and kept their names. names off TV, determined to protect their privacy. But the fragments of their story that leaked to the public? Well, they're enough to make anyone think twice about buying secondhand furniture. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a fresh start in a quiet town. In April 1986, Debbie and Alan Tolman,

along with their three kids, Chris, aged seven, and their two daughters, aged two and four, moved to Horicon, Wisconsin. They were drawn by its small town charm. Horicon wasn't just quiet, it was tiny, the 2018 census recorded only about 3,500 residents, and back in the 80s, it was probably even smaller. Everyone knew everyone, or, at the very least, knew of everyone. The Tolemans moved into one of ten homes on Larrabee Street. Their new place was a modest, single-story house with three bedrooms, a basement, and a garage big enough for their car and a few extra items.

They thought it was perfect. The layout was simple, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and enough bedrooms to give each child their own space. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Within weeks, they started painting, rearranging furniture, and settling in. But that's also when things began to shift, subtly, at first, then unmistakably. Hashtag hashtag-debunk bed, one of the earliest changes the Tollman's made was upgrading their daughter's sleeping arrangement. Their youngest daughter was outgrowing her crib, and their small bedroom couldn't fit two separate beds. So, Alan and Debbie decided to buy a bunk bed.

They found one at a thrift shop, an old but sturdy wooden bunk bed for $100. It was a steal, really. They brought it home and left it in the basement while they finished fixing up the kid's room. The bed sat there for weeks, collecting dust, while the family adjusted to their new home. But during that time, the kids started getting sick. All three of them, high fevers, constant coughs, dizziness. It didn't make sense. Before the move, they had been perfectly healthy.

The doctor said it was probably just stress from the transition, but no amount of medicine seemed to help. The kids just kept getting worse. By the end of May 1987, the girl's room was finally ready. Alan brought the bunk bed upstairs, set it up, and tucked his daughters into their new sleeping arrangement. They were thrilled. It was a big moment for the family, a sign that they were finally settled. But that night, the first of many strange occurrences took place. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the radio incident.

While the girls were sound asleep in their new bunk bed, Alan tucked Chris into his room across the hall. Chris had a habit of falling asleep with the radio on. He liked the low hum of music or voices as background noise. Alan turned it on, kissed Chris goodnight, and headed to bed. A few minutes later, Chris appeared in their doorway, looking spooked. He said the radio wasn't working properly. It kept making weird noises, switching stations on its own.

Alan sighed, got up, and went to check. The radio seemed fine. He adjusted the station, told Chris to stop imagining things, and went back to bed. But half an hour later, Chris was back, this time in tears. He said the radio was possessed, and it wouldn't stop changing stations by itself. Annoyed, Alan yanked the plug from the wall and took the radio with him. He figured that would put an end to Chris's ghost story. And for a while, it did.

The radio incident was forgotten. But it wasn't the last time the Tolmans would be forced to confront the unexplained. Hashtag hashtag laughter in the dark. Over the next few weeks, strange things began happening around the house. It started with the girls. Almost every night, they woke up screaming from nightmares. At first, Debbie and Alan thought it was normal, they were just kids, after all. But the nightmares kept getting worse.

Debbie noticed something odd. Before the screams, she'd often hear laughter coming from their room. It wasn't playful giggling, though. It sounded, wrong. One night, curious and slightly unnerved, she crept down the hall to check on them. As she reached their door, she could still hear the laughter, soft, eerie, like someone was whispering jokes only they could hear. But when she opened the door, the girls were fast asleep, tucked snugly into their bunk bed.

Hashtag hashtag the witch, the nightmares escalated. The girls began talking about an old woman, a witch with glowing red eyes, who came into their room at night. She hid behind the door, they said, and tried to set the room on fire. Alan still didn't believe it. He chalked it up to shared stories, a case of overactive imaginations feeding off each other. But Debbie wasn't so sure. She started noticing odd things around the house, objects moving, strange noises, whispers

that seemed to come from nowhere. Hashtag hashtag hashtag a desperate plea. By December 1987, the family was at their wits end. No one wanted to sleep alone. The kids were terrified of their own rooms, and Debbie and Alan were running on empty, taking turns comforting them night after night. Chris begged to sleep on the couch, saying he felt safer in the living room with the Christmas tree lights glowing.

finally gave in. But even the couch wasn't safe. Chris woke up screaming, claiming the witch had followed him there. She stood by the tree, watching him, and told him once again that their family would die. Hashtag, hashtag Alan's challenge. One night, Alan snapped. Exhausted and angry, he stormed into the living room and shouted at the air. He dared the witch to show herself, to come after him instead of his kids. He demanded she prove she was real. That same night, the family experienced their most terrifying encounter yet. Alan came home late from work, and as he approached the house, he saw a strange light coming from the garage.

It looked like a fire, flames flickering, smoke curling out. Panicked, he ran to the garage, but when he opened the door, there was nothing there. No fire. No smoke. Just darkness. As he turned back toward the house, an invisible force yanked the lunchbox from his hands and hurled it against the wall, shattering a lamp. That was it.

Alan couldn't deny it anymore. Something was in their house, and it wasn't leaving. Hashtag, hashtag hashtag the breaking point. The family invited a pastor from a nearby Lutheran church to bless their home. He confirmed what they already feared, there was an evil presence in the house, and it was targeting the children. He performed a blessing, and for a short time, the activity seemed to stop. But it didn't last.

By January, the nightmares returned. Shadows moved in the corners of their vision, and strange noises echoed through the halls. Finally, Debbie and Allen made a desperate decision. They traced the disturbances back to one key event, the arrival of the bunk bed. Convinced it was cursed, they dismantled it, took it outside, and set it on fire. After that, the house went quiet. But the damage was done. The Tolmans couldn't shake the feeling that something still lingered.

In April 1988, they packed their belongings and left Lerner. Street for good. Hashtag hashtag hashtag the aftermath. The Tolman's story spread like wildfire. Locals swarmed their old house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous ghost. Some tried breaking in, others claimed to hear whispers through the windows. The police were called multiple times to keep the curious crowds away. Despite the media frenzy, the Tolmans refused to speak publicly about their experience. They only agreed to share their story under strict conditions, their faces wouldn't appear on camera, their kids' identities would be protected, and the details of their ordeal would remain vague.

Their story aired on Unsolved Mysteries in October 1988, sparking even more speculation. Hashtag hashtag hashtag was it real? To this day, opinions are divided. Some believe the Tolmans were victims of a genuine haunting. Others think they fabricated the story for attention or misinterpreted natural phenomena. Blogs and forums still debate the details, dissecting every person. piece of evidence, or lack thereof. Real or not, one thing is certain, the Tolman's story has become one of the most infamous haunted house tales in American history. Whether it was the bunk

bed, the house, or the Tolmans themselves that attracted the entity, no one can say for sure. But whatever it was, it left a mark, on the family, on Horicon, and on anyone brave enough to hear their story. So, what do you think? Was this just an elaborate hoax, or did the Tolman stumbled into something truly supernatural. Let me know in the comments below. And as always, stay safe out there. You never know what might be lurking in the shadows. The tale of the Tumon family is one of the most bone-chilling, spine-tingling, and

downright unsettling ghost stories to emerge from the small town of Horicon, Wisconsin. It's a story steeped in eerie whispers, unexplained phenomena, and, of course, a mysterious bunk bed that became the center of it all. This wasn't just another tale to tell around a campfire. No, this one left a lasting mark on everyone involved, and plenty who heard about it afterward. The move to Larrabee Street. In 1986, Debbie and Alan Tomon decided it was time for a change. They had three kids, a seven-year-old boy named Chris and two little girls aged two and four. Life in their cramped old house just wasn't cutting it anymore, so they went house hunting

and eventually stumbled across a cozy little spot on Larrabee Street in Horicon. Horicon, back then, was a quiet rural community. A place where everyone knew everyone, or at least someone who did. Perfect for raising kids, right? Their new house wasn't huge, but it had everything they needed, three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a basement, and a garage big enough for storage. Sure, it needed a little work, but nothing they couldn't handle. They signed the papers and moved in on April 13, 1986.

From the moment they stepped through the door, they had high hopes. New beginnings, fresh starts, and all that. But as they settled in, things started to go a bit, sideways. The strange start, shortly after moving in, the kids began to fall sick, a lot. Fevers, coughing fits, dizziness, things the Tommon kids never dealt with before. The doctor brushed it off, saying it was probably stress from the move, but no amount of medicine or rest seemed to help. It was like the house itself was draining them.

In the meantime, Alan busied himself with renovations. The girls were outgrowing their crib, so he figured it about. was time to upgrade their room. They found an old bunk bed at a second-hand store for just $100, a steal, given how solid it was. Until the girls' room was finished, the bed stayed in the basement. When the time came, Alan brought it upstairs, put it together, and set it up. That night, the girls couldn't have been happier. But the house? Well, it had other plans. A haunted radio and nightmares begin, it started small. Chris, the oldest, had a habit of sleeping with the radio on.

He liked the background noise, it helped him drift off. But that first night after the bunk bed was assembled, the radio went haywire. Static, random station changes, odd noises, it freaked Chris out so much he woke up his dad. Alan, being the practical guy he was, figured the radio just needed tweaking. He adjusted it and went back to bed. But not long after, Chris was back, in tears, insisting that the radio was possessed. Frustrated, Alan unplugged it, took it out of the room, and told Chris to go back to sleep. The following nights didn't bring much peace.

The girls began having nightmares, terrifying ones that sent them screaming out of bed. But it wasn't just nightmares. The whole house seemed to come alive. Footsteps echoed when no one was there, doors slammed on their own, and strange knocking sounds reverberated through the walls. Debbie even swore she could hear the girls laughing and playing late at night, but every time she checked, they were fast asleep. The basement turns creepy. After moving the bunk bed, the basement was mostly empty, so Alan decided to turn it into a home office. One morning, while painting, he set his brush down

on a cloth and went upstairs for lunch. When he came back, the brush was gone. He searched everywhere and eventually found it submerged in the paint can, bristles up. No one else had been down there. That same night, the youngest daughter woke up screaming. She swore there was an old woman with fiery red eyes in her room, hiding behind the door, trying to set the place on fire. Alan and Debbie did their best to calm her down, chalking it up to a nightmare. But the girl was adamant, the woman was real. Things escalate. A few nights later, it wasn't the girls waking up screaming, it was Chris. He ran to his parents' room, sobbing, saying the same thing, a red-eyed old woman had tried to

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

But in the middle of the night, Chris's screams pierced the air. Once again, he told the same story, the red-eyed woman, the fire, the death threats. Alan, frustrated and fed up, finally snapped. He stood in the middle of the house and shouted, daring the supposed spirit to show itself. Nothing happened, at least not right away. The pastor and the exorcism, desperate, Debbie reached out to their local pastor, Wayne Dobat. Pastor Dobat visited the house and immediately claimed to sense a demonic presence. He prayed with the family, blessed the house, and declaimed.

the entity gone. For a while, it seemed to work. The house was peaceful again, no voices, no nightmares, no strange occurrences. But the calm didn't last. On January 7, 1988, Alan came home late after a long shift. As he walked up to the house, he noticed an eerie light flickering in the garage. Smoke seemed to seep from the edges of the door, and the unmistakable smell of burning filled the air. Panicked, he flung the door open, only to find nothing. No fire, no smoke, just darkness. Then, as he turned back toward the house, a lunchbox he'd been carrying was ripped from his hands and hurled across the porch, smashing a lamp.

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

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

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

as well as project their fears and phobias. You could say that these games help children control their emotions, better understand the world around them, and the point of view of others. But what happens when an imaginary friend becomes violent? What happens when children fear coming face to face with these friends? On this channel, we have already encountered the story of a supposed imaginary friend, Robert, the cursed doll. However, even though we have heard stories of haunted dolls,

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

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

Parents, when faced with the crossroads of having to separate fantasy from reality, often don't know what to do. This is why many of them, turned to the internet, sharing homemade videos that, although they may seem like simple childhood games, turn out to be truly chilling. In 2008, Dana created a YouTube channel. However, she wouldn't use it until 2010, when the doctors gave her the big news, she was expecting her first child. Dana and her husband decided to document everything through this channel so their families could access the pregnancy's progress and the growth of their first daughter, whom they named ABA. Up to this point, everything seems absolutely normal. Dana published her videos on

YouTube and then shared the links on Facebook so that her relatives wouldn't miss a single detail of Little ABA's life. Until, on August 3rd, 2014, Dana published a video that gave many people boost bumps. Little ABA used to talk to herself while playing, interacting with a supposed imaginary friend from a very young age. However, this time her mother wanted to dig a little deeper into the matter, and the answers the little one gave instantly robbed her of sleep. You tell me about him. He said you might turn into a monster, he might turn me into a monster if you tell me.

No, I told you, when I told you. As we've seen in this video, the girl seems amused by the game with her imaginary friend. So Dana downplayed the matter and let time pass, waiting for ABA to voluntarily give a name, the name of her friend. But no one in the family ever got access to it, because according to the little girl, the ghost had told her she couldn't tell anyone. And one day, it simply left, dragging away the memories ABA had of it. And the same thing happened with Samantha, a little girl from Mexico.

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

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

The man, whom we'll call Alan, acquired a baby monitor so that he's a child. and his wife could watch over the little one from the master bedroom. So far, the story seems perfectly normal. However, one night a sinister melody began to play through the monitor, it was a lullaby, a tune they had never heard before, as the baby didn't own any toy that played that melody. Without thinking twice and with the monitor in hand, the father headed to the baby's room. But just before entering, the music stopped, and the baby woke up. To be continued. Apparently, someone had stabbed her to death and then kidnapped her poor daughter. Who could have killed such a wonderful woman like Didi and then kidnapped a sick girl?

We will find out next. Let's begin. The story begins with a 48-year-old woman named Didi Blanchard, who lived in Springfield, Missouri. According to everyone who knew her, she was truly a wonderful person, sweet, charming, she loved to wear bright colors and lived for and because of her daughter, Gypsy. As you can see from the images, Gypsy was a very special girl. At 18 years old, she had suffered the unimaginable. She was born with a mental delay, defective chromosomes, severe asthma, muscular dystrophy,

her salivary glands had to be removed, she had to be fed through a tube, and often had to use an oxygen tank due to the treatments she was undergoing. Gypsy had to wear wigs because her hair wouldn't grow, but that didn't bother her as she used to match them with princess dress. These two women were completely alone in the world, which made the people who knew them fully support their cause. Dede's family had disappeared, and Gypsy's father had apparently treated them very badly. He was an alcoholic, violent, and didn't even pay child support. To top it off, in August 2005, this pair lost their home due to Hurricane Katrina.

They had lost everything, their home, their belongings, even Gypsy's medical records. So it was not surprising that many foundations decided to help them. Habitat for humanity, upon learning they had lost their home to Katrina, built them a new one in Springfield, fully adapted for Gypsy with ramps for her wheelchair and a jacuzzi to treat her muscular dystrophy. The Make-A-Wish Foundation sent Didi and Gypsy on many occasions to Disney World and gave them backstage passes to meet her favorite singer, Miranda Lambert. All the neighbors raised money and built a movie room in the Blanchard's Garden,

so that children in the neighborhood could pay a small fee to watch old movies, and of course, all the proceeds always went to gypsy's treatments. As you can see, these women's lives have been hell, but now everything was going well. Everyone loved them. Everyone supported them. And then came June 14, 2015, the day the following Facebook post appeared on the account shared by mother and daughter. Upon reading it, everyone thought it was a tasteless joke or that their pretextless joke or that their

page have been hacked. But at 7.39 the next morning, the supposed hacker commented again on the same post. Everyone rushed to the Blanchard house and realized that Didi's Nissan Cube was parked out front. Without that vehicle, neither of them could have left, since on one hand, Gypsy needed special transportation for her wheelchair, and on the other, Didi never went anywhere without Gypsy. So someone gathered the courage and entered the house before the police arrived and discovered Didi's lifeless body lying on the floor of her bedroom. Apparently, someone had stabbed her to death and then kidnapped her poor daughter. Who could have killed such a wonderful woman like Didi and kidnapped a sick girl? We will find out next. With Didi's

death and Gypsy's disappearance, the town came together. A GoFund Me page was created to pay for Didy's funeral, and possibly Gypsies, as everyone feared the worst. Even if Gypsy hadn't been harmed, they believed she was helpless without her wheelchair and medication. However, among the crowd was the daughter of some of the Blanchard's neighbors, a girl named Alea W. This girl approached the police and told them she had a slight idea of Gypsy's whereabouts. For years, the girls had been friends behind Didi's back.

Didi didn't allow Gypsy to have friends, she could. controlled her 24 hours a day, told her what shows to watch, what wigs to wear, and of course didn't allow her to have social media accounts aside from the one shared with her mother. So the young girl managed to create a secret Facebook account called Nicholas Bell Rose. Through this page, she frequently spoke to Alaya and told her really chilling things. Alea felt that she wasn't talking to a girl with a mental delay at all, but to a teenager who wanted to get out into the world, a girl of 18 who wanted a boyfriend, to go to school, and to go shopping with friends, friends she obviously didn't have. Then one day in 2012,

Gypsy logged on and told Alaya she had met what she believed was the love of her life, Nicholas Gojohn, a 24-year-old man who lived in Wisconsin. Jipsy said her mother would never allow her to have a boyfriend, so they began planning to run away together. With all this information, the police asked Facebook to trace the IP address from which the post have been made, and it turned out both posts have been written from Wisconsin. The next day, officers from Waucahaw County raided Nicholas Gojohn's house, and both he and Gypsy were taken to jail and charged with murder. The news that Gypsy was safe brought great relief to Springfield,

but then Green County Sheriff Jim Arnett announced that things were not as they seemed. And that's when it was revealed that Gypsy was not the fragile, sick girl everyone's thought, and that Didy was not such a kind soul. Claudine Blanchard, better known as Didi, and by many other nicknames, was born into a large family in 1967 in Chackbate, Louisiana. Her sibling said that as a child she was very spoiled, and if she didn't get what she wanted, she would get involved in petty thefts. These problems continued in her teens, although she completed a nursing assistant course

and worked in several hospitals. So at that point, everyone thought she had settled down. But in 1991, she surprised everyone with a truly unexpected announcement. At 24 years old, she became pregnant by a 17-year-old boy named Rod Blanchard. Due to their religious beliefs, the couple got married and started living together. They didn't even know each other, but now they were expecting a child, so they had to do everything possible to make the relationship work. At first, everything went quite well.

But when Didi gave birth, strange things began to happen. Instead of giving the baby the name they had agreed upon, she named her Gypsy in honor of guns and roses. And after that came the illnesses. According to Rod, when Gypsy Rose was three months old, her mother became convinced that she had sleep apnea. So she began taking her to multiple hospitals, where no doctor could find anything wrong.

However, Didi became obsessed with the idea and kept insisting. When she realized that this was a dead end, she claimed her daughter actually had an unspecified chromosomal disorder. Her behavior was so strange that Rod divorced her. But he never abandoned Gypsy and never stopped supporting her. On the contrary, he paid good child support every month and visited the little girl every day. After the divorce, Didi went to live with her maternal family, and quickly they all realized, something very strange was going on.

Bobby Petra, her nephew, claimed that when Gypsy was seven or eight years old, she got on a motorbike with her grandfather and had a minor accident, a small scrape on her knee. However, Didi said it was a clear sign of injuries requiring many surgeries, and from that moment on, Gypsy was forced to use a wheelchair. The girl could obviously walk, but her mother forbade her to. After second grade, Didi took Gypsy out of school and began home. home-schooling her, although according to her family, that's not entirely true. Apparently, Didi cared more about her daughter's illnesses than her education, and the girl could

barely read or write. Rod Blanchard rebuilt his life with another woman, married her, and had several more children. Didi, however, did not. According to several sources, she was filled with resentment. She was so upset that she broke off all contact with him. She wouldn't allow him to see his daughter. daughter and barely let him speak to her on the phone. But of course, he had to pay support on time, or else there would be trouble. As you can see, from this point on, Didi went completely

off the rails. Then came the year 1997, and with it, the strange death of her mother. Didi's maternal family accused her of having killed her, and instead of defending herself, she packed her things and moved in with her father and stepmother, where once again she was accused of trying to poison them. To be continued. And she went to live at her father and stepmother's house, where once again she was accused of trying to poison them. During that time, Didi continued committing crimes, she stole, wrote bad checks, and even though her family yelled at her and called her a thief or a fraud, she didn't care. But when they questioned her role as a mother, things got complicated. So one of those times they told her that her daughter wasn't sick and that she was the

one with the problem, she packed her things and left with Gypsy to Slidell. Once there, mother and daughter cut off communication with the entire family, thus beginning the darkest chapter of their lives. D.D. asked the government for help, claiming to have a daughter with severe health issues, and this help came in the form of public housing and benefits to pay for her daughter's expensive treatments. On top of that, Rob continued to pay monthly child support. So we could say the Blanchards lacked nothing. With all that money, Didi didn't need to work, so she devoted herself entirely to caring for her sick little girl, a little girl she paraded through hospitals in search of a cure. They visited the Tulan Medical Center and the New Orleans Children's Hospital, and in none of them did they find anything wrong with Gypsy, no defective chromosomes, no apnea, no muscular dystrophy, absolutely nothing.

Still, the woman insisted, and incredibly, many doctors believed her. When she said her daughter had seizures every few months, someone prescribed anti-convulsants. When she said her daughter was in terrible pain, she was given painkillers. When she claimed her daughter had bone problems, someone performed multiple surgeries she didn't actually need. Gypsy couldn't do or say anything during this whole process because her mother wouldn't allow it. If she complained, Didi hit her. If she tried to act her age, Didi threatened her. So if she had to act like a baby, she just did it.

If she had to wear a princess dress, she did so without question, because after all, this woman had made her believe that she had no one else in the world but her. After Hurricane Katrina devastated the area in 2005, Didi and Gypsy left their heavily damaged apartment and went to a shelter in Covington. That was when their story became known. Didi contacted several foundations and sold them her tragic story, the story of a girl who had survived leukemia and now had many different illnesses, each worse than the last. She talked about a girl without a father who had lost everything after

Hurricane Katrina. And in that everything, there wasn't just a house but also her birth certificate and medical records. If we recall, D.D. Blanchard had been a nurse's aide, which gave her a strong medical vocabulary, she knew all about medications, diseases, treatments. So at this point, when they went to asked doctors for help, it was much easier for her to convince them that her daughter was gravely ill. But not all doctors believed her stories. One who doubted her words was Bernardo Flasterstein, a pediatric neurologist who, after discovering that Gypsy didn't have muscular dystrophy, began to suspect D.D.D. might be suffering from what's called Munchausen syndrome by proxy, a disorder in which the mother invents false symptoms or induces real ones to make it

seem like her child is truly sick. Flasterstein genuinely wanted to alert social services, but Blanchard wasn't stupid, she knew something was up with that doctor, suspected he doubted that Gypsy was really sick. So overnight, she stopped going to his office and moved to Springfield, where in 2008 the Habitat for Humanity Foundation built her daughter a beautiful, fully equipped house, a pink house with ramps so Gypsy could access it in a wheelchair and a jacuzzi to help treat her muscular dystrophy. Their story became so famous that they received free flights to visit doctors in Kansas City. They also got free trips to Walt Disney World and backstage passes to every Miranda Lambert concert.

And through all of this, Rob Blanchard kept paying child support, but it was no longer just basic support, Dedy had asked him for much more money to cover her poor daughter's expensive treatments. So this man was giving her $1,200 a month. But there were details that Rob didn't like at all. The first was that when he called his daughter for her 18th birthday, Didi took the phone and told him not to mention she was 18, but rather 14, because due to her mental condition, Gypsy believed that was her age. The second point was that every time he wanted to visit Gypsy in Springfield, Didi made excuses, said they weren't home, had a doctor's appointment, were traveling to see a specialist, always something, and Rob never got to see his daughter. By 2009, the police started receiving strange reports. Early in the year, a woman called to say she had seen Gypsy walking through the windows

without any help, but no officer responded because that was supposedly impossible. The years went by and police kept receiving similar reports, people claiming Gypsy could walk and sometimes spoke like an adult instead of a seven-year-old. And while people complained, you can imagine that Gypsy was getting fed up. She was forced to wear a feeding tube that had to be changed every six months, forced to shave her head daily, and wasn't allowed to have friends. So in 2011, she tried to run away from home with a man she met online. When Didi found out, she grabbed a hammer, smashed the computer, and threatened to do the same to her fingers if she ever tried to run away again. After that, the woman went straight to the police and made it very clear that her daughter had mental problems.

That way, if Gypsy ever tried to ask for help, no one would believe her. But Gypsy was determined to escape her control, and in 2012 she created a secret Facebook profile where she spoke with her friend and neighbor Alea Woodmancy. If you search online, you'll find many disturbing photos Gypsy Rose Blanchard posted to that profile, wearing different wigs, posing in a very provocative way, which obviously someone with the mind of a seven-year-old wouldn't do. In 2014, Gypsy joined a Facebook group for young Christians, where she met Nicholas Gojohn, a 24-year-old man with autism. Shortly after meeting, the young couple changed their relationship status on Facebook and began planning their wedding and talking about baby names.

They were really sure they wanted to be together. So they started making a number of plans, the most prominent of which was to pretend they met by chance at a movie theater in front of Diti, so she would think their love story has. have been accidental. And if that plan failed for whatever reason, Gypsy could always get pregnant and force her mother to accept the relationship. You'd think all of this was just fantasy, silly dreams, never would they go through with any of it. But the couple kept talking online and soon realized that the only way they could be together was if Didi died. So they decided to carry out their plan in June 2015. The plan was this, in early June 2015, Gypsy and her mother had a doctor's appointment.

When they returned, Didi went to sleep, and then Gypsy grabbed her phone and texted Nicholas to come over and commit the crime. And that's exactly what happened. As soon as he arrived, Gypsy gave him duct tape, gloves, and a knife. Then she went into the bathroom and covered her ears while he stabbed her mother. Afterward, the couple had sex in Gypsy's room, packed their bags, stole $4,000 from Didi's safe, and fled to a motel on the outskirts of Springfield. Once there, to avoid being caught with the murder weapon, they mailed it to Nicholas House.

Then they went there too. Everything would have gone perfectly, they would have gotten married, had kids, been very happy, but Gypsy couldn't resist turning on the computer and posting a status update. A post that led the police to track the IP and take her and her boyfriend straight to prison. Once Gypsy's nightmare became public, the whole world was shocked. People went from seeing the Blanchards as an example of perseverance to realizing it was a story about a monstrous mother and her victim. Gypsy had lived her entire life under the control of a woman with Munchausen syndrome by proxy. And not only that, after Hurricane Katrina, this woman took the opportunity to get a new birth certificate for Gypsy with a completely different birth date.

Gypsy wasn't born in 1995, but in 1991. Remember the day Rob called Gypsy to wish her a happy 18th birthday? Of course, he couldn't say she was 18, because Didi had changed her documents without authorization. If Gypsy was legally a minor, they could continue receiving a ton of assistance. So we could say that Hurricane Katrina was a perfect opportunity for Didi. This is a really complicated case because on one, hand, we have Nicholas Gojohn, who has autism, and on the other hand, we have Gypsy, who was the victim of continuous abuse. So the justice system had to be very careful with their

sentences. In December 2017, the judge set Nicholas trial for November 2018, and after hours of deliberation, he was found guilty of first-degree murder. However, his sentence wouldn't be made public until this very month. Gypsy Rose Blanchard, for her part. was sentenced to ten years at the Chilicothe Correctional Center in Missouri. But this news didn't really affect her, because despite being behind bars, she says she feels truly free. I feel more free in prison than I ever did living with my mother, because now I'm allowed to just live like a normal woman. But now it's your turn, what do you think of this case? Was it right for Gypsy and her boyfriend to kill Didi? Or do you think they could have done

things differently. The end. But these girls did everything they could to go to South Africa together, begging their parents to let them go, to let them leave, to become writers and fulfill their dreams. But Nora Parker was very clear about it and strictly forbade the girls from speaking to each other again. Pauline would no longer write letters and obviously would never see her best friend again. That is when the girls began to plot a chilling crime. In 1994, director Peter Jackson brought to the big screen a film that left many completely shocked, and that film was heavenly creatures. This story talks about the relationship of two teenagers, two girls from different backgrounds whose connection led them to create a magical world. At a certain point,

for one reason or another, the girls had to go their separate ways, but unfortunately, they refused. They completely refused to be apart from each other. So, to prevent that, they decided to kill one of their mothers. Many people thought this film was fiction, but the truth is that this story was completely real and marked a before and after in a small town in New Zealand. And now, I will tell you the full case. This story begins on October 28, 1938, in Blackheath, United Kingdom, with the birth of a girl named Juliet Marion Hume.

Juliet was born into a family whose economic position was enviable. Her father was the renowned Dr. Henry Rainsford Hume, and her mother, marriage counselor Hilda Hume. So, as one might expect, the girl had practically everything in her childhood, good education, good upbringing, good social relations, everything she asked for, she had instantly. She liked music, movies, reading, writing, and was a girl with a privileged mind, capable of imagining parallel worlds and getting lost in them. However, at a certain point, Juliet began to have respiratory problems, so her father sent her to the Caribbean and then to South Africa, hoping that a warmer climate would improve her health.

During her stay there, everything improved notably, so the doctors eventually decided she was ready to return to her family. In 1948, she and her family moved to Christchurch, New Zealand, where Henry Hume took on the role of rector at Canterbury College. In a new environment, the girl had to go to a new school, so her parents enrolled her at Christchurch girls' high school. And from the first day, she made a new friend there, a girl named Pauline Yvonne Parker. Pauline was a girl the same age as her, and apparently, they had a lot in common. They liked movies, music, literature, and in just one week, they became inseparable.

At age five, Pauline had suffered an infection in her bone marrow and since then walked with a limp. She couldn't play tennis, she couldn't run, she could hardly do anything, and the pain she felt was what most connected her to Juliet. Looking back, let's remember that Juliet had also been ill for many years. Both knew what it was like to feel lonely, isolated, and useless, so they decided they would never separate. Unfortunately, even though they had so much in common, they came from very different backgrounds. While Juliet had a lot of money, Pauline had almost nothing. Pauline Yvonne Parker was the daughter of Herbert Riper, who owned a fish shop,

and Anora Parker, who owned a boarding house where the whole family lived. Apparently, these people were a normal, honest, working-class couple. But what the town didn't know was that they were not actually married. Herbert had left his wife and children to move to Christchurch with Onora, where they started a business and had Pauline. Nobody in Christchurch knew this, and those who suspected didn't say anything, because back then, such a scandal could easily cost people their jobs. But to the girls, none of this mattered.

The most important thing in their lives was their friendship, a friendship that at least at the beginning seemed idyllic. As mentioned earlier, Pauline had a permanent limp and couldn't run or play sports. So Juliet came up with the perfect idea to make her friend. friend feel normal. Apparently, the Hume family had a pony, so one day Juliet taught Pauline how to ride it, and the girl loved it. Having a limp didn't matter for riding a pony, as the animal would move on simple commands. She could sit in the saddle for hours and not even remember she couldn't walk properly. She liked this new hobby so much that when she got home, she

asked her parents to buy her a pony. But they flatly refused, which caused a serious conflict between them. Pauline didn't understand why her friend could have a pony and she couldn't. She wasn't aware that her family didn't have as much money as the homays, or maybe she was, but didn't care. So she fought with her parents for hours until she finally decided not to speak to them. According to her father, she spent an entire week not even looking them in the face, and later spoke to them again only out of pure interest. The girls, United, created a fantasy universe, a world they called the fourth world. Whenever they wanted to escape their everyday lives, they would hold hands and imagine they were somewhere completely different, a place with lakes,

rainbows, butterflies. And even they themselves were different in that world. They were no longer Juliet and Pauline but their alter egos, Juliet became Deborah, and Pauline became Gina. In that world, the girls began to plan on becoming writers. Both were very good at writing, and they believed that together they could achieve great things. They wrote some of the most twisted and striking stories ever. So, at a certain point, they decided to raise money to travel to New York. Their idea was to bake cakes and sell them at school, and with all the money they earned, travel to New York and knock on the door of every publisher until one agreed to publish their stories.

At first, everything went perfectly. They made cakes, sold them, and earned quite a bit of money. But when they counted it all, they realized they were still a bit short. So they decided to ask their parents for the rest, and that's when they hit their first obstacle. Juliet's parents saw it as nonsense, a teenage whim they would forget over time. But Pauline's parents saw it as something much more serious, especially her mother, Anora Parker. Anora considered her daughter's friendship very dangerous. Pauline was spending too much time with Juliet, and it was starting to start to.

border on the inappropriate. In the 1950s, homosexuality was considered a mental illness, and all people showing signs of it were immediately sent to mental institutions to be treated. So Anora warned her daughter that she needed to redirect her mind toward healthier habits, or else she would send her to a psychiatric hospital. Obviously, Pauline didn't even want to listen and continued with the friendship. At this point, many sources say that Pauline was indeed a lesbian, that she was obsessed with Juliet, madly in love. But there's one point many people overlook, her parents had done exactly the same thing before with a boy named Nicholas.

Pauline had previously been in love with this boy, and her parents did everything possible to keep them apart, and eventually succeeded. So this time, Pauline wasn't going to give up so easily. She had found what she considered her soulmate, a loyal friend who always did everything for her. So no matter what her mother said, no matter the obstacles, no matter how much the world was against them, Pauline wasn't going to give up. She and Juliet were convinced of their talent and imagined together what it would be like to publish their stories. They saw themselves

as best-selling authors and even imagined their works would someday be turned into films. But unfortunately, at a certain point, their lives took a dark turn. Juliet was diagnosed with tuberculosis and had to spend three months in a sanatorium. Once again, she was isolated, alone, far from her parents, friends, and the world. And in the sanatorium, while she was asleep, doctors injected her with experimental drugs, tested different cures, took her out for walks. Slowly, she began to fall into depression. But in that darkness, there was a ray of light, and that light was her friend Pauline's

letters. Pauline wrote to her every day from the moment she entered the sanatorium. Every day she asked how she was, what she was doing, how she felt, and from a distance, she was by her side the whole time. So Juliet had enough strength to keep going. However, those letters also contained something very dark, something Juliet would not discover until much later. When she was discharged, Juliet thought she would return to school. But her parents thought she needed to wait a bit longer. Her lungs were still very weak, and if she caught a cold, she could easily end up back in the sanatorium. So they forced her to stay at home for several more weeks. To be continued. But her parents thought she had to wait a little longer. Her lungs

were still very weak, and if she caught a cold, she would quickly end up back in the sanatorium. So they forced her to stay home for several more weeks. That's when Pauline decided to spend every day by her side. They drew, wrote, went on walks together, and didn't separate for a single moment. That's when her mother, Anora Parker, decided to intervene. One thing was to send her friend letters every day, and another was to be with her 24-7. So one day, Mrs. Parker decided to meet with Dr. Hume. She told him that she was convinced the girls were together, that they were hiding something, that they were in a relationship, and asked the doctor to put an end to it. The man, being a doctor, had contacts in different areas of medicine.

So he recommended a psychiatrist to Anora to treat her daughter without the need for institutionalization. That's when the nightmare began for those girls. Their parents, as time passed, kept adding more and more obstacles to their relationship. They couldn't be alone. They had no time for each other. And at a certain moment, Juliet's parents divorced. As I said at the beginning of the story, Juliet's mother, Hilda Hume, was a marriage counselor, and in those sessions, she met a man who became her lover. When Henry Hume found out, he obviously asked for a divorce and decided to pack his bags

and leave for England. He quit his job, left everything behind, and when he was about to go, he decided it was the perfect time to end his dear Juliet's friendship. He grabbed his daughter and said that very soon they would go to England together, but once there, they would separate. He would stay in England, and Juliet would take a flight and go directly to South Africa. As you can see, this excuse was perfect to separate them. Juliet would go for sure, and Pauline, having no money, wouldn't be able to follow. But the girls did everything they could to go to South Africa together, begging their parents to let them go, to let them leave, to become writers, to fulfill their dreams.

But Nora Parker was very clear and strictly forbade the girls from speaking to each other again. Pauline would no longer write letters and obviously would never see her best friend again. That's when the girls began to plot a chilling crime. To understand their thoughts, we have some excerpts from Pauline Parker's diary. The excerpts read as follows, February 13th, Why Couldn't Mother Die? Dozens of people, thousands of people die every day. So why not Mother? And Father, too. April 28th, the anger towards Mother boils inside me.

She is one of the main obstacles in my path. Suddenly a way to get rid of the obstacle occurs to me. April 29th, I haven't told Deborah my plans to eliminate Mother. The last destination I want to know is one in Borstal. I'm trying to think of a way. I wanted to seem like a natural or accidental death. June 19th, today we practically finished our books and our main delight for the day was mocking Mother. The idea isn't new, but this time it's a definitive plan that we intend to carry out.

We've resolved it carefully and were both delighted with the idea. Naturally, we feel a bit nervous, but the thrill of anticipation is great. June 20th, Deborah and I talked for a while and later discussed our plans to kill mother and made everything clear. Curiously, I have no conscience about it. June 21st, Borah called and we decided to use a brick in a stocking instead of a sandbag. My mother has wonderfully fallen for the plans. I feel quite nervous.

June 22nd, the day of the happy event. I felt very excited last night, something like before Christmas, but I didn't have pleasant dreams. I'm about to get up. The girl's plan seemed simple. They pretended to make everyone believe they had given up, that they had accepted being separated. So for months, they organized a picnic to which they invited Anora Parker. The day dawned sunny. It seemed like the perfect day for a picnic in Victoria Park in Christchurch.

So Anora, Pauline, and Juliet slowly walked along a path toward a tea kiosk owned by Agnes Ritchie. Once there, they ate, talked, and recalled one by one the best moments of their friendship. They talked about their gifts, their secrets, their dreams, and at one point they tried to convince Onora to let Pauline travel to South Africa. But the woman once again flatly refused. So the girls decided to go ahead. After eating, around 3 p.m., the women walked again along the path, and at a certain point, Juliet pulled out a pink stone and threw it on the ground. right in front of Onora Parker. The woman, seeing the stone, bent down to grab it. That's when Pauline opened her bag, took out half a brick, put it in a stocking, and struck her mother again and

again. The girls had planned to hit her a couple of times, thinking it would be enough. But they hit her over and over again, and the woman was still alive. So they ended up delivering 45 blows, 45 blows to the head and hands. After committing the crime, the girls threw the brick into the bushes, and the same with the old stocking. Then they ran back to the tea kiosk they had left minutes earlier. Please help us, Mom is badly hurt. She's bleeding, said Pauline Parker to Agnes Richie. The girls told Agnes that Onora had had an accident, that she had tripped and rolled down the path until hitting some rocks. They said she was seriously injured. and that both were terrified to go back.

We returned along the trail. Mom tripped on a plank and hit her head when she landed. She kept falling, and her head kept hitting and hitting as she rolled, they said. Mrs. Ritchie was horrified to hear this, even more so because the girls were covered in blood and very hysterical. So she calmed them a bit and invited them to go clean up in the bathroom while she called her husband. The girls accepted the invitation and went hand in hand to the back. bathroom. Then the woman picked up the phone and dialed the number, but just as she was about

to press the last digit, she heard the girls laughing from inside the bathroom. When the police arrived at the crime scene, they couldn't believe what they saw. For starters, the plants weren't disturbed and there were no rocks with traces of blood, so it made no sense that the woman had rolled and died that way. Secondly, when someone rolls, they get wounds all over their body, scratches, bruises, marks everywhere. Not just on the head and hands. And this woman had up to 45 blows in both those areas. Most of the blows were concentrated on the skull and hands, in defensive positions.

She had marks indicating she had covered her head while someone was attacking her. And third, near the body, they found a supposed weapon used in a murder, half a brick covered in blood hidden in the bushes, and nearby, a torn stocking with blood and human hair. Clearly, this wasn't an accident, it was murder. The only two suspects were two teenage girls who were clearly pretending. That same June 22, 1954, the two girls were interrogated at Juliet Hume's house. Of course, the interrogation was done separately, first Pauline, then Juliet. And it's worth noting, they both told exactly the same story, that the woman simply tripped and died.

The police were sure the girls had memorized this speech, which indicated the whole thing had been planned. Now they needed to know the motive. Why would girls like them kill someone? The answer was right in front of them. They had to separate the girls and interrogate them again, not in separate rooms, but in separate houses. So the police took Pauline to the station and questioned her again.

That's when she broke down and confessed. everything. Meanwhile, police searched her house and found her diary, a diary in which Pauline herself stated that Juliet was also involved. On June 23rd, Juliet Hume confessed and said that the brick used to hit Onora came from the construction work at her house. She said she took the brick herself and gave it to Pauline and that together they planned everything. But she added that she didn't hate Onora, only that Pauline told her if her mother didn't die, she would take her own life. Juliet felt like she owed something to Pauline,

she was the only one who wrote to her in the sanatorium, the only one who was there, who supported her. So she felt that if she didn't help kill her mother, she would be letting her down. So, on August 29th of that same year, the two girls met the same fate. They were found guilty of first-degree murder. Had they been adults at the time of the crime,

they would have been sentenced to death. But being minors, they were sentenced to five years in prison. But prison wouldn't be the only thing these girls had to face. Each was sent to a different prison, and they would never speak again. They couldn't see each other, write letters, or meet again after serving their time. I was guilty, and prison was the right place for me. During the day we did hard labor, but I collapsed after two weeks. Then I began sewing uniforms.

I memorized the few books I had, scraps of things. In prison, we had little time alone, except at night. The nights were a great blessing. I didn't have to share a room, and when the light goes out and there's nothing, then the light turns on inside your head. After five years, the girls were finally released, and from there, they began their new lives. They would no longer go by their old names. Juliet Hume became in Perry, and Pauline Parker became Hillary Nathan.

Hillary moved to Kent, England, and once there, became a strict Roman Catholic. Later, she became the director of a center for people with special needs. The last thing we know about her comes from a 2011 book called So Brilliantly Clever, which revealed that Hillary was then in Australia teaching horseback riding. As for Anne Perry, we know she did fulfill her lifelong dream, to become a writer. A crime and mystery writer. She became a flight attendant, lived in Scotland, San Francisco, and New York, where she worked as a nanny. But the most interesting part is that in 1979 she published her first book, Decatur Street Hangman, and from there

never stopped succeeding. According to her website, and Perry has sold over 20 million copies of her books worldwide. In 2000, she won an Edgar Award for her short story hero. and a Herodotus Lifetime Achievement Award. She was also nominated for a Maccavity Award. Another very interesting point is that not only did she fulfill her dream of writing novels, but some of them were adapted into films. But it's also worth saying that when Peter Jackson interviewed her to make his movie, the woman was very reluctant, because the death of Onora Parker is the only crime

and Perry never wants to talk about. But now it's your turn, what do you think of the case? Do you believe the girls deserved a harsher sentence? The end. This wild and chilling tale begins in early 1984 in the United States. It's the kind of story that could make your hair stand on end, a mix of mystery, tragedy, and the horrifying depths of human depravity. It all starts with a young woman, Rosario Gonzalez, who vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind. Rosario wasn't especially close with her family.

She was sweet, hardworking, and had recently gotten. engaged. But she was young and full of dreams, so when she disappeared, the police didn't think much of it. Maybe she'd eloped with a lover or gone off on an adventure. You know, young people do unpredictable things sometimes. However, only days later, another woman, Elizabeth, Beth, Kenyon, also went missing. This time, the story was different. Beth came from a loving family who wasn't about to sit back and let the cops brush it off. They demanded action, and through their persistence, detectives realized something eerie, the two disappearances were connected. Unfortunately, by the time they pieced it together, it was too late.

The perpetrator was already on the move, leaving a trail of victims across the U.S. And that's where Christopher Bernard Wilder comes in. Born on March 13, 1945, in Sydney, Australia, Wilder's early life was a far cry from his later infamy. His father was an American naval officer, and his mother was Australian. Wilder's birth was complicated, he came into this world with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, a traumatic entrance that some say marked him for a troubled life. Twice as a toddler, he narrowly escaped death, once from a cord around his neck and again when he nearly drowned in a swimming pool. Despite these brushes with mortality, Wilder's early

years seemed unremarkable. He was polite, curious, and even studious. But lurking beneath this ordinary exterior was a darker side. As a teenager, he developed a creepy habit of spying on neighbors, peeking through windows, and watching women undress. People dismissed it as harmless mischief, just a curious kid being a kid. But at 17, things escalated. Rumors swirled about him harassing girls, pushing boundaries, and treating them with blatant disrespect. The situation hit a breaking point when Wilder, along with two friends, committed an

unspeakable crime, the group assault of a 13-year-old girl. There was enough evidence to press charges, but since they were minors, not None of them saw the inside of a prison cell. Instead, Wilder was sentenced to probation and underwent electroshock therapy, which was supposed to curb his impulses. Spoiler, it didn't work. Life went on, and people figured Wilder would never settle down. But against all odds, he got engaged.

However, the relationship barely lasted a week before his fiancée called it quits. Heartbroken and seemingly aimless, Wilder decided to leave Australia and start fresh in the US. In America, Wilder found his footing in business. Accounts vary, some say he started a construction company, others claim he dealt in real estate. Either way, he may bank. With his newfound wealth, he bought a sprawling mansion in Boynton Beach, Florida. This wasn't just any house, it had a jacuzzi, multiple rooms, and a backyard big enough to host a small concert.

Life was good, and Wilder indulged in two passions, fast cars and photography. He splurged on high-end vehicles, including a Porsche 9-11, which he raced in Miami's Grand Prix. As for photography, Wilder set up a studio in his mansion, but his interests weren't as innocent as they seemed. He wasn't capturing sunsets or wildlife, he wanted women, preferably undressed, in front of his lens. In March 1971, Wilder got arrested for the first time in the U.S. for allegedly causing a scene at Pompano Beach. The reason?

Approaching women and asking them to pose in skimpy outfits, some of whom were underage. He didn't go to jail, though, he just paid a fine. Fast forward to October 1977, and Wilder's behavior took a darker turn. He allegedly forced a high schooler into unwanted sexual acts under threat. The girl was underage, but it was her word against his, and there wasn't any solid evidence to convict him. Even when Wilder confessed to his therapist, confidentiality laws meant the court couldn't use

it against him. He walked free. By 1980, Wilder had fine-tuned his sinister M.O. He would hang out at malls, scout for attractive young women, and charm them with promises of fame. Claiming to be a professional photographer, he'd flatter them, tell them they could be stars, and lure them to his car. One victim fell for the act, and once inside his vehicle, Wilder turned violent, assaulting her in a secluded area. Again, he avoided serious punishment, this time, with a slap on the wrist, a fine and probation. In 1982,

Wilder briefly returned to Australia, but trouble followed him. He was accused of luring two 15-year-old girls by promising to make them stars, only to force them into posing naked. The police arrested him, but his dad bailed him out, and Wilder returned to the U.S. before the case went to trial. This trip marked a turning point. Wilder's crimes escalated from manipulation and coercion to outright abduction, assault, and murder. Back in the States, February 26, 1984, marked the start of his killing spree. Rosario Gonzalez, 20, vanished while working at the Miami Grand Prix. She was handing out refreshments to racers, including Wilder, who was competing that year.

A week later, Beth Kenyon, 23, disappeared. Beth had once dated Wilder, but after a handful of dates, she'd turned down his proposal of marriage. Despite the connection, Wilder denied involvement when private investigators questioned him. By March 15th, authorities had enough suspicion to visit Wilder's home, but he was already gone. They found a photo of him posing with his Porsche at the Grand Prix, confirming he'd been in close proximity to both women before their disappearances. The FBI issued a press release, but instead of providing Wilder's full identity, they described him vaguely, an Australian real estate

agent, race car driver, and photographer. Without his photo or name in the public eye, Wilder had the freedom to keep moving, and killing. On March 18, Wilder kidnapped Teresa Ferguson, 21, in Merritt Island, Florida. He traveled stealthily, avoiding credit card transactions that might alert law enforcement. Just two days later, he struck again in Tallahassee, abducting Linda Grover, a 19-year-old college student. Using his now-familiar ruse, he convinced Linda to approach his car, then overpowered her. He held her captive in a motel room, where he subjected her to unspeakable torment. But Linda fought back. Seizing an opportunity, she locked herself in the bathroom and screamed until Wilder fled. From there, Wilder's crimes became even more relentless.

He traveled to Beaumont, Texas, where on March 23, he abducted Terry Walden, 23. Unlike previous victims, Terry's disappearance also included a stolen car, a Mercury Cougar. Meanwhile, police found the body of Teresa Ferguson, discarded in a remote area. By the end of March, Wilder had killed again, this time in Newton, Kansas, where he left the body of Susan Logan, 21. Shortly afterward, in Durango, Colorado, he kidnapped Cheryl Bonaventura, 18, pretending they were on route to Las Vegas to marry. Days later, her body was discovered near the Four Corners Monument. In Las Vegas, Wilder attended a modeling contest at a mall, praying on young participants. He set his sights on Michelle Corfman, 17, who disappeared

soon after. A photo later surfaced showing Wilder observing Michelle intently at the event, providing investigators with a critical lead. The spree culminated in early April when Wilder kidnapped Tina Marie Risico, 16, in Torrance, California. Unlike his other victims, he spared her life, coercing her into aiding him in luring another teenager, Dennett Wilt, 16. Dennett survived her ordeal, becoming a vital witness against Wilder. Finally, on April 13th, Wilder's reign of terror ended in Colbrook, New Hampshire. In a struggle with law enforcement, he was fatally shot.

Though Wilder's death closed his case, the scars he left behind remain a haunting reminder of his horrific legacy. Lewis Webb was, for the most part, a normal 26-year-old guy. He lived alone in his suburban home, where he wrote his popular science fiction novels about a nuclear war and the survival of humanity. His father was a wealthy scientist that tinkered with chemicals and antidotes. Ever since Lewis was a kid, he's been fascinated by his father's work, and he was a wished to be just like him when he grew up. He wished to conduct experiments on animals,

and inject them with serums and watching what would happen. There was something so thrilling about synthesizing chemicals that Lewis just couldn't describe. Which is why he always smiled when he thought about the time, in high school, when he kidnapped the school's biggest bully, strapped him in a chair, and injected him with a chemical he created himself. It was the first ever time he successfully mixed dangerous compounds together and injected it into a human, and it was so thrilling and fun. He still remembered watching the bully in his cell as he coughed and weased and begged for mercy, and as he crumbled to the floor when the poison went to his brain. He also remembered his father's proud face when he told him about his successful experiment.

For it was he who taught him to make such dangerous poisons, and it was he who taught him why some people, like his high school bully, deserved to suffer. It was so unfortunate when he was arrested on account of multiple murders, and 14-year-old Lewis had to go to an orphanage. Nicholas Webb would never get out of prison, because people didn't understand that he only did it to people who deserved it. But now, Lewis continued his legacy, but he did it more carefully. He became an author to disguise his true career, and fortunately, his books instantly became popular, which gave Lewis lots of money, which would certainly help when buying ingredients for. his chemicals. He was truly proud of a recent breakthrough he discovered, which he called Chemical B, or Bygluptor toxin. It took him days to perfect it, and he was excited to test

it on his new test subject. Lewis stood up from his office desk, and neatly stacked the chemical formulas on his desk. He exited his office and walked to the kitchen, and opened his microwave. Here, he had stored some leftover meatloaf he baked an hour ago. He took the plate, and walked back into his office and faced a bookshelf. He pushed in a magenta book, pulled a blue book, and twisted a red book, and the secret entrance opened. He felt the cold, wooden stairs on his feet, even through his woolen socks. He stepped into his bright lab. The walls were white, and the floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks, which made his lab very pleasing to look at.

All around the large rectangular room were metal desks, which had had. had numerous different papers and vials filled with conspicuous liquids of numerous different colors. There were special machines and elaborate devices that Lewis used to create chemicals. Lewis moved past the desks and walked down a hallway that led to a small, circular room filled with cells. He walked over to the fifth cell with a smile on his face. Hello, Andy. Lewis said, I brought some food, so you wouldn't starve. I, I don't want food. Shouted a 17-year-old while sitting on the floor of his concrete cell. His brown hair and face looked dirty from being in a cell for two days.

Andy got up and faced the thick glass separating him from Lewis. Why am I here? I don't understand. Lewis calmly grabbed a paper cup from a stack on a table next to the cell, and filled it with water from the water cooler next to it. He passed the water and meatloaf to him from a small opening at the bottom of the cell, but Andy did not touch it. He only clenched his fists and slammed his fists onto the glass, which was nearly impossible to break. Answer me. Who are you?

I, I don't want to be here. Lewis, who was still smiling, grabbed a syringe filled with a dark, mud-colored fluid from his back pocket and took the cap off the needle. W. What is that? Andy said, backing away from the glass. Lewis opened the secure cell door. To answer your question, Andy, you can call me cyanide. W. What the hell? Get off of me. Andy shouted as Lewis forced the syringe into his forearm, and pushed the dark liquid into his arm. Andy tried to run away, but the paralysis instantly

kicked in, and he fell on his face. Lewis dragged his paralyzed body into his testing room, and strapped his body onto a medical bed. He turned, and saw a small vial filled with a viscous, green liquid. Lewis took a clean syringe, stuck the needle inside the vial, and sucked all of the chemical into the syringe. He then turned to Andy, whose eyes were darting around a room quite frantically. Don't panic, there will only be a slight sting as I inject my chemical into your body. The real pain will come later.

And Lewis stuck the needle into Andy's Foron. We start, to enter today, we must travel in time to, 1918, 1919 when a man named Eric was born, Hingston about his childhood know, we have a lot of information but what is, we know that he was known for being a person absolutely delivered to. His when he turned 18 is, pilot license and joined the Royal, Air Force as soon as the second broke out. World War played a very important during the conflict and is that, became operations pilot, special and was in charge of sending. France agents occupied when, conflict ended in.

1945 returned home turned into a hero. War family friends known, everyone was proud of him, but Eric for this point was exhausted, both physically and, from that moment he decided that never, more would grab a gun time and, meet a woman who changes her life, forever Jane, and in 1950 he married, she and have two children from here. His life changes completely opens a, butcher shop the business is doing well and with. Time opens two plus each butcher shop. Here's his last name Hingston since the business was going to be familiar. He founded him. He lifted him and his children were going to. Inherit was something very typical of the time.

And Eric must tell you that I was proud. The business is happy with Jane wants her. With all your soul your children are perfect. The loves but in 1982 Jane dies and all his life is falling down is sad. He doesn't raise his head. He doesn't know what to do with. Your life so you sell the business and know. Mute a city called Plymouth, located in Devon County in there.

southwest England once there, try to start zero buying a place, in Underhill Lane a little, butcher shop and the left apartment, just above it makes it as new, home again the business returns to, starting as customary to be alone to, this new life and without looking for it returns to, fall in love specifically of a woman of, 62 years named Audrey the story of, these two is quite curious and is that, long ago were good friends Eric, he was married to Jane Audrey with his husband but over the years, both widowing and because of this, they began to stay alone. they drink coffee they told how they felt they shared the sadness of pain and through this they fell in love so finally they decided to get married they marry odris moves with him and from of that moment according to the entire people they are the ideal couple all day are giving walks going the cafeteria to restaurants being with other people with children with grandchildren never they were still were always four up and down and something very important is that the couple always i was united always walked hand in hand they were very affectionate and eric had a car with which Audrey always walked, because the woman did not have a card her.

Love story was known for everything. Plymouth and everyone found them, adorable, but when Erie turned 80, years his health chopped began, have constant pains of bones. They had to put a catheter A, pacemaker and had to operate two, times of the hip and at 85 no longer, I could move from the bed anymore. Walks together were no longer traveling and, Carr had to sell at life that. They had completely different from the, from before I lived for and to take care. Of Eric something very sad is that Eric, slept with many devices.

and these. They made noise some pages say that. I slept with a breathing device and, because of this, Audrey slept in another. Fourth no longer made a couple's life no longer. They could walk as soon as they interacted there. Life together was not how they had dreamed is. Just as we arrive on Friday night, August 29, 2003 when 3.45 minutes of the morning Audrey grabbed the telephone and called the poor. Woman was panic-studder. Drew said, I did not know what to say, how to say it did not understand anything and without more. He released the following have attacked us and my husband is on the floor please come. Fast I think a patrol is dead, and an ambulance appeared at the crime scene and what they saw left. Everyone in shock the whole

house is, uplegs scrambled drawers, clothes thrown on the floor thrown objects, everywhere and the focus of chaos was, Eric's room where lying in the soil was his lifeless body. Apparently, I had a stab in the middle of the chest and, according to paramedics, they could feel a, beat to take the pulsations there was a beat but finally realized that this beat was actually his, pacemakers and what surely had quite dead time between one and two hours according to eric autopsy was stabbed with a knife approximately seven inches equivalent to seventeen centimeters was a knife carnacero's big sharp but the weapon of crime is not anywhere and another very striking thing is that what it happened very clear the house was revolt up legs and next to the window was a full garbage bag of

value objects we are in full summer was hot and eric all night slept with the open window everyone looks like he was sick that could not get up that he could not do anything so someone slipped there he tried to steal and ended his life according to audrey what happened was the following her slept rested and then listened to a noise thought it was eric that he found badly and therefore rose from the bed went to his room pushed the door and two subjects were found that dead scary they ran and jumped out the window collided against all they jumped out the window they went down a folding ladder and in this flight left the garbage bag inside the which were all the jewels go to the street pick up the stairs flee and Meanwhile she calls emergencies. It is all very chaotic and when this counts this. This is an older woman. Weak is distressed so the police. He does not presign much and think that. Better what can you do is leave it. Leave with their children because. Poor woman has Ivedo a nightmare the next morning Audrey. Hingston is called to tell everything. Who saw the police officer arrives? History and is able to give a description of the two men who are. They put at home it is if they were strong, valiant sampled determined and the poor. Woman although she is very sad she wants, Speaking feels a deep breath. Below the following says, Who knows the two men from view, who have killed her husband one of them, is higher that the other measures 1882 carries,

white pants and also a hat, of Hunter and the other that was lower. I measured about 170 and another very. Important is that it was more robust to count. That sound from the neighborhood there, close that you have seen that you are, with them often and that these men, they know her but unfortunately not.

Remember their names know they know each other. Mutually they have spoken that they have, exchanged words but cannot, saying their names cannot say where, they live with who they join that. Information does not have it and the one of. September the police give a wheel of, pressed through which they give all this. Information talk about death theft. Eric that two men killed him and, describe these men in front of. All Pimo asking that please, someone sound to you to call, immediately to the department of.

Police, but that's not all and is that. Audrey Hingston stands in front of the cameras and release the following two. Men entered my house already. My husband Eric no, deserved this as a fragile man. Any resistance that would have, offered could have been easily. Surpassed by these two young Audrey. Hainon in front of the cameras was a far-failer elder woman was, very affected with a bent head with, very sad eyes crying your voice, broken all Pimo felt a lot. Too bad her husband was attacked. Cruely man was not. Armed had no strength could not. Raising these men only had to. Steal four things just had no. Why hurt anyone was,

unnecessary as you can imagine the whole city was put on the part of audrey n and the whole city put hands to work dozens of neighbors were given realized that these men sounded a lot of a tall man with a hat of white pants hunter one more more robust short two men who were going together as a team the neighbors gave themselves realized that these men were from neighborhood were known neighbors and four they called the police so much names ages locations everyone i knew who they were and they themselves were to police station and said they hadn't done nothing saw the news read newspapers listened to people mutter and were aware that they were identical to these men but wanted make it clear that they did nothing in absolute however when going to the police station police had to arrest them he accused the pointed out that just for

that they were suspicious were arrested questioned but miraculously had solid co stood the night of crime war they were even close to witnesses they had evidence so immediately freedom and police were placed in this point had one thousand questions all plymouth knew that eric couldn't move That was prostrated in bed that. I slept in that room with the window, open if they wanted to steal there. They just had to enter. I would defend, could barely shout. I could do anything at all to kill him. It was unnecessary that cruelty did not have. No meaning and another thing that had no. Sense was to steal and not take. Nothing that could be scared they saw. Audrey ran, bag, but went there to steal and four. So much made sense to leave everything there. And another

striking thing is that the money the spoil and take the gun bat, nor did the scene of the crime is completely reviewed and they discover that there are no criminals they could wear gloves but another thing that neither do they are fibers of the t shirt pants of what they will take place there is not even fibers so the police reconstruct the crime with two agent with physical characteristics identical to the two men who saw audrey one of 1880 another of 170 more robust do the step by step take stairs get out of the window are very careful with gloves try not to leave DNA and also they try not to leave any fiber. But the latter is impossible to leave. Fibers everywhere what gives. Understand that this crime has not committed someone from outside the house, but rather someone inside but that.

It's not all and the police are looking for. Witnesses talk to neighbors with people from the area and ask everyone, if that night they heard or saw something. Strange and then a footman takes a step in front of this person in his greengrocer, has a special service and is that by the knights made home, you called a reservation and order and at night I left you a basket of fruits at the home indoor this can seem very rare but in that town it was quite common the delivery of milk from newspapers for older people went from pearls and that night casually there furtero passed this street to both left boxes on that same street and when he went there heard a strange groan it was like a lament like a cry and it came directly from eric's room i knew eric i knew what i was

passing immediately thought that he found badly looked towards the window set and in that place there was no one staircase so the police with this history had it very clear according to the autopsy Eric died between one and two hours before being found so approximately stabbed at two the same time when the footman passed like this that suspicions pointed to Audrey Hingston the police at this point spoke with Audrey's family and realized that everyone suspected her according to the family not even cried did not look sad affected distressed the cameras was not the same as they saw that afflicted woman depressed crest they saw her walking to the cafeteria staying with friends laughing were not the same person seems that the death of. Eric has come from pearls and slowly. Police put it between the strings, press the question, and on September 11th this case gives a full turn because the woman is, emergency admitted when trying, take your life after taking a handful of, analgesics, but that's not all and is that. Before doing it, he left the following note, please catch the terrible, people who

ruined my life could not live without Eric at this time, though. Police discover that Audrey has a long depression history, especially since Eric began to, find badly when he started getting sick. When I couldn't move when no longer, they could travel when all that gave. Audrey started falling apart so the, police had it very clearly ended with his, life because I wanted freedom I didn't want, take care of it wanted to travel well to laugh. With Eric sick I couldn't do anything and, if he died it would be free, so what? They did was return home, register everything again and in a drawer, of the kitchen by Incredible that seems, they found the crime weapon A, butcher knife that at the tip, he had a very clear

Eric blood, the, theft was mounted and Audrey was the, guilty when they discharged the, woman is questioned and again denies it. Everything repeats the theme of theft that there are two, guilty who have killed her husband who, they have gone through the window and when. They mention the knife the woman changes the version of the facts and tells the police that Eric took his life and that she has undercover Eric was a hero, of war respected by all and, ending like this was nothing. Heroic was something very, very cowardly sad, for her part, so what she did. It was honoring his memory that was a theft that she killed her by Eric, for love of him, but the police knew that. I was lying again although, unfortunately they had to prove it and, that is why what they

did was call the children of this marriage to the first. What they called was James Eric's son. Hingston James was now the owner of the butcher shop under his house call him ask him what he knows, and the knife in question and in, how much James has it in front. Hale and is that according to him a week. Before the Audrey crime he went down to the butcher shop and asked him to please. You sharpened that knife the knife that the August 29th was going to use to kill his Father and the next to arrive was the son of Audrey Hingston Peter which, I must tell you that it was a Peter policeman. He was convinced that his mother killed. Eric did not kill him unknown him. Life did not take off her mother was the guilty of everything and volunteer. To question her right therein, police station in the room sits with. She asks questions between the ropes and then the woman releases what. Next is okay, I was already. Harda could no longer bear her illness and have to take care of it on. October 2003 Audrey was arrested and, formerly accused of murder and, the entire town did not give credit the police, spent an absolute money throughout the investigation the police search cost, 160,000 pounds, 800 statements, and 480.

Hours of investigations was something impressive and in the end it turned out that Audrey was lying but the worst of. It was not this is that the sentence was, a complete mockery of the murder position. He was changed to involuntary homicide for alleged reasons for responsibility, decreased the judge considered that it was a older person who was tired then. He was sad that his mind failed him for, complete and that Audrey was really not. Dangerous so March 12th, 2004, he was sentenced to two years in prison from, which only turned one year as it is. Logical Eric's family appealed but the, Justice did not want to listen to them and James.

Kingston upon learning of this declared what. Next is sad, we think that sentence should have been longer, because it would give us more time to, overcome it now we just have to continue. With our lives I never want to see it, more I just want to stay away. Of Us Audrey was released, on October 5th, 2004 and had a life, quiet until the day of his death in, 2016, but now is your turn what? You think about the case and you think the sentence. It was fair. Celeste Mano was born on November 2, 1996, as the second of three children to Agad de Maron Tony Mano. Judging by their last names, it's clear the family had Italian roots. At some point, however, the couple moved to Australia, where they built a beautiful family of five. The eldest

This child was Jydin, Celeste was the middle child, and Alessandro was the youngest. While we don't have many details about the family's private life, there's plenty to say about Celeste herself. People who knew her described her as incredibly positive and friendly. One of her standout traits was her ability to make everyone feel included. She couldn't stand to see anyone feeling lonely, isolated, or excluded. Whether it was at school or later in life, she was always the one forming groups, creating teams, and making sure everyone felt like they belonged.

If she saw someone sitting alone or being bullied, she'd make a point of befriending them, chatting with them, and helping them integrate. Her kindness and empathy were admired by everyone around her, and her parents were immensely proud of her. Celeste was also a hard worker. She consistently earned good grades and was always diligent in her studies. As she grew older, her passion for helping others became clear. She pursued degrees in both criminology and psychology,

wanting to understand the human mind and help people overcome their traumas. She was determined to make a difference in the world. In 2018, at just 22 years old, Celeste became a team leader at a call center for a company called Circle, headquartered in Melbourne, Australia. Her team adored her. They praised her for always being willing to listen and for supporting them through challenges. Under her leadership, the team thrived, surpassing goals and enabling the company to expand and hire more staff.

That same year, Circle hired a a 34-year-old man named Louis Seiko. Louie was born in Iraq in 1984, the eldest of five siblings. In 1992, his family was granted a humanitarian visa and moved to Australia, settling in Roxburgh Park, a northern suburb of Melbourne. Louis grew up, studied, graduated, and held various jobs before joining Circle as a telesales representative in 2018. At first glance, everything seemed fine.

But unfortunately, Louis didn't fit in its circle. His personality didn't click with his co-workers. He was introverted and barely engaged in conversation. When others tried to talk to him, he made it difficult, which created a sense of discomfort among the team. On top of that, his job performance was below expectations. He failed to meet targets, and by June 2019, the company decided to let him go. Typically, when someone leaves a workplace, their colleagues offer farewells, words of encouragement,

even a hug. But when Louis was let go, no one approached him. He packed up his desk in silence, completely alone. Celeste, witnessing this, felt terrible for him. They weren't friends by any means, but seeing him so isolated tugged at her heartstrings. She decided to approach him, offering some kind words and helping him gather his things. She even walked him to his car, doing what she thought was the right thing. However, what Celeste saw as a simple act of kindness, Luoyi interpreted very differently.

Before leaving, Luoy kissed her on the cheek. While such a gesture could have been seen as innocent, the way he acted and looked at her made Celeste feel uneasy. It felt off, and she immediately set boundaries, telling him to relax and reminding him that they weren't that close. Instead of apologizing, Luoye left without another word, leaving Celeste feeling deeply uncomfortable. That night, she recounted the incident to her family, who shared her.

feelings. They all agreed it was disrespectful and invasive. Thankfully, though, Louie was no longer employed at Circle, and Celeste believed she'd never have to see him again. Or so she thought. We live in an age of remarkable technological advancements. With just a few clicks, we can find almost any information online, whether forecasts, top picnic spots, or details about someone we barely know. A few days after Louis was fired, Celeste noticed a friend request from him on Facebook. Naturally, she didn't accept it. But a week later, she received a message from him,

I'm sorry, but I can't stop thinking about you. I've never felt this way about anyone in my entire life. I'm on the brink of losing control. I'm utterly in love with you, captivated and fascinated by you. You're all I think about. Ever since I left, my productivity at work and in my personal life has been affected. This obsession is unhealthy and destructive, interfering with my daily routine. To put an end to my suffering, could you be honest with me and tell me how you feel about me?

Honesty is one of the traits I value most in people. Celeste was stunned. In the entire year Louis had worked at Circle, she barely interacted with him. He never spoke to her or anyone else, despite her efforts to engage him. She couldn't understand where all of this was coming from. Politely but firmly, she responded, rejecting his advantage. Hi, Louie, these are really sweet words, and I appreciate you telling me this. I'm honestly surprised to hear all of this because it's new to me. While I appreciate your feelings, I only see you in a professional capacity.

I wish you all the best in your new job and career. A reasonable response like this would usually be the end of it. At most, you'd expect a simple, thanks, in return. But Louis's reply was far from normal, I appreciate your honesty. If it were ever possible, I would give my life and the world just to be with you. I hope one day to find another Celeste for whom I can do exactly that, and that she will be my shining sun. His words were unsettling, but Celeste chose to ignore them. She didn't accept his friend request, and his message stayed in her inbox. She continued living her life,

going out with friends, seeing movies, and working. One day, she happened to check her Facebook inbox again and was shocked to find a series of unread messages from Louis. He had been messaging her every single day, and each message was worse than the last. I'm so in love with you that it's becoming unhealthy. Maybe some NLP therapy would help me. Sorry for being so intense. Celeste, I'm just one more rival fighting for your affection. Celeste was at a loss. She didn't understand what Louis was trying to achieve, and the situation made her increasingly uncomfortable. She decided to respond again, making her boundaries crystal clear. Hi, Louis, I found your messages by chance since I don't check this inbox often, and I was frankly surprised by what I read.

I'd really appreciate it if you stopped contacting me because this makes me very uncomfortable. Please respect my wishes and stop reaching out, but Louis wasn't ready to listen. Minutes later, he replied, my impression of you has changed. You're no different from most women. I'll remember you as this lesson for the rest of my life and dedicate every ounce of energy to proving to the world that I am someone. That's my promise to you and my final contact with you. As expected, Celeste blocked him.

But Louis wasn't deterred. He created fake profiles on Twitter and Instagram, sending her follow requests and messages. Every time she blocked one account, he'd make another. The harassment was relentless. By December 2019, Louis' messages took a darker turn. While the family hasn't shared all of them publicly, the ones they have revealed are deeply disturbing. They were graphic and suggested that he intended to possess Celeste, whether she wanted it or not. Feeling increasingly unsafe, Celeste began taking precautions.

She never went to work alone, always ensuring she had her mother, friends, or one of her brothers with her. She also informed her boss about the situation. After work, her boss would accompany her to her car. One day, during this routine, they spotted Luoy sitting in his car, watching her. They immediately contacted the police. When a patrol car arrived, Louis fled. While that encounter seemed to deter him temporarily, it didn't stop him completely. He continued sending messages and stalking her online.

Early in 2020, Celeste's mother decided to take matters into her own hands. She grabbed her daughter's laptop, opened Louie's messages, and responded, This is Celeste's mother. I'm here with her right now. In February, she asked you to stop contacting her. Since then, you've created account after account. to message her, and she's been deleting and blocking them all. Do not create another account to reach out to her again. We've contacted the police. Louis's response was chilling.

Celeste, there's no reason for you to feel intimidated by me. Could you just say something? You need to think about your responses, Celeste. Think carefully. Distressed, Celeste responded one final time, I want you to stop writing to me. I involve my mother because she can see how upset I am, and you're ignoring my requests. Once again, I'm asking you to stop contacting me. I'm about to block this account. The tragic story of Celeste Mano, a system that failed her. When someone stalks you, it's not just creepy, it's terrifying. But what happens when those who are supposed to protect you don't take you seriously? That's exactly what happened to Celeste Mano, a vibrant, beautiful young woman from Melbourne, Australia, whose life was

tragically cut short because of the system's repeated failures to act. It all started with Louis Saco, a man who couldn't take no for an answer. Their story wasn't one of love or even friendship, it was just a workplace connection. Celeste had worked with Louis briefly at a call center, and after he was fired, she reached out to check on him, a simple, kind gesture. She probably thought nothing of it, but for Louis, it was the start of an obsession. At first, it seemed innocent. He messaged her occasionally, thank you.

her for her kindness. But soon, those messages turned into essays, paragraphs and paragraphs of emotional outpourings, confessions of love, and, eventually, relentless harassment. Celeste tried to brush it off at first. Maybe he'd stop. Maybe it was just a phase. But the messages kept coming. They became darker, more insistent.

Her mother, Agie, was not one to sit idly by. She could see the danger that Celeste was in. This man was relentless, and it was clear he wasn't going to stop on his own. So, Agie and Celeste decided to go to the police. Surely, they thought, the authorities would help. But when they walked into the station, the response they got was chilling. The officer who attended to them barely looked at the evidence. He skimmed through the messages, shrugged, and dismissed their concerns.

If you're so scared, he said, just block him. Stop reading his messages. And maybe, just maybe, Celeste should get off social media altogether. Problem solved. That was the police's solution, make the victim disappear. It was infuriating. Celeste and her mother left the station feeling defeated. But the harassment didn't stop.

In fact, it escalated. By July, Louis' messages were becoming increasingly erratic. Agi, determined to protect her daughter, printed every single message and returned to the police, armed with a folder of evidence. This time, they couldn't ignore her. The officers finally acknowledged that what Celeste was experiencing was, in fact, stalking and harassment. They issued a restraining order against Louis, with a hearing set for early 2021. You'd think that would have been enough to scare him off, right?

Wrong. Louis was notified about the restraining order on July 8th, and instead of backing off, he marched straight to the police station to defend himself. His excuse. It's her fault. According to him, he wasn't a threat, and he wasn't doing anything wrong. He claimed his messages were therapeutic, that they were never sexual or threatening, and that if Celeste didn't like them, she simply shouldn't read them.

He even accused her of doctoring the evidence, saying the messages were photoshopped. It was maddening. Louis painted himself as the victim, claiming he was spiraling into depression because of the way Celeste and the police were treating him. After his little performance, he walked out of the station and, get this, immediately start. started messaging her again. He made fake accounts, kept pushing boundaries, and even broke the restraining order in August. But then, suddenly, silence. No more messages. No more fake accounts. Celeste and her family thought he'd finally moved on. Maybe he'd found another focus for his obsession, or maybe he'd realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with her. Whatever the reason,

Celeste began to relax. She checked her social media frequently, expecting him to pop up again, but was nothing. She started to breathe easier. It was during this quiet period that she met Chris Rensdale, a co-worker who would become her boyfriend. Their connection was instant and electric. They couldn't get enough of each other, spending hours talking, learning about one another, and falling deeply in love.

Celeste was happier than she'd been in months. But the shadow of Louie still loomed over her. Celeste was hesitant to go public with her relationship. What if Louie saw the posts? Would he lash out? Would he target Chris? Chris, ever the optimist, assured her it would be okay. In fact, he believed showing Louis that Celeste was surrounded by people who cared about

her might finally make him back off. So, on November 15th, the couple posted their first photo together online. Celeste monitored her accounts obsessively after the post. She checked Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, everywhere she thought Louie might try to reach her. But again, there was nothing. Relieved, she spent the internet. the evening with Chris before heading home. She checked her accounts one last time before bed, still nothing.

Feeling safer than she had in months, she climbed into bed, completely unaware that this would be the last night of her life. At 3.55am, Agie was jolted awake by the sound of shattering glass. The noise came from Celeste's bedroom. Agie ran to her daughter's room, her heart pounding, and what she found was every parent's worst nightmare. was lying lifeless on her bed, covered in blood, with a knife at her side. The window was shattered, and shards of glass littered the floor.

Outside, the sound of a car engine faded into the distance. Agi called emergency services, but it was too late. Celeste had been stabbed twenty-three times, the first wound piercing her heart and ending her life almost instantly. The killer. Louie Seco, of course. Everyone knew it. And Louie, ever the narcissist, drove straight to the police.

stationed to turn himself in. Covered in blood, he calmly told the officers, you know what happened. It's your fault. She's dead. In the days following the murder, the horrifying details of Louis' plan came to light. He had been stalking Celeste for months, silently gathering information. He studied her photos, her social media posts, and even the reflections in her sunglasses to figure out her exact locations. He tracked her movements, learning her routines, her favorite spots, and the people she spent time with. He even found the blueprints to her home online. When Celeste posted her photo with Chris, it sent Louie into a rage.

He researched Chris obsessively, scouring LinkedIn and social media to learn everything about him. Then, on the night of November 15th, he put his plan into action. Driving twenty minutes to Celeste's house, he parked nearby, scaled the fence, and broke into her bedroom through the window. During two minutes, he had ended her life. During his trial, Louie tried to play the insanity card. He claimed he had hallucinations and heard voices telling him to kill her. But forensic psychiatrists saw through his act.

They determined he wasn't psychotic, he was a manipulative, self-centered man with severe depression and a personality disorder. He lacked empathy and couldn't see things from anyone else's perspective. He was dangerous, and he knew exactly what he was doing. In January 2024, Louis was sentenced to 36 years in prison, with the possibility of parole after 30. For Celeste's family, it wasn't enough. They believed he should never be released, and many agreed with them.

Even one of the psychiatrists, Dr. Ranj Darje warned that Louis was unlikely to ever change. He described Louis as a ticking time bomb, someone who would almost certainly re-offend if given the chance. This case is a chilling reminder of the dangers of stalking and the systemic failures that allow it to escalate. Celeste did everything she could to protect herself, she went to the police, followed their advice, and tried to move on with her life. But in the end, the system failed her. It failed to take her fears seriously, and it failed to stop a man who was clearly a danger to her. So, what do you think? Was justice truly served? Or is 36 years far too lenient for

someone who so meticulously planned and carried out such a heinous crime? Celeste's story is heartbreaking, but it also serves as a call to action. We need better protections for victims of stalking, and we need to start taking their concern seriously, before it's too late. There was once a boy, small and wiry, who discovered the boundless world of gaming in his early years. Growing up in a quaint town tucked away in a corner of Malaysia, life felt as predictable as the afternoon rain. But for this boy, whose friends simply called him Danny, there was always something magical about his childhood days. Not the kind of magic found in fairy tales but a quieter kind,

a magic born of discovering new worlds through a computer screen. It began innocuously enough. An old, second-hand desktop computer arrived at their home one summer, a gift from an uncle who didn't have much use for it anymore. It hummed like a tired old dog and took forever to start up, but Danny didn't care. He'd sit for hours, eyes glued to the screen, tinkering with basic games and learning to navigate this strange digital universe.

His favorite? A game called Warcraft 3, a sprawling strategy game with orcs, elves, and every mythical creature in between. One fateful day, a friend mentioned something about a module for Warcraft 3. It's not like the base game, he said. It's called Dota. Defense of the Ancients, Danny was intrigued. A quick internet search and a slow download later, he was staring at a game map that would change his life. Dota wasn't like anything he'd ever played. It was strategic, fast-paced, and brutally unforgiving. He played, he failed, and then he played some more. Hours turned into days, days into weeks.

His mind buzzed with strategies and hero combos. He was hooked. Soon enough, the game became more than just a pastime, it was a ritual. After school, Danny and his friends would cram into a small internet cafe that smelled of instant noodles and stale sweat. The cafe owner knew them by name, grumbling every time they overstayed their paid out. Danny's parents disapproved, of course. His mom often complained about how he'd rather spend time with those heroes than study for his exams.

But Danny saw something in Dota that no one else seemed to understand, a sense of belonging, a spark of possibility. The game wasn't just about winning or losing, it was about the camaraderie. Every match was a story, a blend of brilliant teamwork and chaotic decision-making. Danny was no prodigy, at least not at first. He had his fair share of blunders, missing a last hit, feeding the enemy team, forgetting to buy wards. But those moments of failure pushed him harder. Each mistake was a lesson, each victory at testament to persistence.

As the years passed, Dota grew beyond the confines of internet cafes. Online forums buzzed with tips and tricks. YouTube channels showcased jaw-dropping plays. Then came tournaments, real, professional tournaments. Danny was mesmerized. He'd sit in his dimly lit room watching streams of international matches, marvelling at how fluidly the pros moved. Players like Dendie and Puppie became his idols.

They weren't just gamers, they were artists painting with pixels. One day, I'll be like them, Danny thought. It wasn't a wish but a quiet resolve. High school came and went, and so did the expectations to follow the well-trodden path, university, a stable job, maybe a family Sunday. Danny's peers were content with that, but he had other plans. plans. While his classmates prepped for exams, he signed up for local Dota tournaments. His parents were skeptical. You can't make a living playing games, his dad said, shaking his head. But Danny

didn't see it that way. The first few tournaments were humbling. His team, hastily assembled and poorly coordinated, rarely made it past the early rounds. They faced season players who crushed them without breaking a sweat. Yet, Danny thrived on the challenge. He dissected each loss like a scientist studying a rare specimen, figuring out what went wrong and why. Over time, his team began to improve. Their synergy sharpened, their strategies evolved, and Danny's skills as a mid-lainer grew sharper. The once-meek boy from Malaysia was becoming a force to be reckoned with. They started winning local tournaments, then regional ones.

It wasn't long before Danny's name began circulating in online forums. People started to notice the kid with uncanny game sense and an almost psychic ability to predict enemy movements. But the leap from regional fame to the international stage was daunting. Dota 2, the sequel to Danny's beloved game, had taken the world by storm. The annual international tournament, known simply as TI, offered prize pools that made even seasoned professionals raised their eyebrows. Winning TI wasn't just about skill, it was about legacy. Danny and his team poured everything into qualifying. Hours turned into sleepless nights. They argued, strategized, and practiced until their eyes burned from staring at screens.

When the qualifiers finally arrived, the tension was palpable. Every game felt like a titrope walk, with victory and defeat balanced on a razor's edge. But against all odds, they made it. The International Just hearing the words gave Danny goosebumps. They arrived in Seattle, the host city, and it felt surreal. Bright lights, massive screens, thousands of fans chanting in unison, it was everything he'd dreamed of and more.

But with the grandeur came pressure. Teams from around the world, each with their own play styles and strengths, were gunning for the same prize. Danny's team didn't storm through the tournament, but they held their own. Match after match, they clawed their way through the brackets. The crowd loved them, cheering for the underdogs who refused to back down. Danny, now affectionately nicknamed Wisp for his ethereal plays, became a crowd favorite. Then came the semifinals, the match, that would cement Danny's place in Dota history.

It was against a powerhouse team, the kind that made season players sweat. The first game went disastrously. Miscommunications, poor decisions, and nerves got the better of them. By the time the second game started, morale was low. But Danny wasn't ready to give up. We've practiced for this, he told his teammates, his voice steadied despite the chaos around them. Trust each other.

Play like we've always played, and play they did. The second game was a masterpiece, a symphony of perfect coordination in daring moves. Danny's invoker plays were dazzling, leaving the commentators at a loss for words. They tied the series and forced a decisive third game. The final game was a roller coaster. Both teams pushed themselves to the limit, trading blows in an epic showdown. It lasted over an hour, with every second feeling like an eternity. And then, in a moment of brilliance, Danny made the play of a lifetime.

He baited the enemy team into a trap, creating the opening his team needed to secure victory. The crowd erupted. Danny and his team leaped from their seats, hugging and shouting. They'd done it. They'd made it to the finals. Though they didn't win the championship, their journey was the talk of the tournament. Danny returned home to a hero's welcome. His parents, once skeptical, couldn't hide their pride.

You proved us wrong, his dad said, tears brimming in his eyes. Danny's journey didn't end there. He continued to play, to inspire, and to chase that elusive T.I. title. But for him, it was never just about the trophies or the fame. It was about the game, the friendships, the stories, and the endless possibilities it offered. And as long as there was a battlefield to conquer, Danny knew he'd always find his place there, defending the ancients. At first glance, nothing seemed unusual. In that photo, however, upon closer inspection, it was.

noticed that on one side there was a sinister ethereal figure that appeared, to have no head. James Kate claimed that, this figure was not there when he, captured the moment, it simply appeared, once he developed the film. This mystery, pushed Laura to immortalize the image, as only she knew how. She felt, overcome by an irresistible desire, to paint the scene and created an oil painting, 16 by 20 inches. But that, emotion faded as she progressed, with the work, and Laura, reported that almost immediately after, starting the painting, she was invaded by, a palpable sensation of fear and, discomfort, to the point where she considered, abandoning the idea. But, something forced her to keep painting, it was, as if her right hand worked,

automatically, like invisible threads, guided the brush, and she, only had to hold handle. And then, as if by magic, she finished it and titled it, the headless man's painting. Everyone liked the painting, but only one person, could keep it, and the lucky one, was a local businessman who bought it, to hang it in the offices where he worked. When he brought it there, all his co-workers were, impressed with the brushwork, the colors, and, the subject of the painting. But that admiration would soon fade. The office workers claimed that. As soon as the painting arrived, important papers and documents began to disappear, objects, moved when the lights were, off, and the painting changed, position without anyone touching it. Every morning the painting would be crooked, they would straighten it, leave, and when they returned, the painting was crooked again.

After, just three days, the office workers were fed up and asked the businessman to return the painting to its artist, and so he did. When Laura moved with her, husband to a new home, the painting went with them, not knowing that it, was not traveling alone. At nightfall, the entire house, filled with strange sounds, bangs, footsteps, and whispers, and all of them always, happened near the painting. At first, they blamed it, on the fact that the house was old, and made entirely of wood, so the sounds must have been, normal and something they just, had to get used to. But over time, the situation only worsened. As soon as the sunset, the whole house came to life. Decorative objects, furniture, and curtains, moved entirely on their own. Doors opened and closed, without any draft, and, moisture stains began to appear on the ceilings,

moisture that no plumber, could explain. As the days, weeks, and months passed, the phenomenon grew stronger, until one day, it became unstoppable. Laura remembers sitting in front of the TV with a glass of wine in her, left hand and the remote in, her right, looking for a show to keep her entertained for ten minutes. However, just when she put her lips to the rim of the glass, it, shattered into a thousand pieces. It was impossible that she had broken it, as she was holding it carefully. Still, she didn't dwell on it and ran to the kitchen, for the broom and dustpan. But upon returning, Laura noticed that the largest and most jagged piece of glass that had fallen on the floor had disappeared, as if someone had taken advantage, of her absence to hide it.

Laura became so desperate that she invited a friend to her home and told her everything that had been happening. But she chose the wrong confidant, for this friend was very skeptical, and after touching the supposed cursed painting, she mocked it out loud, and challenged it to act, with a all its strength, demanding, proof of its power. But, after a long silence, nothing happened. So the woman, assuming, it was all in Laura's mind, got ready to leave. That's when a large clock, that had hung on the wall, long before Laura and her husband moved in, fell to the floor and shattered. Coincidence. Or maybe the painting wanted to respond. In 1995, Laura befriended a,

huge fan of the paranormal. She was convinced that because of his passion for mystery, the man wouldn't mock her when she told him about her ghostly problem. Indeed, the man was thrilled to go to her house and investigate the cursed painting. As soon as he entered the house, he grabbed his camera and started photographing everything. He saw, in case he captured something anomalous. He photographed the stairs, the living room, absolutely everything was. was, recorded on his camera. However, at one point, the man stopped, dead in his tracks and stared, fixedly at one point. Then, with a blank stare, he muttered the following words, Laura, listen to me. You must burn, that painting, Laura then replied, what's wrong?

It looks like you've seen a ghost, and in fact, he had. While photographing the painting, her friend saw the silhouette of a headless man slowly, approaching him. Bruno Amadio was a Venetian painter, about whom little is known. The only thing we know for sure is that, his collection titled The Crying Boys, it said that his paintings are, a gateway for pacts with the devil, and that terrible misfortunes fall, upon those who dare to hang, one of these oils on the walls of their home. Amadio was born at the start, of the last century.

He was an active militant, of the Republican fascist party, a follower of Mussolini, and he also, participated in World War II. That experience changed his life. That's why he began the Crying Boys series. Through these works, the artist wanted to show the horror of war through the tears of, children orphaned by it. It said that after the war, Amadio moved to Spain, and from that moment, he vanished for a long time, until one day he resurfaced. out of nowhere, like a phoenix, and his art became immensely popular. Thus began the rumors, rumors that Amadio had made, a pact with the devil, to gain the fame and recognition, he believed he truly deserved.

There are several versions of this legend. In one, it said that the first, painting Amadio made of a crying child, remained in the orphanage, where the child was from. Unfortunately, a few days later, the orphanage burned to the ground. and everyone perished in the flames, including the child in the painting. But mysteriously, the artwork, was the only thing that didn't burn. Another version delves into the story, of the original crying boy, who was a child Amadio met, in Madrid in 1969.

His name was Don Bonillo, and he had, run away from the orphanage, after learning that his parents had died, because of the war. The child so captivated the artist, that he decided to adopt him. However, a Catholic priest warned him that the boy was dangerous, that everyone knew him by, the nickname, The Curse, because wherever he went, a mysterious fire would occur. But the painter did not listen, and his studio inexplicably burned down. After the fire, the boy disappeared, spreading the curse to his adoptive father, and to everyone who ever, owned one of his portraits.

By the late 70s, the legend, spread like wildfire. and testimonies of bad luck, from those who owned a crying-boy painting, multiplied rapidly. The testimony of Rose Farrington, a resident of Preston, is one, of the most shocking. It reads, since I bought one of the paintings in 1959, my three sons and my husband have died. Now I often wonder if it's cursed, the first well-documented account, by a media outlet dates back to, September 4, 1985, when the British newspaper The Sun published the story of a British couple who believed one of these paintings was responsible for the fire that destroyed their house in Yorkshire. The stairs and kitchen were destroyed, but the painting had not suffered, the slightest damage.

After the Sun's initial publications, the UK was swept into, a frenzy of stories from people who claimed to have lost their homes, to fire, and even lives were lost. The madness surrounding the curse was followed by testimonies of, people who had tried to burn the paintings, and claimed they would not burn. Others even claimed the paintings, brought good luck if treated well. One man said that after rescuing, one of the paintings from a roadside, he won money at bingo, on a football bet, and on a slot machine. But now it's your turn, do you believe in curses, or do you think all this, is nothing but superstition? The end. The enigmatic origin of humankind, a journey beyond the known. Throughout the vast stretches of human history, countless stories have been told about who we are, where we come from, and what our purpose might be. From ancient myths to cutting-edge scientific theories, humanity has always sought to uncover the truth about its origin. This quest for understanding, both deeply personal and universally shared, has led us to explore everything from spiritual

doctrines to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. Yet, despite all we've learned, a sense of mystery still lingers, urging us to look deeper and ask even bolder questions. A glimpse into the past, the dawn of humanity. To understand our origins, we must first travel back in time, far beyond the written records of civilizations, back to an age when Homo sapiens were just one of many hominin species roaming the earth. Fossils and artifacts, unearthed from the depths of ancient soil, have provided scientists with invaluable clues about how our ancestors lived, evolved, and spread across the planet. The story begins in Africa, often referred to as the cradle of humanity. It was here, around 300,000 years ago, that the first anatomically

modern humans emerged. But what set Homo sapiens apart? Our species was not the strongest nor the fastest, but we possessed something extraordinary, the capacity for abstract thought, language, and collaboration. These abilities allowed us to create tools, share knowledge, and adapt to changing environments in ways no other species could. Over time, small bands of humans migrated out of Africa, eventually colonizing every corner of the globe. This remarkable journey was fueled not only by necessity but by an insatiable curiosity, an urge to explore and understand the unknown. Science meets myth, bridging ancient beliefs and modern discoveries. While science offers a wealth of evidence about our physical evolution, the spiritual and mythological

perspectives on human origins add layers of meaning that resonate on a deeply emotional level. Ancient cultures often explain the creation of humanity through elaborate tales involving gods, cosmic events, or sacred forces. In Greek mythology, for instance, humans were shaped from clay by the hands of Prometheus, while in many indigenous traditions, the earth itself is seen as a living entity that gave birth to all life. Modern science, with its reliance on empirical data, might seem worlds apart from these ancient stories. Yet, in many ways, the two approaches complement each other. Both seek to answer. fundamental questions about existence and our place in the universe. The discovery of DNA, for example, has unveiled a code of life that feels almost poetic in its complexity and precision. Similarly, the Big Bang Theory, describing the universe's origin, echoes creation myths that speak a beginnings

born from chaos or nothingness. The role of consciousness, the ultimate mystery, one of the most profound aspects of human existence is our ability to contemplate our own being. Consciousness, the very essence of what makes us us, remains an enigma that science has yet to fully unravel. Philosophers, neuroscientists, and spiritual leaders have all grappled with the question, what is consciousness, and where does it come from? Some theories suggest that consciousness is merely a byproduct of complex brain activity, while others argue it is a fundamental aspect of the universe, akin to space and time. Eastern philosophies, such as those found in Hinduism and Buddhism,

proposed that consciousness is eternal and interconnected, transcending individual minds. This idea resonates with the scientific concept of quantum entanglement, which suggests that particles can be interconnected across vast distances in ways that defy conventional understanding. Looking ahead, the future of human understanding, as we stand on the cusp of new discoveries in fields like genetics, artificial intelligence, and cosmology, our understanding of human origins continues to evolve. technologies like CRISPR are allowing us to edit genes, potentially reshaping the course of

evolution itself. Meanwhile, the search for extraterrestrial life challenges us to consider whether humanity is truly unique in the universe. But perhaps the greatest frontier lies within us. By exploring the depths of our own consciousness, we may uncover truths that bridge the gap between science and spirituality, between the known and the unknowable. In doing so, we honor the timeless quest that has defined humanity from the very beginning, the desire to understand who we are and why we exist.

It all started like any other day. It was a Wednesday morning, January 30th, 2002, to be precise. Katrina Rolife was following her usual routine, something she'd done for as long as she could remember. At 8 a.m. Sharp, she'd pick up the phone and call her mom. This wasn't just any call, it was their ritual. Her mom, Catherine, would be at home in Opelika, Alabama, while Katrina sat at her own kitchen table. Both would fix the same breakfast, coffee, juice, and toast, and chat about everything and nothing. Katrina would share her plans for the day, who she might meet up with, whether she was working

or off, while her mom chimed in with her own updates. It was the same routine, day in and day out. Comforting. Predictable. Except for this day, because this day, her mom didn't pick up. At first, Katrina thought it was a one-off. Maybe her mom was busy or had stepped up. out for a moment.

She called again. Nothing. Another call. Still nothing. Frustrated and a bit uneasy, she left a voicemail and went about her day, hoping she'd hear back soon. Hours passed. No call.

No word. That gnawing feeling in Katrina's stomach grew until it was unbearable. By afternoon, she decided she'd had enough. Grabbing her keys, she drove straight to her parents' house, her mind racing with worry the entire way. When she got there, she rang the bell, knocked, even peered through the windows. Silence. Something wasn't right. She circled around to the back, where she knew the kitchen door was usually unlocked. As she pushed it open, her heart stopped. There, right in the middle of the kitchen floor, in a pool of blood, was her father's lifeless body.

Panicking, Katrina screamed for her mom, running from room to room, hoping against hope that Catherine was alive. But when she reached the master bedroom, her worst fears came true. Her mom was there, lying motionless on the bed, surrounded by blood. She didn't respond. No pulse. Nothing. Shaking with fear, Katrina grabbed the phone in the bedroom, desperate to call for help.

But when she stretched the cord, it didn't budge, it had been cut. Completely hysterical, she bolted out of the house and ran to a neighbors to call 911. When the police arrived, they quickly realized this wasn't some random crime. It was brutal, personal, and left behind a scene that told its own story. The house was ransacked, drawers overturned, clothes and belongings scattered everywhere. Yet, oddly enough, the culprits had missed the jackpot. Hidden in the toilet cistern was $87,000 in cash, a stash the elderly couple had carefully concealed.

Clearly, these weren't professionals. They didn't even know where to look. Inside, muddy footprints revealed there were at least two attackers, and tire tracks confirmed they had a getaway car. Inside, the investigators pieced together a grim picture, both Catherine and her husband, Truman, had been shot three times. The final shot in each case was an execution-style bullet to the head, cold, deliberate, merciless. To make matters worse, there were two different kinds of bullets, meaning there were likely two

shooters. Whoever did this wasn't just out to rob, they were out for blood. The level of rage suggested the killers knew their victims. Maybe it was someone with a grudge. The detectives combed through Catherine and Truman's history, looking for anyone who might have had it out for them. And one name did come up, Katrina's ex-husband, Norman Herbert. Now, Norman wasn't just your average ex-12 years earlier, Katrina had divorced him, but

the drama didn't end there. Norman went full villain, stalking her, kidnapping her at one point, and even threatening her parents. It was a nightmare. Catherine and Truman had fought tooth and nail to get Norman locked up. And it worked. Norman was behind bars. So, while he had motive, he didn't have opportunity.

He was still in prison when the murders happened. With no other obvious enemies, the case went cold. Weeks passed, and life in Opelika moved on, until February 18th, when another horrific crime rocked Alabama, this time near Phoenix City. February 18, 2002, began as uneventful as the day Catrude. had discovered her parents' bodies. But by that evening, the quiet was shattered. The call came in at around 7.30 p.m., a house fire, raging uncontrollably.

When firefighters arrived at the scene, the small home near Phoenix City was engulfed in flames. The smoke was thick, and the heat was so intense that neighbors had to be evacuated. Once the fire was finally under control, investigators made a grim discovery inside. The charred remains of a man lay in the smouldering ruins. At first glance, it seemed like he died in the fire. But as the investigators examined the body, they found something horrifying. The man had been shot multiple times before the fire even started. This wasn't an accident.

It was murder, and the fire was just a cover-up. The victim was identified as Philip Spurlock. He was a fifty-year-old man with no known enemies. He lived alone, kept to himself, and had no significant criminal history. But there was something unusual about Philip, he was friends with a young man named Derek Joyner. Derek, 24, was no stranger to the police. He had a record that included petty theft, burglary, and drug possession. While Derek's connection to Philip wasn't initially clear, investigators learned that Derek

had been staying with Philip off and on for a few months. The two had a strange, transactional relationship. seemed to act as a sort of mentor or benefactor to Derek, but whether this was out of kindness or for some darker reason remained unclear. As the investigation into Phillips' murder unfolded, Derek quickly became the prime suspect. Witnesses claimed to have seen him around Phillips' house just hours before the fire started. Even more damning, a neighbor reported hearing loud arguing and gunshots before noticing smoke billowing out of the house. The timeline was clear, Derek was involved. But Derek wasn't working alone. A deeper look at

into his circle revealed that he had an accomplice, a 17-year-old named Terrell Brown. Terrell was Derek's shadow, following him everywhere and taking part in his schemes. Together, they had been involved in a string of burglaries, breaking into homes and businesses to steal cash, electronics, and whatever else they could sell quickly. When the police brought Derek in for questioning, he folded almost immediately. He confessed to Philip's murder and admitted to setting the fire to destroy evidence. But as the interrogation continued, Derek revealed something even more shocking, Philip's murder wasn't random.

It was connected to another crime, the double murder of Catherine and Truman Life. Derek admitted that he and Terrell had been hired to kill Catherine and Truman. Someone had paid them to execute the elderly couple and make it look like a robbery. When pressed for details, Derek named the mastermind, Katrina R-Life. The revelation was explosive. Could it really be true? Katrina, the grieving daughter who had discovered her parents' bodies, was now accused of orchestrating their murders.

Investigators were skeptical at first. Derek wasn't exactly a trustworthy source, and his story seemed too wild to be true. But as they dug deeper, the pieces started to fall into place. A twisted plot, Katrina's life wasn't as picture-perfect as it seemed. She was deeply in debt, owing thousands of dollars to creditors. On top of that, she had a strained relationship with her parents. Catherine and Truman had been supportive during her divorce from Norman Herbert, but over time, tensions grew.

They disapproved of Katrina's spending habits and her inability to hold down a steady job. According to friends and family, Catherine had even considered cutting Katrina out of her will. The financial motive was clear. If her parents were out of the picture, Katrina would inherit their estate, which included a substantial amount of cash and property. But how could she go through with such a heinous act? That's where Derek and Terrell came in. According to Derek, Katrina had approached him in Terrell months before the murders.

She knew about their criminal activities and offered them a deal they couldn't refuse. For $20,000, they would break into her parents' home, kill them, and make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Derek claimed that Katrina had even provided a key to the house and detailed instructions on where to find valuables to make the seem more convincing. mounts, Derek's confession wasn't enough to convict Katrina, but it gave investigators a roadmap. They began to piece together the evidence, starting with phone records. Sure enough, Katrina had been in frequent contact with Derek in the weeks leading up to the murders.

Surveillance footage from a nearby gas station also placed Derek and Terrell in Opelica on the night of the crime. The final nail in the coffin came from forensic evidence. Muddy footprints found that the crime scene matched the shoes Derek had been wearing when he was arrested. Additionally, the bullets used in the murders were traced back to a gun that Derek had stolen in a previous burglary. It was clear that Derek and Terrell were guilty. The question was whether Katrina had truly been the mastermind. Katrina's arrest and trial. On April 12, 2002, Katrina was arrested and charged with two counts of capital murder.

The case shocked the community. How could a daughter kill her own parents for money? At her trial, the prosecution painted Katrina as a cold, calculating killer who had used Derek and Terrell as pawns in her twisted plan. They presented the foam records, Derek's testimony, and the financial motive as evidence. Katrina maintained her innocence, claiming she had nothing to do with the murders. Her defense team argued that Derek was lying to save himself and that there was no direct evidence linking her to the crime.

But the jury wasn't convinced. On September 23, 2003, Katrina was found guilty in sentence to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The aftermath, Katrina relied on. conviction sent shockwaves through her community. Friends, neighbors, and even distant relatives struggled to reconcile the image of the kind, grieving daughter with the cold-blooded killer described in court. Many had been convinced of her innocence, believing that Derek Joyner and Terrell Brown were simply pinning the blame on her to reduce their sentences.

But the jury's decision was clear, Katrina was guilty of orchestrating the murders of her parents. As for Derek and Terrell, they both accepted plea deals in exchange for their testimony against Katrina. Derek received a 40-year sentence for his role in the murders and for the arson that killed Philip Spurlock. Terrell, being a minor at the time of the crimes, was sentenced to 25 years in prison with the possibility of parole after 15. Both men were transferred to separate facilities to serve their time.

Katrina's life in prison. In prison, Katrina maintained her innocence. She became an active participant in various prison programs, volunteering to tutor inmates working toward their GEDs and joining support groups for women serving life sentences. Some of her fellow inmates viewed her as a tragic figure, someone who had been unfairly targeted by manipulative criminals. Others saw her as a master manipulator, capable of charm and deceit in equal measure. Katrina also began filing appeals almost immediately after her conviction, claiming that her trial had been marred by procedural errors and that the evidence against

her was circumstantial at best. Over the years, her legal team attempted to introduce new evidence, including affidavits from witnesses who claimed to have overheard Derek and Terrell discussing plans to frame her. However, none of these efforts were successful, and Katrina remained behind bars. The families left behind, the Relife family never fully recovered from the tragedy. Catherine and Truman's remaining relatives were torn between disbelief and heartbreak, unsure of what to believe about Katrina's involvement. Some stood by her, visiting her regularly in prison and advocating for her release.

Others severed all ties, convinced of her guilt and determined to move on with their lives. Philip Spurlock's family, meanwhile, struggled with the senselessness of his death. To them, he was an innocent bystander caught in a web of deceit and greed. They pushed for stricter sentencing laws for arson-related homicides, and their advocacy eventually led to changes in state legislation that increased penalties for such crimes. The legacy of the case, the murders of Catherine and Truman Life, and the subsequent trial of their daughter Katrina, became the subject of numerous true crime documentaries and podcasts over the years. Some portrayed Katrina as a diabolical mastermind, while others raised questions about the fairness

of her trial and the reliability of Derek's testimony. The case even inspired a best-selling true crime book, Inheritance of Evil, which delved into the psychological and familial dynamics that led to the tragedy. Despite the continued public fascination with the case, one thing remained certain, the lives of everyone involved had been forever changed. What began as a seeming straightforward robbery homicide had unraveled into a tale of betrayal, greed, and the darkest corners of the human heart. It said that a cult gathers there and performs rituals, and no one dares to speak of it being real. Something infernal is happening, while the rest of the students are out partying. This eerie situation centers around the University of Ohio, the ninth-oldest

university in the United States, located in Athens, Ohio. From its very beginning, the institution has been surrounded by a veil of dark rumors and strange happenings, all tied to its past. In 1787, the need for educational measures to support the colonization of the northeastern territories emerged. Ten years later, an area near the Hawking River in Marietta and Athens was chosen as the site for a new university. Plans were made, the first structures were built, and in 1804, the University of Ohio was officially founded. However, it wasn't until four years later that the first students were enrolled. But before diving into the history of the university itself, we must explore a different building just across the river. This building, located on a hill

just beyond the Hawking River, is a chilling site. It was established on January 9, 1874, under the name Athens Lunatic Asylum. Eleven years later, the name was changed to, the ridges, to soften the title. The institution became a home for people with all sorts of mental disorders, including soldiers suffering from PTSD, women diagnosed with supposed hysteria, and even violent criminals, like Billy Milligan, the infamous campus rapist. Milligan committed serious crimes, including armed robbery and three rapes. What made his case especially interesting was his defense, Milligan's lawyer argued that he had multiple personalities, meaning he wasn't the one committing the crimes, but other personalities

within him were. This disorder, known as dissociative identity disorder, suggested that Milligan himself was innocent, and he was sent from one psychiatric facility to another, eventually ending up in the ridges. Many sources indicate that Milligan's treatment there was far from humane. It said that the institution subjected him to extreme and outdated methods such as forced labor, electroshock therapy, hydrotherapy, and even lobotomies. In the earlier years of the ridges, patients from all walks of life were accepted.

Some had families, while others had none. When patients died and their families were unreachable, their bodies were buried in unmarked. their bodies were buried in unmarked graves on the grounds of the asylum. These graves were simple, marked only by numbers instead of names or dates. Today, you can still find gravestones that are nothing more than stone markers with numbers. Some sources even claimed the cemetery extended over the entire area, with bodies buried wherever there was space. This point will come back later, as it plays a crucial role in the dark events that unfolded.

But the real tragedy occurred when a patient named Margaret Schilling entered the picture. We don't know much about Margaret's background, her parents, her birth date, or where she was from. What we do know is that by the time of the incident, Margaret was 53 years old, married, with one son, and suffering from dementia. Her condition led to her being admitted to the ridges. Margaret was known to be a calm patient who kept to herself and didn't cause trouble. However, in December of 1978, she disappeared without a trace. Official sources claimed that for six weeks, authorities searched relentlessly for her, but unofficial accounts suggest they gave up after only two weeks. This theory seems to be backed up

by an interview with the superintendent of the asylum, which was published in the post. It was revealed that when a patient went missing, their records were destroyed after just 14 days, meaning no one would come looking for them once the period had passed. In January of 1979, however, Margaret's body was found in a locked room in the attic of the asylum. Her body was decomposed, and she was found lying on the floor completely naked, with her clothes neatly folded on the window ledge. Some reports say her cause of death was indeterminate, while others suggested she died from exposure or freezing after somehow getting trapped in the attic. What shocked the people involved in the recovery of her body was the terrible stain left

on the floor. The fluids from her decomposing body had left a mark that seemed almost impossible to remove. Despite efforts to clean it with various products, the stain remained, and some people began to believe that it wasn't just the remains of her body, but rather evidence that her soul was trapped in the attic, unable to move on. Over the years, rumors spread that Margaret's ghost haunted the area, she was often seen in the windows, heard crying, and even whispering in the halls. After the asylum closed its doors in 1993, the rumors only intensified. Many people claimed to have seen full apparitions, heard strange noises, or even experienced physical attacks. This led the University of Ohio to purchase the building to expand its campus. Some

parts of the structure were converted into classrooms and offices, but it wasn't long before students and faculty began reporting strange occurrences. It no longer seemed like just stories or legend. One professor, whose office was located in one of the restored rooms, contacted a local paranormal group, Ohio exploration. The professor shared his experience of seeing shadows out of the corner of his eye and hearing a sinister melody play when he was completely alone. Another time, he saw the reflection of a man in black in a bathroom mirror, only to turn around and find no one there. As the paranormal activity continued to escalate, Ohio exploration investigated the building and recorded several EVP, electronic voice phenomena.

Meanwhile, more unsettling tales began to surface, including reports from students who claimed they had experienced inexplicable events in their dorms. In 1924, the university began developing the West Green area for student housing, and it wasn't long before rumors spread that workers had discovered a hidden cemetery underneath the land, possibly an ancient Native American burial ground. But there was no concrete evidence to support these claims, and the story was quietly swept under the rug. Yet, strange occurrences continued. In 1965, Wilson Hall, a dormitory in the West Green area, was built. It was a beautiful and spacious building that quickly became a coveted residence. But in 1970, a student was reportedly found dead in room 428, though no official

record of this event exists. However, rumors of the incident persisted, and students began to say that something about room 428 was cursed. Strange noises, whispers, and knocks could be heard emanating from the room, and many believed it was haunted. One student, deeply interested in the paranormal, even started experimenting with astral projection, attempting to leave her body while sleeping to communicate with spirits. She claimed that a ghost had told her to visit the old asylum and touch Margaret Schilling-Stain. Her friends thought she was joking, but they agreed to go with her. The group visited the asylum, entered the abandoned parts of the building, and made their way to the attic.

When the girl touched the stain, something changed. That night, she didn't return to her dorm. She was missing for the entire day, and later, emergency services were called to room 428, where another tragedy occurred, the girl had taken her own life. Some say that after her death, paranormal events escalated. The room became infamous, and students would report hearing strange noises, seeing shadows, and feeling a heavy presence. Years later, some of the university staff decided to investigate further and found that the entire West Green area, including Wilson Hall, was built on land believed to be the center of a pentagram formed by five cemeteries.

This added to the eerie and mysterious reputation of the place, with rumors of a cult using the tunnels beneath the campus for rituals. Despite attempts by the university to cover up these stories, more and more students reported strange phenomena in their dorm rooms. In March 2022, a student named Stephanie Jeebeck shared a chilling account of paranormal activity in her room. She and her roommate were relaxing when their mirrors suddenly flew off the wall and shattered. Later, a math book mysteriously flew off her desk, and then a string of lights she had placed on the wall lit up by themselves, despite having no batteries. Whether or not these experiences were the result of a haunting remains unclear, but it's certain that the eerie history of the University of Ohio and its surrounding areas continues to intrigue and terrify students

to this day. So, what do you think? Is there truly something supernatural happening at the University of Ohio, or is it all just a collection of urban legends? Whatever the truth may be, the stories surrounding this historic campus remain a source of both fascination and fear. Everything seemed pretty normal at first. Sure, there were some noises, creaky floors, walls that groaned, and weird cold drafts, but that was chalked up to the quirks of an old building. The families living there just assumed the structure was settling, until it became unbearable. Convinced it was something structural, they boarded up a room on the third floor,

sealing its window, chimney, and door. And for a while. Peace But let's backtrack, because this story is way darker than some creaky walls. The birth of Willington Mill, Willington Mill, or Kitty Mill, as some called it, was one of England's first steam-powered flower mills. Built to impress and innovate, it quickly became a marvel of engineering. But locals?

They whispered about something sinister. People feared it, branding it the most haunted building in the north. The curse, they said, went back to 1660 when the land housed a small wooden cob. inside lived Mrs. Pepper, a mysterious woman, rumored to be a witch. Some accounts describe her as a young midwife, others as an old hermit, but everyone agreed she was peculiar. She was feared, respected, and avoided. Being a midwife gave her power, people wouldn't dare insult her, fearing that she might curse them or their babies. Stories claimed she practiced a strange mix of Catholicism and pagan rituals. She was never put on trial for witchcraft,

but society had already condemned her in whispers and rumors. When Mrs. Pepper fell ill, she begged for a priest to confess her sins, but was denied. It was a cruel blow in a time when a deathbed confession was everything. When she died unconfessed, the land itself was declared cursed. Fearful of her spirit, locals demolished her little home. Years later, in 1780, William Brown bought the land. He built the first version of the mill, a grand structure where Mrs. Pepper's cottage once stood. For two decades, everything went splendidly.

The Browns grew rich, hiring workers and expanding their business. But one day, without warning, they vanished. The town exploded with gossip. Some said William had fallen for a maid who rejected him. In a fit of rage, he assaulted and killed her, hiding her body in one of the mill's walls. Overwhelmed with guilt or fear of being caught, he fled. whispered of ghostly apparitions, a woman trapped in the walls. Yet, no one found a thing. Time passed, and the mill found new owners. But the hauntings? They stayed. The modernization of the

mill, in the early 1800s, cousins George Tanton and Joseph Proctor took over, updating the mill into a cutting-edge steam-powered facility. Business boomed, but construction paused mysteriously for two years. The workers whispered of crimes, bodies hidden in walls, a woman crushed by the mills will, two men fighting to the death. Again, no proof. The Proctor and Tunton families moved into the mill's residential quarters. Both families noticed the same eerie phenomena, creaks, thuds, and bone-chilling cold. Eventually, they decided to seal off the infamous third-floor room. Once the room was boarded up, life returned to normal, or so it seemed. Joseph Proctor Jr. takes over, years passed. George and Joseph Sr. died, leaving the mill to their

children. Joseph Proctor, Jr. couldn't wait to move back into the home of his childhood. His wife Elizabeth wasn't thrilled, but she followed him, along with their four kids, Joseph III, Henry, Edmund, and Little Jane. The estate wasn't just a house, it was a sprawling complex with barns, worker quarters, and lush grounds. The Proctor's hired a full staff, including a nanny to care for baby Edmund. The nanny's routine was simple, feed the baby, change him, and rock him to sleep in his second-floor nursery. But every night, as she settled Edmund, she heard footsteps above her. They followed the same pattern, soft, deliberate steps from the door to the window,

then back again. Sometimes they turned into loud stumps, almost as if the person wanted her to know they were there. The nanny, rattled, begged Joseph to stop whoever was making the noise. He calmly explained that the room above her had been sealed for years. No one could possibly be up there. The nanny insisted, saying, Asterisk, I know what I heard. Asterisk, intrigued, Joseph gathered the staff to unseal the third floor room.

With great effort, they pried the door open, only to find an empty, untouched space. No furniture. No secret hiding spots. Nothing. The nanny, terrified, quit the next day. If the room was empty, she reasoned, then whatever she heard wasn't human. The staff confessed to Joseph that they'd always believe. leave the third floor room was cursed. Even Joseph's father had called it asterisk,

the disturbed room. Asterisk Joseph dismissed the chatter but swore the staff to secrecy when he hired a new nanny. It didn't matter. The new nanny experienced the same thing, loud, purposeful stumps shaking the walls. Terrified, she too fled. Elizabeth faces the hauntings. With no nanny, Elizabeth took over baby duties. Soon, she heard the same footsteps, always at the same time, pacing from door to window above the nursery. Joseph, ever the skeptic, blamed the wind, old wood, or rats. But as the nights passed, the noises spread. One night, as Joseph and Elizabeth lay in bed, they counted thirteen deafening bangs on their bedroom wall. The walls shook

violently with each hit. Joseph waved it off as the house settling, but Elizabeth was done with excuses. Things escalated. Joseph, putting Edmund to bed one evening, rested his hands on the crib's edge. Suddenly, something metallic struck the crib from below, shaking it. The baby cried as the crib moved. Joseph searched high and low but found no source of the disturbance. By now, the staff was petrified. They claimed the spirit had escaped the disturbed room and was roaming freely. Machines powered on and off at night without explanation. Workers reported seeing shadowy figures in the mill. One neighbor swore he saw a ghostly woman in white gliding through the fields.

Then there was the mill foreman, Thomas Mann, and his wife. Their small cottage sat on the property, and at night they heard heavy footsteps crunching gravel outside. In the winter, Thomas' wife fetched coal one night and glanced at the Proctor house. In an upstairs window, she saw a glowing, ghostly figure dressed as a priest. It walked in circles, gesturing wildly, before vanishing. Thomas and his wife both saw it, and Thomas reported the sighting to Joseph. For once, Joseph took action.

A log of nightmares, Joseph started keeping a journal. He recorded footsteps, voices, unexplainable bangs, and whispers. One night, Elizabeth and the nanny slept in the nursery. Around midnight, Elizabeth woke, feeling watched. Slowly, she realized her bed was floating, levitating several inches off the floor. When it finally settled, she was too terrified to speak. The next morning, the nanny admitted she had dreamt she was floating, The most horrifying incidents involved the children.

Four-year-old Jane described seeing an old woman at the foot of her bed. The woman never spoke, just stared with hollow, dead eyes. Joseph III saw a figure with black, empty sockets for eyes sitting on his bed. Little Edmund claimed to play with a giant white cat that none of the other children could see. Staff reported seeing the same animal, large, hairy, and spectral, slipping through walls. Science meets the supernatural. Desperate, Joseph invited two scientists, Dr. Edward Dr. Dr. Dr. Dr. Rory and chemist Thomas Hudson, to spend the night. The two men didn't believe in ghosts but agreed to investigate.

On the night of July 3rd, 1840, they explored the third-floor room. At first, nothing happened. But as the night wore on, Edward screamed. Accounts vary, some say he saw a ghostly woman, others an eyeless figure, but whatever he saw, it left him so shaken that he lost all memory of the night. Willington Mill remained a place of mystery, fear, and ghostly legends. Whether you believe the stories or not, one thing's for sure, something at that mill refused to rest. We begin.

Many people over time have asked the following question, can art drive you insane? And the answer, from my point of view, is yes. Imagine for a moment contemplating the macaw art of Yuko-Tatsushima or the disturbing black paintings of Goya. While it is true that viewing each of the pieces in these collections for just a moment is not harmful to us. Now imagine doing it for hours on end without rest, studying every stroke, every composition, every light contrast, every story behind the painting. Well, that's exactly what happens to students at the University of London. Before Your Eyes is an oil painting on canvas titled Man Proposes, God Disposes by H. W. Lour, 1864.

But before discovering what can happen if you cross paths with it, let's learn a little about the painting. The artwork depicts an imagined Arctic scene after the 1845 expedition of Sir John Franklin to explore the Northwest Passage. The 134 men of Franklin's expedition departed from Greenhithe in May 1845 aboard two ironclad icebreakers, HMS Aribus and HMS Terror. After five of them left the ships, the remaining 129 men were last six. seen by a whaling ship in Lancaster Sound in July 1845, but then they vanished into the ice without a trace. From there, the theories began. In 1854, the Inuit informed Captain John Ray of the Hudson's Bay Company that five years earlier, many had claimed to have seen his men

near King William Island. Indeed, after an exhaustive search of the area, some partially devoured corpses were found. It was suspected that some had died of hypothermia and that the survivors fed on their flesh, or that polar bears attacked the camp and devoured the men. So, this artwork commemorates one of those theories. In the imagined moment by the artist, we see one of the animals enthusiastically holding a human rib bone between its fangs, while the other plays with a blood-soaked piece of fabric from one of its victims. What's curious about this painting isn't that it simply depicts a dramatic scene of what supposedly happened, but rather that it delivers a powerful

message about the fragility of life, that we cannot choose an honorable death, because such a thing does not exist. The day the painting was first unveiled to high society, it caused quite a stir. In fact, William Michael Rossetti, a renowned critic and writer of the time, lamented the painting, calling it the saddest disjecta member. But he wasn't the only one who expressed disgust. John Franklin's widow fainted when she saw how her husband might have died. People couldn't understand how a painter known for depicting noble dogs had created something so macabre and distressing. Because of this, many claimed he had gone mad, transmitting his pain to anyone who gazed at the painting. And apparently, he succeeded. He created a work that, wherever it went, would gravely wound

the soul of whoever looked at it, even if they didn't know the story behind it. Over time, the University of London acquired the painting and displayed it in one of the classrooms at Royal Holloway School. This room was used exclusively for exams. However, as expected, the macabre spectacle of the bloody bears quickly became a distraction for students. Since its arrival at the university, rumors began to circulate. Some students claimed that while taking exams in the room, they could hear whispers, feel glacial chills, or even fear for their lives just from looking at the painting. Then came the 1970s, and from that point forward, the fear surrounding the painting became an epicenter. epidemic. Everyone spoke of a girl who, during an exam in that very room, stared fixedly at

the bears as if in a trance, and while this happened, she wrote the following on her test paper, it was the bears who made me do it. After that, she was never seen again, she took her own life by jumping onto the train tracks. There's no official record of this story in the university archives, and the professors who supposedly interacted with the girl have refused countless times to give testimony. Because of this, it is now considered a simple urban legend, although the students don't think so. Following the alleged death of the girl, many students panicked in that classroom. None of them wanted to sit facing the painting. They preferred to take their exams on the floor, or not at all, risking failure. Because of this, the Royal

Holloway School Secretary was forced to cover the painting with a large British flag. And since then, from the 1970s onward, man proposes, God disposes is covered the same way, every time the room is opened for exams. Before Your Eyes is a luxurious hotel built in 1886 by the landowner Jesse Driscoll. This man designed the hotel to be one of the most splendid and impressive of its time, and indeed, he succeeded. He ordered the construction of a grand lobby with marble floors and columns, hundreds of fully equipped rooms, and filled everything with the finest carpets. Here, the wealthiest families of Austin stayed, including the politician Lyndon B. Johnson, who once stayed here with his wife Lady Bird. However, what no one expected was that this hotel,

instead of being known as the most luxurious, would become known as the most haunted in Texas. The first tragic event at the Driscoll occurred in 1887. The four-year-old daughter of a local senator, named Samantha Houston, chased a ball, tripped, and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck at the bottom. After this incident came the infamous room 525. In 1910, a bride took her life there by hanging herself. And although this death was considered an isolated case, 20 years later, the same story would repeat itself. A bride, a suicide, the same room. Upon reviewing the histories of both women, it was discovered they both died on the eve of their weddings. The mirrors of the Driscoll Hotel are always mysteriously fogged.

The room notebooks always contain strange scribbles. Guests on the fourth floor claim that every night they hear the voice of a woman weeping as she wanders the hallway. Both guests and staff claim the paint on the walls quickly peals and cracks. Cold, strange draughts circulate everywhere, leaving a desolate atmosphere in their wake. Many believe that the beginning of the unexplained events didn't happen after Samantha Houston's death, but rather when a painting was hung in her honor. On screen you can see a replica of the painting in question, titled Love Letters, created by Charles Trevor. The exact date it was painted is unknown, but far from conveying the sweetness of an innocent child, everyone who

stands before it to contemplate it claims to feel terror in their skin. Guests and hotel staff say that the girl in the painting sometimes changes her expression, that her hair looks different every day, and that the painting even changes position all by itself. There are multiple reports of guests requesting the painting be removed, saying they've felt dizzy or nauseous after passing by it. Many believe the painting may be haunted by the spirit of Samantha, the little girl who once fell down the stairs. However, others say the rest of the paranormal events have nothing to do with her, that she is just an innocent child who remains near her portrait. Still, parapsychology experts using electromagnetic field detectors and motion sensors have determined that the painting

is indeed under the influence of some kind of energy, but that it doesn't seem to be that of little Samantha. Around it, many EVP recordings have been captured, and all of them are so terrifying they seem to come from hell itself. In the mid-1990s, a painter known under the pseudonym Laura P, visited a photography exhibition. Very little is known about the artworks displayed there. All we know for sure is that one photo caught her attention, a photograph taken by the commercial photographer James Kidd. The image showed an old stagecoach in the foreground, and next to it, a very rusted train car. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the photo. However, upon closer inspection, she realized there was a sinister figure standing to one side,

To be continued. It all started with Carl's standing in disbelief. He couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening. At first, he dismissed it as a trick of the mind, chalking it up to being the new guy in town. Moving into a new place was always a little strange, wasn't it? Perhaps the employees were messing with him, playing little pranks to lighten up their days. But as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Carl realized something unsettling, this wasn't just his imagination. Let's take a step back to the origin of this eerie story, which begins on July 1st, 1905.

Henry Flagler, an influential hotel magnate, decided to build a quaint little home at 327, Acacia Street in West Palm Beach, Florida. The house stood eerily close to the Goodland Cemetery, a decision whose reasoning remains unclear to this day. Some speculate Flagler intended to rent the house out, but the proximity to the cemetery painted a darker picture for the neighborhood. The home was built in the Edwardian style, a three-story structure boasting a ground floor with a welcoming porch, a spacious living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The second floor housed the bedrooms and another bathroom, while the third floor was an attic, used mainly for storage. One thing about this house that caught everyone's attention was its facade, it was painted

in bright, eye-catching colors, unusual for the time. Neighbors began referring to it as the painted lady, a name as striking as the home itself. Yet, despite its cheerful appearance, the house seemed destined for a darker legacy. A mysterious history begins, the exact details of who first lived in the painted lady are murky at best. Some accounts claim Henry Flagler himself resided there for a time, while others insist the house was initially used as a funeral parlor due to its proximity to the cemetery. The latter story seems to hold more weight in the local folklore, as the house was frequently used as a morgue and residence for funeral workers.

The funeral parlor gave rise to unsavory tales of body thefts, grave robberies, and the selling of corpses for scientific studies, a macabre business that was, surprisingly, not uncommon at the time. The employees working in the house eventually rechristened it as the Keeper's House, as if hoping a new name would erase the sinister reputation it was developing. It was during this time that the house saw its first recorded death. A man named Beck, the cemetery's gardener, resided in the Keeper's house. Known as a kind and simple man, Beck enjoyed long walks, sharing beers with friends,

and spending quiet evenings on the porch, humming popular tunes. However, one fateful day at the cemetery, Beck found himself in a heated argument with an unruly visitor. What started as a verbal dispute escalated into a physical altercation that tragically ended Beck's life. Locals began reporting sightings of Beck's ghost soon after. Witnesses swore they'd seen him sweeping leaves, tending to flowers, or simply strolling through the Some claimed he still sat on the keeper's house porch, humming his favorite songs as if nothing had changed. The Riddle family arrives. In 1914, the city of West Palm Beach acquired the house, renaming it the city house. The structure changed hands a few more times before

1920, when Carl and Kenyon Riddle, two brothers who had gained prominence for their contributions to the city, became linked to the property. Carl Riddle, in particular, was beloved by the community for his role as the city's first administrator and superintendent. of public works. When Carl and his wife bought the house, it seemed like a win for everyone. The Riddles were admired as kind-hearted, industrious people who truly cared for their neighbors. From the outside, life in the Riddell House appeared idyllic. Carl was well respected, his wife and children were charming, and the family's presence seemed to breathe new life into the house. Yet behind closed doors, something strange began to

stir. The Riddles' household staff was the first to notice the oddities. By day, The house was warm and welcoming, but after sunset, an inexplicable chill would settle in. Employees reported hearing whispers, soft footsteps, and faint murmurs, as though unseen visitors roamed the halls. At first, Carl dismissed these accounts as nothing more than idle gossip. But as the weeks wore on, he began experiencing the phenomena himself. The diary of a skeptic-turned-believer, determined to make sense of what was happening, Carl began documenting every unusual occurrence in a notebook.

He noted the date, time, and a detailed description of each event, whether it was the sound of footsteps echoing through empty hallways or the distinct sensation of being watched. The entries filled page after page, though none of the incidents were violent. Despite the eerie nature of these experiences, the Riddle family lived in relative peace, until 1929. The Great Depression brought hardship to many, including the Riddle staff. Financial strain weighed heavily on their employees, but none more so than a handyman named Joseph. Despite his troubled past, which included being wrongfully accused of a crime, Carl had given Joseph a chance, offering him steady work in the house.

Joseph proved himself a diligent and trustworthy worker, but as the economic downturn worsened, his demeanor changed. He became withdrawn, somber, and increasingly isolated. One fateful day, Joseph was called to fix a leak in the attic. Hours passed, and when Joseph didn't return, the housekeeper went to check on him. What she found was devastating, Joseph had taken his own life, hanging himself from a beam in the attic. The escalation of the unexplainable, Joseph's death marked a turning point for the Riddle House.

What had once been subtle, benign disturbances escalated into full-blown hauntings. Footsteps were no longer faint, they thundered up and down the attic stairs with purpose. Conversations echoed from empty rooms, and doors slammed shut on their own. These occurrences were so frequent and unsettling that the staff began quitting one by one, unable to endure the oppressive atmosphere. Even the riddles themselves could no longer bear living in the house. They moved out, but rather than sell the property, they began renting it out, hoping others might have better luck.

Unfortunately, no tenants stayed for long. Families packed up and left within months, terrified by the same phenomena the riddles had experienced. Businesses tried to operate in the house, but none succeeded. the property sat vacant, its painted facade fading as time wore on. A second life in the public eye. In the 1980s, Palm Beach Atlantic College expressed interest in using the house as a women's dormitory. Initial renovations went smoothly, but on the first night, the students couldn't sleep. Unexplainable noises, icy drafts, and an overwhelming sense of unease filled the air. Rumors of haunting spread quickly, and the dormitory was abandoned

within months. By the mid-1990s, the house faced demolition, but Carl Riddell's nephew, John, intervened. As president of the yesteryear village historical park, John orchestrated the relocation of the house to the park, where it was restored to its former glory. However, during the restoration process, workers reported bizarre incidents, tools vanished, heavy objects moved on their own, and one painter was struck on the head by a flying bucket. Despite the challenges, the restoration was completed, and the house opened to the public, as a historical site. Visitors soon began reporting paranormal activity. Many claimed to see a man and a woman dressed in period clothing, though no actors had been hired for the tours. Paranormal

investigators identified for distinct entities within the house, a peaceful woman, a young boy, the ghost of Beck, and the vengeful spirit of Joseph, who remained confined to the attic. A haunting legacy. Today, the riddle house is a staple of ghost tours and paranormal investigations, with countless visitors sharing their eerie experiences. Some claim to feel an inexplicable presence near the attic door, while others report seeing shadowy figures or hearing disembodied voices. The legacy of the Riddell House endures, leaving everyone who steps inside wondering, are the spirits tied to the tragedies that occurred there,

or is the house itself the source of its unrelenting hauntings? We begin. The city of New Orleans, Louisiana, is one of the most active places in the paranormal universe. Perhaps one of the main reasons for this fact lies in the historical and evolutionary origins of this city over time, or perhaps because it is crossed by several A-lines or various telluric lines. Either way, New Orleans seems to have been the home of beings coming directly from the very depths of hell. Specifically, last week we talked about one of these characters, Madame Delphine Lawlory, popularly known as the witch or the monster of Louisiana. But let's refresh your memory a bit. Madame Delphine Lawlorie was a woman of high birth whose life was full of immense luxury.

Having been married a total of three times and being extremely skilled in finances, she amassed an unmatched fortune that allowed her not only to own several plantations dedicated to the exploitation of sugarcane but also to own slaves who worked from sunup to sundown for her, both on those plantations and in her family mansion located at 1140, Royal Street in New Orleans. In that residence, the best parties of the time were held, and at those events, both she and her husband, Leonard Lewis Nicholas Lalori, showed the world their most pleasant, most helpful, and most kind face. The generosity, beauty, and intelligence of Madame Lalori became famous wherever she went.

However, when in 1834 a fire broke out in the kitchens of the mansion, she could no longer hide her true identity, her true sociopathic personality. When the authorities intervened to put out the fire, they discovered what was truly hidden behind the walls of the Lalori mansion, servants in shackles, others locked in tiny cages, abhorrent surgeries, men tied to surgeons' tables who had undergone sex change operations, eyes and mouth sewn shut, fingernails torn off, limbs amputated. Madam Lalori was a true monster, a monster who loved to torture her slaves when no one else could see her.

Among her favorite practices was drilling holes into the skulls of her still-living victims, inserting sticks and stirring them, or even filling their mouths with insects and excrement, then sewing them shut. There is an endless list of abuses, each crueller than the last. But what happened when Madame Lalori escaped to France? What happened when her beloved mansion was left at the mercy of time? That is precisely the topic that concerns us today. The story of the Lalori mansion is perhaps one of the most popular horror tales in Louisiana. For over 150 years, that residence has been considered the most terrifying place in the French quarter. For in it were not only trapped the echoes of the moans, the cries, the sobbing heard there for years,

but also the souls of all those people who lost their lives on the third and final floor of that mansion. And that was a known fact to every single person who lived in the neighboring houses. From the very moment the mansion was abandoned, the screams and slamming doors in the middle of the night were a constant. The shadows, the lights moving from one window to another, it was as real as the sun itself. Some legal documents indicate that complaints from neighbors were a daily occurrence. Some were simple noise complaints from the mansion, while others were firm testimonies about the return of the monster of Louisiana to her malevolent refuge. Yet even so, every time the police forces intervened, the house seemed completely calm, abandoned.

The house didn't appear to have been the scene of anything, no big. beatings, no signs of disturbance. I suppose because of those rumors, no one dared to spend a scent on it during the first three years of its abandonment. As time went on, the noises, the cries, the moans, the sound of chains, the shadows, the lights, the slamming doors, all of it intensified. There were even occasions when this began at sunset and continued until sunrise. Testimony's claimed it was as if one of Madame Lollori's parties repeated every night, the same story, always the same noises. It was as if the cycle kept repeating itself again and again, until one day, it simply stopped. One day, the house ceased to terrify. It became

a hollow structure, a faded reflection of what it once concealed. That was when some nearby vagrants decided to start using it to shelter from the cold. According to legend, at first only a few dared to enter. But once word spread that the ghosts were nothing but childish tales, dozens of homeless men and women crowded the mansion's doors seeking a roof over their heads. Fights, murders, and rapes once again stained the marble floors and stuccoed walls, bringing back to life the demons of 1140, Royal Street, with their cries, their moans, their dragging chains. But above all, with the presence of shadows, black, opaque shadows that roamed through each and every room. Those presences that many called myth now began to claim lives

in very inexplicable ways. Many of the men and women who passed through the main gate never came back out, and their bodies were never found again. In 1837, a man whose identity remains unknown to this day fell in love with the mansion. According to the story, he was a man of letters, a lover of fine wine and the architecture of his era. He also loved classical literature but, in contrast, rejected any stories linked to the paranormal world, the unexplained world, as he considered the mere childish tales to scare disobedient children. However, his dream of living in the French quarter was cut short the moment he stepped inside the mansion, the moment he crossed the main gate with two architects.

When they reached the third floor and began negotiating the renovations, according to the documents, they witnessed a completely hostile figure, a thick, black, large presence, that pushed them down the stairs. At that moment, the man decided to flee and never return. After its new abandonment, some city volunteers proposed that the structure could be turned into a school for girls who couldn't afford private education. Through a public vote, the citizens considered it a great idea and accepted the proposal. The renovation work didn't take long, they only had to clean and paint the walls on the first two floors and set up some desks, chalkboards, and basic school furniture.

The first days of school were joyful for both the girls and their teachers. But little by little, that joy faded. The girls didn't want to use the bathrooms. They didn't even want to leave their classrooms for recess, saying there was always a man in a suit standing at the top of the second floor staircase, watching every one of their movements. Even the teachers complained about the paranormal events happening there, objects, erasers, chalk, and books moving on their own. They claimed again and again that every

afternoon the chalkboards were completely erased, but every morning upon entering the classrooms, both students and teachers saw the boards full of scribbles, macabre drawings and dozens of names written with infinite rage. One month. That was how long the teachers and students lasted before they decided to abandon the place, once again leaving it to the ghosts that inhabited the mansion. Once abandoned again, the mansion resumed its midnight parties, the screams, the moans, the chain movements, the lights moving from room to room. The mansion once more terrorized the neighbors. However, this story took a complete turn in 1892, the year those festivals of banging, screaming, and slamming doors at late hours of the night completely stopped. A rumor spread, the mansion's spirits had hypnotized someone again, enchanted another poor source.

soul. And in truth, they weren't far off. Not long after the noises and events stopped, a name appeared in the newspapers, Jose Edvin, an eccentric member of high society who swore he was totally in love with the mansion. Guess what happened next? Weeks after acquiring the property, the lifeless body of that unfortunate man was found lying face down on the third floor. Cause of death, unknown. For years, the mansion fell victim to the cruelest, Most desolate abandonment ever told. And with its architecture, the horrifying stories of death slowly faded. Now our clock moves forward to 1920, the year the mansion was purchased and renovated by a businessman

who intended to turn each of its rooms into individual apartments. Unfortunately, the business didn't last long because the new tenants did nothing but complain about the sounds they heard at night, footsteps, shadows, creaking walls, cries, moans. They complained about things that couldn't be real, things that had no explanation, noises without clear origin. And to all of this was added the presence of women dressed in 19th century clothing. All owners left the building, citing strange phenomena. Even all businesses opened on the ground floor ended up closing for the same reason, first a bar where glasses inexplicably exploded, then a furniture store where, overnight, everything was destroyed. The building's owner,

of constant complaints and unable to profit, considered the noises might be due to poor water circulation in the pipes, and that the humidity from those pipes caused the damage in the rooms and businesses. The big surprise came when renovation work began on those pipes. When workers lifted the floor of the third floor, they uncovered a total of 75 corpses, both men and women. Bodies that Madame Lalori had likely buried there more than 100 years earlier after torturing them day after day. Some of the bodies still had deep cuts in their bones, others were missing limbs, limbs that were never recovered. As a result, the city decided to close the building indefinitely, turning Royal Street into a landmark for mystery lovers

from the mid-20th century onward. From there, we have countless testimonies from people who snuck into the mansion to investigate or simply to experience true fear. According to the investigators, the house was described as follows, the feeling of heaviness and of being watched by a thousand eyes hits you the moment you set foot inside. At the end of April 2007, the famous actor and producer Nicholas Cage managed to acquire the mansion through the Hancock Park Real Estate Company, which had remodeled it to become a family home. The Cage family lived in the house for several years, using it as a retreat. The actor claimed the legends about the mansion were absolutely true. He told the press that more than one ghost lived in that mansion. He said that

both he and his family heard chains at night, whispers, cries, shadows going up and down the stairs, and that the most active part of the mansion was on the third floor, in one of the corners. He spoke of moisture stains that appeared and vanished within minutes. He spoke of cold hands caressing your hair as you nodded off on the couch. But even so, he got used to the apparitions, even claimed that those ghosts gave the house its charm. Sadly, no self-respecting demonic entity allows its owners to grow used to it. So, over time, the entities became more aggressive, increasingly hostile. But the cages never left the property by choice.

Sadly, the mansion went up for auction in 2009 due to a foreclosure the cages couldn't avoid. Once auctioned, the mansion was acquired by a finance company called Region Financial Corporation. To this day, the mansion still has not been purchased. No one dares to buy Madam Lollori's mansion. Not a single millionaire has spent a cent on it. But fortunately, if we call the finance company to ask permission, and pay a modest $30 fee, we'll have the chance to enter the mansion and not only that, but also conduct investigations of our choice for a full day and night,

in any room we choose, including unlimited access to the infamous third floor, the floor of torture. But now comes my question, would you dare to enter it? The end. And the most shocking story came from an anonymous witness who said that one night he saw him summon the underscore underscore underscore, told him that his soul was his in exchange for playing like an angel. A light turned on that blinded me.

Paganini stood up and went on his way. Let's begin. Niccolo Paganini was born on October 27, 17, 1782, in Genoa, Italy, the son of Teresa Boyardo and Antonio Paganini, who worked in maritime trade. From a very young age, his story is tinged with superstition, as apparently when he was five years old, his mother had a dream that would change their lives forever. In this dream, an angel appeared and told her that her little boy would be the greatest violinist the world had ever seen.

Upon waking, she asked her husband to teach Niccolo to play the violin. She said it was a very real dream, a divine sign, and that their child was destined to be an artist. Antonio Paganini was a master violinist and even more superstitious than his wife, so he convinced himself he had to focus all his efforts on teaching Niccolo to play the violin. It is said the boy composed his first pieces at just eight years old, but at this point, there are contradictions, some say it was at eight, others at twelve. Some sources say his first concert was at 9, but a few more say it was at 12. Whatever the case, when he performed in public, everyone was fascinated. Clearly, the boy had immense talent. By the time he was 12, he had several teachers, including Giovanni Sito and Alessandro

Rola. At a very young age, he achieved great success and simultaneously made a lot of money. His shows drew massive crowds, and the audience were. went wild for him. He had admirers, was invited to parties, made lots of money, and by the age of 16 became addicted to gambling and alcohol. According to his biographer Peter Lentau, Paganini was saved from madness by an unknown lady who took him to her villa for three years. During those years, Paganini was almost completely isolated, studying violin and guitar, recovering, and after that time returned to the stage with more strength. His comeback

happened when he was 23 years old, specifically in 1805, and from there began his concert tour. He played in many different places, Milan, Vienna, Naples, London, Paris, and he became acquainted with great artists of his time. He was one of the first musicians to tour solo, with no accompaniment, no other musicians, just him in front of the audience. And I repeat, he amassed a great fortune because he alone could captivate the entire audience, a point that will be very important later. Paganini composed a variety of works, violin concertos, 18 sonatas for violin or guitar, 24 caprices for violin. His work is extensive and is especially known for its incredible skill. As for his personal life, we know he had some problems in his youth.

Because of his great success, he had relationships with many women, leading to various scandals. In 1828, from his relationship with Antonia Bianchi, he had his only son, Achille. That same year, Pope Leo the eleventh awarded him the Order of the Golden Spur. Physically, Paganini drew much attention. From a young age, he had skin problems, and at 28 began to show signs of premature aging. He was tall, thin, with a prominent nose and large feet. His hands were also very strange, his fingers were long and very flexible. In fact, it said that because of this, he could play with great ease, precision, and speed.

Additionally, whenever he played, he was overtaken by music in a superhuman way. He contorted dramatically, almost impossibly, and people were left in shock. He twisted, shook, looked possessed. He was such an incredible musician, and his appearance was so strange, that people were people began to think he wasn't from this world. That's exactly how the rumor began that would follow him until his death. Some say he himself started the rumor, others say it was the spectators. Either way, it was said that Paganini made a pact with the underscore underscore underscore to become the most virtuosic violinist in history. People told wild stories about him, lights

emerged from his violin, strange energy. And the most impactful story came from an anonymous witness who said that one night he saw him summon the underscore underscore underscore, told him his soul was his in exchange for playing like an angel. A blinding light appeared. Paganini stood and went on his way. Another story about him was that, being a womanizer, he used beautiful women with good voices to steal their souls and trap them in his violin. He spoke to them, charmed them, killed them, ripped out their souls, and trapped them forever

in his violin. Thus, every time he played, the beautiful sounds were actually the voices of his victims. They also said he could tune his violin while playing a complicated piece, that he had a phenomenal memory, didn't need sheet music, and could compose brilliant music instantly. But one rumor appears to be true, in a concert, everything was going perfectly, Paganini was playing, the audience was enchanted, then one of the violin's four strings broke. Silence filled the room. Paganini kept playing. Then another string broke. Silence again. Shock. Then Paganini kept playing. Then a third string broke. The audience expected him to stop, apologize, end the concert, but he kept playing, as if he still had four strings. Incredibly, the violin still sounded as if it had all four. To the audience, this man had to be a magician, a sorcerer, a demon.

We're talking about a time when these types of stories deeply affected people. Superstition was rampant. But far from ruining his reputation, these rumors made him even more famous. Tickets sold out instantly, and prices skyrocketed. Everyone knew who he was, rich and poor alike. Even beggars and prostitutes spent all they had to see for themselves if the man had really sold his soul. Hagenini embraced the rumors and made them his best. weapon. According to biographers, he had a very peculiar sense of humor. If someone insulted him,

he'd turn it into his shield. He did the same with the rumors. People said he was a magician, a sorcerer, a servant of Satan, and he embraced it all. Every time he appeared in public, he wore tight black clothing that made him look thinner, more skeletal, more sinister. With his pale skin, long mane, and long fingers, he truly looked otherworldly. His appearance gave chills to the crowds, who felt both fear and admiration. They admired him, feared him, hated him, loved him. He sparked a mix of emotions, and at the end of the day, everyone wanted to know who he really was. Was he real? Fictional? A demon? A normal man? Everyone wanted to know, and with each passing day, he grew more and more successful. When he played, he exaggerated his movements even more.

It looked like he was dancing, possessed, like a demon. He used his flexibility to perform tricks while playing. They say he played with his mouth, bent backward, twisted his arm. And in the midst of this chaos, he did something that left thousand speechless, he started showing up at social events and concerts in a large black carriage pulled by four purebred black horses. Ladies fainted at his passing. They say they literally fell at his feet. Entire families admired him, and men couldn't understand the Paganini fever. Had he sold his soul to the underscore underscore underscore?

Was he just a normal guy? A sorcerer? No one knew. Then, overnight, his decline began. In 1820, at 38, he began having severe stomach problems, productive cough, weakness, digestive issues. He was given a mercury-based laxative. The pain persisted for years.

Desperate, Paganini visited many doctors. One told him he had syphilis, clearly. The treatment, mercury. If he felt a little pain, he took mercury. If not, just in case, he took mercury. This led to an addiction. him. In 1838, he lost his voice completely. From then on, he communicated through his son. He'd gesture, move his lips, Achille would read them and speak for him. Mercury use was common back then,

so no one suspected it had stolen his voice. They thought it was from another illness, and he was diagnosed with laryngeal tuberculosis, which was later ruled out, as his lungs were fine. His body weakened, trembling, fatigue, couldn't write, couldn't play. Every day his life worsened. He felt lonelier, more isolated, misunderstood. Because of mercury, he got a mouth infection and had surgery that disfigured him. Now comes the darkest part. Near death, a doctor finally told him his symptoms were mercury poisoning. But Paganini was already addicted and kept using it until his death on May 27, 1840. Here another legend arises. On his deathbed, a priest asked what was in the Stradivarius case. Paganini stood up and said, that contains the devil himself. Then he opened the

case, played the violin phonetically, through it, and while it shattered, Paganini fell and died. This story makes little sense. He was too weak to even speak or move, but what seems more likely is that Paganini refused to confess on his deathbed. Because of his fame as the violinist of the underscore underscore underscore, many clergymen had rejected him in life. They demanded public apologies, that he silenced the rumors, stopped wearing black. Paganini ignored them. The rumors brought fame, attention, audiences. Without them, it wouldn't be the same. Still, according to the site HistoriaMedicina.es, the Bishop of Nice sent the priest Kaferrelli to Paganini's home to hear his confession and administer the last rites. The priest went peacefully, ready to reconcile church and

artist. But it didn't go well. First attempt, Paganini was in too much pain to speak. Second, he was too sedated. Third, he was awake, asked for a chalkboard to write, but supposedly he couldn't write either. Fourth, the priest arrived, but Paganini was already dead. Koffarelli was so outraged he wrote a lengthy document criticizing Paganini. Called him a heretic, said his home lacked religious images, had scandalous paintings, a very unchristian venus, and noted that despite Paganini's wealth, he never made significant donations to the church.

The bishop checked Paganini's will and found he had asked for a simple funeral. No donations, no big ceremonies, no many guests, just a simple. funeral and 100 masses for his soul at the Cappishan Church. So the bishop retaliated by not allowing him to be buried in sacred ground. The family embalmed the body and, while they waited for the bishop to change his mind, moved it to a property on the outskirts of Nice. For years the body traveled, and several versions of its fate emerged. One says he was buried in a simple grave near the sea with a modest headstone. Another says Akil took the casket on a boat and searched for the perfect place, finally burying it on the islet of Sanfariol.

The third, and most widely believed version, is that 38 years after his death, the family succeeded in burying him in the Parma Cemetery. Now it's your turn, what do you think about the case? Do you think the ending was fair? But the interesting thing here is that, according to, official sources at no time, there were enemy soldiers the cells in, they didn't really be for that they were, warehouses and the castle was only, to entertain and recover soldiers, injured, we start, to know this story we must, place about 240 kilometers outside, Kansas in Missouri specifically

in a, Piscito called Springfield at the beginning of, 20th century in this place began to, build an imposing castle of, approximately 4,000 MCU and the works, ended in the year, 1913 the enclave originally was, built to vaguer the activity of, the gentleman Pishas the society. Secret founded in Washington, D.C. on 19. February, 1864, however strange that I can, looking like the castle was not a place, where these people live but more, well, a meeting point in a place. Impressive with large gardens A. A large amount of rooms of rooms, but still many people did not live there. First there were, the most important activities, important meetings exclusive parties, private seconds there they lived, the women and children of the members who,

they had already died and third. When a gentleman retired he could, choose to live in the castle but only if the gentleman retired pishas chose how this should be room type castle quantity how guide it and of course materials materials among which was a native stone that according to them had powers said that stone had ability to attract and retain energy energy that could be or good or bad initial idea is that this project could house 100 people in their interior but it can be said that never they got them did not let him stay many people were very exclusive very closed so at some point they decided to turn the castle into a orphanage Los Caballeros Pichas. They modified their initial plan and they opened the doors for children, homeless children whose families did not have

resources without parents but although this may sound very good from doors, for within it was a very different from doors outside the Pishas children received the best education. They had good beds clothes, hot food low to sleep, friends places to run and scream but, according to some sources what happened, inside the castle it was very dark for, starting the education they received. was, very strict boys and girls were, separated and could not even speak. The boys were in a wing the girls in, another and although they were brothers they could not, nor see in second place on this site. They only accepted two children of each family. If a marriage had eight children from, these eight only two and some entered. Sources say that in this place alone,

they accepted, known friends or descendants of, Pisha's gentlemen and third end. This attracts a lot of attention is said that the children throughout the day had, many tasks that had to fulfill the. Take tomatoes clean wash clothes, have everything collected clean, but, a good part is that the boys, they could play in the basement gym and, see mute movies and a movie theater. That they had only for them on the one hand, they had a lot of work but on the other. They had great luxuries for the time and, when night fell everyone slept, crowded in different rooms children in, one part and girls in another despite. Problems a woman named Mildre H. Cherry, who was there in the 20s. He said that he was quite a lot. Well, they did activities had many. Friends were well careful,

guarded and at night all children went down to the porch and sang but they did not do this for the love of music if but because one of the gentlemen forced to do so organize them made form and then made them sing popular songs for this mode the neighbors will listen to it and people came the doors and fences down to listen to us sing but in that place no everything was good in fact mildre said that they gave them a dress a year though people thought the children had several various costumes but in reality was one year a change that the children had to take care of one of those costumes to. Mildred didn't like it and when he stayed. Alone grabbed scissors and cut off the. Sleeves was a little girl did not think, well in what I was doing and when. They learned adults submitted to. A terrible punishment will think that maybe the time hit her butt. That Mildre suffered was something very different, and they locked her in a closet, until she sew herself again. The sleeves of the dress in those, Mondre moments should have between six and nine years of age and the issue of sewing does not. It was very good so that other girls, in the middle of the night without adults,

C went to the closet and sewed it. Bye, she spent only 26 years since. This castle worked its doors closed them, without giving any explanation this could, imply that its history reached, its end, but it can be said that there was no, made more than start since all. Night Springfield's neighbors, they wanted to keep listening to the, orphan to sing everyone who passed, in front of the castle both day and, at night I wanted to see shadows in all, shadow windows of adult children listen to laugh songs people keep thinking that the castle was occupied and quickly rumors extended like gunpowder during many people sneaked into the castle and everyone who did not feel safe inside feeling insecure observed persecuted they said to see shadows even some swore and perswore seen ghosts of children there was great number of testimonies that secured see children of flesh and blood inside castillo saw them run greet them but when weighing these children they disappeared every day there was more

stories like this and in, 1942 several years after the start of, World War II the Forces, United States Armed Acquired, this castle here is a, uncomplicated to understand and is that by, one side was the castle and on the other one, very close hospital both places, they were for the army and the two were, connected through a corridor, underground the hospital was, mainly for wounded soldiers, and the castle was to recover them and in, entertain them the soldiers went to, hospital were intervened, and then, passed through the tunnel to the castle, there were nurses other doctors, rooms and apart from all this, they had a lot of offers from. Entertainment was a movie theater, Boyle's dance lounger room, billiards a library and an area,

dedicated to arts and crafts, some comedian movie stars and, artists of the time acted in the theater in the castle and, same happened in the dance hall where great bands acted but, interesting here is that the sources, officers say that the castle is place, of rest, but others say that the history of this place was a little more, cloudy and is that during the second, in this place not only, they recovered American soldiers, but also Italian-German soldiers, and Japanese high-ranking Germans. Nurses treated very badly, they shouted to the nurses and, they spit, but the Japanese, however, was well considered and treated everyone. With great respect apparently in the, Satano del Castillo, there were cells and in, one of them

is a mural of Japanese style according to several witnesses in. This cell was the Japanese soldier and, as they behaved so well they gave him, brushes and painting but interesting. Here is that according to official sources. At no time were enemy soldiers. The cells really did not work for that. They were warehouses and the castle only. It was to entertain and recover. Soldiers, injured with the end of the second. World War the place was gradually, being abandoned and people started, to core inside or, out of curiosity, or to see if they found, something of value that is how again. Rumors and legends began, about the castle everyone who is. Karaba in the basement said see strangers. Orb's special mind in the area of the cells and something

very interesting is that they said that something or someone hit them. Pipes those blows did not seem like. Rats looked like an iron bar, but they looked where they did not see. Nobody but one of the most stories. Sinister happened in the 60s. A family moved to the area and one of. Your children I swear to have made friends with. Children who lived there at the beginning. The parents let him do left him. Go to the garden play with those children end. After a few hours the little girl returned. Home frankly came with, new toys with many stories, commenting what he had done but in a certain moment the were missed, because apparently that place seemed, abandoned that one of the times that the child went to play with friends, they followed and discovered that in reality, the boy was playing

alone ran without, that nobody persecuted him laughed alone, talked with nothing, and there they decided to never come back, to the, Castillo L. Army sold the castle in, 1993, but from here everything is chaos. Some comment that he went from hand in, hand for a lot of time and others. That was not so that for many, years the castle did not find a buyer, but finally it was acquired by Tamara. Fine Kiaro this woman did everything for. Recover the castle fixed the, gardens the main entrance. Restored opened several more quarters and in, 2010 opened its doors to do, historical tours on the one hand to tours, historical by another rented rooms and, I already finally organized weddings events, convite celebrations photo sessions. The castle is

open to the public but, at the same time Tamara herself lived, inside and that was when, began to experience strange things in, an occasion when I was in there. Lobby heard a woman's voice, greet her that voice was not a whisper. It was rather a shout and, that voice echoed everywhere but, look where to look at nobody. In the first instance he thought it was his. Imagination was a very big place, lonely cold emptiness and was very normal. Imagine something like that, but with the passage of. Time strange things went to more. The second experience that lived there, it happened when he was heading to the old, children's rooms and is that while, I went up to the big stairs he saw the end of these a dark mass a species of fog that floated in the air,

and the more that thing was fixed, he faded immediately, to all employees to gardeners. The janitors told all the, world and everyone took her crazy butt. Hours later he played a tour in, that castle and the group of visitors. There were two workers who years ago, they restored parts of the castle, the quarters showed the gardens, the dining room and after. All the workers went to, she and asked if there was already, known to the ghosts of the place. While those worked there those, men lived the most, spooky voices, shadows presences, disappearance of objects and tomorrow to listen to all that stayed more quiet seeing that experiences there they were real and more and more tourists they saw strange things

tomorrow established a tour tour tour that by incredible that seems also resulted be a great success over the years fans and experts in the world paranormal determined that in that place there were a lot of entities residual entities positive entities negative but among all of them there were two who caught attention on top of all two spirits that mainly they were in the tunnels the first seems to be a soldier that this allegedly died there spirit seems to hit the pipes that are in the basements and popularly people call mr boots hits sure pipe shouts and occasionally when his boots sound in the dark a local news team decided to record a small special in this castle recorded the gardens rooms the dining room and then they sought strong emotions wanted call attention talking about ghosts and they entered the basements with a guide expert in the subject arrived there they record everything put some tension and the guide begins to attract the attention of of the, Mr. Boots asks the ghost to, manifest, but this does nothing, asks again and this still does, nothing and on the third time the team, turn off the cameras do not believe in ghosts, they do not believe that nothing going to happen, listen to anything but with the cameras,

often about to leave the, sound of a bell at the bottom of the, hall a hallway in which, nobody should supposedly see and, this leads us to the entity that, they all fear a kind of shadow that, it also hides in these tunnels, some think that a demon is a, malignant dark entity and you were a old orphanage employee a man punished children with great severity but whatever this entity does very striking things the first is that makes tourists feel very uncomfortable that feel anxiety anguish fear sadness and in a few minutes he steals all his energy and the second is that this being supposedly attacks physically some people say that inside the tunnel they feel burns a part of the body a leg one leg the back and when they leave there they discover that in that area they have either

more atones or scratches and in the event that let scratches are always three lines which according to many implies that that entity is demonic four guided t s impressions are very different at the top room dining room in all that area does not they feel fear they feel observed you can see shadow listening whispers but when they go down to the basement everything is different one of the experiences they had places that it is said that in front of a group appeared a strange shadow it was something fleddened but left a group in shock a divided group in two vision some said it was, a shadow a shadow without shape but, others said he was a tall man and, thin a man who disappeared in a, simple flickering so now is you, turn not you, what do you think

of the case and you believe, that the experiences here are real or, they are inventions, we begin from the dawn of time. Countless people have been led astray by myths and legends, by superstitions born from their own fears. Without going any further, at the dawn of the 1900s, Sarah Winchester was overcome by her own terrors. She, a descendant of the founder of the Winchester Arms Factory, after suffering a series of catastrophic misfortunes, felt pushed to believe that all those illnesses that had taken the lives of her loved ones had been caused by a curse. A curse whose origin was all the deaths her family had caused through the creation of

the Winchester weapon, the Winchester rifle. In her desperation, Sarah sought the help of a medium who told her that the only way to avoid those souls coming after her and dragging her to hell was by building a labyrinthin mansion, a mansion with no plans, no structure, and whose construction must never stop. It had to remain forever under construction, always growing. Because if it ever stopped growing, the spirits would find her and end her life. But Sarah wasn't the only person who believed in vengeful spirits. The Lutz family also suffered the wrath of dark entities, souls that were allegedly those of the Defeo family, the family murdered in the house of Amityville.

But today, we are not going to talk about baseless stories, stories that can be forgotten, stories that have merely filled pages and pages of newspapers, turning into major media spectacles. We are not going to talk about stories whose only testimony is the word of people who claim to have experienced paranormal acts, who claim to have seen shadows, who claim to have felt presences. Today, we are going to talk about some of the most documented stories in the paranormal world. And to take you there, I want to bring you with me to beautiful Venice. That city of idyllic landscapes drawn by gondolas sailing through its canals, outlined by the contours of its buildings at sunset, by the strolls of lovers through narrow alleys, by the locks

fasten to every one of its bridges. That city that inspires poetry, that inspires art, so admired for its magnificent carnivals, its mysterious masks, but above all, for its myths and legends. Very few have dared to investigate the unresolved mysteries hidden behind the city of Venice. Because like every place of light, it too has a dark history, and its dark history could not be more sinister. From Venice, countless murders are told, countless outbreaks of plague, countless deaths by vengeance, countless clashes, some of them on the bridges, clashes between rival gangs. Just steps away from the famous St. Mark Square, the story of a murder is told. It said that in one of the houses near the square, a woman was murdered by her husband. Upon being caught cheating,

the man saw his social status and honor at risk, so he had no alternative but to kill her in cold blood and flee Venice forever, a fact that made it impossible for him ever to be arrested or punished for his crime. And for that reason, the Venetians say that the ghost of that woman, the ghost of his wife, roams the streets of Venice seeking justice, seeking the man who killed her, seeking to drag him to death, seeking to return the 20 stab wounds he gave her. And many testify that, at dawn in St. Mark's Square, you can hear a woman lamenting, a woman crying out for justice through her wails. But let's move away a bit from that area. Let's go directly to the canals of Venice. Let's head to the stunning C.A. Dario Palace. To get there, one must wander

through canals and narrow alleys, which amounts to taking a thrilling journey back through time into an unrepeatable historical past. The facades of the buildings one encounters are majestic and dazzling palaces, each cloaked in countless legends about the origins of their owners and the buildings themselves. But of all of them, the most remarkable stands behind the white marble facade of CA Dario. Its story dates back to 1847, when Giovanni Dario, an important senator and merchant, decided to purchase the land to build an inheritance for his daughter, Marietta. But he didn't want to build a simple little house with a quaint garden decorated with ivy and tall lindens. He wanted to create a grand palace, and he wanted his architect to be

Pietro Lombardo. Giovanni cared little for the legends about that land. He didn't care that locals repeatedly warned that beneath those mounds of earth was an ancient Templar cemetery, and that if their peace was disturbed, if the rest of each and every Templar buried there was interrupted, a curse would fall upon his family and upon all who inhabited the house. Giovanni didn't believe in legends. He didn't believe in tales. He only wanted to give his daughter a great gift, and what better gift than a palace in the heart of beautiful Venice. During construction, there were no problems.

The trouble began after the works were completed and Marietta, along with her newlywed husband, Cienzo Barbaro, moved in. It was then that Giovanni Dario died under strange circumstances. And it was then that Marietta discovered one of the family's darkest secrets, their slow descent into bankruptcy. All the couple's efforts to restore the family business were in vain. They slowly hit rock bottom, becoming pariahs of high society. No one invited them to parties anymore. No one wanted to trade with them. No one wanted to maintain social ties. with the Dario family, much less with her husband's family, the Barbaros. So, little by little, the couple descended further into madness and despair, until Marietta ultimately took her own life

in the main salon. Her death was soon followed by her husbands, who also took his life, out of shame, shame for having lost everything, and for having lost his wife in such circumstances. From that moment, the black legend of C.A. Dario began, the dark legend of the palace surrounded by water and haunted by ghosts. Locals swore they saw, late at night, a female silhouette wandering through the windows, roaming the rooms, going from floor to floor, lightly striking the keys of a family heirloom piano. The people of Venice began to spread the popular belief that anyone who sought to acquire the property would suffer the same curse as the Dario's. But those who only entered to admire its majesty, would enjoy incredible

fortune for the rest of their lives. Years passed before anyone dared to live in that house again, that person was a descendant of Vincenzo Barbaro. After the couple's death, the palace had passed into the Barbaro family inheritance. In the 15th century, it was occupied by Giacomo Barbaro, thanks to his position as governor of Candia. There, he managed to gain control over a large fleet and many villas. Jackamo practically owned half of Venice. But unfortunately, after acquiring the palace, he never got to enjoy it. Just a few months later, without ever setting foot inside, he was murdered under strange circumstances. To this day, his death remains an unsolved case. His successor didn't fare much better. The next buyer was a

wealthy diamond merchant named Arbid Abdel. During one of his business trips, he was sailing through the canals of Venice, when he caught sight of C. A. Dario's majestic facade. He quickly asked his companions about the property, but none of them dared say a word about C.A. Dario. All they told him was that the house should never be bought, and that no one should ever cross its threshold as an owner. Ignoring all warnings, the merchant went to City Hall, demanded the mayor bring the current owner before him, and offered a large sum of money to make that marvel part of his estate within 24 hours. To the Barbaro family, this was a golden opportunity to rid themselves of the House of Horrors. They didn't hesitate a second to accept the money

and hand over the property. And just as everyone predicted, soon after acquiring it, Arbit Abdel fell into bankruptcy, a bankruptcy that forced him to sell off all his assets. But there was something that kept him from selling C.A. Dario, according to him, the palace wouldn't let him leave. The Palace wanted to take care of him, and indeed, it did. Until one October night, the merchant was found dead at the foot of the marble stairs in the main hall, at the foot of those very stairs that had witnessed his slow downfall, as he succumbed to a strange illness that, to this day, remains unknown. To be continued.

They had observed how he had slowly fallen into disgrace, how he had slowly been overcome by a strange illness that, to this day, remains unknown. After his death, the people of Venice once again told their legends, once again created popular songs, once again told stories about the visions of the ghosts of the former owners of C.A. Dario. People spoke of the ghost of a woman who wept, people spoke of a piano that played in the early hours of the morning, and people spoke of the coughing of a man behind the curtains of the first floor, behind the curtains that led directly to the marble staircase where Arbit Dahl was found dead. But once again, these stories are you.

did not manage to scare off potential buyers. And in 1838, Brandon Brown, an English scholar on a tour through Beautiful Italy, was captivated by the beauty, by the majestic beauty and the immaculate facades of CA, Dario. In that fortress, Brandon Brown saw a way out, an escape from the monotony, from the routine life of the big city. In its marbles, in its duccoes, in its tapestries, in its carpets, in its draperies, Brandon saw paradise, a paradise that Venetians had long since ceased to perceive. So, he didn't hesitate to acquire it. But unfortunately, his stay there only lasted until 1842, the year in which both his body and that of a friend of his were found dead at the foot of the same staircase, the staircase where Arbit Dahl himself had been found. Their

autopsies showed that both had committed suicide, and the motive for their suicides could have been bankruptcy. It was well known that Brandon Brown was homosexual and had escaped there, had escaped to CA, Dario, to live happily with his lover. But shortly after acquiring the building, just like all the previous owners, bankruptcy had struck his life and had gradually dragged him into the deepest misery, a misery for which neither he nor his lover were prepared. A misery that would distance them from the upper classes. And they were not willing to live that life, they were not willing to feel socially humiliated. And so, they decided to end their lives at the same time on that same staircase. But I suppose we will never know that

for certain. Years later, the house once again found a new buyer, someone who once again ignored the ghost stories, once again ignored the legends. Once again, the house was acquired by a man in love with its architecture, in love with its art, with the sense of security, with the sense a piece that comes from passing through its gates. His name was Charles Briggs, and his origin was exactly the same as that of Brandon Brown. He was also English, and he too was homosexual. But shortly after moving into the residence, shortly after living there with his lover, he began to feel strange things, began to sense presences, to see shadows, to feel as if in the middle of the night someone whispered things in his ear. And at that moment, he decided to

asked the locals what had happened there. And when he heard the legend, when he heard the myth and the curse that hovered over C.A. Dario, he decided to flee to Mexico with nothing but the clothes on his back, trying to escape the curse. But unfortunately, one cannot escape fate. And shortly after arriving there, after reaching his destination, both died by suicide. Many point to the fact that Charles Briggs was a victim of bankruptcy, but to this day, we still don't know for sure. Many years passed before the house was inhabited again, before someone decided to acquire the property. And who better than someone who already knew the legends and wasn't afraid of them? Count Giordano Delon, who acquired the property to live there with

his lover Raoul, an 18-year-old Serbian youth. Everyone knew that the count was not willing to love only one person. He wasn't willing to be faithful to anyone, not even capable of being faithful to his wife. How could he possibly be faithful to his own lover? So, you can imagine the rest of the story. You can imagine the humiliation Roel felt each day, seeing different men and women walk through the door, seeing the house filled with a great number of people who weren't visitors, people who stayed for long periods, enjoying the company of his beloved count. Many say madness took hold of Raoul, but others say it was the very negative aura of CA, Dario that drove the young man to commit murder, grabbing a bronze statue and striking his beloved as many times as necessary to take his life,

and then fleeing to London, escaping justice, escaping the police. But he did not manage to escape his fate. He did not manage to escape the curse. For he too had lived there. He too had enjoyed the luxuries of the mansion. And it was in London that someone, whose identity remains unknown to this day, took his life under strange circumstances. The list of Deaths caused by CA. Dario does not end here. The list continues, continues with the names of people who did not believe in curses, who did not believe in ghost stories. And then came its next victim, Fabrizio Ferrari, a well-known businessman. This man, unlike the previous owners, did not buy the

property out of love for its majesty. He did not buy it for the art or for what it made him feel. He bought it for the simple reason of having one more residence. He already had several in the Tuscany region, but he was missing something, something that would make his fortune, his wealth, stand out above the rest. And that was a residence in Venice, the city of love, the city of gondolas, of the most beautiful carnivals in the world. And what better display of wealth and fortune than the white marble façade of C.A. Dario. The façade that brought together so many architectural styles, and those gates adorned with little demon heads, that oh so typical venerial, decoration. He wanted that resident simply to show how powerful he was. But he wasn't capable of living in such a large house alone. So, he invited his younger sister to live with him. Shortly after

acquiring it, he began to slowly fall into debt, to feel that little by little his savings were disappearing, to feel terribly alone, assaulted by a strange darkness, a darkness that spread through all the rooms of the residents. Everywhere. A dry cold in some corners of the house. Shadows. Sighs. Whispers. The sound of slow high heels in the early morning. And just like the locals had described, he too saw a woman appear at his bedroom window and looked down. He too heard someone crying. He too followed a bodiless voice, the coughing of someone at the foot of the marble staircase. And not only he was immersed in that anxiety, in that desperation, but also his little sister. But more than anything, what truly

worried him was bankruptcy, the humiliation of no longer belonging to the upper class. So one day, overwhelmed by despair, he got into his luxury car, stepped on the gas, and left Venice, without realizing that the roads he was taking were too dangerous to travel at such speed. So you can already imagine his end. But the story of Fabrizio doesn't end there. Because as I mentioned earlier, under that same roof lived his younger sister, who sometime later was found dead next to her car in an empty field, and unclothed. And that death, to this day, remains a complete mystery. The police have never been able to find the culprit, nor determine the circumstances

in which Fabrizio's sister died. Next, we come across quite a peculiar case. And that is that sometime later, the Tenor Armario del Monaco suffered an accident on his way to sign the document certifying that the house would become part of his estate. He suffered an accident that left him hospitalized for eight months. After that misfortune, his loved ones informed him of the curse that loomed over CA, Dario and all its owners. So, as soon as he recovered from the shock and the accident, he decided not to buy the house.

But it was already too late, because he had fallen for C.A. Dario, and the palace of C.A. Dario had fallen for him. And weeks after making his decision, he suffered a heart attack that led to his death. The residents remained abandoned for 21 years, 21 years left to its fate, devoured by ivy, by the passage of time, by the wear of its stones, by the slow destruction of its legends and tales. The locals stopped hearing the piano, stopped hearing the laments, stopped seeing the female figure wandering the halls, stopped hearing the coughing, stopped feeling life in that house, feeling the chill upon passing. The silence over C.A. Dario was so immense that in 1981, no one warned Christopher Lambert, former manager of DeJou, about the curse of C.A. Dario.

No one found it strange that from one day to the next, the man was captivated by the building. No one found it strange that he couldn't think about anything else, that he sighed constantly thinking about that house, about that palace in the middle of the water, in the middle of the canals of Venice. The next day, he acquired the property, and his name was entered in the Venetian land registry. He received a call from his mother, who was celebrating a birthday and requested his presence. He didn't think twice, and quickly boarded a plane that took him straight to his hometown. But what he didn't know was that once there, he would fall down the stairs, hit his head, and die from a cerebral hemorrhage. The band's bassist decided to stay in C.A. Dario for a while,

to remember old times with Christopher. And indeed, he didn't die there, not in CA, Dario, but he did die under strange circumstances at age 57 in Las Vegas. But the nightmare didn't end then. The nightmare ended in 1993, when Raoul Jardini acquired the property and died by suicide, a suicide caused by a gunshot to the forehead. And his reasons were once again the same ones that had led to the deaths of the previous owners, ruin, despair, and the curse. A curse that ultimately led Venice to brick up those

oriental style windows, to tear down the draperies, and to completely seal off that building, to isolate it from the world, to isolate it from people, to isolate it from potential buyers. It stopped appearing in auctions. It stopped being mentioned in popular conversation. Venice stopped speaking of it, not because they had forgotten its curse, but out of fear that someone might hear the story and want to prove themselves brave by acquiring the palace. And in fact, until then, no one had shown any sign of wanting to acquire it. No one had fallen in love with its majesty or its beauty. No one had been enchanted by its white marbles, until 2006.

The year when the windows were no longer boarded up. The year when the bricks blocking its doors began to fall, fall due to the blows of shovels and rakes. Because in 2006, the palace was acquired by an American millionaire, perhaps unaware of the terrible fate of its former owners. And there had to be something inside that old shack. It was too boarded up, not just your run-of-the-mill abandoned building kind of boarded up. Someone had gone out of their way to make sure nobody got inside. I mean, who uses perfectly measured, store-bought MDF panels to seal up a rickety,

weather-beaten shack in the middle of nowhere. If all you wanted was to keep animals out, you'd just nail a couple of old planks across the door, right? No, this was different. Someone wanted whatever was inside to stay inside. And I wanted to know why. Now, I'm not exactly a professional when it comes to breaking and entering, but it doesn't take an expert to know how to pry some would loose with the crowbar. Lucky for me, I had the best crowbar money couldn't buy. This beauty had history. It was the same crowbar my dad used to take down his old treehouse, and my granddad before him did the same. A generational tool passed down for one noble purpose, tearing down childish things

and moving on. I, on the other hand, had never had a treehouse of my own. Never had anything to dismantle in the name of growing up. But looking at that shack, I figured maybe, just maybe, I could turn whatever was left into something of my own. You know, after I ransacked the place. The first board gave way with a satisfying squeal, the kind that makes your teeth tingle and your heart race. A good, solid nail squeak is something special, like a reminder that you're really making progress. But as the nails pulled free, I noticed something off. The shack looked ancient from the outside, all gray, splintering wood and rotting beams, but the way these boards were attached told a different story.

The wood under the MDF was fresher than it had any right to be. Someone had been here. Recently. And that could only mean one thing, something valuable was inside. I worked carefully, prying loose each board and resisting the urge to take a peek until I had a full view. Patience is a virtue, sure, but I had already spotted something strange through the widening gap. A faint, pulsing glow. Black light, maybe.

and an electric hum, like an old neon sign struggling to stay lit. My fingers itched with excitement. I hung my crowbar on a couple of rusted nails jutting out of the wall, took a deep breath, and yanked the last board free. Then I stuck my whole damn arm in before I could think better of it. The space inside was smaller than I expected. Dark. Muggy.

And weirdly vibrant. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I wasn't alone. Across from me, silhouetted against that eerie glow, was a row of tiny figures sitting at what looked like a miniature bar. Heads bobbed. Feathers rustled. Birds. Not just any birds, crows.

A whole gang of them, perched on itty-bitty bar stools, hunched over tiny mugs of what looked like frothy beer. And they were staring right at me. One particularly large crow, pitch black and glossy, took a slow. step forward. Its beady little eyes locked onto mine as it tilted its head. Then, with deliberate force, it lunged forward and pecked me square on the nose. Call. Now, I don't speak fluent crow, but that peck carried some serious weight. It wasn't just a warning, it was a statement. A challenge. The bird wobbled its head side to side, like it was sizing me up from every

angle, making sure I understood exactly how deep in shit I was. And when it was satisfied, it looked me dead in the eye and caught again. The room shifted. The atmosphere turned heavy, almost suffocating, like a bar fight was about to break out. A terrible, ridiculous bar fight. I tried to smile, maybe defused the tension, but my attempt at a casual shrug only wedged me deeper into the hole I had crawled through. The other crows didn't take kindly to my awkward floundering. Barstools screeched across the floor as they pushed back from the bar, tiny mugs spilling over, wings unfurling in unison. A few started making unmistakable gestures. One flapped its wings an inch apart while eyeing me up and down, as if to say, pathetic.

Another lifted a wing, let it droop sadly, and shook its head. A brutal display of mockery. I had walked into a den of trash talking, beer drinking, fully armed. armed birds. And they did not respect me. Somewhere behind the feathery peanut gallery, the bartender crow was losing his mind. He had been calling non-stop, but now he was waving something at me. Something small, metallic, and unmistakably deadly. A tiny shotgun. And those beady little eyes? Yeah, they were full of murder. Self-preservation finally kicked in. I twisted, scrambled, and yanked myself out of that shack, collecting a fair share of splinters in the process.

I didn't stop to catch my breath until I had slapped the boards back up in a frenzied, uneven mess, making damn sure nobody else could make the same mistake I had. I managed to retrieve my crowbar. That was the only good news. And you know what? I did build myself a treehouse after all. Then I tore it down, set it on foot. fire, and spit on the ashes. Because I am a man. At 6.30 in the morning on July 22,

1973, a man decided to go fishing. He chose a spot that seemed perfect for it, a small bridge located in Reading, in Souther County. But that day, he didn't find fish. Instead, he found the lifeless body of a 23-year-old girl named Nancy Fosse. The woman was partially dressed. She wore a miniskirt and bikini-style underwear. Near the body, a blouse was found. But the most shocking thing wasn't that. It was the cause of death, 29 stab wounds all over her body. It was a personal, passionate crime with a clear sexual component.

She was half-naked, lying on the ground next to the water. But there was no blood at the scene, which suggested the body had been moved there. They looked around and found tire tracks. Clearly, the body had been placed there. Unfortunately, the investigation was sloppy and rushed. Nancy Darlane Fawsey, despite being so young, had five children. Five children from two different men. The first two were from her ex-boyfriend, and the next three from her ex-husband Jerry,

a man with a bad reputation. They said he was violent, involved with gangs, an alcoholic. Not a good man, and he had a record of abuse. In fact, Nancy had reported him. After they separated, the woman fled from him, took her kids, and tried to rebuild her life. She seemed to be doing well. She had turned the page, but Jerry was stalking her. He would call mutual friends, family members, threaten her, follow her.

He swore and swore again that one day he would kill her. So the case seemed open and shut. But the police didn't see it that way, and Nancy Fossi's murder remains unsolved to this day. For some strange reason, the case was linked to serial killers. First to the Santa Rosa hitchhiker killer, then to Ted Bundy because of the nature of the crime. The strangest link was to the Zodiac killer, even though the modus operandi didn't match. Still, the important thing is this, the crime was never solved, and the obvious suspect was ignored. It was clear that the culprit was Jerry, her ex-husband.

Even so, the police never investigated him or kept him under surveillance. They saw a woman with five kids had died, and those five kids had nowhere to go. They could have found a foster home, a good place for them. But the easiest thing was to hand them over to the victim's ex-husband. Even the older kids, who weren't biologically his, spoke with Jerry, asked if he wanted them. told him that by taking them in, he'd receive some kind of pension or aid. Of course, he accepted. And that's when a new nightmare began. Jerry had a new partner at the time, a woman named Rebecca, and with her, he had three more children. Rebecca had been his mistress

while he was with Nancy and got pregnant around the same time Nancy did. Still, Jerry had no shame. He had two women, neither knowing about the other. And he had no remorse. Now he spoke to Rebecca about taking in the five kids, and with the pension involved, Rebecca agreed. But the house they lived and only had two bedrooms, and they would be ten people in total. Still, there was money involved. The five kids were just a paycheck. They didn't want to care for them, raise them, give them a good life or education.

They wanted the money. And as soon as the kids walked in the door, their lives became hell. Rebecca was a difficult woman, with a complicated personality, and she always favoured her children over the others. Her kids had everything, new clothes, birthday gifts, Christmas presents, special celebration surprises. Her three kids were the priority. The other five were just there. She didn't care for them, didn't pay attention to them, didn't want anything to do with them. But if she was bad, Jerry was worse. He was an alcoholic, violent, and constantly lashed out at everyone. His main victim was Rebecca, he beat her, humiliated her, and once even took her to the garage,

tied her up, poured gasoline on her, and tried to set her on fire. If it weren't for the children, she would have died. And even after that, Jerry continued. He kept abusing her, beating her, humiliating her, and the kids suffered too. He'd punish them by not letting them go out, not giving them food or water, and beat them if they said they were hungry. It was horrific, inhuman. But among all the children, there was one who seemed to suffer more than the rest, Nancy Fossey and Jerry's eldest daughter, Angela Darlane Fossy, born October 2, 1968. Her mother died when she was only five years old. They had a strong bond, and Angela Whiton everything. The abuse, the escape, her mother's pain, her tears, they're fleeing. She saw

it all. She suffered it. And now in Jerry's house, the hell continued. The rest of the kids, facing the abuse, stuck together, formed a tight group, became accomplices. But Angela was isolated. She didn't talk to anyone, didn't interact, barely raised her voice. And according to her siblings, Jerry often stayed alone with her, which suggested things were worse for her. Unfortunately, there's no evidence of what may have happened. The siblings believed Jerry abused her, but Angela never said anything. So whether it happened or not, she never spoke of it. After finishing high school, Angela packed her things and disappeared.

They say she fell in love with a carnival worker and traveled the country with him. But as you can imagine, it wasn't a sweet love story. story with a happy ending. Angela became addicted to drugs. She stayed with this man, time passed, they broke up, and she met a truck driver named Anthony Maples, whom she fell madly in love with. The drug story repeated itself, only this time, it was worse. The couple lost control, lived for drugs, and the relationship made no sense. They broke up, got back together, promised each other eternal love, broke up again. They broke up. They They had no idea what they were doing with their lives.

But the one constant was drugs. At some point, they thought the solution to everything was to have kids. That children would fix the chaos. So they had three, Anthony Jr., Brandon, and little Jeanette Marie Maples, born on August 9, 1993. But as you can guess, the children weren't the answer. They didn't solve anything. The children brought more chaos.

In 1994, Angela and Anthony collapsed. They were arrested for a drug-related offense, and the three kids were left alone. That's when the system realized something was wrong. An unstable couple with addiction issues, alone with three children. Those three children were completely on their own. So social services stepped in. They went to the house, took the kids, and looked for a foster home. That's when they had the brilliant idea.

to contact Angela's father, Jerry. They spoke with him, asked if he'd take the kids, and mentioned he'd receive a small pension for each child. Jerry was thrilled. As soon as Angela got out of prison and found out, she demanded her kids back. But of course, it wasn't going to be easy. A legal battle began, against Jerry and the system.

Angela wasn't ready to be a mother. She had many issues, and Jerry was not fit to foster children. either. But the system took a long time to realize this. Jerry kept the kids. Angela didn't get them back. Eventually, the children were placed in a foster home where they were apparently very happy. They were treated well, loved, and cared for. Angela was granted weekly visits, but barely showed up. She'd missed them, arrive late, make excuses. There were always problems. For years, she didn't show real interest. But in 2001, she got another chance. A judge directly asked the three kids

if they wanted to return to her. The answers were unexpected. Anthony Jr. flat out refused. Brandon too. But little Jeanette, who was eight at the time, said yes. She told the judge she loved her mother and missed her. And just for saying that, she went back to her. When they took Jeanette away, she was barely a year and a half. Since then, she'd only seen her mom once or twice a month. She'd get an occasional call, but not much else. Still, Jeanette wanted to be with her, and the judge took that seriously. The older kids stayed in the foster home, and Jeanette returned to Angela. Mother and daughter reunited in 2002. Angela had proven herself stable, she had a good life, no addictions, and could now provide everything.

She had married a man named Richard McAnulty, and they lived in a lovely house in Sacramento. A beautiful house with a nice garden, several bedrooms. A home in a good neighborhood. From the outside, they looked like the perfect family. And Jeanette had a place with them. The little girl moved in. For a while, everything seemed fine. Angela got pregnant and gave birth to Patience McAnulty.

The family remained stable for several years. Neighbors said they seemed completely normal, and Jeanette was a sweetheart. Loving, warm, very well-mannered. A happy, friendly little girl. At school, everyone adored her. They said she was smart, got good grades, always played with others. They constantly said she was a joy, a bright light. But in 2005, the family decided to start fresh.

Angela got pregnant again, and the house felt too small. In 2006, she gave birth to a boy named Richard Jr., and they packed up and moved to a city in Oregon. They looked for a large, spacious house with a garden in several rooms. They rented a place on Howard Avenue. Once there, Jeanette stood out again. Neighbors repeated what they always said, she was kind. mind, polite, sweet, very open and friendly. At school, everyone loved her. She quickly won everyone's affection. But soon, they realized something was wrong with this little girl. To be

continued, the neighbors repeat the same, as always, that she was attentive, polite, loving, very open, very friendly and, at school everyone adored her. In a short time she won everyone's affection, but soon they realized that something was wrong with this little girl. Everything started in a curious way. And it was that, overnight, Jeanette started to lose weight. She looked thinner, with dark circles, very sleepy, very, hungry. And on her body were bruises, scratches, small wounds, bruises. Whenever they asked her, she said, she fell, that she was clumsy, that she hit herself on, table, fell down the stairs, but the signs got worse. She started showing up, at school with dirty hair, with, stained clothes. For several days, in a row she wore the same clothes and the

little siblings were dressed well, in clean clothes. Nobody understood what was, happening, so they called her mother, Angela. They asked what was going on, if there, were any problems. But Angela said it was all, Jeanette's doing, that she didn't want to, change clothes, that she didn't want to eat, that she didn't want to bathe. If the girl didn't want to, she wasn't going to force her. When, they asked about the bruises, Angela, said she was just clumsy, but clearly, something shady was going on. Angela said that the girl didn't want to eat, but at, school her stomach was growling. The teachers asked about her lunch, what she had brought, and the little one had, two answers. At first, she showed, very little food, a couple of cookies, a bit of cheese, but over time she didn't even, bring anything.

She started saying that at home, there was no food, that they didn't feed her, that her mother didn't let her, bring lunch. So at school, they secretly gave her food and noticed, that the girl always ate in a desperate way. She ate like there was no, tomorrow, like she was starving, it was so striking that, they called the mother. And when Angela, found out, Jeanette stopped eating. She wouldn't accept, food from anyone, not cookies, not, sandwiches, nothing. She spent the whole day without eating. And of course, the school ended up calling child services because what was, happening made no sense.

In total, they called twice, but neither time, did they do anything at all? They didn't, investigate, didn't ask. Jeanette directly, they went to the mother, to Angela. And this woman always had, excuses, that she had three children, that the, little ones were fine, well cared for, that the problem wasn't her, but, Jeanette, that Jeanette was rebellious, that she didn't want to eat, that she didn't bathe, that she was, very careless, that she was a big liar. But, in 2007 came the last straw. And it was that this girl's best friend, Amber Davis, was alarmed. She saw, Jeanette in bad shape, hungry, like rats, dirty. She didn't understand what was happening and, so she asked about it. At, first Jeanette didn't want to talk, made excuses, that she fell, that she wasn't, hungry, that she didn't want to bathe, but, in the end,

She broke down and confessed, told her that her mother abused her when, they were in seventh grade. She told her that, her mother was very strict with her, that, she locked her in her room for hours, wouldn't let her eat, drink, go to the bathroom, that she punished her facing the wall, with her arms up and one leg, raised. She also said that her, mother hit her for anything, for talking, for not talking, for asking for food, for, asking for water, for anything. Angela hit her. She hit her with hands, with objects, with cans, with branches, any object was good, to hit her.

And hearing this she was, crystal clear. As soon as she got home, she told her parents and they called, the school. All the alarms, went off and child services, were alerted. This time, finally, they tried to do something. A, social worker showed up at the McAnulty. family home. Knocked on the door, came in to see what was happening, spoke with, Angela. On the surface, everything was, normal, clean house, tidy and the, younger children were

impeccable, well, groomed, well-dressed, perfumed, eating in the kitchen. Of Jeanette there was, no trace, but of course neither did, he asked. He spoke directly with Angela, asked about it. And the woman gave a bunch of lies that Janet was very, lazy, that she didn't bathe, didn't want to, eat, didn't want to drink, that she was very bad, behaved terribly, and also, was a compulsive liar. So the, case was closed. Nobody bought, Angela McEnady's story. There was something, very shady going on here, something that didn't, make sense. And every day Jeanette got worse.

At school she looked very happy. She was diligent, always willing to, volunteer for everything. Worked hard, was cheerful, pleasant, but when it was time to go home, her attitude changed completely. She became quieter, sad, downcast, looked terrible, and from school went to the library. She spent the whole day out of the house and didn't return until nightfall. Nobody could call her, on the phone. nobody could visit her and her. Mother didn't let her go to anyone's house. Something very shady was going on. But after the last report, Angela removed her from school and no one

ever saw her again. She told everyone, she was going to study from home, not to worry that everything was fine, that, there was no problem. Maybe she thought, that this way no one would report again, that, they wouldn't see what was going on, that she was, safe. but what she didn't count on was that her mother-in-law would notice and that this woman wouldn't give up. Lynn McConnulty adored her grandchildren and, Jeanette was one of them. She was, her eldest granddaughter, she adored her. That's why, on each visit she paid more attention. She saw that the little ones were well, dressed, well cared for, but Jeanette, was always punished.

Always, in a corner, facing the wall. alone. And when she wasn't, punished, she looked terrible. Dirty, hair, torn clothes, stained, very thin, worn out, bruised. And when she, asked Angela, she always had, excuses. If she was punished, she deserved it. If she was dirty, it was because, she didn't want to bathe. And if she was thin, it was because she didn't want to eat. And if she asked, too much, Angela would get, hysterical and kick her out of the house. Still, Lynn ignored the excuses and reported, what was happening twice. She, not only reported Angela, but also, her own son Richard and accused them, of child abuse and neglect. But, incredibly, nobody did anything. No one checked,

no one investigated. This case was worthless. Nobody, answered the calls, they ignored them, and in October 2009, Lynn visited that house for the last time, and saw Jeanette like never before. By then, Jeanette, was 16 years old, but she looked so bad, you couldn't tell. She was shorter than, normal, very skinny, malnourished, dehydrated, covered in bruises, and the worst of all was that she had a split, lip. Of course, Lynn asked, for an explanation. And Angela replied with the, same excuse, that she fell. Nothing, made sense anymore.

And for the third time Lynn called child services, but again, no one listened. What was really happening in, that house was that Angela was replicating her, own childhood in her eldest daughter, Jeanette Marie, Maples. Everything she lived as a child was, now being repeated. She made Jeanette feel what she had felt and, seeing no one did anything, it escalated. It all started because supposedly, Jeanette was jealous of her little brother, Richard Jr. she misbehaved, sought attention and consequently was locked, in her room. She was left without, snacks, without dinner.

But supposedly, her behavior got worse. For days, she wouldn't let her eat, use, the bathroom, drink water, she didn't wash her, her clothes, didn't comb her hair, completely neglected her, and if she talked back, she hit her. Over time, the punishments escalated, not only was she not allowed to eat, but, she locked everything with padlocks. On the, cabinets, on the fridge, didn't let her, drink water. So she cut off, the water supply so she couldn't, drink, forcing her to find water, in street puddles, the toilet, or from the dog bowl of their German shepherd, named Nikita. According to Angela, no punishment, worked. She took her toys, took the furniture from her room,

took everything, and, Jeanette ended up sleeping on a piece of, cardboard on the floor. At Christmas, everyone ate a lot, elaborate meals, but Jeanette ate just, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And on birthdays there were presents, everywhere, but for Jeanette, nothing, she hit her whenever, however, with all kinds of objects. And when that, happened, she forced the girl to, take off her clothes, so it would, hurt more. These scenes were, witnessed by the whole family. The little, kids saw it and couldn't do anything. And Richard McEnulty directly, didn't interact, looked the other way, according to him, because he was afraid of Angela.

This story got worse every day and on. December 9th, 2009, Angela, went too far and gave her. The final beating, after which the girl didn't respond. The scene that followed was atrocious and, of course, I won't describe it. Hours passed, they didn't ask for help, didn't call an ambulance, didn't take her to the hospital and, when night came, Angela and Richard saw that Jeanette was lifeless. So, without hesitation, the woman grabbed the phone and called her mother-in-law. In that, call she was crying, screaming, and said, she didn't know what happened, that she had,

punished the girl and she wasn't responding. She said she was cold, that she couldn't, wake her up and Lynn asked, did you call, Emergency, to which Angela, responded no, because that would mean going to, jail. Lynn demanded to speak to her son, demanded to speak to. to Richard and when he answered, she demanded he call emergency. Told him to call or she would call, the police and show up at the house. That, either he called or she would, but when, she hung up she didn't believe anything. Lynn called, emergency and then called Angela again, and this time asked what, happened, to which Angela replied that she, punished her daughter, but maybe this time,

it got out of hand. D'R. Daniel Davis, who handled the autopsy, said Jeanette suffered so much, damage that he couldn't determine what, killed her. Whether the blows, starvation, dehydration, pneumonia, the body was completely, destroyed, unrecognizable, and from the wounds it was even disfigured. Lynn, McAnulty that same night asked to see, the body, asked to say goodbye, to her granddaughter, but the police recommended, she not do it.

They said, you don't have, to do this. They told her she weighed, 23 kilograms. Richard at the station tried, to take the blame. First he said, he did everything and then admitted it, was Angela. But he was just as, guilty as she was, because unfortunately, he didn't report it. He said he was afraid that she was an aggressive woman, very, intimidating and that recently he had a heart attack. So out of fear of another, he did nothing. And Angela, for her, part tried to deny everything. Said, Jeanette fell a lot, that she was clumsy, but later

half confessed what she had, done. I hit my daughter I don't know how many times, but only on the but. I did, wrong. It was horrible. I'm very sorry. I wish I could take it back. I didn't, cause the head wound and I know, that probably killed her. The, arrests shocked everyone. Tomirasi, who rented them, the house, the end. I grabbed Iris and pulled her toward the car. She stood like a statue, resistant and unmoving. Iris, we need to go.

I hissed. She seemed to wake up then, looking at me. Then she looked past me, her eyes glancing up. and widening with horror. I turned, seeing the crooked man peering down from the upstairs window, his top hat balanced on his alien skull, a grin of sadistically marring his face. We need to leave, I repeated, pulling her. She came willingly. We stumbled away from the corpse of Ben. The crooked man's black eyes followed us like cameras. I got her in the car and peeled out of there. Every time I closed my eyes, though, even just a

blink, I would catch a glimpse of the crooked man's smiling visage. Where are we going? Iris called. We need to call the cops. My phone is upstairs on the floor somewhere. The cops aren't going to help us, I said. That thing isn't human. It can go wherever it wants, apparently. You think a police station would protect us. The cops would leave for a few minutes and come back to find us dead. We need to end this. We need to go to the abandoned factory, the, abandoned factory. Iris asked, confused. I told her the story, everything that had happened up to that point, even the vision of my grandmother.

That's fucking nuts, Iris muttered. This whole thing is crazy. There's no way there's actually such a thing as a crooked man shit like that doesn't happen in real life. It's got to be a serial killer in some sort of weird costume. You know it's not, I answered. You saw that thing. That's no mask. I sped on the highway at 100 miles an hour toward Union, toward the abandoned factory where this had all started so many years ago.

As we pulled into the cracked lot surrounding the old, run-down building, a sense of overwhelming dread crashed through my chest. I felt like I was stuck in some cyclical nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. I pulled out a cigarette and lighter from my cup holder and lit it. Iris gave me a strange look. This is probably my last cigarette, I said. Might as well enjoy it. Iris didn't say anything, her dilated eyes simply flicking around randomly. She looked like she was still partially in shock.

Slowly, she got out of the car, limping across the parking lot by my side. I hurt my ankle when I jumped from the window, she said. said, I don't think I'm going to be doing much running. It feels swollen. I'm just glad you still have the point four five, I said. Though I wish you had grabbed the AR. She shook her head. Ben shot that thing with a 10-gauge shotgun in the chest. With a slug, she said. It didn't work. The pistol might slow it down, but it's not going to kill it. We need to find another way. I remembered the graffiti in the factory, destroy it with fire. Save Your Soul, we found a threshold in the back where the door was totally knocked off the hinges.

It lay on top of crunching shards of glass and layers of thick dust. Old rectangular tables were still nailed into the wooden floor, their surfaces pockmarked and covered in grime. Most of the windows had giant, spiderwebbing cracks running through the glass, though some were just smashed entirely. I had never been here, but as I walked further in, I realized it was exactly the same as I had seen in my vision with my grandmother. Even the same graffiti was there. Don't look behind you, was splayed across the wall in giant letters. Fuck, this place is creepy, Iris whispered.

She held the ruger clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white. Where do we go? I'm not sure, I said. I think we're supposed to burn something. we should just burn down the whole factory. Iris gave me a funny look. That's your plan. Lighting an abandoned building on fire, she asked with an expression of grave concern. Let's look around, I said. Maybe we're supposed to find something. We descended deeper into the factory, through more identical rooms that looked like they were from the apocalypse.

At the end, I found old, concrete steps leading down into the pitch-black basement. I pulled out my cell phone, shining the LED light down the steps. Iris gave me a worried look. Let's go, I whispered grimly. I felt watched here, even more than at Iris House. I knew the crooked man was near, biting his time, playing with his food like a cat with a mouse. The steps led into a concrete boiler room with ancient, rusted machinery still welded into the floor. All over the dark walls, someone had spray-painted pictures of extended, contorted arms and limbs with fingers like talons. There was a smell down here, too, a smell like rotting bodies. As we got to the center, I heard crying behind us. I turned to see my grandmother, pale and ghostly,

crying into her hands. Grandma? I whispered. Iris looked at me, confused. Who are you talking to, She asked. I shook my head. My grandmother looked up at me, fresh tears in her ghostly eyes. Jack, you need to burn it, my grandmother said with a quaver in her voice. The corpse of the owner, the one who killed us all, it's hidden in the surge pump. We came together to end it, to end the deaths, but it didn't stop it. Somehow, he's still connected to this world through that body.

It's been in there, festering like an open wound for who knows how long, I looked at the surge pump across the room. Iris could apparently neither see nor hear my grandmother. It's in there, I murmured, pointing at the pump. We need to burn the body hidden in there. The surge pump had valves and a giant will at the end. It was a horizontal cylinder that looked just big enough to stuff a man's body into. The rusted pipes grew smaller as they crawled up the wall.

I put my hands on the rusted wheel and turned. It looked like something from a submarine door. With a squeal of tortured metal, the surge pump began opening. It was difficult going. Iris came and put her small body behind it, and I felt it turning faster. How are we going to burn it, though? I asked myself, grunting through the effort. behind the surge pump, I found the answer. A fairly fresh dead body lay there hidden under the metal

of the surge pump, holding a small can of gasoline. It looked like a young man in his 20s with dark hair and tan skin. His arms and legs had been ripped off, and now only a decomposing torso and head remained. Another victim of the crooked man? Iris asked. He was so close, I wondered, at that moment, how many others had been drawn here, how many victims the crooked man was hunting. I grabbed the gasoline. I heard a skittering of feet behind us. Iris backpedaled and gave a horrified scream. In terror, I looked behind us and saw the crooked man, flanked by the transformed bodies of seven children. Their arms and legs had all grown in humanly long, bending in strange places like crooked stalks. Their faces had become like

the crooked man's, their eyes black and lips blue, their teeth long and dark, their movements jerky and eerie. Iris raised the Ruger. In that concrete tomb, the gunshots reverberated like exploding missiles, deafening me. With waves of adrenaline shaking every muscle in my body, I swung the end of the surge pump open. Stuffed into the narrow metal steel tube, I saw a mummified corpse covered in tattered rags. Its grinning skull was a mass of cobwe, webs and dead insects. I unscrewed and overturned the gas can, then pushed it quickly into the tunnel. It just fit through the narrow enclosure. The gunshots ended as abruptly as they had started. Beside me, Iris was still frantically pulling the trigger, her face a broken

mask of shell shock. I dared not look back as I pulled the lighter out and flicked it. With my ears ringing from the gunshot still, I couldn't hear a thing, though the ringing had started to slowly fade. A wave of cold, dead flesh crashed into my back. I went flying forward. Next to me, Iris threw the empty pistol at the nearest of the transformed children. It smacked the boy in the head with a dull crack, but his black, lidless eyes never looked away. As I fell, the lighter touched the edge of the surge pump. A few drops of gas ignited, sizzling and dripping in liquid flames. After what felt like an eternal, moment, the rest of it lit up with a wamp and a flash of burning heat. The crooked man started

wailing, a tortured, diseased wailing that seemed like it had the voices of many screaming children mixed in with it. I knocked hard to the ground, slamming my head against the concrete floor. Four of the children used their bent, stick-like arms to gingerly pull the burning mummy out of the metal tomb, their claws talons of fingers grabbing the burning flesh without hesitation. On the other side of the room, the form of the crooked man started to blacken and drip as his mummy did the same. Next to me, a transformed girl in blood-stained rags held Iris arms tightly behind her back. Iris gave a scream of pain. I saw the demonic girl biting at Iris neck and shoulders over and over with her long, black teeth,

ripping off strips of bloody skin and muscle between her blue, dead lips. She grinned as she bit and chewed. Iris struggled like a woman being burned alive, but the superhuman strength of the girl held Iris wrists pinned together behind her back with an iron grip. With the sound of hissing flames and shrieking echoing all around me, I watched as the children laid the burning body of the crooked man gingerly on the concrete floor. One by one, they laid down on it, smothering the fire with their own pale bodies. The flames continued to whip and flicker for a long moment.

The children's bodies caught on fire, their white, skin blackening and cooking. Even as they burned, though, the fire on the crooked man's body had started to die down, and the mummified corpse wasn't even most of the way burned yet. No. I wailed, a sense of deep loss ripping its way through my heart. I saw Iris, too, her entire body covered in blood, her white clothes turned ruby red with blood and gore. She had stopped screaming and struggling by this point, even as the girl leaned forward and ripped her left ear off with her predatory teeth. The flesh gave a sickening, tearing sound as it came off. Iris eyes rolled up in her head, showing only the whites as her teeth chattered. The demonic

girl laughed and pushed the limp form of Iris forward. Her still body spurted blood from dozens of deep gashes. Her legs and arms twitched, as if she were seizing. I found myself alone with these abominations. The crooked man's screaming stopped suddenly. He stepped forward, his bleached white skin blackened and peeling now. His clothes had nearly burned off, and his top hat stood as a smouldering pile of ashes. Yet he still moved fast, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer, his misshapen legs jerkily skittering to the left and right in rhythmic cracks. Then he was standing over me, a pillar of burnt skin and insanity.

With his sharp fingers, he reached down and grabbed me. I blacked out at that moment, and merciful oblivion took over my mind. I don't remember much of the next couple months. I woke up in some strange, otherworldly city where the sky rained fire and corpses hung from lampposts all down the street. Empty skyscrapers filled with skeletons and spiderweb stretched around me, seemingly forever. I could see no end to the city in any direction, even from the top of the highest buildings.

The world there was always dark, the sky always. black and cloudless as drops of burning flame fell from it, searing me whenever I tried to go outside. I wandered there constantly, the crooked man always behind me. As I wasted away in that land of shadows, he grew stronger, his body healing slowly. I felt something vital and deep within my heart drained more and more, day by day, until I was no more than a walking skeleton-clad in rags, hopeless and insane. After what felt like an eternity of endless nights in that place, waking up to see the crooked man grinning over me, it abruptly changed. One day, I woke up at the edge of some woods in a light drizzle, the rain soaking my threadbare clothes. My emaciated body shivered

constantly. I started crawling out to find help. With the last of my strength, I pushed myself off the ground. Behind me, I heard a gurgling voice ringing out from every tree. I'll be with you until the end, Jack. I need you just as you need me. For the more who know my story, the more fear will spread, and I will be able to come into their homes next. For this, you must live. But I will always be watching you, and soon, we will be reunited. To me, you must always return. A driver found me wandering the roads, shell-shocked and half-mad, about 20 minutes later. The police came, surprised to see me still alive. Apparently, I had been missing for over two months. They had found the bodies of Iris and Ben, and assumed that I had been abducted and killed by the same serial killer.

I tried to explain the true story over and over to anyone who would listen, but they simply gave me sickening looks of pity and ordered an involuntary commitment to a psych ward. After a few days in the psych ward, they reluctantly released me. No one believed a word I had said. The cops thought it was some sort of mass psychosis, I'm sure, some urban legend that delusional idiots had come to believe was real. But I know it was real. I know my days are numbered. It might look like a suicide or a murder or an accident, but, in the end, the crooked man always comes back and takes what's his. I remember when I first heard the rhyme as a child. It terrified me. To me, the crooked man was some sort of boogeyman with freakishly long arms and

legs that were twisted and broken in horrifying ways. I still have the rhyme memorized. It repeats in my brain like a skipping record. There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence against a crooked style, he bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house. My brother Benton, who loved to torture me as a child, ended up adding his own parts to the rhyme over time. The extra parts he added did nothing to console me or end my nightmares of this twisted boogeyman who always seemed to slink through the shadows. I remember the rhyme Benton told me by heart to this day. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. The crooked

man twists and crawls. He uses his crooked blade to kill. And when the curtain of night falls, he comes to get his thrill, so I found it strange when, a few weeks ago, I was sitting with a couple of my friends drinking and the subject of the crooked man came up again. They were rambling about shootings and serial killers and other fairly interesting subjects that I knew almost nothing about. But my friend Iris knew everything about such morbid subjects. She was a small drink of water, no more than five feet, with platinum blonde hair and green eyes like a cat.

She was extremely attractive with high cheekbones and a small nose and chin. She always talked extremely fast and made violent slashing gestures with her hands. Sometimes I wondered if she had a secret amphetamine habit I didn't know about. But did you hear about the murders in Union? Iris asked, glancing over at her boyfriend, Ben. Ben was the opposite of Iris, tall and nerdy with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a low whisper of a voice. I just heard that some kids went missing, Ben murmured. I shrugged.

I don't watch TV, I said. The news is all bullshit anyway. They only show you the bad stuff. After all, no one wants to hear about new breakthroughs in fusion technology or discoveries in particle physics. Instead, people just want to watch others get murdered, robbed and beaten, so that they can feel that at least someone else has it worse than them. That's all the news is, really, a form of schadenfreude, the joy people get from seeing others' misfortune and suffering. Our entire media industry is built on a foundation of schadenfreude.

I took a long sip from my beer, a harpoon that tasted like pure raspberries. Iris rolled her eyes. While probably true, I don't care, she said, turning her green eyes on me. Don't you want to know what happened to the kids? I do, Ben said, leaning forward. forward. Was it something, supernatural? Iris gave a sardonic laugh at that.

Ben sat back, offended. What's so funny? I heard there was weird stuff going on around that factory. In fact, I heard they used to manufacture some dye there for clocks and stuff, right? So all these people went to work, painting watches and clocks and whatever else they told them to paint. It was this special green dye that would glow in the dark. The factory was staffed by mostly women, and I heard they used to lick their paintbrushes to form them into points.

They figured this stuff was just regular paint that glowed in the dark. I leaned back, interested. Ben started talking faster, getting more animated. So what happened? I asked, my curiosity peaked. Well, the workers started getting cancer and dying in huge numbers, Ben continued as the kitchen light sparkled off his glasses. One woman even had her entire jaw rot off. Others had pieces of their faces falling off.

So it turns out, they were using radioactive isotopes to make the paint glow. And these women were just licking the paintbrushes and touching the paint. Holy shit, I whispered, horrified. They called them the radium girls, Ben said. That factory killed hundreds and hundreds of people. That's why a lot of people think it's haunted. People claim they see ghosts and weird shit around it. And that's not all.

The case gets even weirder when you look at workers' families. It seems a lot of their kids went missing, too. The cops never found any of them. The entire time the factory was operational, and even after it shut down, the families of the workers kept having strange things happen, children disappearing from their bedrooms in the middle of the night, strange murders and unexplained suicides that kept killing off healthy, normal people all over town. So, anyways, Iris continued, looking slightly annoyed at the interruption, the kids that went

into that abandoned factory were all found, torn apart. Their limbs were all amputated and crooked. She leaned forward, using her spooky campfire voice. And the limbs were long. Freakishly long, as if they had just grown overnight to inhuman lengths before they got lopped off. But they never found the heads or the torsos. All they found was ten legs and ten arms, and no one knows what happened. I asked. She shook her head. Officially, no. The police and media said it was some sort of serial killer, of course. But there wasn't a shred of evidence

anywhere. It was like a ghost had done it. Where the limbs were piled up in the basement, there was no evidence that anyone had been there in months, no footsteps or microscopic evidence of any presence. But the story doesn't end there. Because there were six teenagers that went into that building, and one of them was found alive three months later, wandering, covered in blood and scratches, mostly naked and totally insane. One of my friends is an EMT and she said that the kid would not stop talking about the crooked man taking his friends and keeping him prisoner in some other world. At the mention of those words, the crooked man, a chill went down my spine. My heart felt like ice.

What did you say? What did the kid say? I asked anxiously. Suddenly the room felt very hot, and the alcohol was not sitting well in my stomach. He said he got kidnapped by someone called the crooked man, Iris repeated, taking a long sip from her wine. According to the kid, it was some sort of fucking monster, apparently. I think his mind must have just snapped.

He was probably kidnapped and held in the basement of some serial killer for three god-dammed months. Who knows what he saw and experienced? People make up all sorts of crazy shit when they're traumatized. My hand was shaking so badly that I had to put my bottle down on the table. For some reason, my mind kept flashing back to my sister, Amelia, who had been kidnapped from her room in the middle of the night when my brother Benton and I were little. She had never been found.

We had never gotten a ransom note or found a body. It was as if Amelia had simply disappeared, vanished from the surface of the planet in an instant. I think some of that stuff is real, Ben said. People have been talking about cryptids and ghosts for thousands of years across countless different and unrelated cultures. What are the chances that all of them are just hallucinations or delusions? I didn't know, but I thought I might know someone who might. My brother Benton was a long-term drug addict living in a flop house.

I went to see him the next morning. He opened the door with a glazed, half-aware expression. Scars covered his arms and legs. He looked like a walking skeleton. His eyes shone like the last bit of water at the bottom of a dying well. Jack, he said, surprised, appearing to wake up slightly. What are you doing here? I need to talk to you, I said, pushing past him

into the one-bedroom place he called home. A cockroach skittered across the wall. As he closed the door, I saw bites from bedbugs all over his body. Benton turned, spreading out his hands. Well, what is it, little brother? You know I'm all ears. You remember that rhyme you used to scare me with when we were little. I asked.

That rhyme you made up about the crooked man. He seemed to go a shade paler. I didn't make anything up, he said. That rhyme came from Grandma. She told it to Dad when he was little, before she died, Grandma. I asked, startled. Our grandmother had died of cancer when she was extremely young, in her late twenties. Did you hear about the murders over in Union?

The survivor was talking about the crooked man, that's pretty freaking weird, man, he said. Especially considering what happened to Grandma. and Amelia, you know. He sat down on the threadbare mattress, laying back and sighing. Why is it weird? I asked. Because, you know, that's where Grandma used to work. At that factory in Union.

Didn't Dad ever tell you? I shook my head, feeling sick. So Grandma was one of the radium girls. I said, My brother shrugged his thin shoulders, the stained t-shirt clinging tight to his frail body. I don't know what that is, but whatever she was doing there, it killed her. But what does that have to do with Amelia? I asked, my heart pounding at the mention of our

long-lost little sister. He shook his head in wonder. You don't remember. You were older than me when it happened. Before she went missing, she kept talking about the same thing, saying weird stuff about some crooked man. Don't you remember what happened the night she went missing? I thought back, but it all seemed like a blur. I remembered flashing police sirens and my parents screaming. I had tried to block it out, but apparently Benton hadn't been able to. That night must be like a fresh wound on his mind all the time. No, I just remembered, screaming and police, I whispered, my voice trailing off into nothing.

Benton leaned forward on the bed, looking sick. We both saw it, he said. the crooked man that thing she was talking about it was real we saw it in her room that night when it took her i shook my head refusing to look at him feeling sick i walked toward the door without looking back where are you going i'm going home i said i can't deal with this shit right now but that night i would find out that the long-lost nightmare for my childhood was not nearly as buried in the past as I thought. I was laying in my dark bedroom, reading the local news on my phone, when I saw an article that disturbed me greatly. I sat up, looking out the window into the cloudless night.

The sky hung overhead like a black hole, colorless and empty. Fear radiated through my heart as I glanced back down at the screen and started reading. Soul survivor of serial killer commits suicide, the article read in garish black and white letters. Michael Galantino, was found dead in a psychiatric facility early this morning. In February, Michael Galantino and five others entered a local abandoned building. Friends who knew them stated that they often explored abandoned structures as part of an urban exploration group. But this would not be a normal night for the group. They all disappeared, and within 24 hours, police and search teams have been dispatched to look for the missing teenagers. The house was silent. I read the

rest of the article with bated breath, my eyes wide. Some of the details I already knew, but others, such as the radioactive isotopes found on the dismembered limbs of the victims, I did not. I wondered about that. The police claimed that, after finding this strange clue, they had sent a team to inspect the abandoned factory with Geiger counters and look for signs of radioactivity. Perhaps the radium, which had a notoriously long half-life, had accumulated on the surfaces over the decades. But they said the radioactivity within the building was all within acceptable levels. It was just another bizarre piece of a puzzle that no one could solve. The house was deafly silent. I could hear my own heart beating a runaway rhythm in my ears. A rising

sense of anxiety was filling me, but I didn't know why. It felt like some sort of pressure had changed all around me, as if the first wave of a massive blizzard had just blown into the room. I heard a creaking from across the dark room. At the same time, I felt a sting on my arm. I looked down, seeing a bed bug crawling across my skin, a small red welt rising in its wake. Fuck! I swore, grabbing it between my fingers and slicing it between my nails. Crimson spurred it from its swollen body as if it were a tiny balloon.

It exploded, staining my fingers red with my own blood. I should have never gone to see it. my brother. God-dammed bedbugs, I muttered to myself. I hoped that was the only one. If I had picked up some extra travelers at the flop house, I knew they would spread throughout the entire house within days. The creaking came again, louder this time, almost insistent.

I glanced across the curtain of shadows that hung thick and black in the room, seeing the dark silhouette of my closet door swinging open. I could only stare, open-mouthed. A long moment passed, and then I heard breathing. It came out, ragged and slow with long pauses, like the choking of a murder victim. Slowly, I raised my phone's dim light, shining it across the room. On the closet door, I saw four inhumanly long, crooked fingers. They shone pale like the skin of a corpse.

They twitched, then started rhythmically tapping on the door. And then I heard it, that rhyme, that horror. horrible, gurgling rhyme. It came echoing out from the door in that same choked voice, like a forgotten wound from long ago. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. It felt like I was in some sort of nightmare, but I knew from the sweat dripping down my forehead and the sensation of cloth sheets against my skin that this was all too real. Even a couple months later, I still remember that sensation of dread, the first of many terrors that this night would bring. I looked around for a weapon. All I found was a letter opener sitting next to some

mail on the nearby nightstand. I grabbed it, a flimsy piece of metal in my shaking hands. I was afraid to move, afraid to call out or do anything, out of fear it might shatter the stillness and cause that ineffable horror to come oozing out. I knew I didn't want to see what was hiding behind that door. I looked at the open window. I was on the second floor. I was afraid to even breathe too loudly at that moment. With the letter opener in my hand, I tried to silently slide myself across the mattress to the window only a few feet away. The bed frame groaned softly as I shifted my weight. The breathing from the closet stopped abruptly. I heard the door creaking open, the floorboard shifting. Heavy steps started.

in the darkness, heading towards me. As I pushed myself off the bed, I glanced back and saw something twisted loping across the room on crooked legs. It was the crooked man, the nightmare from my childhood. He towered over me with a top hat that nearly scraped the ceiling. His lidless eyes were pure darkness, as black as death. They contrasted heavily with his bone-white skin. His lips and fingernails were a suffocating, cyanotic blue, like the lips of a murder victim. He stood up tall. The bones in his freakishly long legs cracked as the many strange joints of his enormous limbs bent in ways no human limb should bend. His fingers were strange and misshapen, each a foot long. They ended in sharp points of bone that poked out

through the dead, white skin. He wore a black suit on his tall, emaciated frame. He moved towards me like flashing static, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer in every moment. In panic and terror, I dived headfirst toward the open window, hearing the gurgling breathing of the crooked man only a few feet behind me. I felt slashing talons of bone rip across my back, a burning pain and a feeling of blood soaking my shirt. Then I was flying out the window and falling headfirst towards the grass and bushes below. Time seemed to slow down as the ground rushed up to meet me. The wind whipped past my ears like the currents of a tornado. Instinctively, I tried to curl into a ball. As I smashed into the first of the bushes under my window,

I rolled to try to put the brunt of the impact on my right shoulder. The thin branches of the bush crumpled under me like wet cardboard. I felt sharp stick stabbing into my skin, opening up new slices and cuts to mix with the deep gashes on my back. I hit the dirt hard, a sudden pain radiating through my back. A jarring sensation crashed through my body. I rolled as I hit the ground, smacking my head into the lawn. The world spun around me and went dark. Suddenly, I was somewhere else. I found myself standing in a dark factory, surrounded by debris. Broken glass covered the floor, twinkling like fireflies under the light of the distant streetlights outside. Strange graffiti covered the concrete walls all around me.

Don't look behind you, one of the tags read in slashing red letters. Underneath it, someone had spray-painted pure black eyes over a massive grinning mouth full of crooked black teeth. Destroy it with fire. Save your soul, another one red in small, blue letters. I ran my hands over my face, wondering if I was dreaming. This all felt so real. I could feel the gentle breeze blowing through the broken windows on my skin, Hear the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside.

I heard soft sobbing behind me. I remembered the first graffiti tag I had seen and a sense of panic gripped my heart. I did not want to look back. Fuck, I swore under my breath, trembling as I turned. But I didn't find some eldritch monstrosity with obsidian teeth and black, lidless eyes waiting there. Instead, I found a woman. She was crying, her back turned to me. She wore a black funeral gown that looked ancient and decayed.

With a trembling heart, I took a step forward, wondering if I would regret this. Hello. I called out. She spun, her eyes widening. In front of me stood a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, one that I immediately recognized. For I saw many of my own features reflected in that panicked face, the high cheekbones, the large chin, even the waviness of her hair. "'Grandma,' I whispered, looking around and wonder. "'What is this?'

"'Am I dead?' She shook her head, her eyes still wet and red. She took a deep, shuddering breath and gave a faint smile. "'Jack,' she said in a soft, melodic voice. "'I'm so happy to see you. "'I've been watching you. "'I've been so proud of you. "'Even though we never met, I want you to know that.

I wished I could have lived longer, could have met you. If only I hadn't been murdered by that thing, she spat the last word with hatred and fear oozing from her voice. I thought you died of cancer, Grandma. I asked, What do you mean, he killed you? She shook like a leaf in the wind, refusing to meet my gaze. Everyone in that place was touched by something evil, she murmured, putting her face in her hands. Her voice quavered like a frightened little girls.

The sickness radiated from that thing. It followed us like a cancer, made us weak, and then took our breath away. After the long torture was finished, he came to strangle me. He didn't just kill me, Jack. He murdered my sister and brother, too. I saw it. Her head ratcheted up, looking behind me all of a sudden. Her eyes widened in terror.

You need to kill it, Jack, she whispered grimly. He's woken up again after all these years, and he's starving. The crooked man must feed, and feed he will if you don't stop him. You need to come to the factory and end it. Otherwise, he will keep on killing. The crooked man will never stop hunting you. He will kill you and everyone you love. How?

I asked, afraid to look back as the disturbing sounds grew closer and closer. Grandma backpedaled quickly, as if the demons of hell were approaching. How? How do I end it? I heard a horrible, choked breathing behind me, then the world faded. I woke up suddenly on the lawn, my head pounding. It didn't seem like much time had passed. I must have knocked myself out.

I raised my fingers to my forehead. My fingers came away slick with blood. For a long moment, I lay there, hyperventilating and looking up at the cloudless abyss of a sky. My body felt bruised and battered, and I wasn't even sure if I could walk. Then I saw a pale, hairless visage peeking over the edge of the windowsill with eyes as dark as night. Its face split into a grin with a crack, making a sound like ripping plastic. The bone-white mask of dead skin looked at me with a feverish intensity, a kind of psychopathic

hunger that radiated from every pore of his body. With horror, I saw the crooked man's teeth were as black as his eyes, gleaming like polished jetstone. A rush of adrenaline pushed me up from the ground. I realized I was tremendously lucky, that I had been laying there with my keys still in my pocket and my cell phone in hand, fully dressed except for the fact I was wearing slippers. I sprinted across the lawn towards my car. I heard the crooked man scream out after me. You'll be with grandmother soon, Jackie Boy, he hissed in his gurgling voice. No one escapes. No one. I flew down the highway in my car, the phone in my trembling hand. Looking down at it, I called Iris right away. She answered grogily. Hello, she said.

Jesus, Iris, it's after me, I said frantically. Something's happening. I got attacked in my. own bedroom. Did you call the cops, she asked, seeming to wake up instantly. I looked down at the clock in the center console, seeing it was already past midnight. It wasn't a person. I saw something. I think it was the same thing that took those teenagers, and now it's after me. Are you guys home?

There was a long pause on the other end. I heard whispering in the background. Yeah, sure, come over, she said. I knew Ben was somewhat of a gun nut and had a nice little collection at the house. I would feel much safer if I made it there. And if I had them on my side, that would be all the better. Ben and Iris lived in the middle of a back road surrounded by forests. The dark trees loomed overhead like priests with their heads bowed.

The light from their front porch streamed into the creeping shadows as I pulled into their driveway. The sound of the car idling seemed far too loud in this place. where the woods closed in all around me. I didn't know what was hiding in those trees. I immediately shut it off. Ben was a veteran who knew much more about combat and guns than I did. His collection was also somewhat impressive, an Armolite AR-15, a judge, a 12-gauge Benelli, two crappy little point-22s, a .45 Ruger, a nozzleer 21 and a 10-gauge Mossberg. I had gone out shooting with him and Iris quite a few times. I would feel much safer once I was inside.

The cloudless black sky hung overhead like the lid of a coffin. Their little two-story place with the wraparound porch looked quaint, almost like a little rural cabin. I stumbled out of the car. I'm sure I was quite a sight, battered and covered in clotting gashes and cuts, my eyes wide and panicked. I constantly looked around, checking my back. back. Every time I did, I expected to see something there, something close by with blue lips like a corpse and deformed, twisting bones. I had nearly gotten to the front of the house when I saw, through the narrow sidelines at top of the door, the face of the crooked man

standing only feet away, I heard faint gurgling of his diseased breathing even through the wall. His hairless face was split into a grin like a death's head, his lidless eyes bulging and excited. He raised his misshapen fingers to the window and gave me a little wave, opening and closing his fingers slowly. Then he turned and disappeared deeper into the house. I immediately tried opening the door, to yell to Iris and Ben to watch out, but the door was locked. I called Iris. Each ring seemed to take an eternity. Finally, she answered, Hello. What, are you here, she asked. Iris. Get the fuck out of the house. You and Ben aren't alone in there. There's a man coming in your direction right now. I screamed, panicked. Jump out the window if you have to. It's

coming, what? She said, sounding alarmed and confused. Are you being serious? I heard soft murmuring in the background. Tell Ben to grab a gun right now. I started to say, but a high-pitched screamed carried through the phone and the house at that moment. Iris? Answer me. I said. The call immediately went dead. From inside, I heard the first of the gunshots. At that point, I decided to run back to my car. I needed to get inside and help them. A small voice in the back of my mind asked me what I could possibly do, however. If an AR-15 or a leads, slug from a 12-gauge couldn't stop the crooked man, then what could? At that moment, I wished fervently that Grandma would have told me. I grabbed the tire iron from the back of my trunk and

sprinted back toward the front of the house. They had large windows leading into the kitchen from their wraparound porch. Without hesitation, I drew the tire iron back and smashed it. The tinkling of glass seemed explosively loud. I realized that the gunshots and screaming had stopped. At that moment, something pale came scurrying around the side of the building. I jumped, but I looked over and realized it was Iris, dressed in a white hoodie and white pants. Her pale face was contorted with mortal terror. To my horror, I realized hundreds of small drops spattered her clothes, covering her face and body like crimson raindrops.

She had the point four five Ruger in her hands, and she was limping. I cried. She shook her head. I jumped out the bedroom window, he was behind me, she said. Suddenly, there was another explosion of glass from behind the house. Something heavy thudded hard against the ground. We heard wretched wailing follow it. Looking at each other with horrified eyes, we both turned and ran towards the noise. We found Ben laying on the lawn. The right side of his neck was nearly severed. Bright red streams of blood spurted from the mutilated flesh. His back looked broken as well. He laid there like a hornet smashed under someone's boot. With dilated eyes, he looked from me to iris. Terror and agony oozed from his eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something, but only a frothy puddle of blood came up. Then his eyes turned away, looking straight up into the cloudless black void of a sky. The last exhalation came, the death gasp that bubbled and stretched out until I thought it might never end. He died staring into that abyss, that eternity from which no one returns. I grabbed Iris and pulled her toward the car. She stood like a statue, resistant and unmoving. Iris, we need to go. I hissed. She seemed to wake up then, looking at me. Then she looked past me, her eyes glancing up and widening with horror. I turned, seeing the crooked man peering down from the upstairs window, his top hat balanced

on his alien skull, a grin of sadistic glee marring his face. We need to leave, I repeated, pulling her. She came willingly. We stumbled away from the corpse of Ben. The crooked man's black eyes followed us like cameras. I got her in the car and peeled out of their. Every time I closed my eyes, though, even just a blink, I would catch a glimpse of the crooked man's smiling visage.

Where are we going? Iris called. We need to call the cops. My phone is upstairs on the floor somewhere. The cops aren't going to help us, I said. That thing isn't human. It can go wherever it wants, apparently. You think a police station would protect us.

The cops would leave for a few minutes. and come back to find us dead. We need to end this. We need to go to the abandoned factory, the abandoned factory. Iris asked, confused. I told her the story, everything that had happened up to that point, even the vision of my grandmother. That's fucking nuts, Iris muttered.

This whole thing is crazy. There's no way there's actually such a thing as a crooked man shit like that doesn't happen in real life. It's got to be a serial killer in some sort of weird costume. You know it's not, I answered. You saw that thing. That's no mask. I sped on the highway at 100 miles an hour toward Union, toward the abandoned factory where this had all started so many years ago.

As we pulled into the cracked lot surrounding the old, run-down building, a sense of overwhelming dread crashed through my chest. I felt like I was stuck in some cyclical nightmare from which it was impossible. to wake up. I pulled out a cigarette and lighter from my cup holder and lit it. Iris gave me a strange look. This is probably my last cigarette, I said. Might as well enjoy it. Iris didn't say anything, her dilated eyes simply flicking around randomly. She looked like she was still partially in shock. Slowly, she got out of the car, limping across the parking lot by my side. I hurt my ankle when I jump from the window, she said. I don't think I'm going to be doing much running. It feels swollen. I'm just glad you still have the point four five, I said.

Though I wish you had grabbed the AR. She shook her head. Ben shot that thing with a 10-gauge shotgun in the chest. With a slug, she said. It didn't work. The pistol might slow it down, but it's not going to kill it. We need to find another way. I remembered the graffiti in the factory, destroy it with fire. Save your soul, we found a threshold in the back where the door was totally knocked off the hinges.

It lay on top of crunching shards of glass and layers of thick dust. Old rectangular tables were still nailed into the wooden floor, their surfaces pockmarked and covered in grime. Most of the windows had giant, spiderwebbing cracks running through the glass, though some were just smashed entirely. I had never been here, but as I walked further in, I realized it was exactly the same as I had seen in my vision with my grandmother. Even the same graffiti was there. Don't look behind you,

was splayed across the wall in giant letters. Fuck, this place is creepy, Iris whispered. She held the ruger clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white. Where do we go? I'm not sure, I said. I think we're supposed to burn something. Maybe we should just burn down the whole factory. Iris gave me a funny look. That's your plan. Lighting an abandoned building on fire, she asked with an expression of grave concern. Let's look around, I said. Maybe we're supposed to find something. We descended deeper into the factory, through more identical rooms that looked like they were from. the apocalypse. At the end, I found old, concrete steps leading down into the pitch-black basement. I pulled out my cell phone, shining the LED light down the steps. Iris gave me a worried look. Let's go, I whispered grimly. I felt watched here, even more than at Iris house. I knew the crooked man was near, biting his time, playing with his food like a cat with a mouse. The steps led into a concrete boiler room with ancient, rusted machinery still welded

into the floor. All over the dark walls, someone had spray-painted pictures of extended, contorted arms and limbs with fingers like talons. There was a smell down here, too, a smell like rotting bodies. As we got to the center, I heard crying behind us. I turned to see my grandmother, pale and ghostly, crying into her hands. Grandma? I whispered. Iris looked at me, confused. Who are you talking to? She asked. I shook my head.

My grandmother looked up at me, fresh tears in her ghostly eyes. Jack, you need to burn it, my grandmother said with a quaver in her voice. The corpse of the owner, the one who killed us all, it's hidden in the surge pump. We came together to end it, to end the deaths, but it didn't stop. it. Somehow, he's still connected to this world through that body. It's been in there, festering like an open wound for who knows how long, I looked at the surge pump across the room. Iris could apparently neither see nor hear my grandmother. It's in there, I murmured, pointing at the pump. We need to burn the body hidden in there. The surge pump had valves and a giant

wheel at the end. It was a horizontal cylinder that looked just big enough to stuff a man's body into. The rusted pipes grew smaller as they crawled up the wall. I put my hands on the rusted wheel and turned. It looked like something from a submarine door. With a squeal of tortured metal, the surge pump began opening. It was difficult going. Iris came and put her small body behind it, and I felt it turning faster. How are we going to burn it, though? I asked myself, grunting through the effort. Looking behind the surge pump, I found the answer. A fairly fresh dead body lay there hidden under the metal of the surge pump, holding a small can of gasoline.

It looked like a young man in his twenties with dark hair and tan skin. His arms and legs have been ripped off, and now only a decomposing torso and head remained. Another victim of the crooked man? Iris asked. He was so close, I wondered, at that moment, how many others had been drawn. on here, how many victims the crooked man was hunting. I grabbed the gasoline. I heard a skittering of feet behind us. Iris backpedaled and gave a horrified scream. In terror, I looked behind us and saw the crooked man, flanked by the transformed bodies of seven children. Their arms and legs

had all grown in humanly long, bending in strange places like crooked stalks. Their faces have become like the crooked mans, their eyes black and lips blue, their teeth long and dark, their movements jerky and eerie. Iris raised the Ruger. In that concrete tomb, the gunshots reverberated like exploding missiles, deafening me. With waves of adrenaline shaking every muscle in my body, I swung the end of the surge pump open. Stuffed into the narrow metal steel tube, I saw a mummified corpse covered in tattered rags. Its grinning skull was was a mass of cobwebs and dead insects. I unscrewed and overturned the gas can, then pushed it quickly into the tunnel. It just fit through the narrow enclosure. The gunshots ended as

abruptly as they had started. Beside me, Iris was still frantically pulling the trigger, her face a broken mask of shell shock. I dared not look back as I pulled the lighter out and flicked it. With my ears ringing from the gunshot still, I couldn't hear a thing, though the ringing had started to slowly fade. A wave of cold, dead flesh crashed into my back. I went flying forward. Next to me, Iris threw the empty pistol at the nearest of the transformed children. It smacked the boy in the head with a dull crack, but his black, lidless eyes never looked away. As I fell, the lighter touched the edge of the surge pump. A few drops of gas ignited, sizzling and dripping in liquid flames. After what felt like an eternal moment, the rest of it lit up with

a wump and a flash of burning heat. The crooked man started wailing, a tortured, diseased wailing that seemed like it had the voices of many screaming children mixed in with it. I knocked hard to the ground, slamming my head against the concrete floor. Four of the children used their bent, stick-like arms to gingerly pull the burning mummy out of the metal tomb, their claws' talons of fingers grabbing the burning flesh without hesitation. On the other side of the room, the form of the crooked man started to blacken and drip as his mummy did the same. Next to me, a transformed girl in blood-stained rags held Iris arms tightly behind her back.

Iris gave a scream of pain. I saw the demonic girl biting at Iris' neck and shoulders over and over with her long, black teeth, ripping off strips of bloody skin and muscle between her blue, dead lip. She grinned as she bit and chewed. Iris struggled like a woman being burned alive, but the superhuman strength of the girl held Iris wrists pinned together behind her back with an iron grip. With the sound of hissing flames and shrieking echoing all around me, I watched as the children laid the burning body of the crooked man gingerly on the concrete floor. One by one, they laid down on it, smothering the fire with their own pale bodies. The flames continued to whip and flicker for a long moment.

The children's bodies caught on fire, their white skin blackening and cooking. Even as they burned, though, the fire on the crooked man's body had started to die down, and the mummified corpse wasn't even most of the way burned yet. No. I wailed, a sense of deep loss ripping its way through my heart. I saw Iris, too, her entire body covered in blood, her white clothes turned ruby red with blood and gore. She had stopped screaming and struggling by this point, even as the girl leaned forward and ripped her left ear off with her predatory teeth.

The flesh gave a sickening, tearing sound as it came off. Iris eyes rolled up in her head, showing only the whites as her teeth chattered. The demonic girl laughed and pushed the limp form of Iris forward. Her still body spurted blood from dozens of deep gashes. Her legs and arms twitched, as if she were seizing. I found myself alone with these abominations. The crooked man's screaming stopped suddenly. He stepped forward, his bleached white skin blackened and peeling now. His clothes had nearly burned off, and his top hat stood as a smoldering pile of ashes. Yet he still moved fast, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer, his misshapen legs jerkily skittering to the left and right in rhythmic cracks. Then he was standing over me, a pillar of

burnt skin and insanity. With his sharp fingers, he reached down and grabbed me. I blacked out at that moment, and merciful oblivion took over my mind. I don't remember much of the next couple months. I woke up in some strange, otherworldly city where the sky rained fire and corpses hung from lampposts all down the street. Empty skyscrapers filled with skeletons and spiderwebs stretched around me, seemingly forever. I could see no end to the city in any direction, even from the top of the highest buildings. The world there was always dark, the sky always black and cloudless as drops of burning flame fell from it, searing me whenever I tried to go outside.

I wandered there constantly, the crooked man always behind me. As I wasted away in that land of shadows, he grew stronger, his body healing slowly. I felt something vital and deep within my heart drained more and more, day by day, until I was no more than a walking skeleton clad in rags, hopeless and insane. After what felt like an eternity of endless nights in that place, waking up to see the crooked man grinning over me, it abruptly changed. One day, I woke up at the edge of some woods in a light drizzle, the rain's soaking my threadbare clothes. My emaciated body shivered constantly. I started crawling out to

find help. With the last of my strength, I pushed myself off the ground. Behind me, I heard a gurgling voice ringing out from every tree. I'll be with you until the end, Jack. I need you just as you need me. For the more who know my story, the more fear will spread, and I will be able to come into their homes next. For this, you must live. But I will always be watching you, and soon, we will be reunited. To me, you must always return. A driver found me wandering the roads, shell-shocked and half-mad, about 20 minutes later. The police came, surprised to see me still alive. Apparently, I had been missing for over two months. They had found the bodies of Iris and Ben, and assumed that I had been abducted and killed by the same serial killer.

I tried to explain the true story over and over to anyone who would listen, but they simply gave me sickening looks of pity and ordered an involuntary commitment to a psych ward. After a few days in the psych ward, they reluctantly released me. No one believed a word I had said. The cops thought it was some sort of mass psychosis, I'm sure, some urban legend that delusional idiots had come to believe was real. But I know it was real. I know my days are numbered. It might look like a suicide or a murder or an accident, but, in the end, the crooked man always comes back and takes what's his. He was feared and feared others in equal measure, and at just

16 years old, he already had a long list of enemies. He moved to Campo Grande, continued on his path, and met a girl named Maria Apparecita Olympia. The relationship between them was incredible. They started dating, moved and together, and she got pregnant. And of course, Pedro kept doing what he did, he kept killing bad people, drug dealers, murderers, abusers. He kept making enemies, and one day, someone discovered where he lived. So they broke into his house and killed his girlfriend. At that time, Maria was seven months pregnant, and her death was tremendously painful. But the worst part comes now, when Pedro found the scene, he saw that with his girlfriend's blood, someone had written on the wall the following words, We will catch you.

For over a year, Pedro investigated the case. He didn't kill anyone else, he just investigated. He wanted to know who had killed her because he would take revenge. And that's when a woman came to him and confessed. This woman was the ex-girlfriend of a mobster nickname China, and she told him that he had killed Maria in revenge for something Pedro had done years ago. Pedro had participated in a robbery against him, and China considered it fair to now kill his girlfriend. With this information, Pedro got to work.

He discovered that the following Saturday, China's brother was getting married. He got the location and the time and decided to call him. call his two friends, Gauchinho and Zapita. He ordered them to go there and kill all the men. Women and children couldn't be touched, but all the men had to die. It didn't matter if they were innocent, if they understood nothing, if they were men, they had to die. So the three of them went there and opened fire, killing seven men and injuring 16. But for Pedro, it wasn't enough. After this feat, Pedro was nicknamed Padrinjo Matador, little Pedro the killer. He began a period in his life where he killed non-stop. If a day passed without him killing someone, he got nervous, anxious, paranoid. And when he

killed his victims, he drank their blood because his grandparents had told him that animal blood gave strength, so, logically, his victim's blood would too. And so he continued, making more enemies, confronting the police, he had enemies around every corner. The tension was such that his two friends lost their lives, Gautinjo died at the hands of the police during a robbery, and Zepida at the hands of the death squad that was hunting him. Finally, on May 24, 1973, when Pedro was 18 years old, he was arrested. According to the official version, he was in a bar having a drink,

and thanks to a tip-off, the police were able to find him. They surrounded him, a shootout occurred, Pedro was wounded, and after being arrested, he was sent to a hospital. When he opened his eyes, he was handcuffed to the bed and surrounded by many people, nurses, police officers, journalists. At that moment, he was accused of murder, but what he didn't know was how many. That's when they started asking him questions, there were cameras, recorders, and he proclaimed himself a vigilante. He bragged about never having killed someone who didn't deserve it, that he had killed evil men, vile, twisted people, bad people, that he only killed that kind of people and no one else.

And when he went to trial, he said something else. The judge accused him of taking 18 lives, and he was offended. He claimed to have killed more than 100, not 18, but 100 or more. Even so, they could only charge him with 14 crimes, for which he was offended. sentenced to 126 years in prison. They put him in a vehicle, took him to prison, but on the way there, inside the vehicle, he was seated next to a suspected rapist, and when he found this out, he ended his life. In fact, when the car stopped, only Pedro got out, his companion was no longer breathing. In prison, he was in his element, surrounded by murderers and criminals.

Brazilian prisons were extremely dangerous. The conditions were unsubilant. The conditions were unsubing sanitary, violent, aggressive, the guards were corrupt. But even so, Pedro felt safe. He felt that he had nothing to fear, rather, the rest of the inmates should be afraid, because he wouldn't stop until he had killed them all. The average life expectancy of a prisoner in Brazil back then was very low. It was unheard of for a prisoner to survive 15 years in prison, they could get sick, be killed, anything could happen. But Pedro did very well. When I went through processing, I started to understand what was awaiting me. The cell was small. There was no mattress, nothing, only the frozen concrete floor. No shower, just a water spout. No toilet, just a hole in the

ground. In total, it is believed he killed between 43 and 47 inmates in prison. Among them, two stand out. The first was his protege, his cellmate, a man named Claudio. In prison, they got along very well, became close friends, and when Claudio was released, he sought protection at Pedro's grandparents' house. He stayed there, met his sister, fell in love with her, and they got married. But later, he had a fight with Pedro's brother, and both pulled out weapons, they fought, yelled, fired shots, and Claudio accidentally shot and killed Pedro's sister. After committing this crime, he returned to prison, and Pedro, though it was an accident, still ended his life. He had killed his sister, and so Claudio had to die.

The next crime was that of his own father, this man had killed Pedro's mother, not with one, but with 21 machete blows. And incredibly, he was sent to the same prison where his son was. Pedro, without hesitation, ended his life with 22 machete blows. Sometimes I kill him again when he appears in my dreams. He appeared in the form of a snake, talking. He looked like a snake, and in my dream he attacked me, bit me, and I hugged him and said, I killed you, it's true, and I will kill you again. And I crushed the snake that spoke.

It was a snake, but it was my father talking. At a certain point in prison, Pedro began killing indiscriminately. Any silly thing was a good reason to kill someone. In fact, the judge kept asking why he did it, and he gave the most absurd answers, I didn't like his face, how he looked at me, he snored too much. On one occasion, Pedro mentioned that a trans inmate named Cabrini fell in love with a friend of his. But that love was unrequited, so Cabrini made up a rumor about him and spread it throughout the prison. Eventually, someone killed Pedro's friend.

So Pedro decided to take revenge. The trans inmates were housed in a separate area, so Pedro went in there and started killing indiscriminately. It is said he killed 16 people and that for a long time afterward, he could still hear their screams. By then, the body count of this man had risen to 71, and his sentence totaled more than 400 years. It was so extreme that the justice system considered it enough. this man had to be stopped, and they didn't know how. Psychiatrists Antonio Jose Elias Sandrauss and Norberto Zonerger evaluated him in 1982 and wrote that his greatest motivation in life was the violent affirmation of his own ego, and they

diagnosed him with a paranoid and antisocial character. In 1985, Pedro was sent to the maximum security prison and psychiatric treatment center in Taubate. They ordered that he have no contact with any prisoners. The prison method seemed to work, and for ten years, Pedro remained in isolation. He entertained himself by reading, writing letters, playing solitaire, and repeatedly punching the wall of his cell, until they finally allowed him to use a punching bag. In the early 1990s, a new prisoner arrived in Taubate, former plastic surgeon Joceman Ramos.

Pedro had a few run-ins with this man. He found out that Ramos had told the guards another inmate was pulled. planning an escape, and the day after finding out, Ramos hit Pedro in the face with a tray. Days later, Pedro attacked him, according to guards, they found Pedro with his foot on the man's neck. A war broke out between them, but I must say that for the next ten years, Pedro didn't kill anyone else. So the conflict didn't escalate. Now there's a twist, Pedro's sentence had reached 400 years, but at the time, the maximum sentence in Brazil was 30 years, which he had already served. By 2003, he was eligible for parole, which he was granted in 2007. He was released from

prison, started over, and became a security guard. However, on September 15th, 2011, he was sent back to prison for other crimes. He was fully released again in 2018 and supposedly came out as a changed person, someone completely different. At that time, he was 64 years old and had converted to Christianity. That's when he decided to open a YouTube channel, which he created in collaboration with another person. The content was mainly podcasts, he talked about his life, crime cases, commented on different topics, and reached over 250,000 subscribers, with his videos accumulating millions of views. But overnight, the channel changed owners, it now belonged to his partner, not him. Many videos were deleted. Pedro started another channel,

uploaded everyday content, different stories, started from scratch. But I must emphasize, he really didn't know how social media worked. He didn't know the boundaries of what could or couldn't be said. And in 2023, he made a serious mistake, on Instagram, he shared everything about his life, where he went, with whom, what he did. At that time, he lived in Miris Cruces, and everyone knew he moved around there. But he didn't take precautions. On March 4th of that year, he posted a video on Instagram playing pool at a bar, which gave his enemies a rough idea of his location.

According to the police, it's most likely that his enemies tracked the location, watched the video, took note, and the next day, a group of masked men showed up in the area. They found him with his niece and her daughter at their doorstep. They parked their car in front of them, rolled down the windows, opened fire, and after ending his life, told the women, don't worry, this isn't about you. Then they got out of the vehicle and allegedly slit Pedro's throat. Witnesses called emergency services, but sadly, there was nothing they could do, Pedro Rodriguez died at the scene. According to various sources, the culprits were not identified. Here I must make a parenthesis, I just found an article claiming that

yes, the police did identify the culprits. But I haven't found any more information about them, so I don't know if it's true or not. So now it's your turn. What do you think about the case? Do you think the ending was fair? The end. I remember when I first heard the rhyme as a child. It terrified me. To me, the crooked man was some sort of boogeyman with freakishly long arms and legs that were twisted and broken in horrifying ways. I still have the rhyme memorized. It repeats in my brain like a skipping record. There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked style. He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house. My brother Benton, who loved to torture me as a child, ended up adding his own parts to the rhyme over time. The extra parts he added did nothing to console me or end my nightmares of this twisted boogeyman who always seemed to slink through the shadows. I remember the rhyme Benton told me by heart to this day.

The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue. The crooked man twists and crawls. He uses his crooked blade to kill. And when the curtain of night falls, he comes to get his thrill. So I found it strange when, a few weeks ago, I was sitting with a couple of my friends drinking and the subject of the crooked man came up again. They were rambling about shootings and serial killers and other fairly interesting subjects

that I knew almost nothing about. But my friend Iris knew everything about such morbid subjects. She was a small drink of water, no more than five feet, with platinum blonde hair and green eyes like a cat. She was extremely attractive with high cheekbones and a small nose and chin. She always talked extremely fast and made violent slashing gestures with her hands. Sometimes I wondered if she had a secret amphetamine habit I didn't know about. But did you hear about the murders in Union? Iris asked, glancing over at her boyfriend, Ben. Ben was the opposite of Iris, tall and nerdy with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a low whisper of a voice.

I just heard that some kids went missing, Ben murmured. I shrugged. I don't watch TV, I said. The news is all bullshit anyway. They only show you the bad stuff. After all, no one wants to hear about new breakthroughs in fusion technology or discoveries in particle physics. Instead, people just want to watch others get murdered, robbed and beaten, so that they can feel that at least someone else has it worse than them.

That's all the news is, really, a form of schadenfreude, the joy people get from seeing others' misfortune and suffering. Our entire media industry is built on a foundation of schadenfreude. I took a long sip for my beer, a harpoon that tasted like pure raspberries. Iris rolled her eyes. While probably true, I don't care, she said, turning her green eyes on me. Don't you want to know what happened to the kids? I do, Ben said, leaning forward. Was it something, supernatural? Iris gave a sardonic laugh at that.

Ben sat back, offended. What's so funny? I heard there was weird stuff going on around that factory. In fact, I heard they used to manufacture some die there for clock. and stuff, right? So all these people went to work, painting watches and clocks and whatever else they told them to paint. It was this special green dye that would glow in the dark. The factory was staffed by mostly women, and I heard they used to lick their paintbrushes to form them into points. They figured this stuff was just regular paint that glowed in the dark. I leaned back, interested. Ben started talking faster, getting more animated. So what I was a happened? I asked, my curiosity peaked. Well, the workers started getting cancer and dying in

huge numbers, Ben continued as the kitchen lights sparkled off his glasses. One woman even had her entire jaw rot off. Others had pieces of their faces falling off. So it turns out, they were using radioactive isotopes to make the paint glow. And these women were just licking the paint brushes and touching the paint. Holy shit, I whispered, horrified. They called them the radium girls, Ben said. That factory killed hundreds and hundreds of people. That's why a lot of people think it's haunted. People claim they see ghosts and weird shit around it. And that's not all. The case gets even weirder when you look at workers' families. It seems a lot of their kids went missing, two. The cops never found any of them. The entire time the factory was operational,

and even after it shut down, the families of the workers kept having strange things happen, children disappearing from their bedrooms in the middle of the night. Strange murders and unexplained suicides that kept killing off healthy, normal people all over town. So, anyways, Iris continued, looking slightly annoyed at the interruption, the kids that went into that abandoned factory were all found, torn apart. Their limbs were all amputated and crooked. She leaned forward, using her spooky campfire voice. And the limbs were long, freakishly long, as if they had just grown overnight to inhuman lengths before they got lopped off. But they never found the heads or the torsos. All they found was ten legs and ten arms, and no one

knows what happened. I asked. She shook her head. Officially, no. The police and media said it was some sort of serial killer, of course. But there wasn't a shred of evidence anywhere. It was like a ghost had done it. Where the limbs were piled up in the basement, there was no evidence that anyone had been there in months, no footsteps or microscopic evidence of any presence. But the story doesn't end there. Because there were six teenagers that went into that building, and one of them was found alive three months later, wandering, covered in blood and scratches, mostly naked and totally insane. One of my friends is an EMT and she said that the kid would not stop talking about the crooked man taking his friends and keeping him prisoner in some other world. At the mention of

those words, the crooked man, a chill went down my spine. My heart felt like ice. What did you say? What did the kid say? I asked anxiously. Suddenly the room felt very hot, and the alcohol was not sitting well in my stomach. He said he got kidnapped by someone called the crooked man, Iris repeated, taking a long sip from her wine. According to the kid, it was some sort of fucking monster, apparently. I think his mind must have just snapped. He was probably kidnapped and held in the basement of some serial killer for three goddamned

months. Who knows what he saw and experienced? People make up all sorts of crazy shit when they're traumatized. My hand was shaking so badly that I had to put my bottle down on the table. For some reason, my mind kept flashing back to my sister, Amelia, who had been kidnapped from her room in the middle of the night when my brother Benton and I were little. She had never been found. We had never gotten a ransom note or found a body. It was as if Amelia had simply disliked. It was as if Amelia had simply disappeared, vanished from the surface of the planet in an instant. I think some of that stuff is real, Ben said. People have been talking about cryptids and ghosts for thousands of years across countless different and unrelated cultures. What are the chances that all of them are

just hallucinations or delusions? I didn't know, but I thought I might know someone who might. My brother Benton was a long-term drug addict living in a flop house. I went to see him the next morning. He opened the door with a glazed, half-aware expression. Scars covered his arms and legs. He looked like a walking skeleton. His eyes shone like the last bit of water at the bottom of a dying well. Jack, he said, surprised, appearing to wake up slightly. What are you doing here?

I need to talk to you, I said, pushing past him into the one-bedroom place he called home. A cockroach skittered across the wall. As he closed the door, I saw bites from bedbugs all over his body. Benton turned, spreading out his hands. Well, what is it, little brother? You know I'm all ears. You remember that rhyme you used to scare me with when we were little.

I asked. That rhyme you made up about the crooked man. He seemed to go a shade paler. I didn't make anything up, he said. That rhyme came from Grandma. She told it to Dad when he was little, before she died, Grandma? I asked, startled. Our grandmother had died of cancer when she was extremely young, in her late 20s. Did you hear about the murders over in Union? The survivor was

talking about the crooked man, that's pretty freaking weird, man, he said. Especially considering what happened to Grandma and Amelia, you know. He sat down on the threadbare mattress, laying back and sighing. Why is it weird? I asked, because, you know, that's where Grandma used to work. At that factory in Union. Didn't Dad ever tell you? I shook my head, feeling sick. So Grandma was one of the Radium girls.

I said, My brother shrugged his thin shoulders, the stained t-shirt clinging tight to his frail body. I don't know what that is, but whatever she was doing there, it killed her. But what does that have to do with Amelia? I asked, my heart pounding at the mention of our long-lost little sister. He shook his head in wonder. You don't remember. You were older than me when it happened.

Before she went missing, she kept talking about the same thing, saying weird stuff about some crooked man. Don't you remember what happened the night she went missing? I thought back, but it all seemed like a blur. I remembered flashing police sirens and my parents screaming. I had tried to block it out, but apparently Benton hadn't been able to. That night must be like a fresh wound on his mind all the time. No, I just remembered, screaming, and police, I whispered, my voice trailing off into nothing.

Benton leaned forward on the bed, looking sick. We both saw it, he said. The crooked man. That thing she was talking about. It was real. We saw it in her room that night. when it took her. I shook my head, refusing to look at him. Feeling sick, I walked toward the door without looking back. Where are you going? I'm going home, I said. I can't deal with this shit right

now. But that night, I would find out that the long-lost nightmare for my childhood was not nearly as buried in the past as I thought. I was laying in my dark bedroom, reading the local news on my phone, when I saw an article that disturbed me greatly. I sat up, looking out the window into the cloudless night. The sky hung overhead like a black hole, colorless and empty. Fear radiated through my heart as I glanced back down at the screen and started reading. Soul survivor of serial killer commits suicide, the article read in garish black and white letters. Michael Galantino, 18, was found dead in a psychiatric facility early this morning.

In February, Michael Galantino and five others entered a local abandoned building. Friends who knew them stated that they often explored abandoned structures as part of an urban exploration group. But this would not be a normal night for the group. They all disappeared, and within 24 hours, police and search teams had been dispatched to look for the missing teenagers. The house was silent. I read the rest of the article with bated breath, my eyes wide. Some of the details I already knew, but others, such as the radioactive isotopes found on the dismembered limbs of the victims, I did not. I wondered about that.

The police claimed that, after finding this strange clue, they had sent a team to inspect the abandoned factory with Geiger counters and look for signs of radioactivity. Perhaps the radium, which had a notoriously long half-life, had accumulated on the surfaces over the decades. But they said the radioactivity within the building was all within acceptable levels. It was just another bizarre piece of a puzzle that no one could solve. The house was deathly silent. I could hear my own heart beating a runaway rhythm in my ears. A rising sense of anxiety was filling me, but I didn't know why. It felt like some sort of pressure had changed all around me,

as if the first wave of a massive blizzard had just blown into the room. I heard it creaking from across the dark room. At the same time, I felt a sting on my arm. I looked down, seeing a bedbug crawling across my skin, a small red welt rising in its wake. Fuck! I swore, grabbing it between my fingers and slicing it between my nails. Crimson spurted from its swollen body as if it were a tiny balloon. It exploded, staining my fingers red with my own blood.

I should have never gone to see my brother. God-dammed bedbugs, I muttered to myself. I hoped that was the only one. If I had picked up some extra travelers at the flop house, I knew they would spread throughout the entire house within days. The creaking came again, louder this time, almost insistent. I glanced across the curtain of shadows that hung thick and black in the room, seeing the dark silhouette of my closet door swinging open.

I could only stare, open-mouthed. A long moment passed, and then I heard breathing. It came out, ragged and slow with long pauses, like the choking of a murder victim. Slowly, I raised my phone's dim light, shining it across the room. On the closet door, I saw four inhumanly long, crooked fingers. They shone pale like the skin of a corpse. They twitched, then started rhythmically tapping on the door. And then I heard it, that rhyme, that horrible, gurgling rhyme.

It came echoing out from the door in that same choked voice, like a forgotten wound from long ago. The crooked man watches you. His eyes are black, his lips are blue, it felt like I was in some sort of nightmare, but I knew from the sweat dripping down my forehead and the sensation of cloth sheets against my skin that this was all too real. a couple months later, I still remember that sensation of dread, the first of many terrors that this night would bring.

I looked around for a weapon. All I found was a letter opener sitting next to some mail on the nearby nightstand. I grabbed it, a flimsy piece of metal in my shaking hands. I was afraid to move, afraid to call out or do anything, out of fear it might shatter the stillness and cause that ineffable horror to come oozing out. I knew I didn't want to see what was hiding behind that door. I looked at the open window. I was on the second floor.

I was afraid to even breathe too loudly at that moment. With the letter opener in my hand, I tried to silently slide myself across the mattress to the window only a few feet away. The bed frame groaned softly as I shifted my weight. The breathing from the closet stopped abruptly. I heard the door creaking open, the floorboard shifting. Heavy steps started in the darkness, heading towards me. As I pushed myself off the bed, I glanced back and saw something twisted loping across the room on crooked legs.

It was the crooked man, the nightmare for my childhood. He towered over me with a top hat that nearly scraped the ceiling. His lidless eyes were pure darkness, as black as death. They contrasted heavily with his bone-white skin. His lips and fingernails were a sufferer. suffocating, cyanotic blue, like the lips of a murder victim. He stood up tall. The bones and his freakishly long legs cracked as the many strange joints of his enormous limbs bent in ways no human limb should bend. His fingers were strange and misshapen, each a foot long. They ended in sharp points of bone

that poked out through the dead, white skin. He wore a black suit on his tall, emaciated frame. He moved towards me like flashing static, seeming to disappear and reappear closer and closer in every moment. In panic and terror, I dived headfirst toward the open window, hearing the gurgling breathing of the crooked man only a few feet behind me. I felt slashing talons of bone rip across my back, a burning pain and a feeling of blood soaking my shirt. Then I was flying out the window and falling headfirst towards the grass and bushes below. Time seemed to to slow down as the ground rushed up to meet me. The wind whipped past my ears like the currents of a tornado. Instinctively, I tried to curl into a ball. As I smashed into the first of the bushes

under my window, I rolled to try to put the brunt of the impact on my right shoulder. The thin branches of the bush crumpled under me like wet cardboard. I felt sharp sticks stabbing into my skin, opening up new slices and cuts to mix with the deep gashes on my back. I hit the dirt hard, a sudden pain radiating through my back. A jarring sensation crashed through my body. I rolled as I hit the ground, smacking my head into the lawn. The world spun around me and went dark. Suddenly, I was somewhere else.

I found myself standing in a dark factory, surrounded by debris. Broken glass covered the floor, twinkling like fireflies under the light of the distant streetlights outside. Strange graffiti covered the concrete walls all around me. Don't look behind you, one of the tags read in slashing red letters. Underneath it, someone had spray-painted pure black eyes over a massive grinning mouth full of crooked black teeth. Destroy it with fire. Save your soul, another one read in small, blue letters. I ran my hands over my face, wondering if I was dreaming.

This all felt so real. I could feel the gentle breeze blowing through the broken windows on my skin, hear the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside. I heard soft sobbing behind me. I remembered the first graffiti tag I had seen and a sense of panic gripped my heart. I did not want to look back. Fuck, I swore under my breath, trembling as I turned. But I didn't find some eldritch monstrosity with obsidian teeth and black, lidless eyes waiting there. Instead, I found a woman.

She was crying, her back turned to me. She wore a black funeral gown that looked ancient and decayed. With a trembling heart, I took a step forward, wondering if I would regret this. Hello. I called out. She spun, her eyes widening. In front of me stood a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, one that I immediately recognized. for I saw many of my own features reflected in that panicked face, the high cheekbones, the large chin, even the waviness of her hair.

Grandma, I whispered, looking around and wonder, What is this? Am I dead? She shook her head, her eyes still wet and red. She took a deep, shuddering breath and gave a faint smile. Jack, she said in a soft, melodic voice. I'm so happy to see you I've been watching you I've been so proud of you even though we never met I want you to know that I wished I could have lived longer

could have met you if only I hadn't been murdered by that thing she spat the last word with hatred and fear oozing from her voice I thought you died of cancer grandma I asked what do you mean he killed you She shook like a leaf in the wind, refusing to meet my gaze.

Everyone in that place was touched by something evil, she murmured, putting her face in her hands. Her voice quavered like a frightened little girl's. The sickness radiated from that thing. It followed us like a cancer, made us weak, and then took our breath away. After the long torture was finished, he came to strangle me. He didn't just kill me, Jack. He murdered my sister and brother, too. I saw it.

Her head ratcheted up, looking behind me all of a sudden. Her eyes widened in terror. You need to kill it, Jack, she whispered grimly. He's woken up again after all these years, and he's starving. The crooked man must feed, and feed he will if you don't stop him. You need to come to the factory and end it. Otherwise, he will keep on killing. The crooked man will never stop hunting you.

He will kill you and everyone you love. How? I asked, afraid to look back as the disturbing sounds grew closer and closer. Grandma backpedaled quickly, as if the demons of hell were approaching. How? How do I end it? I heard a horrible, choked breathing behind me, then the world faded. I woke up suddenly on the lawn, my head pounding.

It didn't seem like much time had passed. I must have knocked myself out. I raised my fingers to my forehead. My fingers came away slick with blood. For a long moment, I lay there, hyperventilating and looking up at the cloudless abyss of a sky. My body felt bruised and battered, and I wasn't even sure if I could walk. Then I saw a pale, hairless visage peeking over the edge of the windowsill with eyes as dark as night. Its face split into a grin with a crack, making a sound like ripping plastic.

The bone-white mask of dead skin looked at me with a feverish intensity, a kind of psychopathic hunger that radiated from every pore of his body. With horror, I saw the crooked man's teeth were as black as his eyes, gleaming like polished jetstone. A rush of adrenaline pushed me up from the ground. I realized I was tremendously lucky, that I had been laying there with my keys still in my pocket and my cell phone in hand, fully dressed except for the fact I was wearing slippers. I sprinted across the lawn towards my car. I heard the crooked man scream out after me.

You'll be with grandmother soon, Jackie Boy, he hissed in his gurgling voice. No one escapes. No one. I flew down the highway in my car, the phone in my trembling hand. Looking down at it, I called Iris right away. She answered Groff. Ugly. Hello, she said. Jesus, Iris, it's after me, I said frantically. Something's happening. I got attacked in my own bedroom.

Did you call the cops, she asked, seeming to wake up instantly. I looked down at the clock in the center console, seeing it was already past midnight. It wasn't a person. I saw something. I think it was the same thing that took those teenagers, and now it's after me. Are you guys home? There was a long pause on the other end. I heard whispering in the background.

Yeah, sure, come over, she said. I knew Ben was somewhat of a gun nut and had a nice little collection at the house. I would feel much safer if I made it there. And if I had them on my side, that would be all the better. Ben and Iris lived in the middle of a back road surrounded by forests. The dark trees loomed over. like priests with their heads bowed. The light from their front porch streamed into the creeping shadows as I pulled into their driveway. The sound of the car idling seemed far too loud in this place

where the woods closed and all around me. I didn't know what was hiding in those trees. I immediately shut it off. Ben was a veteran who knew much more about combat and guns than I did. His collection was also somewhat impressive, an Armalite AR-15, a judge, a 12-gauge Benelli, two crappy little point-22s, a point-4-5 Ruger, a nozzleer 21 and a 10-gauge Mossberg. I had gone out shooting with him and Iris quite a few times. I would feel much safer once I was inside. The cloudless black sky hung overhead like the lid of a coffin. Their little two-story place with the wrap-round porch looked quite. quaint, almost like a little rural cabin. I stumbled out of the car. I'm sure I was quite a sight, battered and covered in clotting gashes and cuts, my eyes wide and panicked. I constantly looked around, checking my back. Every time I did, I expected to see something there, something

close by with blue lips like a corpse and deformed, twisting bones. I had nearly gotten to the front of the house when I saw, through the narrow sidelines at top of the door, the face of the crooked man standing only feet away, I heard faint gurgling of his diseased breathing even through the wall. His hairless face was split into a grin like a death's head, his lidless eyes bulging and excited. He raised his misshapen fingers to the window and gave me a little wave, opening and closing his fingers slowly. Then he turned and disappeared deeper into the house. I immediately tried opening the door, to yell to Iris and Ben to watch out, but the door was locked. I called Iris. Each ring seemed to take an eternity. Finally, she answered. Hello.

What, are you here, she asked. Iris. Get the fuck out of the house. You and Ben aren't alone in there. There's a man coming in your direction right now. I screamed, panicked. Jump out the window if you have to. It's coming, what? She said, sounding alarmed and confused. Are you being serious? I heard soft murmuring in the background.

Tell Ben to grab a gun right now. I started to say, but a high-pitched scream carried through the phone and the house at that moment. Iris? Answer me. I said. The call immediately went dead. From inside, I heard the first of the gunshots. At that point, I decided to run back to my car.

I needed to get inside and help them. A small voice in the back of my mind asked me what I could possibly do, however. If an AR-15 or a lead slug from a 12-gauge couldn't stop the crooked man, then what could? At that moment, I wished fervently that Grandma would have told me. I grabbed a tire iron from the back of my trunk and sprinted back toward the front of the house. They had large windows leading into the kitchen from their wraparound porch. Without hesitation, I drew the tire iron back and smashed it. The tinkling of glass seemed explosively loud.

I realized that the gunshots and screaming had stopped. At that moment, something pale came scurrying around the side of the building. I jumped, but I looked over and realized it was Iris, dressed in a white hoodie in white pants. Her pale face was contorted with mortal terror. To my horror, I realized hundreds of small drops spattered her clothes, covering her face and body like crimson raindrops. She had the point four-five Ruger in her hands, and she was limping. Where's Ben? I cried. She shook her head. I jumped out the bedroom window, he was behind me, she said. Suddenly, there was another explosion of glass from behind the house. Something heavy thudded hard against the ground.

We heard wretched wailing follow it. Looking at each other with horrified eyes, we both turned and ran towards the noise. We found Ben laying on the lawn. The right side of his neck was nearly severed. Bright red streams of blood spurted from the mutilated flesh. His back looked broken as well. He laid there like a hornet smashed under someone's boot. With dilated eyes, he looked for me to iris. Terror and agony oozed from his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a frothy puddle of blood came up. Then his eyes turned away, looking straight up into the cloudless black void of a sky. The last exhalation came, the death gasped that bubbled and stretched out until I thought it might never end. He died staring into that

abyss, that eternity from which no one returns. We begin. Pedro Rodriguez-Felio was born on October, in Santa Rita du Sapukai, in the south of Minas Jurei, as the oldest of eight children of Manuel Filio and Pedro Rodriguez. The life of this man was marked by violence long before he was born. His mother suffered abuse from his father. It is said that his father was an honest and hardworking man, but unfortunately, he was an alcoholic. Whenever he drank, he became violent, and his main target was his wife. He would yell at her, humiliate her, beat her, and when she was pregnant with Pedro, he beat

her so badly that the fetus suffered the consequences. He kicked her so hard in the belly that little Pedro suffered a cranial injury, an injury that, according to some experts, may have affected the brain areas associated with empathy and reaction to external stimuli. But this injury would not be the only violence in his life, as his childhood was also marked by it. His father drank, beat the children and his wife, and Pedro always got in the middle, always defended his mother, always stood up for her.

He adored her more than anything. though, I must tell you, she wasn't innocent either. This woman was devoutly religious, and Pedro always went to church with her. However, from time to time, if he fell asleep during prayers, his mother would beat him as punishment. Everything in his house was chaos, violence from his father, from his mother, between siblings. And where they lived on the streets, there was also violence, in a troubled, chaotic area. The only piece this boy had was with with his grandfather, a man named Joaquin. According to Pedro, this man was a simple gentleman. He taught him how to swim, plant, harvest, defend himself, and also taught him values. He also

taught me to be a dignified, proper, and just man. My grandfather loved me, of all his grandchildren, I was the most loved. But this man also taught him how to shoot and hunt. And since the man was a butcher, he took him to work and taught him how to skin animals, how to handle a knife, Deb one an ox, skin it, and remove the hide. He taught him all of this, and little Pedro enjoyed it. It's good for your health. My grandfather died at 98, still strong. His family had few resources, so all the children had to work,

not just at 14 or 15, but Pedro was already working at a poultry slaughterhouse at the age of 9, and his entire salary went to his parents. At that age, he began to run away from home, he went to his grandparents' house, to his godparents, and from time to time committed robberies. However, his worst crimes began to be committed from the age of 13. At this point, I must make a small parenthesis, according to some sources, Pedro exaggerated things a bit. He had a tendency to embellish, to stretch stories. So, what comes next, we don't know if it's true or not.

An example of this is his date of birth. Officially, he was born on October 29th, but according to him, he was born on the 31st, the eve of all saints' day, and he said this to add a mystical air to his story, to give his birth a magical, spiritual touch. But the official date is October 29th. And of what I'm going to tell you now, there's no evidence, so we really don't know if it's true or not. However, as I mentioned, at 13 years old, he nearly committed his first homicide, and this was carried out against his cousin. The story goes like this. It was a calm day, no surprises. He was on his grandfather's farm and decided to take his cousin's horse for a ride. He didn't ask for permission, didn't tell anyone, he just took it out of the stable and

wrote it. He brought it back, and at that moment, his cousin was furious. He hadn't known for some time where the animal was, who had it, why, and logically, he was angry. So, he went up to Pedro and punched him in the face. According to Pedro, this wasn't the first time, he had hit him before, mocked him, was violent. But again, we have no evidence, only his word, his story, his version of the events. And at that moment, he didn't react, didn't punch back, didn't scream, didn't push. He simply said the following words, I'm going to kill you, these words were probably taken as a joke by the cousin.

Days passed, Pedro didn't react, didn't seek revenge. It seemed like he had forgotten it. But the truth is, he was waiting for the right moment, and when it came, he got to work. At that age, he worked at his grandfather's sugarcane plantation, doing long shifts with the large press machine. day, when the two boys were alone in front of that machine, he grabbed his cousin and tried to get the machine to completely crush one of his arms. The idea was to stick the whole arm in, have the machine crush it, to kill him. But the machine wasn't made for that, it was for sugarcane,

with a very small space. So, after struggling, he pulled out pruning shears and stabbed his cousin. The boy survived but was completely wrecked. And of course, Pedro was arrested. He spent two nights in jail, but with him in jail, the family lost a salary. They had few resources, every coin counted. So, the grandfather went to the jail and said he wouldn't press charges. Pedro got out of jail, returned home, kept working, and life went on as if nothing had happened. So, in reality, he faced no consequences, no punishment, no problems. And psychologically, this meant a lot.

A year later, when he was 14, his father was fired for an unfair reason, and that's when his mind clicked. Let's remember, his father was no saint. He was an alcoholic, violent, beat his mother, the person Pedro loved the most. But what happened to this man marked a before and after? It turns out he had worked for 12 years as a night janitor in a local school, every day from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. He never failed, was a.m. good employee. But one day, he was accused of stealing food and school supplies from the kitchen. Of course, he denied everything, said it wasn't him, that it was the morning guard. He had no proof, but he knew it was him. However, the bosses didn't believe him, not the principal, nor the

deputy mayor, who had the power to hire and fire guards. Now, everyone thought he was a thief, so no one would hire him. He knocked on doors, asked for work, they wouldn't hire him. Knocked on another, they kicked him out. And this meant he'd stay home drinking and being more violent than ever. Pedro couldn't allow this. I set up the tent and stayed there for about 30 days. My friends were animals, monkeys, rabbits, snakes, and jaguars stayed near me, surrounded

me, but didn't harm me. During my time in the forest, I only killed what I needed to eat, only what was necessary to survive. I never exploited the forest or mistreated animals. But I wasn't there to live or hide from my problems. When I got the weapons, I had a plan, I already knew what I was going to do. I was going to get revenge. He took a tent, a machete, a rifle, all the weapons were taken from his grandfather. And when the time came, he killed the man who had fired his father. He went to his estate, waited at night, and when he got out of his vehicle, Pedro pointed the rifle and shot him twice. Then he waited a bit and went after the real thief. We really don't know if

the father stole or not, if it was this man or someone else, we don't know for sure, and Pedro didn't either. However, at that moment, he didn't even think, he went to the school during the day, cornered the man, pointed the rifle, and said, You saw what you did. You destroyed my family. My siblings are starving because of you. Is it fair you did this? And then, he shot him twice and set him on fire. From here, he decided this would be his mission, going around the world doing justice. After committing this last crime, Pedro went to Sao Paulo, to his uncle's house.

Once there, he got involved in robberies and drug trafficking. And thanks to that, or rather, because of it, he met a woman nicknamed Bosha. This woman was an adult, the widow of a well-known drug dealer, and she used her beauty to manipulate young boys, usually minors. She would flirt with them, seduce them, have relationships with them, and make them believe they were in a relationship. In this way, she used them for theft, drug trafficking, exchanges, she did whatever she wanted with them. She had several boys in her service, they were her hit men, her toys. But what happened? Pedro became her favorite, and this did not sit well with the gang.

Other boys were jealous and supposedly ambushed him. But Pedro came out victorious, it was three against one, but he allegedly defeated them all. He killed two and sent the third to the hospital. And because he used a sought-off 12-gauge shotgun, from that moment on, everyone knew him as Padrinho Kartikyra. As time went on, Bosha gave him more jobs, in fact, she said, sent him to rob a very famous mobster, a man nicknamed China. They planned a big plot, a big robbery, and finally pulled it off. But this mobster got extremely angry and allegedly swore revenge, a point that will become very important later. Over time, Pedro formed his own gang,

made up of him and two more friends, Gauchinjo and Zapata. They carried out several operations, everything went well, they were close friends. But at one point, during a drive, drug transaction, a deal, the police found them. They opened fire, and Bosha was killed. Pedro was injured. That woman had been his mentor, his protector, and now, without her, Pedro was at risk. So, temporarily, he sought refuge with his uncles. At first, they didn't accept him, they saw he was dangerous, people were after him, police, enemies. Having Pedro at home was too risky. So, for a while, he lived on the streets. But eventually, he took shelter with them and discovered they were practitioners of Kandamble, a totemic and animist religion. He immediately

felt a great interest. They spoke to him about spirits, salvation, rituals, rituals through which he would become invincible, protected, stronger than ever. And of course, he accepted. After that, the police opened fire but the bullets didn't hit me. Enemies attacked, and I defended myself with ease. Nothing stopped me. Before, I was afraid, but after the ceremony, it was like nothing could affect me. From this moment on, he decided to become a defender of the weak. He hijacked food trucks, went with them to the slums, distributed the food among the poor,

punished animal cruelty, and defended women from abusive men. People admired and feared him in equal measure. And at just 16 years old, he already had a long list of enemies. To be continued. In the dusty borderlands of Ciudad Juarez, where the relentless desert sun meets the flickering neon lights of macalodoras, a chilling shadow lurks. It's a shadow that has haunted the city for decades, an open wound that refuses to heal. This is the story of the women of Juarez, a story of tragedy, injustice, and resilience that reverberates far beyond the city limits. Ciudad Juarez, perched precariously on the northern edge of Mexico, is a city of contrasts.

On one side, it's a place of opportunity, a hub for manufacturing and commerce. But on the other, it's a city plagued by violence, corruption, and a grim legacy that has come to define it in the eyes of the world. Since the early 1990s, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women have vanished or been brutally murdered here. The true number is elusive, obscured by official indifference and the murky waters of underreporting. The victims share haunting commonalities. Many are young, some just teenagers. They come from modest backgrounds, working in maculodoras, the sprawling factories that churn out goods for export.

Their lives are marked by struggle, their families often living on the edge of poverty. And then, one day, they're gone. A missed shift at work, an unanswered phone call, a pair of shoes left behind in the dirt. Sometimes they're never found. Other times, their bodies are discovered in desolate stretches of desert, their remains bearing the scars of unspeakable violence. For years, the murders were met with a deafening silence. Authorities brushed them off as isolated incidents or blamed the victims themselves,

perpetuating a culture of impunity. The families, however, refused to stay silent. Mothers, sisters, and friends took to the streets, demanding answers, carrying photographs of their lost loved ones. They painted murals, built altars. and held vigils, their grief transforming into a defiant cry for justice. But justice has been elusive. The investigations, when they happen, are often botched or half-hearted.

Corruption runs deep, and powerful interests ensure that many cases never see the light of day. Over the years, various theories have emerged to explain the killings. Some point to the drug cartels, their violent turf wars spilling over into civilian life. Others blame human trafficking networks or even a twisted conspiracy. involving local elites. Then there are the lone wolf theories, shadowy figures who prey on the city's most vulnerable. In 1993, the body of Alma Chevira Farrell, a 13-year-old girl, was discovered in a vacant lot. Her death marked the beginning of what would come to be known as the Femicides of Juarez. Over the years, the list of victims grew, their names etched into

the collective memory of the city. There was Lillia Alejandra Garcia-Andrade, a young mother abducted in 2001. Her body was found days later, showing signs of brutal torture. Or Esmeralda Herrera Monreal, a 15-year-old who disappeared on her way to work. Her remains were discovered in 2009, buried in a cotton field alongside other victims. Despite the horror, the women of Juarez have not been silenced. Their voices echo in the streets, in the plazas, and in the art that blooms amidst the city's pain. Feminist collectives have taken up the cause, organizing protests, and creating spaces for remembrance. The iconic pink crosses, painted with the names of the victims, stand as stark reminders of the lives lost. Artists have turned their grief into powerful expressions

of resistance, using music, poetry, and visual art to demand accountability. The international community has also taken notice. Documentaries, books, and films have shed light on the crisis, amplifying the voices of those fighting for justice. Activists and human rights organizations have called on the Mexican government to take meaningful action. And yet, the killings continue. The story of the women of Juarez is not just a story of tragedy, it's also a story of resilience. It's about the mothers who refuse to give up,

who keep searching, who keep demanding answers even when the odds are stacked against them. It's about the activists who risk their lives to expose the truth. And it's about the city itself, scarred but unbroken, still standing in the face of unimaginable loss. As the sun sets over Ciudad Juarez, casting long shadows across the desert, the fight for justice continues. It's a fight that belongs not just to the city, but to all of us. Because the women of Juarez are more than victims, they are daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends. And their stories demand to be

told, remembered, and acted upon.