Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Twisted Minds: The Darkest Stories

Episode Date: January 5, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #darktales #psychologicalhorror #spookystories #truecrimehorror Enter the darkest corners of the human mind with Twisted Minds: The Darkest Stories. This compilation delivers psychological horror, chilling true crime, and unsettling paranormal encounters. Each story will grip you, scare you, and leave you questioning the line between reality and nightmare. Perfect for fans of horror, suspense, and unnerving tales horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, darktales, psychologicalhorror, truecrime, creepy, paranormal, unsettling, suspense, haunted, terrifying, spookystories, twisted, horrorcommunity, nightmarish, terrifyingstoriesThis episode includes AI-generated content.

This harrowing case of Francia Ruth Ibarra Ramirez begins with a young woman full of dreams, energy, and potential. Born on January 20, 1991, in Leon, Guanoato, she was the second of four daughters in a loving family. Her father, Arturo Ibarra, was a dedicated teacher, and Francia aspired to follow in his footsteps. Those who knew her described her as a kind, shy, and responsible individual with a passion for sports and a close bond with her younger sister, Grisha. Franzia worked tirelessly to make her dreams come true. She balanced a teaching job while studying English at the university, aspiring to improve herself and expand her opportunities. By the age of 25, she felt ready to embrace another chapter of her life, love. However, her shyness

made it difficult for her to connect with potential partners. This led her to try Tinder in August 2016, where she met Emmanuel de la Valdez Bocenegra. Emmanuel, also 25, seemed like a perfect match for Francia. He described himself as shy and was studying medicine at the time. Their shared timidity and aspirations fostered an immediate connection. They began chatting through the app, which soon evolved into phone calls, exchanging Facebook profiles, and finally meeting in person. By September, their relationship became official. Despite this, Francia's parents never met Emmanuel. Her excuses about his timidity raised concerns, prompting her mother, Rut, to follow her one day.

Seeing him interact with Francia, Rut relaxed but felt uneasy about the secrecy. On December 3rd, 2016, Franzia left home in the morning, heading to her English classes at the University of Guanoado. Later that day, she informed her mother via text that she planned to spend the afternoon with Emmanuel and would return home by 4 or 5 p.m. When she didn't show up, her family grew anxious. Repeated calls and messages went unanswered, pushing Rut and. and Arturo to search desperately, visiting the university, hospitals, and her usual hangouts,

but found no trace of her. That evening, they discovered Francia had looked up the address of an apartment complex on her computer. Armed with this lead, they reported her disappearance to the police. However, the initial response was dismissive. The authorities argued that Francia, as an adult, might simply be with her boyfriend. They insisted her family wait longer before filing a missing person report. Unwilling to accept this, the family persisted and successfully filed the report on December 4th. Parallel investigations began,

one by the police and another by Francia's determined family. They scrutinized her social media accounts, uncovering Immanuel's profile and his family's background. Emmanuel's father, Ricardo Valvez, was a respected chemical engineer and professor in Guanoato. Digging deeper, they discovered inconsistencies in Emmanuel's story, he had long since dropped out of medical school, a fact Francia likely didn't know. Armed with this information, Francia's family urged the authorities to locate Emmanuel.

On December 5, Ricardo Valdez met Arturo Ibarra and some investigators. Ricardo claimed he had recently spoken to Emmanuel and insisted his son was fine but living independently. However, the following day, Ricardo changed his story when summoned to the police station. Accompanied by two lawyers, he declared Emmanuel missing, providing medical. records indicating his son suffered from sociopathy and required treatment. This revelation stunned Francia's family, as Ricardo had previously stated he had communicated with Immanuel recently. By December 6th, Arturo took matters into his own hands. He spent the day putting up missing posters and visiting the apartment complex linked to Emmanuel. The building's

guards confirmed Francia had entered the premises on December 3rd and was even seen descending the stairs on December 4th before returning upstairs. These unsettling details fuels the family's suspicions. The police finally searched Emmanuel's apartment on December 6, accompanied by Ricardo. This raised immediate concerns for Arturo, as he believed he should have been present instead. Investigators reported finding no significant evidence, just left over food, women's clothing that didn't belong to Francia, and a dishevelled closet. However, the case took a dark turn on December 10th when forensic services returned to the apartment. This time, they discovered bags containing human remains, including bones and a skull. Some remains were treated with chemicals, indicating an

attempt to accelerate decomposition. Francia's family learned of these discoveries not from authorities but through the media. News outlets sensationalized the case with headlines such as, met on Tinder, dissolved in acid. Reports highlighted the use of caustic chemicals, personal belongings of Francia's found at the scene, and a strong smell of cleaning products in the apartment. DNA evidence confirmed Francia had been there, though her family received little direct communication from officials. With the evidence mounting, Emmanuel was arrested and placed in Leon's social adaptation center. Accounts from acquaintances painted a picture of an intelligent but peculiar individual. Despite this, his defense team

argued he was mentally unfit for trial due to his sociopathy, seeking to have him committed to a psychiatric institution rather than prison. The family and public were outraged, particularly given Emmanuel's confession that he had killed Francia because she was suffering. This claim was dismissed, as Francia was known to be a happy and fulfilled individual. The theories about Emmanuel's motives abounded. The most prominent suggested he killed Francia after she refused to engage in a physical relationship. Another posited he might not have acted alone, though who might have assisted remains unknown. Despite Emmanuel's arrest, the case has been plagued by delays, appeals, and legal loopholes, leaving the Ibarra family

without closure. In a shocking twist, a proposed plea deal offered Emmanuel a drastically reduced sentence of seven years, three of which he had already served, along with monetary compensation for the family. It even included gifting them the apartment where Francia was allegedly killed. Understandably, the family rejected this offer, considering it an insult to Francia's memory. To this day, the case of Francia Ruthie Barra remains unresolved, shrouded in unanswered questions and bureaucratic failures. The family continues to fight for justice, enduring intimidation and setbacks. The broader public, watching this tragedy on unfold, questions whether true justice will ever be served. What do you think? Will Francia's

family ever find peace, or will her story remain a chilling reminder of systemic failures? With this information, on October 25th they go to the police station and report her disappearance. They present the GPS signal, the girl's laptop, they present absolutely everything. But, incredibly, the police refused to investigate. The first 48 hours are crucial to find someone, but they say that until 24 hours have passed, they can't do anything. They don't file the report, they don't send alerts, they do absolutely nothing. We begin this story with a girl named Jessica Guadalupe Haramio, in the municipality of Toluca, Mexico. According to her family, Jessica was born after a complicated pregnancy on May 15, 1999. She was affectionate, caring, sweet,

and had a strong communication bond with her parents. At one point, Jessica began dating a boy named Oscar, and from this relationship, a child was born. Unfortunately, for one reason or another, the relationship didn't work out, and Jessica took full responsibility for raising the child. Her parents obviously supported her in everything. In fact, they've said many times that Jessica was an excellent mother and that her son was her highest priority. Being a mother, contrary to what many might think, didn't stop her from fighting for her dreams. Jessica enrolled at Universidad Technologica de Mexico to study educational

psychology. Sadly, her time at this school was not what she expected. At one point, she realized that a classmate, also named Oscar, began to behave very strangely around her, he stared at her, followed her everywhere, said strange things and obscenities. At first, she didn't give it much importance, but over time it got worse. He became more persistent, more sinister, more terrifying, to the point it became unbearable. According to statistics from the past four years, femicides in Mexico rose by 111%, so it's no surprise that Jessica's parents were extremely scared when they learned about it. They always drove her everywhere, and now that a man named Oscar was harassing her, they increased

their vigilance. Thanks to that, they witnessed something very disturbing. One night, when they went to pick Jessica up from campus, they realized a man was following her very closely. It was dark, but even so, they could see that the man was taller than Jessica. When he saw her parents were inside the car watching him, he looked around trying to act normal and hid in the bushes. That confirmed the danger. So, to end the harassment, Jessica's family transferred her. her to another school. The next few months passed without incidents. Jessica had good grades, her son was healthy, she saw her friends, and had a good relationship with her parents. But then came October 24, 2019, and everything changed. The morning went

by without issues. In the evening, Jessica had an exam at 7.30 p.m. that would last an hour and a half. So her father agreed to drop her off at school at 7.30 and pick her up at 9 p.m. But just before 9 p.m., while waiting at the school gates, he received a message from her saying not to pick her up, that she was going to a party at Oscar's house and that she might come home later. This was very strange because Jessica never went to parties. Her father, confused, called her, but Jessica didn't answer. He sent messages, called again, but she didn't. He didn't. didn't respond. As mentioned earlier, Jessica had dated a boy named Oscar and had a child with him.

So her parents assumed she was referring to her ex. But a few hours later, they realized this didn't add up, as Jessica had barely any contact with him. The hours kept passing and her parents still had no news. They called her, sent messages, contacted friends, acquaintances, and relatives, but no one knew where she could be. That's when they thought about the other Oscar, the one who had been stalking her, and all the alarms went off. They quickly tracked her phone via GPS and discovered that the last location it had been active was a house on Ponziot-D-S street in the Villa

Santa neighborhood of Toluca. With this information, on October 25, they went to the police to report her missing. They presented the GPS signal, her laptop, they brought absolutely everything. But incredibly, the police refused to investigate. The first 48 hours are crucial to find someone, but they said that until 24 hours had passed, they couldn't do anything. They didn't file the report, issue alerts, or do anything at all. Despite that, the family didn't give up.

They spent the entire 25th pressuring authorities until finally, in the early morning of the 26th, the police processed the report and escorted Jessica's family to the house where her phone had last been active. The door was opened by Oscar Garcia Guzman, a 28-year-old man with a grim look. He said he studied psychology and worked as a security guard, but despite sharing classes with Jessica, he didn't even recognize her name. He said he had never seen her, didn't know her, and had no idea why people were knocking on his door so early.

Jessica's family, unwilling to wait, was outraged and demanded the police enter and search the house. But the officers refused, saying that without a judge's warrant, it would be a crime. From there, the story turned chaotic. In the following days, Oscar went to the prosecutor's office and repeated the same thing, he didn't know Jessica, had never seen her. And with that, the police simply folded their arms. Desperate, Jessica's relatives started their own investigation.

They asked Oscar's neighbors if they had seen Jessica, and many of them said, they had seen her entering the house on October 24th, but sadly, no one saw her leave. With this information, the family went back to the police and filed another report. But the officers again repeated that without a warrant, they couldn't enter the house. That's when the desperate family decided to surveil Oscar Garcia-Gasman themselves. They stayed in their car outside his house, watching his every move. They saw him enter and leave the house, change clothes, walk his. dogs. And most shockingly, at one point, they saw Jessica appear at the window. She looked tired,

dazed, her gaze lost, she didn't look like herself. Again, they went to the police and reported what they had seen. But once more, the officers said that without a warrant, they couldn't search the house. They also claimed there wasn't enough evidence to obtain one. Jessica's family, now completely outraged, knocked on the door and demanded Oscar let Jessica go, that he release her. But Oscar kept insisting he didn't know who Jessica was and threatened to unleash his pit bull if they didn't leave. Still, Jessica's family did not give up. They continued their surveillance, questioned neighbors, and watched the windows. Finally, on the morning of October 30th, Oscar Garcia-Gusman left the house wearing a hoodie and carrying a backpack. According to some

Some sources, he apologized to those outside for his behavior. Others say he just looked at them and smiled. What matters is that he was headed to the prosecutor's office for another round of questioning. This time, his story changed completely. He said he did know Jessica, that they were classmates, friends, got along well. He admitted she had been at his house on the night of the 24th, but claimed that after a while, she called a taxi and left. After that, he had no idea what happened to her. Because of this sudden change in his statement, the police sought enough evidence to act. That same day, a judge authorized a search and arrest warrant for Oscar Garcia-Gusman, which took effect in the early hours of October 30th. And that's when

everything came to light. First, during the search, Oscar was not found. Second, in the bathroom of the house, police found the lifeless body of Jessica Haramio. Her body was face down, with clear signs of strangulation. Third, in the interior patio, just beneath the doghouses, police noticed disturbed soil. They requested an excavation order, and upon digging, discovered two more bodies, those of two other women. With Oscar now a fugitive, the police offered a reward for any clue to his whereabouts. But from this point, the story began to resemble a Hollywood movie. Oscar never stopped using social media. He boasted about what he had done on Facebook, recounting a true horror story. He posted about his passion for Krav Maga, a self-defense

system used by Israeli forces that includes techniques designed to cause permanent injury or death, especially choking techniques, and Jessica's body showed clear signs of this. Oscar Garcia-Gusman reportedly had diplomas in Krav Maga. As days passed and he wasn't caught, he kept mocking the authorities online. The most disturbing post he made was criticizing the forensic team. According to Jessica's autopsy, she died between 1 a.m. on October 27th and 1240 p.m. on October 28th. But Oscar claimed this was a lie, that he killed her just hours before fleeing.

He also said that when police entered his house on October 30th, he was there, but escaped through the rooftop due to their incompetence. And that wasn't his only shocking post. Even before he was officially wanted, he wrote, to catch a serial killer, you have to think like one, and attached the search posters of three women, Jessica Haramio, Diana Gonzalez Hernandez, and Marta Patricia Navas Sotelo, the three women whose bodies were found in his house. Meanwhile, the police continued searching for Oscar and questioning neighbors, who said he was always well-dressed, smelled of perfume, and had three dogs and a cat. His mother paid the bills, as his salary wasn't enough. Oscar kept posting mockery on Facebook, highlighting that

he used public Wi-Fi and yet remained untraceable. His face was everywhere, on TV, magazines, newspapers. And still, on November 30, 2019, he attended the Knockfest Music Festival, talked to people, took photos, used Wi-Fi, and no one caught him. The situation became so outrageous that activist Frida Guerrera decided to step in. In collaboration with the police, she made public statements against Oscar Garcia, trying to provoke him into responding. He did. Full of rage, he confessed to her privately that he had killed six people, four women and two men, and detailed each murder. He claimed his first murder was his father, in 2006, when he was 16. In a second search, the police confirmed that the body of his father

was indeed found at the same house in Villa Santon, alongside Jessica and the two women. Later, after breaking up with his high school girlfriend Monica Chavez, he decided to kill her too. On September 10, 2012, he followed her with the intention of kidnapping her at knife point. She escaped, so he broke into her house and waited. But her father, Tomas Chavez, was there. They fought, Oscar stabbed him, and though Tomas tried to flee, Oscar found an axe and killed him. He then sat Tomas' body on the couch, covered it with a sheet, had breakfast beside it, and when Monica came home, he kidnapped her. He held her captive for two weeks and killed her two days before his birthday. He threw her remains into a ravine. His next victim was Adriana Gonzalez Hernandez, 27, who disappeared on

March 24, 2017. The next was Marta Patricia Navas Sotelo, 25, who vanished on February 8, 2018. Marta had two university degrees and was very cultured. After disappearing, she made a strange phone call to her mother, then sent a text message saying she was ashamed and didn't dare return home. Her family tracked her phone's GPS and saw it had last been active at Oscar's home in Villa Santon. They reported it to the police, who again said they couldn't act without a judge's order. The case began to go cold. Thanks to Frida Guerrera's conversations with Oscar on social media, police confirmed he used public Wi-Fi. Then, on December 6, 2019, they spotted him connected to a public network in Casco Santo Tomas, Mexico.

Agents found him eating a sandwich at a street stand. Due to his Krav Maga skills, he resisted arrest. He tried to grab an officer's weapon, and it took six people to subdue him. Even then, Oscar tried to threaten officers with poison candies to avoid being taken to prison. But he ended up behind bars. To this day, he has shown no remorse. The only thing he seemed to care about was where his pets were, when he could see them. A leaked phone call between Oscar and his mother reveals that all he asked about were his dogs.

According to sources, Oscar Garcia-Gusman is currently being held at the Santiago's Social Reintegration Center in Almoloya de Juarez. He has requested a 144-day extension before trial to prepare his defense. Now it's your turn, what do you think about this case? Do you believe this man has anything in his favor? The end. It all started with a bunch of keys. keys that didn't even belong to him. Keys to a neighbor's house, car keys, and even keys to a parking garage.

As it turned out, these keys somehow became connected to the mysterious and gruesome murder of an 85-year-old woman. The thing is, the guy had keys to practically the entire town, and among them were the ones that used to open the mayor's office. Now let's jump to June 8, 2004. A family in Spain started worrying because they hadn't heard from four of their relatives in quite some time. The Barrios de Los Ramos family, a married couple, Salvador and Julia, and their two sons, Rodrigo, 16, and Alvaro, 12, had gone radio silent. Calls, messages, and every attempt to reach them hit a dead end. Worried sick, some family members went over to their apartment. They knocked on the door, but no one answered.

Growing desperate, they decided to enter the home. What they found was beyond horrifying, Salvador, Julia, and Alvaro were brutally murder. murdered. Shocked, they immediately called the police. This tragic discovery marked the beginning of one of the most unsettling unsolved murder cases in Spain's history, the triple homicide of the Barrios de Los Ramos family in Burgos. A picture-perfect family, or so it seemed, at first glance, the Barrios de Los Ramos family seemed like your average hardworking household. Salvador, 53, and Julia, 47, were the parents. Rodrigo, the older son, was 16, while Alvaro, the younger one, was 12.

Julia was a stay-at-home mom, and Salvador worked tirelessly on farmland in Burgos. Salvador's relentless work ethic gradually paid off, and the family's financial situation improved significantly. They came to own 180 hectares of farmland, multiple agricultural machines, an industrial warehouse in Breviska, several properties in rural Burgos, and three homes, one of which was a big house in Arendt's hometown, where they would vacation during the holidays. Despite their wealth, the family stayed grounded. According to relatives, they were humble and hardworking, never flashy with their money.

Salvador even lent his machines to neighbors and was always willing to help anyone in need. He was a good man, said Benito dos Santos, Salvador's brother-in-law. We used to tell him, forget about all those fields and start enjoying life, but he never listened. He just wanted to work. Rodrigo and Alvaro were typical kids, too. Rodrigo was shy and introverted, while Alvaro was outgoing, funny, and obsessed with costumes. For Alvaro, any excuse was a good excuse to dress up. Life seemed good, but things took a turn when Rodrigo hit his teenage years.

Teenage rebellion and family tensions, as Rodrigo entered adolescence, trouble began brewing. He lost interest in school, started getting bad grades, and seemed unsure of what he wanted in life. Arguments with his parents became a regular occurrence. Salvador, frustrated, gave his son an ultimatum, improve your grades, or you'll be working with me in the fields. Rodrigo hated this idea, and tensions at home escalated. Eventually, things got so bad that the family decided to send Rodrigo to a boarding school, the Gabrielista's school in La Aguilera, near Aranda de Duero, about 80 kilometers from Burgos. Some sources say Salvador and Julia made the decision, while others claim it was Rodrigo who asked to leave,

unable to bear the constant arguments at home. Either way, the move seemed like a necessary step to ease the family tensions. Meanwhile, Salvador's life was getting more complicated. He was appointed mayor of the small village of Buriba, a place he deeply loved. But not everyone in the 82-person village supported him. Between April and May 2004, Salvador started receiving anonymous threats. Late-night phone calls warned him to watch his back or threatened outright violence. Salvador, however, brushed them off as pranks from a deranged person with too much time on

their hands. A new summer plan. By the summer of 2004, Rodrigo hadn't shown much improvement. His grades and attitude remained poor, so Salvador and Julia decided on a new plan, while Julia and Alvaro would spend a summer in a rents as usual, Rodrigo would stay with his dad in Buriba to work in the fields. Salvador even bought a new combine harvester, worth around 150,000 euros, so Rodrigo could use the older one to learn the value of hard work. The plan was for Salvador to pick up the new machine on June 8, 2004. But that day would never come. The last weekend together, that final weekend, the family spent quality time together.

On Saturday, June 5th, everything seemed normal. On Sunday afternoon, Salvador drove Rodrigo to the bus station so he could return to his boarding school. Surveillance cameras captured Salvador and Rodrigo saying, goodbye before Rodrigo boarded the bus. Salvador then went back home, had dinner with Julia and Alvaro, and went to bed. It would be their last night together. The crime, in the early hours of June 7, 2004, someone broke into the barrios de Los Ramos apartment. The door wasn't forced, suggesting the intruder had a key. Moving silently in the dark, they carried a knife

and an iron bar. Their first target was Salvador. The struggle was brutal, spilling out into the hallway in ending in the kitchen, where Salvador was stabbed 50 times. Next, the intruder returned to the bedroom and stabbed Julia 17 times. Finally, they went to Alvaro's room. Hearing the commotion, Alvaro had locked his door and hidden under the bed, but the killer kicked the door down, dragged the boy out, and stabbed him 32 times in the hallway. The killer's actions were chilling. All three victims were stabbed multiple times after death and then had their throat slit.

The crime scene was a bloodbath. Before leaving, the intruder changed clothes and quietly slipped out, leaving no sign of forced entry. The discovery, days passed without any sign of the family. Salvador didn't show up for work, Julia wasn't seen in the neighborhood, and Alvaro missed school. Concerned, Salvador's elderly aunt and uncle, who lived downstairs, decided to check on them. On June 8, 2004, they went up to the apartment, knocked repeatedly, but got no response. They called other relatives, who eventually entered the home and decided. discovered the horrific scene. The investigation begins. Police were immediately called,

and the investigation began. They noted several key points. The door, the front door wasn't forced, implying the killer had a key. The darkness, the intruder navigated the house in complete darkness, suggesting familiarity with the layout. The weapons, the knife and iron bar used in the murders were never found. No robbery, nothing was stolen, ruling out theft as a motive. Footprints, bloody footprints from a size 42 to 44 Dunlop sneaker were the only physical clue left behind. Oddly, these footprints didn't appear anywhere else in the building except for the crime scene and the rooftop. The rooftop also yielded cigarette butts from Chesterfield brand cigarettes. Strangely, the cigarettes weren't smoked, they were lit and left

to burn out. This odd behavior puzzled investigators. Suspitions turned to Rodrigo. Initially, Rodrigo appeared devastated upon hearing about the murders. But as police dug deeper, they began suspecting him. Although he cooperated fully, providing DNA samples and answering questions, his behavior and past raised red flags. Rodrigo's strained relationship with his family was no secret, and investigators began constructing a theory. They called it Operation Kane, Rodrigo, fueled by resentment towards his younger brother and

parents, had carefully planned the murders. According to the theory, Rodrigo returned home that. at night, using a set of keys he'd kept without his parents knowing. He carried out the killings, then returned to his boarding school before anyone noticed he was gone. Building the case against Rodrigo, several pieces of circumstantial evidence pointed towards Rodrigo. The footprints, Rodrigo was tall and wore a shoe size that matched the prints at the scene. The keys, a cousin claimed Rodrigo once opened their apartment door with his own set of keys, suggesting he had access. Driving skills, although Rodrigo didn't have a license, friends said

knew, I prayed every day for God to help us find out if he was alive or not. I wanted to bring him home. I would wake up anxious, thinking, maybe today will be the day we find him. Miriam Vyafor, Vincent's mother, first saw the case as an accident, a couple, drunk, poorly equipped, and in bad conditions. It was clear that something like this could happen to them, but sooner than later, they began to notice something very strange. We start on the afternoon of April 19, 2015, when a happy couple went to the Hudson River for a short route. The excursion plan was simple. They were going to kayak from Plum Point to Bannerman Island, where there were supposedly some photos. The round-trip kayak route was quite short, but that

day the water was very rough, so the couple figured it would take them a little longer. The trip there went well, but unfortunately, the return trip did not go as planned. In fact, after they left, the woman grabbed the phone and called 911. Kack, my he's in the water right now. I'll stay on the phone with you. It's very windy and the waves are coming in, and I can't, I can't paddle to him. He's getting further and further away from me. I, I.

He's going. Doctor please call somebody, got help on the way. Stay on the phone with me. Okay. Until here, It seems like the scene of a terrible accident, but in a matter of days, this case would take a complete turn. To understand this story, we first need to meet the woman who called 9-1-1, Angelica Lipska, 35 years old. Angelica Lipska arrived in the United States from Latvia on August 15, 2000,

with a one-year work permit as a nanny. After this period, she renewed her papers and finally obtained residency. According to various sources, when she got the permit, Angelica changed her last name from Lipsa to Growald and later got a job as a waitress. However, her dream was not this, she wanted to be a photographer. She was always very kind, brilliant, intelligent, and cheerful. Photography was what she truly wanted to do, and she was absolutely happy when doing it. Joel goes, a friend of Angelicas, said she was very cheerful and sensitive, but due to her culture, she was unable to express it with words, so she did it through her art, photographing sunsets, butterflies, and flowers. It was her way of showing her inner self. She always

took pictures of the sky or something like that. You know, flowers, she always found beauty in that. I thought she had a good heart. You know, I don't have friends. who don't have good hearts. Sherry Part, a friend of Angelicas, said her life was quite good. She was a sweet, simple girl, very hardworking and very independent. But at some point, the last of these would change. On September 22, 2013, she met a man, for years older than her, named Vincent Viaphor. Vincent, or more commonly known as Vinnie, was a project manager at a company in New York

and had spent his entire life in the United States. He was fun, loved nature, sports, and animals. Apparently, as a son, he also met all expectations. He went to university, got married, but after about a year and a half of marriage, things didn't work out. It seemed things between them weren't going as well as they had hoped, so each went their separate ways. She met someone else, remarried, and he decided to focus on his hobbies. One of those hobbies was kayaking. He loved doing routes, both alone and with others, and it was this very activity that brought

him together with Angelica. Apparently, they both loved the sport, and just a few days after meeting, they not only started practicing the sport together but also told everyone they were a couple. This love story was initially liked by everyone, but slowly, it began to alarm their loved ones. Just weeks after meeting, Angelica packed her bags, left her a couple of. apartment, and moved in with Vinny. A few months later, the couple got engaged to marry, and not content with that, they started making plans to have children. Obviously, everyone was happy for them, but it seemed to them that things were moving too fast. They wanted to rush things,

and Vinny had only recently divorced. So, everyone was afraid that Angelica would break his heart. The age difference between them was quite large, and she came from a different culture. As I mentioned before, expressing emotions wasn't her strong suit. She didn't express love with words, gestures, hugs, or kisses, she did it through her photos. This could be a significant gap between the two of them. However, Vinnie and Angelica seemed so in love that they didn't mind this fact. They kept dating, doing yoga, taking photos, and kayaking. But at one point, Angelica lost her job.

That's when they made a decision that many found crazy, Vinny included Angelica in his life insurance policy. This could sound very bad, but it must be said that in that policy, not only Angelica but also Vinny's mother and sister were included. This man thought that once married, they would have to make that change, so it would be better to do it sooner rather than later and get it out of the way. The idea seemed great to him, but to his family, it was a grave mistake, especially since the policy. was worth $500,000. Time passed, and they still seemed very happy, but behind closed doors, many of their friends began to notice that something wasn't right. The night of Saturday, April 18, 2015, strange things happened. That Saturday, the couple was at a party with some friends, and at first, everything seemed normal. Vinnie danced, drank, joked, and gave it his

all on the dance floor, but Angelica didn't talk to anyone. She stayed in a corner and simply let the hours pass. At one point in the night, Vinny, completely drunk, said that he wanted to go kayaking, that he wanted to throw himself into the water, that he wanted to paddle, and several people had to stop him from going into the river. The water was very rough, very cold, the weather was terrible, and he was completely drunk, so it was clear that he would probably drown. After calming him down and convincing him, they sent him home with his mother.

The next morning, Sunday, April 19th, Vinny was determined. He wanted to kayak in the Hudson River, and he cared little about the rough water. Year after year, the couple had gone to the Hudson River to kayak. For them, it was like a spring ritual. During this time of year, the days were very warm, but the water was still very cold. Still, this didn't seem to matter to them. The couple loaded all the equipment into the car and headed. toward Plum Point, a trip that, by the way, was recorded on several cameras.

Once at their destination, they rested the kayaks and realized that the water was much rougher than they had anticipated. Navigating there in these conditions would be quite a challenge, but Vinny didn't care. Angelica put on her life vest, but Vinny didn't even consider it. He didn't wear a wetsuit or any proper equipment. What he had in mind wasn't safety, but getting to Bannerman Island as quickly as possible to take intimate photos of Angelica. Around 4 p.m., after a couple of beers, the couple left Plum Point, crossed the Hudson River, and reached Bannerman Island. Once there, they kept drinking, entered the castle, took photos, and considered staying there

until nightfall. But soon the temperatures began to drop, and they decided to cut the trip short. From that moment on, things began to take a strange turn. To be continued. The couple leaves Plum Point, crosses the Hudson River, and arrives at Bannerman Island. Once there, they continue drinking, enter the castle, take photos, and discuss staying there until nightfall. But soon, the temperatures begin to drop, and they decide to cancel the trip. It's from here that the story takes a darker turn.

The couple gets back into the kayaks between 7 o'clock and 7.20 p.m., and just 20 minutes later, Vinny's kayak starts having problems. The strong waves make it very difficult to keep paddling, and at some point, Angelica notices that Vinny is struggling more than usual. His kayak seemed to be missing the drainage plug, and water was entering it very easily. Eventually, Vinny's kayak kept sizes, and no matter how hard Angelica tried to save him, she couldn't. He's in the water, I have both paddles, and the waves keep pushing me further away from him, she said, as she screamed and called 911. After calling 911, the police sprang into action. They managed to rescue Angelica, but there was no trace of Vinny's kayak. They combed the river downstream

with helicopters, divers, and even trackers along the shores, but there was no sign of him. Every day, I prayed for God to help us find out if he was alive or not. I wanted to bring him home. I would wake up anxious, thinking, maybe today will be the day we find him. Miriam Viaphor, Vinny's mother, initially saw the case as an accident, a drunk couple, poorly equipped, in bad conditions. It was evident that something like this could happen to them, but sooner than later, they began to notice something very strange. Angelica did not seem like the typical person grieving. In the days after Vinnie's disappearance, Angelica behaved unusual. She went out partying, attended karaoke, did yoga, posted smiling photos, and shared what

she was doing. She didn't seem really affected by what was happening. People who knew Angelica well said her attitude was consistent with her cultural background, suggesting that in Latvia, mourning was kept internal. However, still, the grief felt very distant, and there was a huge disconnect. Then a series of events unfolded that gave the story a much darker shade. The first thing that happens is that on April 20th, the police find Vinny's kayak near Plum Point, but there's no sign of his body. Unfortunately, due to bad weather, the search was suspended. As the days went by and the weather improved, the search resumed. That's when Angelica takes the investigators out to party with her. She tells them that,

for once, they can stop searching, they had already done it before, so a bit of partying wouldn't hurt them. This obviously shocked everyone because not only was she not grieving, but she was also trying to go out partying with the police. Naturally, the agents declined the offer and continued the search. The days passed, and the police couldn't make any progress. They had combed the river, the shores, and found no trace of Vinnie. At this point, they decided to go back to Bannerman Island to check everything again. Before leaving, they informed Angelica to let her know that they hadn't given her.

up and were continuing with the search, to which she responded that she needed to go as well and would probably be there. Apparently, the woman worked as a volunteer in the preservation of monuments, and her job was supposedly to take care of the Bannerman Castle. So she told the agents that she would also go when they went. The visit took place on April 29, and to say that it wasn't what the agents expected is an understatement. She arrived early on the island, reviewed everything, combed through the castle, checked under the stairs, even searched under rocks, but they couldn't find anything. Moreover, Angelica arrived late. She got to the island around 12.30 p.m., and when she did, she seemed very happy. She checked the castle to make

sure everything was okay, and just as she was about to leave, the agent stopped her and asked her to please go over, point by point, what she and Vinny did on the day of his disappearance. This is when the woman broke down. She started crying, stammering, became very nervous, and sweated profusely. Seeing that she was visibly shaken, Officer Donald Corto took her aside. It was then that Angelica allegedly confessed everything. According to the officer, Angelica said that Vinny didn't disappear, she had killed him. She explained that she felt pressured to do things she didn't want to, pressured to have sex in ways that she disliked, to take provocative photos, to be with other people, and to wear lingerie. She said that at some point,

the situation overwhelmed her, and all she could think of was escaping. So, when they went on the kayaking trip, she couldn't help herself. She removed the drainage plug from his kayak and took the ring off his paddle. This way, with the rough waves, Vinny's kayak would flood, and without the ring on the paddle, he wouldn't be able to paddle properly. Also, with alcohol in his system, Vinny couldn't coordinate, and his death sentence was sealed. She also said that when Vinny sank, she was euphoric and waited a few minutes before calling 911. With all of this, the police had a confession, but unfortunately, it wasn't recorded. So they took her to the station to repeat everything in the interrogation room.

On April 29th, 2015, at 3.25 p.m., Angelica Grasswald's official interrogation began. The police thought it would be brief, that she would simply repeat everything she had said on the island and then everything would be over. She would be arrested, processed for murder, and everyone would go home. But the interrogation lasted 11 hours. They asked her if she had killed Vinnie, and she answered with short phrases, evading questions, changing the subject, and when left alone, she would look in the mirror, brush her hair, and do yoga. It was a surreal scene. They kept insisting for 11 hours, asking her over and over again to confess, but at one point, when they thought it was all lost, the following happened.

The next day, April 30, 2015, Angelica was arrested and charged with second-degree manslaughter. Unfortunately, without a body, this charge wouldn't go far. However, on May 23rd, they managed to recover it near West Point, about halfway between Plum Point. Vinny's body was so decomposed that it couldn't be identified at first glance, but dental records confirmed it was him. This is when the trial began. Many thought Angelica would receive a harsh sentence, that she would spend at least ten years behind bars, but that did not happen. In fact, the defense made the following key arguments. First, they highlighted that Angelica's behavior after Vinny's disappearance couldn't be used

to accuse her of the crime because, once again, they pointed out that she came from a different culture, one where mourning was kept internal. Second, the defense argued that the confession Angelica made in the police station wasn't valid, claiming she was manipulated by the police. They also argued that the alleged confession made on Bannerman Island was a lie, that she never confessed anything, and if she had, the agents would have pointed that out during the interrogation. But at no point did the cameras record that. Third, they pointed out that Angelica could have removed the drainage plug, but she did so much earlier, before starting the trip to Plum Point. To defend this, they showed security footage that captured the car on the way to Plum Point,

where it showed that Vinny's blue kayak was tied to the car by a rope passing through the drainage plug, meaning the plug had already been removed. They also stressed that neither of them was properly equipped for kayaking. Angelica wore a life vest but no wetsuit, and Vinny had neither a wet suit nor a life vest, plus they were both drunk. As you can see, this case is truly twisted, and before the trial even began, a series of very shocking events occurred. Angelica even gave an interview on the 2020 program with ABC News, and in that interview from prison, she said the following, they kept asking me the same questions about 100 times. I knew I was innocent. At my breaking point, I simply gave them what they wanted. The trial was delayed several times, and the public

eagerly awaited the final verdict. For the public, it was black or white, either she was guilty or innocent. To everyone's surprise, on June 24, 2017, the defense reached a deal with the prosecutors, through which Angelica Growald pleaded guilty to a lesser charge of negligent homicide. Because of this, her sentence was between 1.5 to 4 years in prison, and she ended up serving only 32 months behind bars. So now, what do you think of the case? Do you believe Angelica consciously killed Vinny? The end. This story begins with what seemed to be the perfect mother, Rebecca Bowers. Born on February 5, 1968, Becky, as she was known to everyone, had the kind of reputation

that made people believe she was practically flawless. She was polite, well-mannered, loving, and always put together. At one point in her life, she married a man with the last name Bowers, and they had two children together. But that marriage didn't last. She later remarried a man named Tony Sears, a military man, and took his last name. As Becky Sears, she had three more children, bringing her family count to seven. By 2009, Becky, Tony, and their five kids lived in one of the most picturesque towns in the

U.S., Grovetown, Georgia. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone. A small, peaceful community of about 12,000 people. The crime rate was almost non-existent, maybe a petty theft here and there, a couple of bar fights, but nothing serious. Most of the town's residents worked at the nearby military base, including Tony Sears. On Hot Springs Drive, where the Sears family lived, life was calm and uneventful, until 2005 when new neighbors moved in. The Parsons family. David, Catherine, known to most as Kai, and their son, Derek, became Becky and Tony's next-door neighbors.

And just like Becky, Kai was seen as the perfect woman. Always well-dressed, sweet and warm. The ideal mother, the perfect wife. She was everything Becky was, or wanted to be. The two women hit it off immediately. Their friendship didn't develop slowly, it was instant and intense. They did everything together, grocery shopping, gym workouts, even work. Both were employed at Healing Hands Physical Therapy Center in Augusta. Their kids were friends, their husbands got along, it was like a match made in suburban heaven.

But that friendship would come to a tragic end on the morning of March 20, 25, 2009. And it wouldn't be a simple falling out. It would be murder. That day started like any other. Becky's routine was the usual, she woke up at 5.30 a.m., made breakfast, got the kids ready for school, and did it all alone. Tony was away, some sources say he was deployed in Afghanistan, while others don't specify where he was. Either way, Becky was handling five kids on her own. She dropped off her eldest at work, the younger ones at school, and headed to her job. Meanwhile, Kai's morning followed a similar pattern. She got up early, prepared breakfast, took her son to school, and returned home around 8.15 a.m. That day, she was expecting a

contractor at 8.30 a.m. But according to later testimonies, she had already been home long before that. At 8.30 a.m., the contractor knocked on her door. No answer. He called her phone. No answer. He rang the doorbell again. Silence. Concerned, he walked around the house and stopped in his tracks. The back window was shattered. Someone had broken in. Panicked, he rushed to the front of the house, looking for a neighbor, someone who might know what was going on.

That's when he saw a young man sitting on the steps of the house across the street. It was Michael Bowers, Becky's 22-year-old son. The contractor told him what he had seen, that Kai's house had been broken into. Michael, in response, shared something strange, he claimed that his own house had been broken into as well. He had supposedly gone to enter through the backdoor and saw a broken glass, so he got scared and called his mom. He didn't call the police. He didn't call 911. He called his mother. Suspicious, the contractor did what Michael hadn't. He called the police. By 9 a.m., Hot Springs Drive was swarming with patrol cars. Officers went into the Parsons house

first. What they found inside was horrifying. The house was ransacked, shattered glass covering the floor. But as they moved deeper inside, it got worse. Blood. Everywhere. It streaked the walls, pooled on the floors. There were drag marks leading toward the garage. And in the middle of the garage door, a bloody handprint. They pushed the door open and found her. Lying in a massive pool of blood was Kai Parsons. At first, officers didn't even recognize her, her face had been completely disfigured. She had been beaten mercilessly with two weapons, a baseball bat and a hammer. The bat belonged to her son, Derek, making it a weapon of opportunity. But the hammer? That had been brought there. This wasn't a simple burglary gone wrong.

Whoever did this came prepared. Miraculously, she was still alive. Barely. Paramedics rushed her to the hospital, but the damage was too severe. A few hours later, she died. This was now a murder investigation. The first suspect. Her husband, David Parsons. Had he hired someone to kill his wife for the insurance money? The police interrogated him, but his alibi was airtight. He was in Los Angeles for work at the time of the murder. Friends and family vouched for him, saying he had loved Kai deeply. So, they looked at the crime scene again. The baseball bat made sense, it was in the house. But the hammer? That had been brought in. Whoever killed Kai wanted her dead. It was personal. It was filled with rage, which meant the killer knew

her. And that's when their focus shifted to Becky Sears and her family. Something wasn't adding up with Michael Bauer's story. He had arrived home around 8.30 a.m., saw his own house had been broken into, and instead of calling the cops, he called his mom. A 22-year-old man afraid to call 911. The police weren't buying it. Michael claimed he had been dropped off at work that morning by his mom, but instead of working, he met up with a friend to get high. He had been using meth and marijuana, and rather than working, he decided to sneak back home to nap. But when he got there, he allegedly saw broken glass and panicked.

The police found his story weak. But there was one issue, there was no physical evidence linking him to the murder. And then, attention turned to another son. Chris Bowers. Nineteen years old. The Golden Child. Smart, responsible, had his own home, a stable job, and a close relationship with his mother. Too close, some might say.

And that's when a prison informant came forward. He claimed to know who killed Kai Parsons. And the killer? Chris Bowers. The story took an insane turn. Becky Sears had been having an affair with David Parsons. For six months, they had been sneaking around, sending love notes, meeting in secret. But then, Becky wanted more.

She wanted David to leave Kai. He refused. She was furious. So, she made a deadly decision. She asked her brother if he knew someone who could take care of Kai. Her brother refused. So, she asked her son, Chris. And Chris, who would do anything for his mother, said yes.

On the morning of March 25, 2009, Chris Bowers entered the Parsons home and bludgeoned Kai to death. And Becky? She staged the robbery at her own house. to make it look like a burglary gone wrong. But the lies unraveled. In 2012, both Becky and Chris were sentenced to life in prison without parole. In the end, Becky's obsession with the perfect life led to murder. And the most terrifying part.

No one saw it coming. Perfect mothers, perfect wives, perfect neighbors, sometimes, the ones who seem the most perfect are hiding the darkest secrets. Hello, this isn't a post asking for advice, just rather a story about something that happened in my friend group. Originally posted to R slash infidelity, I went to a technical college in a city, and I was assigned a roommate, Z. Z was 22M when I met him, I was 18M fresh out of high school. From the first day we met each other, we knew we would be friends for life. He was a funny guy, liked the same things I did, and had the same major that I had.

Quickly after meeting Z, he introduced me to his GFL, Z and L had been dating for like a year or less and I noticed right away that she was very, very clingly. L demanded that Z be on FaceTime with her all the time, even if they weren't actively talking. A couple weeks after I met Z, it became evident to me that Z was sick of Elle's controlling and demanding behavior. Our local sports team won a championship, so I gave Z a replica championship ring, since he liked the team, and Elle immediately got jealous and demanded that she received the ring instead of him. I tell these small stories so that you the reader has an understanding of how strange their relationship dynamic was. One day while I'm watching a football game with Z, I see him scrolling through Tinder. I said, dude, what are you doing?

You have a girlfriend. He said, yeah, I know. I just like fucking with other girls on Tinder. At that moment, I knew I had a choice to make. I knew that the right thing to do was to tell him to stop being a pace of shit. Initially, I wanted him to recognize that he needed to break up with Elle before he started flirting and sexting other women. While I was having these thoughts I thought to myself, well, L does treat Z like complete ass. And that slowly turned into asterisk, I'll let Z cheat on L just because L is a bad person and a shit GF.

If C ever date someone kind, I'll never allow this kind of behavior from a close friend asterisk. So that was that, I said, whatever dude, and I didn't blink twice when I knew he was actively cheating on his GF. A couple times he would bring some other college-aged girl back to our dorm suite, and he would make out and or have sex with them. Eventually Elle found out, and wanted to make it work. Z obviously didn't want to make things work, so he had Elle's father come get the stuff she still had at our dorm suite. I haven't seen or heard about Elle ever since then. This is where the story switches directions entirely. My ride or die best friend in the world is Jay. Jay and I are

the same age and I've been best friends with him since we were very young. One weekend I invite Jay to stay at my dorm with myself and Z. They hit it off. perfectly. Z, J, and I quickly realized that the three of us were inseparable best friends. We all spend the weekend drinking, partying, and learning about each other's lives. Jay tells Z about his GFN, and how they've been together for years. Z is impressed because he is four years older than us and both Jay and I had active long-term relationships. Eventually, of course, Jay had to go back home and Z and I continued to do our fun college life. All three of us would play video games every night, eat at bar,

together, and just talk on Discord for hours. Well, a couple years pass. COVID hits, I move back home with my parents, I graduate college, I get a full-time job, etc. J, Z, and I are all still inseparable. We talk about sports all the time and message each other daily with jokes and such. One day Jay needed help moving out his old apartment and into a new one. He asked me to help, but I wasn't in town so Z ended up going over there to help him. J and then, his girlfriend, were at Jay's place packing and such. Jay had an envelope with $800 cash on his counter for his payment for the newer apartment. Z, J, and then all start packing and organizing and a couple hours later Jay notices the $800

envelope is gone. He starts to have a mini panic attack and starts to unpack everything he had packed previously. Long story short, they couldn't find the money. Jay has always been a forgetful person, so honestly I figured he had thrown it away on accident when cleaning up all the other trash he had to throw out. During his panic attack, Jay pops off on N. He says that she threw his money away and that it's all her fault for not paying attention. Z later messaged me saying that he had never seen that side of Jay before and didn't like it very much. Fast forward to a year ago.

N sends me a 2,400 word text message, I'm dead serious, about how abusive and awful Jay is. Keep in mind I've known Jay my whole life, he's definitely not abusive. And decided to move out of Jay's apartment without warning, and Jay comes home from work to find his apartment looking like it just got robbed, TV missing, sheets and pillows missing, Ziploc bags missing, food missing, you name it. And blocked myself and Jay from everything, we couldn't contact her. In an attempt to get some of Jay's stuff back, I asked Z to reach out to Ann and try to get his stuff.

It worked, and about a week later Z and I pull up to Ann's parents' house and retreating the stuff she stole from J. That was the end of it, so I thought. Jay goes absolutely manic for about a month. Jay's mother abandoned him as a child and Jay Annan had been dating for over five years, so Jay was extremely triggered. He would make rash decisions, make things up, and just overall paranoia. He began telling me that he thinks Z is having sex with N behind our backs. I was offended. I said Z would never do that. We're his best friends. I sent Z a message and just asked him why Jay would have that idea, and he said, I have no clue why he would think that.

I only met her family when you and I went to pick up Jay's stuff. Z had no history of lying to me, so I told him thank you for being honest with me. About six months ago while I'm driving home from work, I get a phone call from Jay. He starts yelling, I knew I was right, I told you an N-01 believed me. I was like, ugh, here we're go again. Jay thinks Z slept with N, even though Z told me he didn't. Then out of nowhere, a call from Z comes in. My gut turns.

I picked up the call and with a hesitant voice Z says, Hey Bud. I just wanted to call you so you would hear it for me before anyone else. I lied you for months. I lied to everyone. I did have sex with North and we are close to dating. The heart wants what the heart wants. I told him that I no longer trusted him and that this was a massive violation of our friendship.

I told him I'm not sure when I would speak to him again. when I would speak to him again, but that I appreciated all the good memories we shared. I hung up and I haven't talked to Z since. I called Jay back and I apologized over and over again. I apologized for not believing him when he told me he was suspicious of Z. I apologized for introducing him to Z. It has been incredibly hard to lose a best friend like that. Someone I introduced to my extended family as a lifelong friend. Part of me thinks that if I never encouraged him to cheat on L, that he wouldn't have ended our friendship by hooking up with N. Sorry for the rant, I hope you enjoyed my story. TLDR I encouraged my roommate to cheat

on his girlfriend because she was awful to him and me. Later the same roommate fucked my best friend's long-term girlfriend. This happened a few years back. I was doing long haul, mostly cross-country routes, the kind that take you through vast stretches of nothing. You know the ones, where the radio turns to static for hours, and the only sign of life is the occasional pair of headlights going the other way, miles apart. I was young, eager for the miles, the money. Didn't mind the solitude. Or so I thought. The route I was on took me across a long, desolate stretch of highway that ran between the borders of two large governmental territories. I don't want to say exactly where, but think big, empty spaces, lots of trees, not much else.

It was notorious among drivers for being a dead zone, no signal, no signal, no. towns for a hundred miles either side, and prone to weird weather. Most guys tried to hit it during daylight, but schedules are schedules. Mine had me crossing it deep in the night. I remember the feeling. Utter blackness outside the sweep of my headlights. The kind of dark that feels like it's pressing in on the cab. The only sounds were the drone of the diesel engine, the hiss of the air breaks now and then,

and the rhythmic thrum of the tires on asphalt. Hypnotic. Too hypnotic. I'd been driving for about ten hours, with a short break a few states back. Coffee was wearing off. The dashboard lights were a dull green glow, comforting in a way, but also making the darkness outside seem even more absolute. My eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached.

You fight it, you know. Slap your face, roll down the window for a blast of cold air, crank up whatever music you can find that hasn't dissolved into static. I was doing all of that. It must have been around two or three a.m. I was in that weird state where you're not quite asleep, but not fully awake either. Like your brain is running on low power mode. The white lines on the road were starting to blur together, stretching and warping. Standard fatigue stuff. I remember blinking hard, trying to refocus. That's when I saw it. Or thought I saw it. Or thought I saw it. Just a flicker at the edge of my headlights, on the right shoulder of the road.

Small. Low to the ground. For a split second, I registered a shape, vaguely human-like, and then it was gone, swallowed by the darkness as I passed. My first thought, dear, or a coyote. Common enough. But it hadn't moved like an animal. It had been upright. My brain, Sluggish as it was, tried to process it. Too small for an adult. Too still for an animal startled by a rig. Then the logical part, the part that was still trying to keep me safe on the road, chimed in, you're tired. Seeing things. Happens. And I almost accepted that. I really did. Shook my head, took a swig of lukewarm water from the bottle beside me. Kept my eyes glued to the road a head. The image, though, it kind of stuck. A small, upright shape. Like a child. No way, I told

myself. Out here. Middle of nowhere. Middle of the night. Impossible. Kids don't just wander around on inter-territorial highways at 3 a.m. It had to be a trick of the light, a bush, my eyes playing games. I've seen weirder things born of exhaustion. Shadows that dance, trees that look like figures. It's part of the job when you're pushing limits. I drove on for maybe another 30 seconds, the image fading, my rational mind starting to win. Just a figment.

Then, I glanced at my passenger side mirror. Habit. Always checking. And my blood went cold. not just cold it felt like it turned to slush there illuminated faintly by the red glow of my trailer lights receding into the distance was the reflection of a small figure standing on the shoulder of the road exactly where i thought i'd seen something it wasn't a bush it wasn't a shadow it was small and it was definitely standing there unmoving as my truck pulled

further and further away. My heart started hammering against my ribs. This wasn't fatigue. This was real. There was someone, something, back there. And it looked tiny. Every instinct screamed at me. Danger. Wrong. Keep going. But another voice, the one that makes us human, I suppose, whispered something else. A kid? Alone out here. What if they're hurt? Lost? I fought with myself for a few seconds that stretched into an eternity. The image in the mirror was getting smaller, fainter.

If I didn't act now, they'd be lost to the darkness again. God, the thought of leaving a child out there, if that's what it was. Against my better judgment, against that primal urge to just floor it, I made a decision. I slowed the rig, the air breaks hissing like angry snakes. angry snakes. Pulled over to the shoulder, the truck groaning in protest. Put on my hazards, their rhythmic flashing cutting into the oppressive blackness. Then, I did what you're never supposed to do with a full trailer on a narrow shoulder. I started to reverse. Slowly. Carefully. My eyes flicking between the mirrors, trying to keep the trailer straight, trying to relocate

that tiny figure. The crunch of gravel under the tires sounded unnaturally loud. It took a minute, maybe two, but it felt like an hour. The red glow of my tail lights eventually washed over the spot again. And there it was. A kid. I stopped the truck so my cab was roughly alongside them, maybe 10 feet away. Switched on the high beams, hoping to get a better look, and also to make myself clearly visible as just a truck, not something else. The kid was, small. Really small. I'd guess maybe six, seven years old. Hard to tell in the glare. They were just standing there, on the very edge of the gravel shoulder, right where the trees began. The woods pressed and close on this stretch of road, tall, dark pines and dense undergrowth that looked like a solid black

wall just beyond the reach of my lights. The kid wasn't looking at me. They were facing sort of parallel to the road, just, walking. Slowly. Like they were on a stroll, completely oblivious to the massive 18-wheeler that had just pulled up beside them, engine rumbling, lights blazing. They were wearing what looked like pajamas. Thin, light-colored pajamas. In the chill of the night. No coat, no shoes that I could see. My mind reeled. This was wrong. So many levels of wrong. I killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost deafening, amplifying the crickets, the rustle of leaves in the woods from a breeze I couldn't feel in the cab. My heart was still thumping, a weird mix of fear and adrenaline and a dawning sense of responsibility. I rolled down the window. The night air hit me,

cold and damp, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth. Hey! I called out. My voice sounded hoarse, too loud in the quiet. Hey, kid, no response. They just kept walking, one small, bare foot in front of the other, at a pace that was taking them absolutely nowhere fast. Their head was down, slightly.

I couldn't see their face properly. Kid! Are you okay? I tried again, louder this time. Slowly, so slowly, the kid stopped. They didn't turn their head fully, just sort of angled at a fraction, enough that I could see a pale sliver of cheek in the spill of my headlights. Still not looking at me.

Still ignoring the multi-ton machine idling beside them. A prickle of unease ran down my spine. Not the normal kind of unease. This was deeper, colder. animals act weird sometimes but kids a lost kid should be scared relieved something this one was nothing what are you doing out here all alone i asked trying to keep my voice calm friendly like you're supposed to with a scared kid even though this one didn't seem scared at all it's the middle of the night silence just the sound of their bare feet scuffing softly on the gravel as they took another step, than another. As if my presence was a minor inconvenience, a background noise they were choosing to ignore. This wasn't right. My internal alarm bells were clanging louder now. My hand hovered near the gear stick. Part of me wanted to slam it into drive and get the

hell out of there. But the image of this tiny child, alone, possibly in shock. I couldn't just leave. Could I? Where are your parents? I pushed, my voice a bit sharper than I intended. Are you lost? Finally, the kid stopped walking completely. They turned their head, just a little more. Still not looking directly at my cab, more towards the front of my truck, into the glare of the headlights. I could see their face a bit better now. Pale. Featureless in the harsh light, like a porcelain doll, small, dark smudges that might have been eyes. No expression. None. Not fear, not sadness, not relief. Just, blank. An unreadable slate. Then, a voice. Small, thin. Like the rustle of dry leaves. Lost, just that one word. It hung in the air between us.

Relief washed over me, quickly followed by a fresh wave of concern. Okay, lost. That's something I can deal with. Okay, kid. Lost is okay. We can fix lost. Where do you live? Where were you going?

The kid finally, slowly, turned their head fully towards my cab. Towards me. I still couldn't make out much detail in their face. The angle, the light, something. was obscuring it, keeping it in a sort of shadowy vagueness despite the headlights. But I could feel their gaze. It wasn't like a normal kid's look. There was a weight to it, an intensity that was deeply unsettling for such a small form.

Home, the kid said, that same thin, reedy voice. Trying to get home, right, home. Where is home? I asked, leaning forward a bit, trying to project reassurance. Is it near here? Did you wander off from a campsite? A car. There were no campsites for miles.

No broken-down cars on the shoulder. I knew that. The kid didn't answer that question directly. Instead, they took a small step towards the truck. Then another. My hand tensed on the door handle, ready to open it, to offer, what? A ride? Shelter.

I didn't know. It's cold out here, I said, stating the obvious. You should get in. We can get you warm, and I can call for help when we get to a spot with a signal. My CB was useless, just static. My phone had shown no service for the last hour. The kid stopped about five feet from my passenger door. Still in that pale, thin pajama-like outfit.

Barefoot on the sharp gravel. They should be shivering, crying. They were doing neither. Can you help me? The kid asked. The voice was still small, but there was a different inflection to it now. Less flat. A hint of, something else.

Pleading, maybe. Yeah, of course, I can help you, I said. That's why I stopped. Where are your parents? How did you get here? The kid tilted their head. A jerky, unnatural little movement. They're waiting.

At home, okay. And where's home? Which direction? I gestured vaguely up and down the empty highway. The kid didn't point down the road. They made a small, subtle gesture with their head, a little nod, towards the trees. Towards the impenetrable darkness of the woods lining the highway. In there, the kid said,

my stomach clenched in the woods your home is in the woods lost the kid repeated as if that explained everything trying to find the path it's dark yeah it's it's very dark i agreed my eyes scanning the tree lean it looked like a solid wall of black no sign of any path any habitation just dense old growth forest the kind of place you could get lost for days, even in daylight. Can you, come out? The kid asked. Help me look. It's not far. I just... I can't see it from here. Every rational thought in my head screamed in O. Get out of the truck. In the middle of nowhere, in the pitch dark, with this, strange child, who wanted me to go into those woods. No. Absolutely not. But the kid looked so small.

So vulnerable If there was even a tiny chance They were telling the truth That their house was just a little way in And they were genuinely lost I I don't think that's a good idea Buddy, I said, trying to sound gentle

It's dangerous in there at night For both of us Best thing is for you to hop in here with me We'll drive until we get a signal And then we'll call the police Or the Rangers They can help find find your home properly, the kid just stood there. That blank, unreadable face fixed on

me. But it's right there, they insisted, their voice a little more insistent now. Just a little way. I can almost see it. If you just, step out, the light from your door would help. My skin was crawling. There was something profoundly wrong with this scenario. The way they were trying to coax me out. The lack of normal emotional response. The pajamas. The bare feet. The woods. I looked closer at the kid, trying to pierce that strange vagueness around their features. My headlights were bright, but it was like they absorbed the light rather than reflected it. Their eyes. I still couldn't really see their eyes. Just dark hollows. I really think you should get in the truck, I said, my voice firmer now. It's warmer in here. We can figure it out together. The kid took

another step closer. They were almost at my running board now. Please, they said. That reedy voice again. My leg hurts. I can't walk much further. If you could just, help me a little. Just to the path, my internal conflict was raging. My trucker instincts, honed by years of seeing weird stuff and hearing weirder stories at truck stops were blaring warnings. But the human part, the part that saw a child in distress, was still there, still arguing. I was tired. So damn tired. Maybe I wasn't thinking straight. Maybe this was all some bizarre misunderstanding. I squinted, trying to see past the kid, towards the tree lean they'd indicated. Was there a faint trail I was missing?

A flicker of light deep in the woods? No. Nothing. Just blackness. Solid, unyielding blackness. And then I saw it. It wasn't something I saw clearly at first. It was more like an anomaly.

A disturbance in the darkness behind the kid. The kid was standing with their back mostly to the woods, facing my truck. Behind them, the darkness of the forest was absolute. Or it should have been. But there was something, connected to them. Something that stretched from the small of their back, from under the thin pajama top, and disappeared into the deeper shadows of the trees. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, a weird shadow cast by my headlights

hitting them at an odd angle. Maybe a rope they were dragging. A piece of clothing snagged on a branch. I leaned forward, trying to get a clearer view. The kid was still talking, their voice a low, persistent murmur. It's not far, please, just help me. I'm so cold, but I wasn't really listening to the words anymore. I was focused on that, that thing behind them.

It wasn't a rope. It wasn't a shadow. It was, a tube. A long, dark, thick tube. It seemed to emerge directly from the kids' lower back, impossibly, seamlessly. It was dark matte, like a strip of the night itself given form, and it snaked away from the child, maybe 10, 15 feet, before disappearing into the inky blackness between two thick pine trunks. It wasn't rigid, it seemed to have a slight, almost imperceptible flexibility,

like a massive, sluggish umbilical cord made of shadow. It didn't reflect any light from my headlamps. It just, absorbed it. My breath hitched in my throat. My blood, which had been cold before, now felt like it had frozen solid. This wasn't just wrong. This was, impossible. Unnatural. The kid was still trying to coax me. Are you going to help me?

It's just there. You're so close. My voice, when I finally found it, was barely a whisper. I couldn't take my eyes off that, appendage. Kid, what, what is that? Behind you, the kid flinched. Not a big movement, just a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening of their small frame. Their head, which had been tilted pleadingly, straightened.

The blankness on their face seemed to solidify. What's what? they asked, their voice suddenly devoid of that pleading tone. It was flat again. Colder. That, that thing, I stammered, pointing with a shaking finger. Coming out of your back. Going into the woods. What is that?

The kid didn't turn to look. They didn't need to. Their gaze, those dark, unseen eyes, bored into me. It's nothing, they said. The voice was still small, but it had a new edge to it. A hardness. You're seeing things. You're tired.

They were using my own earlier rationalization against me. No, I said. my voice gaining a tremor of conviction born of sheer terror. No, I'm not. I see it. It's right there. It's, it's connected to you. The kid was silent for a long moment.

The only sound was the thumping of my own heart, so loud I was sure they could hear it. The crickets had stopped. The wind seemed to die down. An unnatural stillness fell over the scene. Then, the kid's face began to change. It wasn't a dramatic movie monster transformation. It was far more subtle and far more terrifying. The blankness didn't leave, but it sharpened.

The pale skin seemed to tighten over the bones. The areas where the eyes were, those dark smudges, seemed to deepen, to become more shadowed, more intense. And a flicker of something ancient and utterly alien passed across their features. It wasn't human anger. It was something older, colder, and infinitely more patient, now strained to its limit. The air in my cab suddenly felt thick, heavy, hard to breathe. Just come out of the truck, the kid said, and the voice, oh God, the voice.

It wasn't the small, reedy voice of a child anymore. It was deeper. Resonant. With a strange, grating undertone, like stones grinding together. It was coming from that small frame, but it was impossibly large, impossibly old. It vibrated in my chest. Come out. Now.

The command was absolute. My hand, which had been hovering near the gearstick, now gripped it like a lifeline. My other hand fumbled for the ignition key, which I had stupidly left in. What are you? I choked out, staring at the monstrous thing playing dress-up in a child's form, at the dark, pulsating tube that was its anchor to the shadows. The kid's head tilted again, that jerky, unnatural movement. The expression on its face, if you could call it that, was one of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

Contempt Like I was a particularly stupid insect it had failed to swat. And then it spoke, in that same terrible, resonant, grinding voice. The words it said are burned into my memory, colder than any winter night. Why, it rasped, the sound seeming to scrape the inside of my skull, the F-U-C-K are humans smarter now. That was it. That one sentence. The sheer, cosmic frustration in it.

The implication of past encounters, of easier prey. The utter alien nature of it. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I reacted. Primal fear, the kind that bypasses all higher brain function, took over. over. My hand twisted the key. The diesel engine roared back to life, a sudden, violent explosion of sound in the horrifying stillness. The kid, the thing, actually recoiled. A small, jerky step back.

The expression, that awful, tightened, ancient look, intensified. I slammed the gear stick into drive. My foot stomped on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, tires spinning on the gravel for a terrifying second before they bit into the asphalt. I didn't look at it. I couldn't. I stared straight ahead, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, the whole cab vibrating around me. The truck surged forward, gaining speed with agonizing slowness. For a horrible moment, I imagined that tube thing whipping out, trying to snag the trailer, to pull me back, to drag me into those woods. I imagined that small figure, with its ancient, terrible voice, somehow keeping pace. I risked a glance in my driver's side mirror. It was standing there. On the shoulder. Unmoving.

The headlights of my departing truck cast its small silhouette into sharp relief. And behind it, the dark tube was still visible, a thick, obscene court snaking back into the endless night of the forest. It didn't seem to be retracting or moving. It just was. The thing didn't pursue. It just stood and watched me go. And that, somehow, was almost worse. The sheer confidence.

The patience. Like it knew there would be others. Or maybe it was just annoyed that this particular attempt had failed. I drove. I don't know for how long. I just drove. My foot was welded to the floor. The engine screamed.

I watched the speedometer needle climb, far past any legal or safe limit for a rig that size, on a road that dark. I didn't care. The image of that thing, that child shape with its dark umbilical to the woods, and that voice, that awful, grinding voice asking its horrifying question, was burned onto the inside of my eyelids. I must have driven for an hour, maybe more, at speeds that. that should have gotten me killed or arrested, before the adrenaline started to fade, replaced

by a bone-deep, shaking exhaustion that was more profound than any fatigue I'd ever known. My hands were trembling so violently I could barely keep the wheel straight. Tears were streaming down my face, not from sadness, but from sheer, unadulterated terror and relief. When the first hint of dawn started to gray the eastern sky, and my phone finally beeped, indicating a single bar of service, I pulled over at the first wide spot I could find. I practically fell out of the cab, vomiting onto the gravel until there was nothing left but dry heaves. I sat there on the cold ground, shaking, for a long time, watching the sun come up, trying to convince myself that it had been a dream, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But I knew it wasn't. The detail of that

tube. The voice. The question. You don't hallucination. You don't hallucination. You don't hallucination. You don't something that specific, that coherent, that utterly alien. I never reported it. Who would I report it to? What would I say? Officer, I saw a little kid who was actually an ancient cosmic horror tethered to the woods by a nightmare umbilical cord, and it got mad because I didn't want to be its dinner. They'd have locked me up.

Breathalized me, drug tested me, sent me for a psyche vow. I finished that run on autopilot. Dropped the load. Drove my rig back to the yard. And I quit. I told them I was burned out, needed a break. They tried to convince me to stay, offered me different routes, more pay. I just couldn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that kid, that tube, those woods. Every dark road felt like a trap. I found a local job, something that keeps me home at night. I don't drive in remote areas anymore if I can help it, especially not at night. I still have nightmares. Sometimes, when I'm very tired, driving home late from somewhere, I'll see a flicker at the edge of my vision, on the side of the road, and my heart will try to beat its way out of my chest. I don't know what that thing was. An alien?

A demon? Something else, something that doesn't fit into our neat little categories. All I know is that it's out there, and it's patient, and it seems to have learned that its old tricks aren't as effective as they used to be. Why the fuck are humans smarter now? That question haunts me. It implies they weren't always. It implies that, once upon a time, we were easier.

That maybe, just maybe, people like me, tired and alone on dark roads, used to just step out of the cab when asked. And we're never seen again. So, if you're ever driving one of those long, lonely stretches of road, deep in the night, and you see something you can't explain, maybe just keep driving. Maybe being, smarter now means knowing when not to stop. Knowing when to ignore that little voice telling you to help, because what's asking for help might not be what it seems. Stay safe out there. And for God's sake, stay on the well-lit Rhodes the end. Well, a couple of weeks ago, I found out something that completely shattered my world. My wife, the woman I had trusted with my life, had cheated on me six years ago.

The way I found out. Her sister told me, it wasn't some well-thought-out confession, it was a slip of the tongue, a moment of weakness on her part. I had gone to visit her to check on how she was doing after the birth of her first child, and out of nowhere, she dropped this bombshell on me. She told me that six years ago, my wife had confessed to her that she had gotten drunk and slept with her best friend. According to her sister, my wife had been remorseful, devastated even, but that didn't change the fact that she had kept this secret for me for six long years. The moment those words left her sister's mouth, I felt like the floor had disappeared beneath me. My stomach twisted into knots, and my mind went into overdrive.

Six years. Six years of lies. Six years of looking at her. in believing that she was the loyal, faithful woman I had married. But the worst part. I was with my son when I heard it. Something inside me snapped, and I knew I couldn't just let this go. As soon as I left her sister's house, I drove straight to a clinic to take a paternity test. I had to know. I had to confirm the horrible suspicion that had taken root in my mind the moment I learned

about her betrayal. The waiting period felt like an eternity, every second a new wave of anxiety and dread. I kept looking at the boy, the child I had raised as my own, and for the first time, he felt like a stranger to me. I hated myself for thinking that way, but I couldn't help it. The what-ifs, the doubts, the anger, they all consumed me. When the results finally came back, my worst fears were confirmed. He wasn't mine.

I stared at the paper, my hands shaking, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I read and reread the words, hoping that somehow I had misinterpreted them. But there was no mistake. The child I had spent years loving, raising, and protecting wasn't my biological son. I felt numb. It was like every emotion I had collapsed in on itself, leaving behind a hollow shell of who I was. That night, when the kid was asleep, I confronted my wife. I waited until the house was silent, my anger simmering beneath the surface, barely contained.

When I showed her the test results, she didn't deny it. Instead, the first thing out of her mouth was, who told you? Not an apology. Not an attempt to explain. Just a demand to know who had spilled her secret. I refused to answer. It didn't matter. What mattered was that she had done this to me, that she had lied every single day for the

past six years. I watched as the realization dawned on her face, as she likely pieced together that her sister had been the one to betray her. But I didn't care. That wasn't my problem. I told her I wanted a divorce. No arguments, no discussions. Just the end of whatever this farce of a marriage had become.

She acted devastated, swearing up and down that nothing had happened again, that she had been faithful to me and body and soul since that one drunken mistake. But I didn't believe her. How could I? She had already proven she was capable of lying to me for years. I held back the urge to scream at her, to call her every name that ran through my mind. I knew that if I lost control, it would only make the divorce messier. So I kept my composure, letting her words slide off me like water off a duck's back.

Then, she hit me with a threat, she would fight for full custody of the child. At that moment, my patient snapped. I told her fine. If she wanted full custody, she could have it. I didn't want anything to do with something that wasn't mine. I told her to take the kid and leave. I would keep our two dogs, the only family I had left. That was when she started begging.

with me to stay in the child's life, telling me that I was still his father, that biology didn't change the bond we had. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't pretend that everything was fine, that I hadn't been deceived in the worst possible way. The anger that I had been keeping and finally exploded, and I yelled at her to take her bastard and leave. It was the first time I had ever truly screamed at her, and I could tell by the way she flinched

that it hit her heart. She left that night, taking the boy with her. She packed in a hurry, barely saying a word, her face pale, her eyes red with unshed tears. And just like that, my house, my home, was empty. The days that followed were a blur. I stayed in the house, which, thankfully, was in my name since it had been a gift from my parents. She went to her parents' house with her kid, and she hasn't contacted me since. Not a call, not a text, nothing.

And honestly, I don't care. I talked to my parents about everything, and my dad was blunt, I did the right thing. He told me that I shouldn't be raising something that isn't of my blood, and I agreed with him. But that didn't make the pain go away. There was this overwhelming emptiness in me, this realization that the family I thought I had never really existed. My younger brother suggested I write about it to get my thoughts out, so here I am. I also started seeing a therapist three times a week. He says I've already taken the first step, removing what caused me pain. But even knowing that, the pain is still there.

As for why my sister-in-law told me, she claims it was guilt. She said that every time she saw me happy with the boy, she felt like she was keeping a horrible secret from me. Seeing me with him, knowing he might not be mine, tore her apart. And when we visited her after her childbirth, her emotions got the best of her, and she broke down. I don't know if that's the full truth, but at this point, I don't care. Right now, all I feel is a mix of hatred for my wife and something between pain and resentment

toward the child. It's not his fault. I know that. But knowing that doesn't change how I feel. I just want this divorce to go smoothly. We have separate finances, separate properties, and if she tries to come after me for child support, I have proof he isn't mine.

My lawyer says that should be more than enough if she takes me to court. My therapist also advised me to cut all contact, with her and with the boy. He told me that I need to prioritize myself and my healing, that the child is no longer my responsibility, and as sooner I accept that, the better. And honestly, I think he's right. For now, I'm just taking things day by day, trying to figure out what my life looks like now that everything I believed in has crumbled around me.

But one thing is for sure, there's no going back. Part 1, I 21 female have had this unbarring guilt and thought that I was responsible for my twin brother's death. My twin brother, Matt, committed suicide in our junior year of high school. My dad till this day is still searching for answers on what must have triggered him to take his own life. I think he's settling on the idea that he was bullied and that he couldn't handle it. Although that was partially true, that wasn't the only reason. You see, Matt and I weren't close.

It's always been like that. But one thing we had in common was our struggles. My mom had been checked in the mental institution when we were both in middle school. She suffered from paranoia schizophrenia. Besides that, Matt was kind of difficult to talk to. He was socially awkward and seemed to never have any interest in communicating with anyone. But it's not hard to tell that he had such a kind soul. He wouldn't even hurt a fly.

But life was the biggest bitch to him. He'd avoid talking to people because he had a noticeable stutter. He developed a stutter in the fifth grade and throughout middle school he lost all of his friend. They'd make fun of him and mock him. My brother wasn't the type to speak up for himself. You could throw rocks at him till he'd bleed out to death. But he still wouldn't scream for help. I'd see Matt lonely at the cafeteria, eating his lunch alone every day.

Every day I'd pry myself to sit next to him but never really had the guts to. I had my own friends. It wasn't until one day I caught him sitting next to the hot new guy my friends wouldn't stop talking about. The smile and laughter coming from the table he was sitting at was enough to put a smile on my face. I'd never seen him smile like that before. His friend, Adam, would come over to our house, from occasionally seeing him to seeing him every day. After school and middle of the night. It became normal seeing him on a daily. Some nights I'd hear his and Matt's laughter

through the wall. At times I would find it annoying, but it also made me happy for him. He had found his person. But things took a turn when one late night I came home from a party. I was drunk, but not till the point where I could have blacked out at moment. Luckily my dad had the night shift at my local mall, so he wasn't around to lecture me about coming home late. As I had began to make my way to the kitchen, I had noticed the lights were on. As my vision recovered, I saw it was Adam.

His bright hazel eyes would start to gaze at mine. I've always thought Adam was a very attractive guy. He was six feet two inches, slightly tan and had the perfect bone structure. I vividly remember what kind of conversation we had. But one thing led to another we were having sex in the living room couch. Till today this has been my biggest regret. Midway through the lights in the living room. It was Matt.

He didn't shout or throw a fit. He gave a blank stare, a stare that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Then he walks away slamming his bedroom door behind him. Adam tried getting him out of the room. But with many attempts, I had told him to go home and that he'd get over it. And the worst part after all that I went to bed like nothing had happened. I had no guilt or remorse in my body. If only knew how much pain that costed him.

A week passes by and my dad and I haven't seen nor heard from him. I assumed he and ran away, but sadly that wasn't the case. I had this memory of coming home from school with two cops in the living comforting my dad as she bursted into tears. His screams of agony would replay in my mind. One of the officers took me the kitchen to tell me the news. She had told me that my brother had shot himself inside my dad van at the lake across my school. My heart sank and you can imagine the rest of what happened, so was it my fault.

Part 2. Thank you for everyone who do commented their opinions. I was debating whether or not I should post this, but I realized that I think it would kind of be impossible for you to find me, so why not? In this post I'm a gonna talk about me and twin brother, Matt, childhoods. Matt and I were fresh into middle school when my auntie, Rosa, and our cousin, Damon, moved in our house. She had recently divorced her husband after 18 years. My dad offered them to live with us after my mom was two months in the mental institution. It pissed me off when I found out that Auntie insisted to sleep in master bedroom, which was my parents' room.

So my dad slept on the couch. I already didn't like her. Her son Damon would sleep on the floor in Matt's room. Matt and I loved Damon. He was like the older brother we never had. He'd tuck Matt and I in bed, sometimes make breakfast for us and he'd always made sure that we were okay and felt safe. We did feel safe with him. He'd wade outside our school to pick us up. He's the complete opposite of his stuck-up mom. She was a traditional short Mexican mom who thinks they are the boss of everyone just because they're older. When my dad's not home, she'd pinch me and slap me across the face. It wasn't just me, it was Matt too. One time I saw her yelling at Damon whilst he was crying. We terrified of her. One day we all came home from school.

And we a big man with his arm filled with tattoos sitting on the living couch. Next to him was my auntie. She'd instruct Damon to bring us to our rooms and made sure we stayed out there till he left. This would go on for a while. Math and I would sometimes would have nothing to do but stare outside the driveway till we are dad's van. We were too young to know that I was being abused. The man with the tattoos is what we'd call him. We didn't even know his name. I remember this one night where Matt and I were watching TV. Damon was asleep in the other room.

And my auntie was wherever the she went. We hear a knock on the door. Matt opens the door and sees the man with the tattoos. He asks if my auntie was here, I said no. He asks if Damon was home. I say he's asleep. He gives a slight grin. Mind you Matt and I were 12.

I'm not going to go too much in depth. about what happened next so you can use your imagination. Matt and I were abused for two more years by a man with the tattoos for two more years until my dad got fired from his job. So was home a lot which meant we saw him less. When you grow older you realize how that can fuck with your brain. Till this day only my therapist and friends know about what he did to Matt and I. Two years go by and Matt and I start the eighth grade.

Everything was going great. My auntie got a job which subtracted more hours of me seeing her. One day I'm in my room and then suddenly Matt comes into my room screaming and crying. Obviously I get scared. I ask him what happened, he couldn't seem to get a word out, he was crying too much. He points to the kitchen and I see my cousin Damon on the floor pale as a ghost with vomit all over the floor. The image of Damon's lifeless body would stay in my memory forever. Luckily my dad was home.

It took the ambulance a couple minutes to arrive. Although Matt and I weren't close, the only time I remember us hugging. was us sitting in the hospital waiting room. We both were in shocked and didn't know what to do. Thankfully with everything that's good Damon did live. He had an overdose. At the time I didn't know what it took to be hooked on drugs. After that Damon and my auntie decided moved to back Washington to live with his dad.

They thought he'd be better off there. And he was. Here we are, a month after my world fell apart. So many people being so disappointed in how my story ended. It would have been so much easier to have some obvious immoral acts end my marriage. Better yet, it was some wicked perception issue that I'd walked myself into and figured out just in time. Either end of the spectrum is so fitting for what gets love and likes in the Reddit verse. What's awesome is that this sub just allows you to throw your story out to the world without worrying about hurting anyone or being hurt in return.

I left Ian. That was my moral choice. It was so FN hard to do, though. Who did he hurt? I'm sure that there is some bureaucrat sitting at some cubicle in some bland FN building that is apoplectic about Ian, Carrie and Leah's actions. It's the golden rule that wins, though, right? How would I feel if China or Russia were stealing our history?

Imagine the Lincoln statue sitting in the middle of the Red Square or Tiananmen. I totally get anyone that says, who cares? In the grand scheme of life is this worth such a hullabaloo? I didn't turn anyone into the authorities. Judge me however you wish, the recordings were my property. Jennifer made that clear. I was the client. I expected some sort of moral outrage from Alan and Jennifer.

None ever came. Jennifer treated me like the client I am, and Alan looked me in the eye and said, Everyone has their personal line. I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't agree with the things I've forgiven and accepted in my life. He did say that if it didn't stop immediately, he would make it his personal mission in life to jail them all. I passed that message on to all of them. I'm pretty sure that T.J. didn't care about the unsanctioned artifacts, so I treated him the same

as the rest. I told them that everything Carrie admitted to was recorded and it would remain private provided that all activities ceased immediately. I added a warning that they were now under government scrutiny, but that was a lie, I had no clue if they were. I do know that Jennifer is connected enough that someone is probably watching them. I write this because Ian was served divorce papers today. We've talked about it. There was no shocking surprise delivered to the shop. That's not my way. We've met, we've cried, we've laughed, but he understood eventually that making and maintaining

a lie is not how any healthy partnership should work. I couldn't trust him again and he created a professional jeopardy for my career that was unforgivable. He and T.J. did recognize my contribution to the shop. They agreed to a payment for my past services that I thought was fair. I used the money to hire them a good bookkeeper for the next two years with the salary paid for from a simple trust account that I had set up. I'll be fine right.

Me and my mom against the world. Ian explained his choice as pure greed. The shop was struggling, he was in Mexico meeting with parts suppliers and signing contracts when Carrie showed up to introduce him to another business opportunity. He wasn't sure how the main shop was going to work out and this was just another revenue stream to him. He didn't understand the issue with funding the purchases and running fake transactions through the shop.

He knew he couldn't tell me the truth, though. That's why he understands and accepts the divorce. The Saturday Mountain biking trips were when they dropped off payment and received product. They rode way above what any layman rider could do. They met with a representative of XYZ at one of the many hunting lodges that Ian and Leah knew about and made their payment. They came down the hill with a fake invoice, a key, and storage locker number. That's why this ridiculous story started.

They freaked out that I was keeping up with them and concocted the stupid fall by Leah to make me stop and allow Ian to make the meeting. This event triggered Leah's guilt about deceiving me and the remaining crapsow that is this story was just me and my imagination running free. Ian wants to continue contact and maybe explore reconnecting. I'm not sure. I'm considering a move to L.A. to join Jennifer's forensic accounting team.

She offered and I'm interested in it. I must admit that the discovery of this fraud and working with her was exciting. I just need to temper my emotions a bit before deciding on that big of a move. The truth is that I have a bright future ahead of me. I will always look at my three years with Ian as a blessing. I can make the choice to be angry about the situation he put me in, or I can choose to move on. It really is that simple. I wish him the best because I love him and always will.

We just have different values and that's okay. I'm glad I found out before we had kids. My love and blessings to you all. Author's note, Amanda will absolutely return. I've grown fond of her fire and ice. I'm working up a modern-day Mrs. Marple-type story. My wife owns every publication by Agatha Christie, and I've read most of them. Please let me know if you do or do not think this is worth my time.

Feel free to DM me if you don't want to share your thoughts with the world. I'm going to take a break first, though. I may post a story that is a bit of folklore next. Not sure, but thank you all so much for your support. I can't do this anymore. I've been trying so hard to be confident and strong, when the reality is that I've made so many mistakes that I feel incompetent. I wish that there were some easy answers that would change the situation, but there aren't.

Life is hard and control is definitely an illusion. Forensic accountants are trained in fraud detection and prevention. They participate in white-collar crime investigations. They act as special witnesses for the courts. They are the cool kids in the accounting world. Everyone loves thrillers, right? I'd love to have a story where my curiosity exposed some fantastic scheme to steal from good, hardworking people. Yet here I was explaining how my FN husband was using his and his brother's money to do something that gave them more money back and paid a couple of side chicks.

That's the gist of my story and no one will be making a special about it. Jennifer at least had real-life experience in what I was dealing with, though. She understood my hesitation to pass final judgment. She agreed that probabilities were high, but there are no smoking gun here, and assumptions are dangerous. She made it clear that I was her client. Not the government, not Alan, not the shop, just me. She looked at the purchase contracts that I had our front desk PDF, and her opinion was that the signatures were all made by the same person. Not six different people but one person. That was the final straw. Ian was falsifying documents. Oh, what a bad ombre right.

dare he sign fake names to paper. Such a scary Halloween monster. That's the nature of white-collar crime, though. Some individual finds some con or loophole and then steals money from someone else. The benefit here doesn't make sense because there's no need for fake paperwork. It's being done for someone else's benefit. The key questions are who and why. Jennifer laid out options for me given the known situation. Here's what they were. Option one, do nothing. She explained that is always an option and anyone that doesn't consider it is a fool. I can choose to ignore everything that I know. I'm unaware of any illegal activities and it is possible that nothing illegal is happening. I'm clearly not involved so why worry about it? The key is to just accept

this as reality. Option two, lay out what I know to authorities. She said that she could have the local DEA representatives meet us within the hour. She agreed that the DEA was the right approaching point because they had done a search on the owners of XYZ wholesale. It came up as an anonymous numbered company, but the upstream structure was consistent with other cartels. She warned, though, that they wouldn't care about me and the lack of true evidence could lead to problems. Option 3. Wait and see.

She has seen on rare occasions people making horrible decisions without any common sense. She laughed as she talked about a situation where a woman unknowingly walked herself into one of the biggest drug busts in California history. She mirrored my thoughts, though, when she said, once can be a mistake and this isn't that. This option only makes sense if you need to know rather than accept the probability. It's risky but understandable. It truly means acting like you've chosen option one, but understanding that option two is the most probable result, with a better result. If you've been paying attention to my story and understand who I am, then you know that I chose option three.

I needed to know even though I had my assumptions. I've been focusing on myself so much. I haven't given Ian a chance to even try to explain. He's worth that at the very least. I'm just praying for some honesty. I've labeled him a coward, I've questioned his fidelity, hell, I even considered betraying him and our union. It's truly time to give him a chance after his mountain girlfriend stirred up this Hornet's nest. My boss and his expert had some conditions, though.

The first was easy. My phone's GPS needed to be available to both of them. We set that up right there and then. The second was that I shouldn't acknowledge seeing either of them or Darrell if they were visible. They were clear about the fact that they would be going to be around me for the next 24 hours. They were there to assist me and would help if they could, but they were not going to put themselves in direct danger. If nothing significant was revealed, then we would meet to discuss next steps the next day. The final requirement was tough to accept, but I understood why.

I needed to always have a voice recorder on me. Normally, this would never happen, but I understood the seriousness of the situation. I'd promised Ian that I would be at the shop around noon. I'd also given T.J. a heads up when I left the city to minimize the initial drama. My plan was simple. After what would probably be some initial emotions between Ian and I, the discussion would be turned to the missing used inventory. I was still clinging on to some faint hope that Ian had some crazy scheme where he was buying

and selling useless batches of parts for a profit. That could be the truth, right? It wasn't, though. What I got was a very well thought out and complicated farce. Ian greeted me as soon as I pulled up to the shop. We hugged and he whispered into my ear how sorry he was for how he behaved last week, how he loved me, how he'd never betray me. I just kept saying, I know, over and over.

It felt like we were standing there forever, just sharing energy, it was nice to feel. My head took control though and I pulled back. I love this man, but he may be doing things that will hurt me. I looked into his eyes and said, you, me and T.J. need to talk a bit. He stared straight back into mine while saying, yes, I understand. His confidence caught me off guard. I was expecting trepidation, maybe even fear. This wasn't that.

He held my hand as we walked into the shop. He actually smiled at me which, if I'm being honest, pissed me off. How could he feel like everything in his life was good enough to smile? Anyways, we walked into the large mechanic bay where all the different toys were, and there was T.J. standing beside Leah. They'd clearly been watching us walk in through the bay door window. They looked like that American Gothic picture. Just a little less serious.

I wasn't expecting Leah to be there. I felt a rush of enraged energy fill my body. I'm pretty sure that my face turned as red as my hair. I started to aggressively walk straight towards her. I couldn't help myself as I said, WTF are you doing here? Ian didn't let go of my hand and T.J. moved between us. Leah just put her head down and said, I'm so sorry for that FN. text Amanda. I really didn't mean anything by it.

I was just drunk and acting like a dipshit. What could I do? I guess that there is no Ronda Rousey versus Sansa Stark MMA battle today. I'm pretty sure I would have taken the belt. I hadn't felt that energized since the national finals of the 200-meter medley. I was full of mad-ass energy, everyone knew it. That's when Ian said, Leah sold the toys you've been looking for in Phoenix this past week. She came back with $120,000.

I puked in my mouth a little bit as I looked at T.J. and saw his satisfied nod. I wanted to turn towards Ian and slap his face. Like seriously, is this the bullshit you're going to try and sell me? I didn't turn, though, so Ian had no clue how angry and betrayed I looked. There was no hiding it. He went on to say, our used inventory was getting a little too high, so I sent Leah to a recreation vehicle show in Phoenix with a few of our key pieces. She wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure how successful it was going to be, so I asked her to keep it quiet. She felt guilty about that and sent that stupid drunken text.

I'm so sorry for how I reacted to your questions. I was caught off guard and reacted like an idiot. All I could think was, wow. The story is so good. It all was tied into a nice tidy bow. If only I hadn't called XYZ. If only Ian hadn't written that FN number on the contract. I would be able to select option one without any care for any other choice.

I could keep on with my fantastic life with an incredible guy, in this unreal place. Reality is a bitch, though, and my mind won't allow for that kind of perception distortion. In the end, truth will out. I had no plan for this sophisticated of a story. I thought I could bust holes in anything, but at that moment, I was baffled. I needed to know what they were truly buying and selling. My hope of Ian just being stupid was out the door. I was struggling with my next step.

Do I expose the lie here, with T.J. and Leah? Do I wait and confront Ian alone? Do I walk away, and live to engage this BS another day? This was all running through my head as Carrie's Jaguar pulled up to the shop. She stormed in like every rich bitch you've ever seen on. TV. Full of designer clothes, fake tits, and Botox everywhere else. She yelled, who T. F called XYZ. It echoed for at least 20 seconds. I'm sure that my jaw was hanging open. I realized that my choices are FD now. Time for some truth. I yanked my hand out of Ian's grasp, turned towards her

and yelled back, it was me, and you need to tell me what you've got us into. Right now, bitch. I've had so many messed up moments this past week and a bit, but this wasn't one of them. I knew at that second that Carrie is the seed that spawned this mess. Funny thing about rich people. They only have power if you give it to them. Otherwise, they are just the sum of their personal physical and emotional attributes. They get power from people's desire to be monetarily rewarded by them. Take that away and they are FD.

She pulled back seeing an aggressive, Tallish, pissed off Redhead charging towards her. She didn't expect it, and I felt inspired. I unleashed a verbal lashing that would have made my Irish grandmother proud. She cowered in the wake of my wrath. I stopped short of slugging her and realized what I was doing was wrong. She gathered herself, stood straight, and admitted to using us all. She rambled about government regulations and the desire to protect rather than share cultural artifacts.

She talked about Guatemala, Belize, and Mexico. She raved about the beauty of Mayan culture. She argued that people need to be proud of how beautiful it is and how important it is to share. Her eyes were so intense. She believed every piece of horseshit she was spewing out of her mouth and when I looked around, yeah, they F.N. believed her. Everyone has their own moral line in life. Welcome to yet another truth bomb for you as readers.

I left at that moment, didn't look back. Ian tried to track me down and was slamming himself on my car door as I drove away. I'm at my mother's now and yes, the phone calls and. and texts are annoying A. F. How many FN people do I need to deal with now? Ian and Alan being at the front of the line, but FML. How do you measure the love of your life against some desire of some third world country's desire to retain cultural artifacts? Drugs would have been so much easier, but why is that? Is my thought process borderline or even obviously racist? Why do I view the use of banned substances so much worse than selling some ancient

civilization's treasure. I have this intense desire to just move back on in my life that was so healthy, successful, and rewarding. Please help me work through this. Part 9, I didn't mention it yesterday, but my mom had dinner ready for me when I got home. She was excited to hear about my trip, but wasn't thrilled when it became clear that I had left with intentions of being a dumbass. She was actually having belly laughs when I was describing what my shenanigans got me in return. I love her, but her sense of humor is wicked. I spent the night. thinking about this crazy roller coaster of a week. I was trying to figure out what my plan was for today, Sunday. I knew it would involve both Leah and Ian, but little did I know, I really had

no clue how the day would go. I started the day by pulling out my personal phone from my side table. Yes, I have a personal phone and a work phone. No, my work phone is not a burner phone. My work phone is only used for client communication and work. Yes, my work phone is provided to me and yes, I pay for my own personal phone, well actually, the shop pays for it. I guess I'll just add that to the list of things I must take care of after this ridiculous mess is done. My first act was to send Leah a text. Leah, I know you've been away and were due back last night. Can you please respond to my texts this morning? No use in being confrontational I'm just hoping she responds.

I then went through the rest of my hundreds of texts, emails, voicemails 99% of which were from Ian. It's the other 1% though that were interesting. Interesting. Carrie had left me a voicemail. She knew that Ian and I were fighting and wanted to know if I wanted to have lunch with her. The other voicemail was from Ian's brother, Tim, Jr., T.J. for short. I expected it to be just Ian using his brother's phone but was surprised when T.J. left a message saying that this had nothing to do with Ian and me.

He had a question about the shop books. Thinking about the shop discussion with Alan yesterday in mind, I was interested in talking with him. I took the risk and called T.J. hoping that Ian was not next to him, and he wasn't. T.J. said that Ian has been a mess all week and literally useless at work. This left T.J. trying to run the shop by himself. Hearing that, I fully expected him to start complaining to me about how he needed me to consider reconciliation or something like that. That wasn't it, though, he said that he's been trying to keep up with the paperwork and ended up with a few questions about the shops used inventory.

Given my thought process from yesterday that Ian, Leah, and Carrie have been messing around with commissions I asked T.J. if there is any way that he and I could meet at the shop without Ian being around. T.J. asked if maybe sending Ian to the city for a part would work, knowing full well that Ian would use the opportunity to try and visit me. I asked my mom if she would be okay running interference for a bit and she agreed. I then hit the road so that I would be near the shop when Ian left. I've always liked T.J. He's one of those guys that salt of the earth. I think he'd give you his shirt off his back if he thought you needed it. He's a big teddy bear, mountain man that loves to hunt and fish. He's the better mechanic of the two of them

so he generally manages the repair jobs and parts inventory. Ian is a good mechanic, has a quicker wit, and is the better salesman. He manages the used toy sales and inventory. Sundays are the day for the brothers to organize their business. They'd get in the shop after breakfast, catch up on their week and run through projects on the go. I'm sure that they were up to usual boy fun and games as well. I'd show up after lunch to get the books up to speed. I'd start by entering in the working orders into our system. That process removes parts from our inventory listing and assigns them to active jobs. I then record our sales which closes off the applicable jobs and gives me an amount for cash received in the week. We don't give credit, except credit cards, or checks. It's cash or

debit only. The boys have always been adamant about this. The sign for the shop says it clearly and it's one thing that their dad always insisted on. I've tried to change their mind, arguing that accepting credit cards would increase business, to no success. At this point in my day, I'd give the boys their jobs. I'd give them each a list of 20 inventory items randomly selected by our system and they would go and count them for me. I'd compare their counts to our system, and we would investigate any discrepancies. This did happen from time to time, and it usually was a part that wasn't put on a work order. I would enter any use toy sales and purchases as well as enter any other expenses while the boys were counting. I would then also ask them to count the amount of cash in the

shop. We carry a substantial amount in an old antique safe that only the two of them can open. I compare the balance of what they have to our systems number and most of the time the balance is agreed. If they didn't, then the boys would have to figure out why. It usually ended up being some small purchase like pizza for the staff that they didn't get a receipt for. We've never been so far apart that I was worried. I'm worried now, though. T.J's first question was about our used inventory. Apparently, there are two boats and four ATVs missing somewhere.

Total cost of about $90,000. He said that he asked Ian about it and Ian told him to stop worrying about his responsibilities and that he'd get it straightened out once he made things right with me. We both had to admit that sometimes the boat. would be left at the marina and ATVs were sometimes left with trustworthy buyers to test drive, but its fall so the marina made little sense and four ATVs out at the same time was excessive for us. I pulled the ledger where Ian would record the date, description, and serial number of the use toy. The ledger's page and row number then corresponded with the file for that toy.

I was looking for purchase and registration documents. There were handwritten bills of sale for each of them, but that was it. No registration documents, no work orders, no No storage location. Nothing. All of them were bought in the past three weeks so it may have just been Ian falling behind in paperwork, but it's something that warrants a conversation. T.J. then asked for the expected cash balance. I had to tell him that I would need a day to get that for him.

I did start to enter some of the data before my mom called to say that Ian left to come back. I packed up and chatted with T.J. about next steps. We agreed that we need more information before taking any action like confronting Ian. I promised that I would be back on Tuesday to chat with both of them. I made a quick stop at the house, and it was nothing short of a disaster zone. I cried just looking at it. It's clear that Ian is in as much pain as I am.

I contemplated cleaning up a bit and leaving him a note but realized it's best that he didn't know I was in town today. Despite my stupid activities and thoughts this past week, I love and cherish him. I know this upcoming week is going to be very hard and I find myself needing to hold and talk with him. I ran through possible reasons for the missing inventory in my head as I drove to my mom's. It really comes down to trust. If Ian is not up to something, then either the toys are already sold or are off-site, and he just needs to get his paperwork straightened out. If he is up to something, then the $90,000 is gone and my husband has

some explaining to do. I hope it's the former and I plan on calling the marina tomorrow to see if I can end my worries. Supper was waiting for me when I got home. I ran through my day with my mom, and she told me that she spent a couple hours comforting Ian. He didn't open up much to her, other than to say that he needs to talk with me, he misses me, and he wants to make things right with me. She said that she mostly listened, held, and talked to him about taking care of himself right now. I cried in her arms and thanked her for her help. I texted Ian just before shutting down for the night saying, sorry I missed you, but I'm just not ready to talk yet. Can I meet you at the shop on Tuesday? He called first but then sent a flurry of

texts back, basically regurgitating everything he's said a hundred times at this point. He finally responded yes when I said that we would talk on Tuesday if that worked for him. I have the next three days off work as per Alan's orders. I do have a meeting with my lawyer friend tomorrow at lunch, but will otherwise be getting the box of paperwork from the shop entered into our system remotely. I'll post more tomorrow if anything exciting comes up. Thank you for your kind words and support. Update. Sorry, I didn't mention that Leah didn't respond at all today.

My messages still show as unread. I did get a text from Rob asking if I'd heard from her. I responded no and asked him to have her contact me if he sees her. Part 10, Halloween is around the corner, and I've never been a fan. I get it. Kids love candy and who doesn't love dressing up. Don't we all enjoy watching monsters, aliens, and or psychos killing hot college kids on film? I guess, much like a lot of things, I'm just different.

I've never liked the taste of chocolate, or most sweets for that matter. My diet has been controlled for most of my life, so pop and chips never really were part of my teenage years. My mom did dress me up when I was young and I do have a few fond memories, but after my dad left right around this time of year, I focused my attention more on staying home and helping her hand out candies to cute little kids. We would watch comedies and romance movies. It became our thing.

Us Against the World. I hadn't been at her house on a weekday for a long time. It was nice to sit at the kitchen table with her this morning rather than running off after devouring a bagel and some fruit. We sat across from each other, laptops open, coffee to each of our right, talking and giggling while we worked. It was fun but didn't last too long. Nine o'clock came and things got serious.

I knew that my mom would be making calls for the next hour. I moved to my room to make my own calls. My first being to carry. She picked up right away saying, Amanda, I've been so worried about you. How are you doing? I said, as good as can be, I suppose. I guess you've heard some things. She paused for a second, then said, yeah, something about a drunken text from Leah last weekend

that's causing problems between you and Ian. What exactly did she text you? Clearly, she knew a lot and it was more than what I was comfortable with. I think I've said it before, Carrie isn't good with empathy and advice. I didn't see much purpose in hashing out my marriage problems with her. The fact that she's a client as well led to my response of, it was enough to make me mad for sure. I'm just hoping she can clear things up when she finally gets back. I keep thinking that drunken texts shouldn't be taken this seriously and I do believe that Ian and I will find our way through this.

I think I heard a sigh of relief, she then said, that's good to hear. If I see Leah, I'll encourage her to clear this up. I finish the conversation with, please do and thank you. Let's catch up over lunch next week. I heard her say, text me, as I was hanging up. I took some time to gather my thoughts. I was trying to figure out how Carrie would know about Leah's text. As far as I know, I've only shown it to Ian, mom, and Alan.

Leah would also know about it, of course. I'm guessing Ian talked to her, but I can't figure out why. There is only one lake large enough in our area to have a marina. I called the office and asked if our shop had any boats harbored there. The answer was no. I followed up with descriptions of our two missing boats, but they didn't have anything like them. I was starting to feel a bit defeated. I was really hoping that they would be easily found.

I went back to my data entry until about 11 a.m. I then got ready and went for lunch with my lawyer friend. I wanted to make sure that I understood the process, timeline, and key issues for consideration in a divorce process. I cried in public while discussing it. It was embarrassing and I should have not. known better. The discussion just made everything so real. My friend was very helpful in calming me down and even found a way to make me laugh before we were done. She promised to send me an email that outlines the process and answers my questions as we finished our lunch. I gave her a

hug, said thank you, and asked her to send me a bill for her time. I went back to working on the shop's books as soon as I got back to my mom's. I needed to get the job done. It took three more hours to get everything entered and it was clear that the past week was a lot less productive than I'd seen in years. It sucks for the business, but I was pleased that, for once this week, my expectations matched reality. I texted T.J. the expected cash balance and he replied almost immediately that we were out about $500. That's fine right now. Ian has been a mess this week and probably has some receipts to hand in. It's the missing toys that we're worried about. The cash balance almost agrees because we have about $90,000.

recorded as being used to purchase two boats and four ATVs that hopefully exist. We agreed again to address it with Ian tomorrow and I promised that I would continue to investigate the issue until then. I'd brought copies of the bills of sale with me. They were standard purchase, sale contracts that we had a lawyer make for us when we started buying slash selling use toys. I didn't recognize the names on the contracts and other than the toy details there was no other information except for a phone number written on the top of the contract for the most expensive boat. I called it and I'm still trying to process what I discovered. Fun fact, the shop's official corporate name is something like ABC Industries Limited

so, even though our business is repairing, buying and selling use toys, our corporate name doesn't show that. I'm starting to think this matters. I called the number fully expecting Mr. Richard Watson, the buyer on the contract, to answer, but instead it was an official sounding lady saying, thank you for calling XYZ Wholesale Corporation, how can I help you? Normally I would have just started talking but the name caught me by surprise, and I quickly said, one moment please, while turning my head away from the phone to think. I knew this company and I remember them clearly. A few months ago, Ian hadn't put his papers in my, to be entered, tray, so I just gathered them all up from his messy desk. In that pile was an invoice from this

company for about $70,000 that made no sense. It looked like a three-page parts order, but not of any sort of stuff we would ever use. I asked Ian about it, and he said that he'd received in the mail. I then offered to call them to find out what's up, but he said he already did and that it was an error that they apologized for and fixed. This led to a little mini argument of me invading his space and him not doing his job. It was bitching at each other, and we got over it. I didn't forget the company, though. It's one of the things we look for as auditors. There are scammers that just send invoices to large businesses in hopes of being paid. It's the reason that vendors need to be approved, and managers need to authorize payment.

In today's world, AI automatically identifies all first-time vendor transactions, and we've always looked at new vendor procedures. I made note of the company just in case I saw it again. Once can be a mistake but any other incidences would be fraud in my book. I immediately went into auditor mode and introduced myself as Amanda from big accounting firm. I apologized for calling so late in the day but said that I needed to hand the file over to my supervisor tomorrow morning and would get in trouble if I didn't have a record of checking in with her company about their account balance with ABC Industries, Incorporated.

She was sympathetic and said that she would do what she could to help. She was a bit chatty, asking me to wait but also wondering what it's like to work at my firm. She then said that there was no balance receivable from ABC. I followed up by asking when the last payment was made by ABC to her company and her response floored me. She said last Monday. I asked her the amount, but she wasn't comfortable just sharing that over the phone, so I said, is it $92,350.

This was the cost amount for the missing-use toys. She confirmed that it was. Having confirmed that I knew the transaction just then, she agreed to email me a copy of the invoice because I didn't have time to search for it. Fifteen minutes later, there it was, a three-page listing of parts that have never been, nor should be, near our shop.

All paid for in cash last Monday. I was sitting at my laptop staring at it when the next bomb hit. It was a text from Leah that said, Hey, sorry for freaking you out with my text. I was just drunk and sad that we hadn't involved you more in our more extreme rides. Let me buy you lunch so that we can talk about it. I feel like I'm having a psychotic episode. I'm going to shut down for a while. I'll update when I've had a chance to process this day. Thank you for your support. Part two, I'm writing this late Sunday night because I can't get to sleep. I had my first seizure when I was four. My mother has

described it as the scariest moment of her life. Thankfully it happened in the living room, and I fell onto soft carpet. Her and my father rushed me to the hospital. I was diagnosed with epilepsy soon after. My mother raised me alone since I was six. I've always assumed that my father couldn't handle the fact that he spawned an imperfect daughter. He ran off with some younger flusie and never looked back to check on us.

I have a vague recollection of what he looks like, but I always picture one of those bearded movie villains with sharp features. To this day, a man with a beard gives me the ick. I've been able to manage my condition with medication, breathing exercises, and pure free will. It has been a decade since I've had a major seizure. I do have minor seizures every once in a while. I can feel them coming and control my body so that you'd never know it was happening while looking at me, other than maybe a bit of a blank stare. Internally, though, I'm fighting to hold my body still while trying to find a breath of air. My mother helped me in every one. way to become the person I am today. She held me tight and comforted me when I had embarrassing

incidents. She helped me to control my nutrition balances when the seizure meds made me feel like I was starving. She got me counseling to help me understand myself and my environment. She encouraged me to view myself as a strong independent woman that isn't defined by my medical diagnosis. I see her as supermom, and I always strive to make her proud. She had supper ready for me when I arrived. She has a small two-bedroom apartment downtown. that is within walking distance of my office. She has worked for a property management company for 20 years and is well respected in the city. It didn't take us long to get to the main topic of Ian's possible infidelity.

I could tell that she was surprised by the text, but she focused a bit more on Ian and Leah's relationship history. I realized that I haven't really written about it until now, so here it goes. The best way to describe Leah is that she's a ski bunny and mountain girl. Just picture the ski bunny that you always see on advertisements and TV. Blonde hair, blue eyes, hair flowing to her shoulders under a cap. She's about five feet six inches and built like a UFC fighter. Solid, athletic, not a lot of curves though.

Leah and Ian grew up together. We live about an hour away from a major mountain tourist destination. Lakes, ski hills, golf courses, hotels, fancy shops and restaurants. All of it, like lifestyles of the rich and famous shit. Leah's family had a small ranch just on the outside. outskirts of the National Park. They were frequent customers at Ian's family repair shop and so the families knew each other. Leah and Ian went to school together in the same grade and started hanging out on weekends together. Her family would come to drop off or pick up

equipment and Leah and Ian would head out riding little dirt bikes or ATVs in the nearby hills. Ian's family would go camping and the two of them would hike and ride together. Leah didn't have an easy childhood. Her mom passed away when she was young and her dad and brother struggled with raising a girl. Ian's mom kind of took her under her wing and helped when she could. When Leah was 14, she ran away from her dad and brother. It was then that she moved in with Ian's family for good. I'm pretty sure people can come to their own conclusion on why, it's not my place to say. From that point on, Ian and Leah were like twins. They did everything together until she turned 18 and moved out. She took a job at a major resort doing groundskeeping, ski patrol,

maintenance, and even search and rescue. She lived in the employee residence on site and Ian would visit on weekends to ski or hike the area while partying and being near the rich and famous. They both have stories of attending these extravagant parties or events. They've both had many ONS where they wake up in some Ritzie suite at some fancy hotel, and then do the walk of shame in the early morning to the hotel employee residence. I've asked them both directly if they ever hooked up and they've both squinched their nose and stated that they view each other as brother slash sister and that would never have.

happen. I've always seen that as BS, though. Too young, good-looking people with such similar interests sleeping in the same room while intoxicated. Something had to have happened, even if it was just to, find out, right? I've always trusted that nothing was happening during my relationship with Ian because they both are very loyal people. At least I did trust them until getting that FN text. My mom agrees with me that it is all pretty damning at the moment. I'll spend the day tomorrow trying to contact Leah and see if she'll come clean through her guilt. If not, then I'll need to decide if this is enough to confront Ian directly when I get home or continue some sort of audit on their relationship. As always, any thoughts or advice

are appreciated. I wouldn't be posting if you weren't helping me sort through this pile of crap. Part 3. I've always enjoyed the walk from my mom's place to my office. The city always feels so alive in the morning. Noise, people, activity everywhere. There's a really cute coffee shop on the corner along the way that I always stop at. The barista is always so friendly and quick. It's such a contrast to the calming hum of the mountains that I can't help but get excited. I needed that this morning because I was running on only three hours of sleep. I found myself thinking about Ian and our relationship. We met at a dance club and not too far from where I was walking. I'd been out of a previous relationship for about six months when a group of co-workers

decided to go out on the town on a Friday night. I and a couple other ladies were dancing away when I noticed this guy that looked like Hayden Christensen just staring at me. I kept glancing over and it was clear that he wasn't taking his eyes off of me. NGL, it turned me on. He stopped me as I was leaving the dance floor, but it was far too loud to hear each other. We tried to chat in a back corner, but it didn't take long before we decided to leave and find a quiet diner where we could eat and chat. He had some hilarious stories from his escapades that gave me belly laughs. We really started connecting when he started describing his difficulties in running the shop, though. Back then I was so full of new professional energy

that I couldn't keep myself from talking about how to properly account for and manage his business. He listened attentively to every word, I think he even pretended to take notes. It made me feel special. I'm not into Onses. Seizure meds and alcohol don't ever mix so I don't drink and, therefore, have never had that boost of inhibition. I've always been cautious about relationships, but I was pretty hooked by this guy from the start. He walked me my mom's building, we shared our contact information and had an impressive make-out session before I went up to bed and he went on his way. He called me the next morning and asked if I'd join him for breakfast.

We continued our conversations like there was no pause at all. He taught me into driving out to his shop and then we went on a mountain hike to a lake where we had a little picnic in a place that you would have thought no one had been before. I drove home that evening feeling the warmth of love. We were an official couple two weeks later. I started spending weekends at his place after a month. I moved in with him when we got engaged after about a year. We got married in a small ceremony on Labor Day last year.

During the whole time we've been together I've been an integral part of the business. The shop, as a business, was a disaster when I first started dating Ian. I haven't mentioned it before, but Ian's mom passed away from cancer right around the time when Leah moved out. Ian's dad kind of fell apart from that point on and the shop suffered. Ian was 25 when he and his brother inherited it. They had pretty much taken over all the work part in the previous couple of years, so that wasn't a problem, it was the business part that they had no clue how to handle. I don't think the shop would have lasted another six months if I hadn't shown up to help.

It's always been a cash business. A customer drops off their toy and they don't get to pick it back up unless they pay cash for the parts and services. The problem was that their dad had stopped worrying about getting work orders properly filled out. He was just billing customers by memory by the time just before he passed. It created a mess for the brothers to deal with. Our first major change was ensuring that every job was properly trapped. The boys started writing down the parts that were used and the time it took to fix a unit. We also tacked on a little surcharge for the oil, nuts, and polished that would always accompany any job.

That became their first step of returning the shop to being a business. We also worked on getting them some proper banking arrangements. An operating line of credit that was supported by their land and building gave us some real time to make meaningful changes to the business operations. The bank did require an audit, though. We found a local firm willing to do the audit at a very reasonable rate because of my credentials as the controller of the business, I was so proud when we made that deal. As many of you have probably thought, the boys starting to charge the real amount for their

work rather than their dad's guesstimate, did start to concern customers. They had a pretty long period of some pretty sweet deals and were starting to blame the boys for taking advantage of them. It wasn't the case, but customer perception is their reality. The coup de grace, as they say, was when we changed our parts supplier. The family had been using a wholesaler in the city for all their parts. They would look at a machine, figure out the parts needed, then see if the wholesaler had them. The price for the parts wasn't horrible, but the shipping was killing them. They'd either have the parts sent by Purulator or UPS and pay the fee or one of the brothers

would drive to and from the city. Ian was on one of those runs when we met. He was late getting to the warehouse and needed to stay overnight to pick up the parts. The shop's markup was 10% on parts, basically they would charge $110 for a part that cost them $100. This is somewhat standard to their industry because they make their money on service. The problem was that their costs to get the parts to the shop was not only destroying that 10% markup but also cutting into their service profit. Add the fact that dad was forgetting

parts in their billing and the business was doomed to fail. I've mentioned that we are considered to be the best shop in our area. We didn't realize how significant our volume of parts orders was until we started to talk directly with manufacturers. It's in the volume of orders and the grouping of them that save you money. I was able to create listing of parts that are used every season, no matter how the season goes, barring disaster of course. We then had the information of we could order in bulk, basically fill a shipping container, and significantly reduce shipping costs. After that we contracted the manufacturer directly to fill these orders. At the end of the day, with volume discounts, it saved us about 35% on parts costs. We transferred 20% of those

savings to our customers and that is what ended their concerns about the boys possibly price gauging. I don't think that the shop has had a bad month since we made that happen. It was a lot of work though. Carrie actually helped during the process because she had had some import connections. She and I clicked, and our friendship slash client relationship started. I remember that Ian had to spend two weeks in Mexico to get the deal signed. I say all of this because I find myself thinking of potential divorce. I've been useless all morning and I'm writing this during my lunch break. No, I'm not just thinking about money. I'm a kick-ass professional and I'll be fine regardless of what happens. I'm hurt though

and I'm thinking about how I can make him pay. I believe that the above affirms that that I've been a big part of the shop success and, even though I'm not an owner, I feel that I'm due for some respect for how I've helped. I'm feeling this way because I've realized how the two lovebirds have been executing their shenanigans. It makes me sick to think about it, TBH. They pretty much organized their monthly rendezvous right under my eyes. I've said that we would do these monthly mountain adventures where we would take our dirt bikes

or snowmobiles up to remote mountain locations. It was originally Ian's idea to create connections with customers and encourage the use of the vehicles we fixed. I thought it was a great idea. What I didn't say was that Leah and Ian would always set the destination, and it was usually unattainable for us, non-experts. They would always charge ahead leaving me in a quasi-no-man's land between them and the noobs. The start was always slow, and they made sure that we knew proper safety and vehicle care. Inevitably they'd get bored, though, and charge ahead to the destination. That left me to putter along with the lower crew and make sure everyone was having fun. They'd generally be apart from us for an hour or two,

but they always returned to help the group set up lunch. The decision would be made to then go further up or start returning. They were always present and helpful during dissent as that is the most dangerous part. They clearly had the time to go have their fun. It makes so much more sense when I think of this past Saturday. The little gorge that caught Leah wasn't so dangerous that falling in would cause major injury. It was just, well, delaying, and would get you stuck if you didn't have help getting out. I was behind her, and I couldn't figure out why she was taking the line so close to it. There were plenty of safer lines than the one she chose.

Ian was over a ridge, so he didn't see what happened. She tried to power through the line, but didn't make it and the back end of her bike fell down and dragged her in. I now understand that she meant me to be the one to fall in while she zipped over the ridge. She could have then had her fun with Ian, and they would eventually save me on their return. It's clear that her failure and my ability to help her out just triggered the guilty response she had. I tried to call her a few times this morning and even sent her a, please respond to me.

Text. I ended up calling Rob, her man. He's an event coordinator at the resort she works at, so he almost always answers his phone. He said that Leah had a planned vacation this week and even he couldn't contact her. She'll be back this Sunday. My only thought, and yeah, I'm a witch, is that she's aborting her a fair baby. right now. I'm heading home after work today and I plan on confronting my coward of a husband. I'll give everyone an update after it happens. As always, thanks for your advice and support.

Part 4. I've seen copies of the very first tests for professional accountants. They were always some form of the same thing. Columns and rows of numbers that needed to be added and cross-added. If the total of the row additions matched the total of the column editions, then you were in balance and passed the test, assuming your math was right, of course. Back then the budding professionals were given a couple of hours to get the task done, no calculators, of course. Today that same test would take less than 30 seconds to complete. Just take a picture of the test, imported into a spreadsheet and voila.

It always amazes me when people hear about my profession and their first comment is, you must be good at math. That isn't anywhere near what an accountant does anymore. I've been in public practice five years now and what I do has nothing to do with math. In today's world, accounting is about financial information, compliance, communication, and negotiation. I have training in all of these elements. It was my negotiation skills that I needed the most in confronting Ian. I needed him to give me the truth and I knew that he would resist that. I went into the discussion with a plan and a couple of backup plans, but when all

was said and done, I failed. Here's how it all went down. I left work early, it was a wasted day anyways. I had one billable hour on my time sheet when it's usually seven to ten. I'm sure it will be noticed. I should have just taken a sick day, but it is what it is. I left at 4.30 with plans to be home around 5.30. I told Ian that I would be home around my usual time of seven. I want a time to pack some things just in case he fessed up, but, being honest, a sad part of me just wanted to walk in the house and catch the two of them in the act. Ridiculous I know, given that we share locations, but Maybe he just leaves his phone at the shop when he's banging Leah in my bed. I used the hour commute to focus on ways to stay positive in our conversation.

It's one of the key ways to keep your opponent engaged. Negative energy just spirals, and then no one wins, my last couple of days proves that. I know that this is always easier when you have no skin in the game, but today all of my skin was in this game, and it hurt like hell. I focused myself and practiced my questions in my mind. I needed him to open up and be honest with me. There was no one in the house when I got there. Thankfully. I brought a couple of large suitcases from my mom's house, and I had a couple more there.

I filled them all with my clothes and keepsakes. I considered taking a couple of pictures off the wall but opted to leave them, so it didn't look so obvious when he came in. I loaded it all into my car trunk, and then waited for him. I did take a bit of time to make sure that I didn't look or smell like the walking zombie that I felt inside. I met him at the door at 7.15 with a big hug and meaningful kiss. I knew it might be our last, so I savored the moment.

Partially because I wanted to get him in the right mood and partially because I needed some positive energy for our discussion. I counted on him bringing some food and drink home with him and he didn't disappoint me. We sat at the kitchen table, and he started the conversation by asking about my mom. I texted him earlier in the day that I was feeling fine, so the question made complete sense to me. I told him that she was doing well, looking healthy, and I thanked him for understanding my last second visit.

He said that he understood but missed me yesterday and last night. I thanked him for that and knew that it was time to start our real conversation. I started with a simple, lead-in, question of, have you talked to Leah since Saturday night? His response was simple, quick and lacked any noticeable body-language cues. He said, no, why would I? It wasn't the response I wanted, though, because responding with a question four is my hand. A simple, no, would have left me to continue controlling the conversation, but now I had to respond. I was ready for this, though, and followed up with, didn't

you see how drunk she was? I was intently focused on his body language at that moment. His bra furrowed, but his eyes shifted to the left, there was no pupil dilation change. His demeanor then changed, and he said while laughing, yeah, I wonder if she's still hung over. Now I know that reading body language isn't some sort of polygraph or anything like that. It's a measure of the status and situation of the conversation. The words always matter more, the body language gives context. At this point his response gave me a tiny bit of hope. It was meaningful and natural.

I did give him a laugh at his comment. I needed to keep the positive energy alive, and his comment deserved it. This is where the Rayal setup needed to happen, though. I said, while laughing, come on, we both know she's no lightweight. Actually, she might still be drunk. Rob told me that she's disappeared on vacation all week. E. Invisibly jolted as soon as I said it. His reaction was exactly as I expected.

Rob can only be described as a boy. For God's sake, he event plans for every rich little brat within 300 miles of our tourist resort. He organizes hot girls and boys to attend parties. He hires and fires hundreds of wannabies every year. He's connected with so many people that don't care or respect common morals. I've referred to him as Leah's man, but that relationship is sketchy at best. I've always viewed her relationship with him as one of convenience. She gets to live outside of the employee complex, and he gets access to her ability to connect with rich tourists.

I knew that any reference to a direct conversation with Rob would send Ian into a tizzy. To be frank, I didn't care, though. I needed him to ask the question. The question came immediately, and he had a hint of pain in his eyes when he asked it, why would you talk to Rob? I was still quasi laughing when he asked, his face was serious a. F. and I knew that all of our positive energy had dissipated. I figured this would happen, but it was to an extent that I didn't anticipate. I tried to think through ways to get the energy restored in my planning, but I didn't think of any path that would lead to my next,

necessary statement. I simply said, because she sent me a weird text about us and didn't respond to my questions about it. I didn't have to pretend or act about the hurt that I felt at that point. It was all real. I also knew that love and concern are a different sort of positive energy. I could see that he had both when he asked, what text? It would have been so easy to throw my phone in front of him with the message open and yell, WTF. That would have gained nothing, though.

I wanted, no, needed him to just tell me the truth. I calmly pulled up the message, looked him in the eye, and passed my phone to him. I was attuned to every part of his visible body as he read it. His reaction was once again, and unfortunately, exactly as I expected. He had the phone in his right hand, and immediately slouched while supporting his head, by his neck, with his left. His eyes went straight down, and he just looked, well, guilty. That's when I asked the obvious question that I've been stressing about for thirty-plus

hours now, what do you think she meant Ian? I've heard of Darvo, but honestly never gave it much attention. It stands for deny, attack, reverse victim and offender. I dismissed it as something that professionals would never do. I truly didn't think about it in a relationship context until today. My bad. He looked up from his guilty position and said, You don't think this is about me and her, do you?

I expected the question and quickly but calmly responded, What else would she be talking about? He looked at me in that moment and I could see that his eyes were darting from his left to his upper right. His pupils were growing larger, and his brow was getting furrowed. That's when he said, maybe she's talking about her and Rob. You've clearly been buddy, buddy with him. I had no idea he was capable of this sort of accusation. It was out of character, and I wasn't ready for it.

It took me a hot as he-see, but I collected myself and calmly asked, why would I bring that shit to you? He jolted immediately, clearly realizing how FD up his question was. He stood up and started ranting out possibilities. The one that caught my attention was maybe Leah and I were having an affair and she'd been if I and G around on me. It actually became ridiculous. I remained calm for a few minutes of this bullshit, but I eventually just stood up and peacefully

said, Ian, please just tell me the truth. He couldn't stop himself, though. It was like I wasn't in the room. I walked to the door and when it looked like he was about to grab me, I stared him the eye and yelled, just admit you've been fucking Leah. He jolted back while staring straight back at me and I exited the house. I made it about ten minutes before I had to pull off to the side of the road for a cry. It took me a couple hours to make the one hour drive. to my mom's. She was prepared for this possibility, has been my rock, and I'm in an okay place to deal with this disaster. Ian's been constantly calling and texting about how sorry he is, how messed up the situation is, how loyal he is to me, how this is all a big misunderstanding.

I'm thinking at this point, I'll never get the truth that I tried so hard for. My gas tank is empty. I'm about to take some major sleeping meds and try to let my body recover. I'll update about the aftermath tomorrow. Thank you all for your advice and support. Part 5. Have you ever been near a superstar? By near, I don't mean standing on the side of the road and waiting for the Queen or Taylor Swift to waltz on by waving and maybe touching your hand. I mean the chance to sit down, one-on-one, and just talk about anything for 12 to 24 hours. I did that last year, and I totally forgot, understandably, that it will happen again starting tomorrow. So yeah, yesterday was a disaster, wrapped in a hurricane shit sandwich.

NGL, it feels like shit when your B-grade Luke Skywalker husband couldn't keep his lightsaber out of Ronda Rousey's ass on your watch. I deserve so much better than this bullshit. I think I'm going to rope in and ravage Superman to the point where Luke has no choice but to cry and call him Daddy. That's my plan. In case you're wondering, Superman's name is Alan, and he's the youngest principal partner ever in our office, maybe even our firm.

He transferred into our office right around when I started my professional journey with the firm and immediately generated a buzz. He was a hockey player and had a lot of NHL players as his clients. Thing is, he was doing such a good job that the agent started talking about him and all of a sudden, he had 300 plus clients across all four major sports. It wasn't all sports, though. I'll guarantee that everyone reading this knows at least one of his top five band clients. His client presence has elevated our entire office to the point where we can just say the name of our firm and people respect us.

It's truly amazing. A little more than two years ago he interviewed our staff for a manager that could help him handle his audit work. I was the youngest of about 25 candidates. He chose me. He said that it was because he knew how difficult it is to compete at a national level, and he was incredibly impressed that I did so while overcoming my disability. He stared me in the eyes and said that I'm the type of competitor. that he wants to work with.

Probably the proudest moment of my career so far. One of his clients is the largest trucking company in the Midwest. It's headquartered in a minor city that is about a six-hour drive from us. He agreed to make client visits at least once a year and, given that I'm responsible for the audit of their financial statements, he took me there with him last year. I think I learned more about my role and the importance of my work in the time we drove together than I did in any full year of college. It's amazing to think that he's only two years older than me.

me and younger than Ian. Auditing a company is a pretty straightforward gig. We start by discussing the systems and processes of the company and make a determination if they are reliable to produce proper financial information or not. Let's call this step one. We then test the assertions made to us in step one by management in order to determine if the systems and processes are working. That's step two. In a perfect world, we like everything that management asserts to us in step one and then step two confirms everything asserted to us from step one. As everything in life, nothing is perfect, though. If we have concerns about any systems or processes in step one,

then we do a lot more work in step two to see if the concern is valid. Where it really falls apart is when the management assertions from step one are proven to be false by step two. I say this just to explain why Alan takes me on this adventure. He leaves it to me to take care of these steps while he focuses on business planning, compliance and any potential mergers and acquisitions for the company. If you're wondering, yes, we use sophisticated software that has AI components to assist us in our work. I go to the client with a long list of questions that both myself and our software slash

AI have generated. I then assess the impact and reliability of their answers. Yes, I do pay attention to their body language while they answer. Most clients don't think about it, but, much like Ian, there are times when people become uncomfortable. Last year's trip was a dream for me though. Well, other than Ian. He was a little insecure about me traveling one-on-one with another man, so he insisted to drop me off and introduce himself to Alan. He was concerned that Alan was just trying to get in my pants by taking me to the client's headquarters on a three-night stay. I'm sure he thought he would intimidate my accountant boss. He definitely realized his error when he walked into the lobby and shook Superman's

hand. I didn't give Alan that nickname. An office of 300 people did. He's literally six feet five inches and looks like a young Henry Cavill. He doesn't wear glasses, so Clark Kent makes no sense. This didn't help Ian's insecurity, but a whole bunch of texting, sexting, and some awesome facetime sessions alleviated his worries over the course of the stay. Alan did his best to help, when he shook Ian's hand, he said that he would drive safe and promise to get his girl back to him safe and sound, dude is so old school, LOL.

I can honestly say that I haven't really thought about another man romantically in three years. Ian was it for me. That is until this morning. Alan popped by to check in on me. He started by asking how I was. He expressed some worry because of my billable time yesterday, told you all, but he totally respected my honesty when I said that Ian and I were dealing with some stuff. Most managers I know would have started some sort of chat about how sick or vacation time should be used. He just stared me in the eye and said, I understand, do you need anything for me? He knew what I should have done. I knew what should have been done. His comment just affirmed that he has my back. It felt so nice when I'm feeling so vulnerable. I was working through

those feelings when I realized that we were scheduled to head out to the trucking company tomorrow. I'm pretty sure he was dying to say something but struggling with how to bring it up when I said, what time do you want to hit the road tomorrow? He smiled, with what I saw as relief, and said, is ten okay? I nodded as I saw a lonely thumbs up in my doorway and heard a faint, see you in the lobby at ten. He was gone like a wisp while I felt something I hadn't in some time. I'm no slouch in the looks department. I'm a five feet eight inches, green-eyed, red-head that people in my office have nicknamed Sansa after Sophie Turner and her Game of Thrones role. I'm fit and curvy and have never had a problem with attracting men.

I just haven't done a lot of hunting in my life. As I've said previously, it just isn't my style. I feel right now that I like the idea of being vindictive, though. No one needs to know but me and Superman. Affairs happen all of the time, clearly my marriage is about to end because of one. I feel the need to be desired so much because I can't stop wondering why I wasn't enough for Ian. It's amazing how our minds work under stress. I can't stop wondering what I could have done differently.

What if I was adventurous enough to get good enough to join those scumbags earlier? Would I have headed off their bullshit? Why did he need to explore her body when he had me? Why wasn't I enough? It honestly just leaves me feeling like a discarded piece of garbage when I run through these thoughts. My competitive fire is definitely stoked, though. I want to go back to the moment we met, and instead of stopping for him I walk by, grab the next available guy, and make out in front of him.

I want to put on one of those body-hugging little black dresses with spiked heels and enter a room knowing that every man in the place wants to be with me. I need to prove to myself that this is 100% on him and that there is nothing wrong with me. That's how I feel right now, and I know it's so out of character to who I am as a person. I feel that a night, one night, with Superman will give me everything that I need right now. I get a huge rush just thinking about it. If I could have a man like that, then Ian was clearly just a fool. So, I'm going to be open to it, even encourage it with him on this trip.

I'm going to flirt and fawn with him and see if he wants a woman like me. I will be cautious, though, as is my nature. I know I'm playing with fire, but the excitement is growing inside me. I'll let you all know how it goes. Update, I have ghosted Ian. I may touch base with him next week depending on whether or not Leah ever responds to me. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. I've contacted a lawyer acquaintance of mine, we've worked together on a few files and I know

that she's well respected. I'll be meeting with her next week as well. It's 7 o'clock now and I'm counting this as a productive day. I have six billable hours out of 12. Not very efficient, but I'll slew my time sheet a bit and make it look like six out of nine and that should be enough to appease my corporate overlords. I'm sitting here writing about my life now because my mom texted me an hour ago to say that Ian was at her house wanting to wait for me. This wasn't totally unexpected because he's a psycho that wouldn't care about boundaries even though it's his choices that led us to this place. I told her to tell him that, I'm gone for the week to audit the big trucking company.

She responded with, Ian says that isn't until tomorrow and he'd really like to see you. I just laughed when I texted, tell him that, since I'm single now, Alan and I decided to take a bit more time on this trip and left a day early. I honestly wished that I hadn't ghosted him and could have said that directly. I should have unblocked him to deliver that bomb. Instead, I was trying to put my mom in the crosshairs, and she wasn't going to have anything to do with that. She berated me, and I deserved it.

She texted, this isn't some high school bullshit Amanda, I'll tell him to leave, but you need to grow up. That hit me hard. As sexy as I wanted to feel today, I've always prided myself on being a calm, intelligent person. I have to admit that this situation has changed me already, and not in a good way. I responded to my mom and said, I'm sorry, you're right. Please tell him that I don't want to see or talk with him right now and that I'll touch base next week.

I'm going to stay at the office for a while. Let me know when he's gone. I wouldn't be surprised if he's waiting outside the building main doors now because she said he left 30 minutes ago. There's no way that he would be able to get past security at this hour. He has to know that I won't give him clearance. Right? I'm a manager so I have a parking spot below in our building parkade. I'm pretty sure I can leave when I want without worrying about a painful confrontation,

but I would feel better if it was a certainty. This doesn't change anything for me, though. He's a snake that deserves to be stomped on. I'm a woman that needs to know that I'm wanted. I'll update throughout my adventure this week, and I need to admit that I'm doing this to make myself feel better. Please feel free to comment however you're feeling about my choices, I'm a big girl, I can handle both your judgment and your praise.

Authors note, I think it would be a blast to create some engagement here. I'm going to be posting true edits to this post for the next few days. days and would love some interaction about them. Please feel free to comment and guide this young lady through some pretty rocky waters. Please don't be harsh and please respect her as a person that is in a shitty situation and needs to work her way out of it. I think we're all going to love the ride and let's see where it goes. Update, so, I made it to my mom's place without any drama.

I'm counting that as a win. I don't know if he gave up or just missed me, but honestly, I couldn't give a rat's patootty about him right now. If you've noticed, yes, I'm done with writing like some ridiculous sailor girl. I apologize for my last post. I am still committed to landing Superman though. I believe that I need this and I can't stop myself from making this happen. I had some time to start engaging with him. We've always texted about business stuff so I wasn't worried about breaking any boundaries, real or perceived. I started with a simple text, what's the dress expectation this week? Is it the same as last year. Yep, simple, straightforward, but I wanted to get him thinking about what I would be

wearing. He hasn't responded yet, but I'll let you know. Update, I hear the comments about affairs with your boss. I actually agree, but I truly think that this is different. I'm not looking for anything permanent. I've never had a one-night stand, but that is what I want. One night with Superman. Nothing more, nothing less. Please just give me proof that I'm not some hag that doesn't deserve a really good man. Is that so bad? Update. His response to my text above was as expected. A simple, no difference from last year, thanks for checking though. It's always good to double check on things that could be obvious. I knew that and knew that he wouldn't be offended by the question. Again, my only goal was to put me, myself and I in his mind. Now was the time to push a little

though and get his juices flowing. I responded with, so high boots and skirts are, okay. I didn't wear them last year, but I'm thinking of going full cowgirl for them this time. Thoughts? I'm only feeling confident about my question because there were a few ladies in the office wearing this attire last year. We totally joked about it on the drive home, so the question could be taken more than one way, either I'm making fun of some of their staff or I'm serious about competing with them. I believe his response is going to give me a whole bunch of information. I'm actually getting pretty excited about it. Update, damn it, his response was neither inspiring nor helpful. It was just a laughing emoji. I guess I should just be happy that my sexy

body in high boots and a short skirt may have entered his mind. I've clearly got his attention though, but I recognize that I'm pushing lines that should never be crossed by text. Too permanent, too real. I simply responded with, business casual it is, any idea on music for the drive? Do you want me to create the playlist, or should we work on it together? I'm hoping that he'll want to collaborate with me. year was a bit of a hodgepodge of random picks throughout the drive. We had some nice chats about music because of it, but I asked the question in hopes of him sharing some of his passion. I'm hoping that we can set up some real conversation this week. Update, is this pheromone stuff real? I spent $200 on some crazy perfume that was supposed to drive

your man wild. I used it a few times with Ian, but I always thought that our evening was a foregone conclusion, if you know what I mean. Is this something that could help me? Please let me know if it's a necessary item. Update. I know I promise to stop talking like a sailor but fool. His response to my music request was, you know what I like, I trust you to keep us rocking. Like seriously. I know I walked myself into this, but now I need to create a six-hour playlist that keeps a guy that has relationships with a few hundred of the world's greatest musicians happy. WTF was I thinking, I'm honestly screwed, but what the hell? I'll just put a list together of what we listened to last year, add a couple of cool new tracks from his clients

and hope for the best. I'm kicking myself in the ass right now for thinking that I could connect with him through music. FML. Update. I'm packed and ready. Yes, I did pack my high boots and skirt. I have a plan to use them if I need them. I've also packed sneakers for the drive, two different pairs of high-heel cowboy boots, two normal cowboy boots, and a set of flats. I've picked out my three favorite and tightest jeans, six potential tops to go with them, and two business suits just in case. I've packed four sets of lulus with sports bras to match for the drives and workout sessions. I've also packed a kick-ass set of undergarments that would make any man blush. I'm ready for this trip. I specifically chose a set of lulus and a revealing

sweater for tomorrow. I'm going to look like the hottest passenger any of you have seen, ever. I'm going to head into work dolled up about 20% more than usual. I'll change into my lulu's and tight revealing sweater at about 9.45 and cover it up with a coat. All will be revealed as we get in the car. Let's see what happens. I'll update tomorrow on the road. Go team Superman. Update, I'm back in the office and will be hitting the road in a few hours.

I did have a rough night and yes, I don't have a confession from Ian. No, I'm not looking for an excuse to sleep with my boss. I get the inference though. I'd like to hear other possibilities for the Leah's text and Ian's responses to me. They're both clearly guilty. Is flirting with a hot guy to bad? Lulu's are tight, form-fitting, yoga pants. They're very comfortable.

Update, I spent the night tossing and turning. Yes, crying as well. I hate that I'm in this situation. Am I really overreacting? Can someone please give me an alternative answer to Leah's text and Ian's response? The plan for the next few days is as follows, we should have a couple hours from the time we get there to when we meet the executive and management team in their main boardroom for supper. The purpose of the meeting is to introduce ourselves and meet each department

head. We'll also be setting up appointments for them over the next couple of days. This ensures accountability for them to be available for us and we gain efficiency to get our tasks done. Alan will also be doing a brief presentation about the state of their industry from our perspective. Last year we were done by about nine. The next two days will be long. Alan and I will meet for breakfast around 7 a.m. each day to run through our plans with each other. We'll be at the client's office at 8 and get to work. I'll start tomorrow with their controller.

She's a very sweet lady that reminds me of a grandmother. Her and I talked throughout the year on the phone so there won't be a lot of formality. We generally finish the day at their office around 6, the culture there is such that no one really sticks around past that time. Alan and I will head for supper and discuss our day, we generally focus on any hiccups that I have so that he can help if needed. We'll be done around 8 and I'll head back to my room to once again, plan for the next day. Friday night is the last night we're there. Alan does a presentation to the owners on Saturday morning based upon the information and discussions over the couple of days. I'm there to help create the presentation and assist when he needs me. Last year we

didn't get it all done and ready until about 10 at night. The meeting Saturday morning starts at 8 a.m. It will be a busy few days and will both be exhausted as we drive home Saturday. Alan is one of those people that you can't help but feel positive around because he's just full of that energy. Last year I was focused on Ian whenever there were a few minutes of downtime, but looking back, I can see that I was able to do so because Alan was helping to keep me calm and level-headed throughout the days. Normally this sort of schedule, interviewing multiple different personalities of people and always focusing your thoughts on what's right and wrong in what they're doing, drains the life out of you.

Last year I remember feeling down a few times, and then Alan would just appear to check in between meetings, tell a quick story or crack a quick joke, and I would feel rejuvenated. It was helpful and appreciated. I'm hoping that I can return some of that energy this year, regardless of connecting beyond our professional relationship. Anyways, that's where I'm at. I'll maybe share some stories from the road depending on how it's going. Update, I'm just waiting for him in the lobby.

I chickened out on the cleavage sweater. It just felt like too much. I opted for one of my tight-fitting workout shirts. It's comfy and more appropriate. Update, we're on the road, actually we're just at a gas station on the outskirts of the city, much cheaper than downtown. He drives a truck. It's loaded and rides on the highway like a limo. It's a pretty common vehicle in my parts, with the mountains being so close.

I still plan on bringing up environmental carbon footprints with him. That should lead to some fun conversations. L.O.L. I've already told him how much work I put in on the playlist. That's it for conversations so far, though. Update, we've stopped for lunch. We chose fast food just to keep moving, but he needed to use the boys' room so we went in. I didn't admit it, but I needed to go as well. He's now standing in line to make our order and I'm sitting in this cozy leather seat with perfect climate control.

We're at the halfway point and the conversation has been effortless. He gave the standard response of yes, we need to deal with carbon emissions. Gas-driven trucks are generally not the solution, but they are getting better and there isn't a better solution yet. He's got a very efficient house, and he invests consciously. Nothing fun in that conversation other than me teasing him about compensating for something. I've been focusing on developing a persona this week because Amanda is truly boring. If you're a fan of the show, sweets, then you'll recognize the name Donna.

That's my intended persona. I'm sure I won't be near as witty as her, but I'm going to try. If you know what I'm talking about, no, Alan is way different than Harvey Spector. Mike, maybe, but just better. The music playlist kicked off a pretty great conversation. He actually grew up with the lead guitarist of one of the bands we listen to. They're awesome, but I can't say who because they are also a client. He talks with his hands when he's uninhibited.

He told a few hilarious stories about their antics as kids. It gave me the opportunity to just stare at him. He's beautiful. He's wearing jeans and a nice, collared dress shirt. Definitely tailored. I don't know if all hockey players are built like him, but it's impressive. I did catch a glimpse of his chest through his buttons, and it was hairless. I had to look away for a bit after that.

I don't expect much more information from him. I'm pretty sure that, during the rest of the drive, will be focused on client stuff. I'll give my next update when we hit the hotel. Update, the trucking industry is really competitive. It takes a lot of work to make very little money. This company does well because it also manufactures livestock and flatbed trailers. This past year has been okay for them, not special by any means. There are some question marks in the preliminary numbers for the latest fiscal quarter.

That was the focus of our conversation for the past few hours. I'm showered and dressed. This evening is relatively informal so it's jeans, a nice white blouse and a sharp blue blazer. I've texted him that I'm ready and thinking about just heading to his room to knock on the door. I'll give him five. Update, so, the meeting went well, and I didn't have anything to do when we finished. Alan was sticking around for a bit to chat with the owners, and I finally have some free time. I didn't mention it because I wasn't sure if it would be important, but we are staying at a resort slash casino on the outskirts of town.

Last year I spent this time schmoozing my husband and making him feel wanted. This year I can either go to my room and pine about my disaster of a life or find a way to kick up my heels and have some fun. I'm choosing the latter option. I pulled out the short skirt and thigh high boots. Got gussied up and have $200 to lose at Blackjack. I, of course, let Alan know my plan. Let's see if he joins me.

Update, I'm actually enjoying myself a bit, even though my plan went the way of the dodo bird. I'm up to $400 in gambling money. I did get a bit of affirmation from guys wanting to buy me drinks at the table. I drink soda and lime when I want to look like I'm partying. It's pretty funny to see them struggle when they realize their target has no desire for alcohol. I truly had no interest in any of them tonight. I was just being nice and trying to be witty. It felt good to just play the unavailable, kick-ass girl that I am. It was fun until Superman texted to say he was shutting down and headed to bed. Big day tomorrow. Pretty much business code for, be ready to hit it hard first thing in the morning. I contemplated

a text asking if you wanted me to pop by to run through any last minute issues, but given my clothing choices, I opted to just head to bed as well. Big day tomorrow, it's my primary flirt day and I'm hoping that I get some good responses. Update, I remember walking into a business at the start of an audit last year and every person I met looked and treated me like I was the most wicked Halloween villain they'd ever met. It was surreal, but a great learning experience. My job isn't nice or in any way full of joy. My job is to ensure that known third parties can feel satisfied with the financial information they are using to make decisions with. It's a real train wreck when you understand that the people paying me aren't the ones that

rely on my work. The people paying me are the ones that are the most likely to deceive everyone. Think about that for a minute. You want to make an investment, but you're not sure that you can trust the information that you're given. So, you ask for a second opinion, but you don't want to pay for it because, IDK, reasons. Then you're totally fine with the opinion of some business that your target investment hired to give you their thoughts. The situation is credulous at best. Right? Welcome to the world of an auditor. I walk into a room of people that know that I'm there to question every decision, choice, system, processed that they created. If I disagree with them, then I'm a villain that they shouldn't have hired.

If I agree with them and the world finds out I'm wrong, then I may as well go find another profession because no one will trust me ever again. Captain Kirk had it easy with his Kobayashi Maru. Ours is real, reoccurring, and has measurable consequences. I spent the day learning about so many little coding errors. Why did this bill not include the gratuity in your coding? Why did that bill get charged to freight when it was clearly supplies? It stresses people out when they have to admit to their errors.

I get it, and I understand. but I also need to determine if it's just a little one-time error that someone made while worrying about whether or not their husband was scrunking some slut on the top of a mountain or was it indifference or even intentional deception. This is my job, and I take it seriously. It's been a long day of dealing with half-truths, mistakes and self-defensive personalities. You learn very quickly that culture and character are the keys to ensuring confidence. This company has those qualities in spades.

Let's get it right and keep on trucking is a staple value statement. here. As I've said, positive energy can get you through a lot of issues. As usual, we had the boardroom as our central location. Alan was his expected perfect self, dropping by and giving me advice and support whenever needed. I had one division manager get a little flirty, but he found out quickly that anything other than serious, truthful answers just brings a whole lot of pain from an auditor. That's kind of the point of AI, isn't it? Managers don't make passes at AI. People don't get defensive when some computer points out an error versus some 27-year-old lady. I can see how good our systems are becoming, and it won't be long before our AI system connects to their

system and the answers are generated for all of us noobs to see. Where it's really going to get thrilling is when AI starts interviewing managers while measuring biometrics. I think I can read body language pretty well, but I don't see people's pulse, heat signature, and Twitch response is anywhere near what a computer can. All I can do is hope that I'm still in the room when the transition happens. So yeah, my day is done. I'm changed into a nice set of comfortable, tight, jeans with a pretty damn sexy blouse, and high-heel cowboy boots. Allen's finishing up his work for the day and we are about to have supper together. I'm on top of my work so far, so I'm not worried about post-supper tasks. I find myself a little

excited about the next few hours. I'll let you know how it goes. Part 7. As many of you predicted, my hunt was an epic fail. Thankfully I didn't go so far as to put my job or career in jeopardy, but there probably will be consequences. Here's how it all went down. Just after my last update, I texted Alan to meet me at the blackjack tables. I was hoping that he would join me for a couple of hands before dinner. I'm a solid player and wanted to show off my skills.

I sat down at an empty table and asked to play two hands in order to keep a seat for Alan beside me when he got there. I knew I was looking hot because there was a noticeable rush of cowboys and golf shirts to my table. I was still focusing on my inner Donna persona when I said, Hey boys, simmer down, we don't even know if this dealer is hot or not. The chorus of, it looks like this table is already hot, you look lucky, and, doesn't matter, you and I are going to take this casino down, was hilarious to me because it's exactly the response you want but don't.

I was left disappointed because you really want something different and mysterious. Like, get me thinking about something other than the obvious. Seriously, guys, do better. We'd been playing for about 15 minutes when I got the text from Alan. It said, running a bit behind, meet you at the Steakhouse at 7.30. Time precision matters for us and work always comes first. What he's really saying is that his day isn't going smooth, but he still needs to meet with me. I needed to be at the restaurant at 7.25.

I arrived at exactly that time and Alan was just walking up when I got there. I think that every decent casino resort has a good restaurant. This one's a little special for me. I think our client books our reservations because we definitely get treated like royalty when we're there. We have a secluded booth in the back corner that's private and quiet. It's perfect to allow us to have a nice meal while also talking about sensitive client information. That isn't what I find so special though. If you've ever been on a corporate retreat or dinner event, you know that there are three classes of attendees when it comes to drink orders.

There are the people that just want to drink what they like and don't care about how it will mix with their food. Then there's the people that really want to focus on their palate. They try to pair their drink choice with their food choice. Everyone knows the base, red with red food, white with white food, wine choice. You often get these pretend samoliers though. They want to make an impression by sharing their thoughts as well as challenging the suggestions of their servers. At first, you label them as pretentious to yourself, at least I did. I now know that this was my own insecurity.

It's a hobby for them to experience unique tastes on the company's dime. It should be applauded, not judged. It's the third group that I fall into. I don't drink, because I can't, and that sometimes makes me feel like an outcast. I want to feel what they feel, I've often thought about trying to participate, but the fear of falling to floor, twitching like a fish out of water in front of them, wins every time. There's always been this feeling of judgment, though, when I'm at a table of people just

wanting to have fun with food and wine. I'm sure that they think I have some sort of moral or personal barrier that I'm projecting upon them, when the truth is that I just can't. I'm not going to presume that this is what an alcoholic that is fighting their urges feels, because I understand that those feelings must be so much more intense, but I can relate. Last year, on our first dinner here, Alan picked up on my hesitations about drinks. I was wrapped up in knots about how my choices would be perceived by him when he just said, they have some pretty awesome mocktails here. I'm sure that I visibly slumped back at that moment.

It was like all of my tension just flew out of my body. What followed was a fantastic journey of pairing food and drink. The servers at this restaurant knew their stuff. It's a Native American resort that has a strong desire to support non-alcoholic choices. I experienced some of that food and drink combination tastings experience, and it was fantastic. Alan fully supported it throughout. He's a beer drinker stuck in a wine-dringer's world, that's how he described it anyways. He just said that he's always enjoyed the experience here and we had a fun night talking

about flavors and hints of mint or berries with food. I say all of this because I was excited. I was looking forward to more experiences while being a little flirty with Superman. I'd been throwing little Donoisms at him all day. Saying things like, I don't need a reason to be spectacular when he praised me, or I know people better than they know themselves, when I was able to get to the truth of one of my queries. It honestly boosted my confidence and made me feel good about myself. Apparently, it hit a note, though.

It actually pisses me off that this became a thing, but I do need to acknowledge that I had a part. I'd mentioned that I had a division manager make a pass at me, but shut him down. I didn't give the details, though, and they clearly mattered. He came to the boardroom on time for his meeting. We just introduced ourselves and shook hands when Alan popped his head into Ashton. a quick question before we started. I knew the answer off the top, and Alan gave a predictable response of, thanks, I figured

you'd know. I, being full on confident, said, I'm Amanda, I know everything, while giving a wink to the manager guy. Alan chuckled and whisked away. I then went on with my interview. It got ugly when I was asking him about some expense report discrepancies and he looked at me, all serious, and said, why don't I just book us a hotel room tonight and we'll make sure it's coded right tomorrow. Don't ever say that to an auditor. He was mocking not only

what my job is but also me as a person. I responded swiftly and with Venom when I retorted, is that how you spend company money? He knew immediately that he'd walked into a shitstorm. He stuttered, no, I just thought we were having some fun here. I replied, this isn't a game, here's what's going to happen now. I'm going to send you a listing of every expense report that you've submitted over the past year. I need you to give me a written description of the expense purpose, who you were with, and why it was an appropriate business expense for every line item on every report. I'd pulled up his listing on my computer while I was speaking and said, it looks like you submit your expenses weekly, and I can

see we have about 48 of them here. I've emailed them to you, and I expect your responses by noon tomorrow. We'll decide how to proceed from there. Thank you for your time. I could feel his anger and hesitation as he stood up, I'm pretty sure that I interrupted some stupid comment from him when I said, keep your afternoon free tomorrow, I'm sure that there will be follow-up questions. He then slunk out, not noticing my shaking hands. This started a bitch session throughout department managers about how abrasive and manipulative I am. It ran up the chain and Alan had spent the past hour or so talking with executives about it. Dinglenut department manger had complained that I was flirty and blew up a harmless little joke into a witch hunt. Other managers had

circled their wagons with this guy, complaining how, provocative, I've been, some had seen me in the casino the previous night dressed in my boots and skirt. It all was just, well, gross. Alan stuck to facts with me and heard my side of the issue. I'd C-Ced him my original request and he forwarded it on to upper management, as well as Dinglenut, with a simple, straightforward message, it is our expectation that we receive the requested information by noon tomorrow. Please reply to all immediately if this is not possible. He told me that this whole thing is ridiculous, but it does happen sometimes when people are challenged by third parties. He will deal with the supposed joke directly with upper management and that

it was clearly unprofessional and warranted investigation not only by us but by the company HR group. I fell apart and turned into a sobbing mess when he looked into my soul and said, now that this junk has been dealt with, W.T.H. is going on with you. I couldn't hold it in any longer. I've been trying so hard to keep myself together and be the strong person that I know I am. It just all became too much. I told him about Ian. I shared the text with him. I described my confrontation with him. I apologize to him about holding it all in and trying to work through my issues alone. It hurts so much to share my pain and sorrow, but opening up also helped a lot. Alan just listened. He didn't try to offer excuses or meaning

to the situation. He just listened and asked really thought out questions that pushed me to reveal more and more of my insecurities about Ian and I's relationship. It hurts a bit too much to write about it now, I may do so in the future. We ended dinner on a high note when we had dessert and a special new mocktail that was supposed to bring us happiness in life. Yes, there are fun stories behind each drink. He gave me a big hug and told me to take the day tomorrow. I was able to convince him that I was okay and needed to get this job done. I promised to take some time next week to properly deal with my marriage and myself.

So here I am, finishing a morning coffee and getting ready to enter a den of vipers that I've riled up. I have a plan though and I'm pretty sure my grandma controller will help me calm everyone down. down. I'll update from the road tomorrow. Wish me luck. Part 8, the den of Vipers was swept away by some quick communication from upper management and a supportive email from my sweet grandmother ally. The infamous manager as well as a few of his cronies came to the boardroom to apologize to me directly. I accepted the apologies, and it doesn't really matter if I believe that they were sincere or not. Damage was done. There's a lot of things that happen in an audit when a department head makes a statement that calls into question their commitment to being a trustworthy

custodian of corporate funds. Remember when I talked about step one and step two. Our assessment of management and their ability to ensure reliable systems and processes is one of the key elements of our risk tolerance. We then communicate our tolerance to our software, and AI, and it uses that as a basis for running tests on the client's software. In this situation, we needed to reduce our risk tolerance, which led to our software doing a whole lot of more testing.

Ultimately, the management team is going to be under a lot more scrutiny for a while after this. Trust is fickle and it was impossible to ignore Dinglenut's words. Some may see this as vindictive, but the change was absolutely necessary. If something goes wrong in this business, imagine how quickly the public would blame us if we treated his statement like a joke. The lawsuits would be incredible. I was able to focus for the rest of the trip and made sure to give no air to any drama or whispers. We ended on a high note this morning with the owner, and it feels like a success. I'm hoping to be invited back next year, but we'll understand if there are concerns with me

as part of the team going forward. That's not the focus of this post, though. I'm starting to realize that I'm a really good auditor, but also a very irresponsible controller. This occurred to me during our drive back as Alan was asking questions about the shop. It's weird to me that when Alan and I talk six hours can just fly by. He started his investigation into my personal life by asking me about the day when Leah sent her text. His first question about Leah's text was, why do you think it was sexual? My response was the same as what it's been all week, what else could it be?

He said, seriously Amanda, after everything you've just been through, you don't understand that not everything is sexual. You weren't hitting on him when you winked at him, you were simply trying to be confident while internally dealing with some pretty serious stuff, right? I said, yes, while thinking to myself, oh, if he only knew. So why don't we be auditors and consider other possibilities, he asked to not knowing that I was a bit distracted. We agreed there's a high probability that the text was about sex. The purpose of this discussion though was to talk about what else the text could mean. What else could Leah feel the need to apologize to me, as well as ask forgiveness from me, for?

Also, who is we? We started talking about how other ways in which Leah is connected to me. There really was no answer to this. Her and I only really saw each other when biking. I don't for a second believe that the text had anything to do with that primarily because of Ian's responses. This became a common theme in Alan and I's discussion because almost every possibility became improbable when you consider Ian's guilty responses to my confrontation of him. The only other connection that Leah has to me is through the shop. She does at times get paid a commission for helping us sell product. Actually, both her and Carrie get paid

commissions from time to time. Again, though, why would Ian be defensive if they were getting false commissions. That's when Alan reminded me that Ian wasn't the only owner of the shop. That's when it hit me, Ian's brother wasn't a fan of our resale business. He was always worried that we would buy the wrong toy and lose money. He began getting really concerned when the shop started buying and selling boats. Leah and Carrie were getting most of their commissions from boats. They had the connections with the rich and famous and they would recommend the shop when someone wanted to buy a boat for their summer stay on the lake. It's kind of weird how these people think, but they'd rather buy a boat use it for three months and then sell it

rather than rent. We actually have a funny story of buying and selling the same boat three times over the past two years. So yeah, that's where I'm at. There's a high probability that Ian and Leah got it on, but there is a small possibility that Ian, Leah, and Carrie, got together to defraud Ian's brother under my nose as controller. There is no possibility that this is some sort of drunken text or bullying based upon Ian's handling of my confrontation with him. I'm home at my mother's now and it's time to find out what I'm going to do. I'm hoping that I can have a chat with Leah tomorrow. Regardless, I need to have another chat with Ian and I should probably get in the shop to

see if anything is happening with resales. I'll let everyone know how it goes tomorrow. Thank you so much for your support. Part 11, I'm just going to get something off my chest before I get to the meat of my post. Yes, I know that Hayden Christensen played Anakin Skywalker not Luke. I made the comment for effect, and I was mad at the time. Please stop the DMs about it. I do find myself thinking about Anakin and his transition to becoming Darth Vader.

How he started innocently but love and hubris along with a large piece of manipulation led him to becoming a villain. Is that Ian's arc here? I think I'd rather he was wandering around stuffing his lightsaber in places it shouldn't go. I'm sure many of you have recognized the means. meaning of that fake invoice slash contract fiasco that I discovered today. As I said, once can be a mistake but seeing it twice is probable fraud. I went through our accounting system and found a group of used toy inventory from a couple months ago that added to the number that the previous fake invoice amounted to, about $70,000,

at that time. That grouping of supposed used inventory was then sold for a little more than $95,000 over the next couple weeks, with about $10,000 in commissions paid out to Leah and Carrie. FML, what are these people up to? There is a story that has formed part of Allen's legend in our office. The drummer for one of his band clients complained to him about costs increasing a lot. Superman took the comment seriously and started comparing costs for this band to the costs for similar activity-level band clients and agreed that they were too high.

He started digging deeper into expenses and noticed a handwritten invoice for a $3,000 light bulb. It was submitted by their touring manager, and he explained it as overpriced. but necessary for their show that day. Superman did the research then called the vendor to discuss the price. The vendor denied that they would charge that much even in an after-hours deal. It was then discovered that the $3,000 wasn't for a light bulb. It was for a lighting package for a garage. The real invoice was produced, and further investigation revealed that the touring manager

had charged the band about $40,000 for false expense claims that allowed him to pay for a new garage and some basement renovations. He was fired immediately, no severance, no bonus, but also never charged with a crime. Superman had a client for life, though. I don't believe that this situation with the shop is anything like that. I just don't see why Ian would be paying another company for nothing and something is being sold by him, Carrie and Leah. I went through used toy purchases and sales in our system and pretty much every month there's a group of toys that comes in and goes out within three weeks of each other. My conclusion was very scary to think of.

I needed a second opinion, so I called Superman. We talked on the phone and then he asked me to come by his house to show him in person. It's so nice to know that the universe loves to kick a person when they're down. As far as kicks go, this wasn't too bad. Alan is married and has a kid. His wife's name is Chris and she's beautiful, intelligent and kind. I have her by a few inches in height, so yeah, small victories. Their little girl was asleep already, but her pictures were as cute as you'd expect.

Chris made us tea as we sat down in his home office to talk about this mess. I ran him through all my discoveries, my evidence, and my thoughts. Alan listened intently and asked a few probing questions. He asked about Leah and Rob. He asked about our negotiations for direct shipments from the parts manufacturers. He also showed some interest in Carrie's connections with us. He concluded his thoughts when I described my conversation with XYZ wholesale. We both agreed that we were probably dealing with a money laundering scheme.

I've never seen Alan tents up before, but he was a little rattled when we both agreed on the situation. I was visibly shaking, and my voice was cracking. We both know that good people and businesses don't have a need for false transactions recording. From what I identified the shop had purchases of about $850,000 and sales of about $1 million in the past year that are probably illegal transactions. We agreed that the most probable illegal activity was buying and selling drugs.

It just makes sense that Carrie, Leah and Rob are using their connections with the rich and famous to sell them product. Ian is the one buying it for them. Unfortunately, T.J. and I are unknowing participants. The scary part being that there is someone or some group in the chain that needs the cash laundered. Obviously, this leads to thoughts of physical risk. especially given that I had a direct conversation with the seller company and my work email that I gave has my full name in it.

Alan and Chris asked if I wanted to stay at their house tonight. I told them that I needed to see my mom. Alan said that he needed some time to think about possible courses of action for me to consider. He admitted that he had some drug connections in his youth and that his uncles used to deal in marijuana where he grew up. Chris nodded her head showing her awareness and it kind of made them look, well, human to me. I suppose Superman is maybe too perfect of an image for him. We both acknowledge that there is no evidence of illegal activity yet.

While it is probable, it isn't certain. We also both see that the connection we are making to drugs is pure supposition. Other possible illegal activities could be exotic animals, guns, unsanctioned or stolen antiques in art, or even human trafficking. I'm sure there's more than these possibilities, but I'm getting sick thinking about it. I left Alan's place around 10 p.m. and I'm now home with my mom. I haven't told her my fear yet, all I've said is there's some weird stuff going on with the shop's books that may become a problem. I'm not going to freak her out about Pablo Escobar's army hunting us down just yet. I'm pretty sure sleep isn't in my future, though. I plan on

heading into the office tomorrow to meet again with Alan. He said that he would be making some inquiries and asked me to pop by at 9.30 to talk some more. I'm open to any ideas that you find Redditors have as well. I'm scared A. F. right now. I'll try to update when I can. Hopefully. Part 12, I spent the night thinking about Ian and our life together. Early on, it was truly exciting. Every weekend was special. We'd hike, bike or ATV to these incredible locations and spend our weekends talking, laughing and making love. My Instagram became a staple of office talk. People would stop me in the hallways or asked to take me to lunch just to talk about my pictures and find out where I was. If you ever get a chance to experience a sunrise or sunset at the top of a mountain with a clear calm lake reflecting all the fantastic colors, then you will know what magic looks like.

Ian introduced me to a world that I would have never seen otherwise. He was everything I needed emotionally and physically. My cup was full there and I think I gave him the same. It was intellectually where I needed something more. When Ian was growing up exploring the mountains, I was reading. I loved thrillers, fantasy, romance, and the classics. He had no interest in any of it. If it wasn't for the shop, I'm sure I would have started to get frustrated a bit.

I've mentioned all the work that was done to turn it around and make it a business. It made me feel so empowered to be allowed to make decisions and have the support of both Ian and T.J. Creating systems and processes for a business is very easy in your head. It's implementation where everything goes to shit. If the people that are involved in executing the system or process aren't responsive, it will fail. I've been privileged in my job to be exposed to some of the most sophisticated information systems on our planet, but none of that would have worked for the shop. The boys insisted on cash because the few times that their dad ever took checks, they bounced. It was a hard rule for them, and no amount of logic was going to change it.

They refused credit cards because no big corporation was going to take two points. point five to three percent of their money. They only allowed e-transfers and debit because the bank gave us the machine, so it didn't cost anything. They hated keyboards and didn't want to pay for a scanning system, so manual work orders and handwritten receipts. It was all so archaic to me, but we made it all work. I'm trained to look for deficiencies in systems and processes that could lead to incorrect information. I'm not trained in fraud detection or prevention. I shouldn't feel so bad about this situation, but I can't help it. It was around two years ago now when Ian first brought up starting to buy and sell used vehicles. Both T.J. and I were a bit

worried about the cash investment, but he promised to start slow. We made a budget that only reflected the reinvestment of sales back into purchases. Basically, he couldn't buy more vehicles until he's sold the existing ones. I forecast everything based upon industry norms for margins and turnover. It looked like a slow, steady, not very intensive, profitable business segment. We agreed to start with $30,000 and let Ian go to work. He exceeded the forecast almost immediately, and I thought that we'd found Ian's passion. I wish my audit radar was on and not clouded. I may have asked, how is he exceeding expectations? I wonder if I would have noticed or found anything. I showered this morning thinking about all of this. How it was made possible by the fact that we have a safe

full of cash, rather than depositing money daily. This avoided any FinCEN or FinTrack notifications. How our handwritten documents and manual filings allowed Ian to hide things. How my absence from the day to day made this fiasco so easy to maintain. I feel duped and angry. That was my state of mind as I entered the elevator this morning. The contrast in environments between the shop and my firm is incredible. In the old days, 300 people would probably take up five or six floors of of a building. We have two and a half. At any given time, 50 to 65 percent of our office personnel are working from home. It's a hybrid environment where you have the choice to work anywhere you would like within reason. There are sofas, comfy chairs, even lazy boy chairs that have

USB and power connections. There's stand-up tables or cubicles with sit-down or stand-up desks. On nice days, there's a patio with all sorts of seating and table options. All available on a first-come-first-serve basis. Managers and hire can book an office for privacy. Of course, there are larger partner-level offices as well. I've always made a point of trying to be in the office. I focused on my business career growth during weekdays, and I saw meeting other professionals face-to-face as a big part of that plan. When you're a regular, everyone starts to respect your location choice and leaves it alone. Everyone assumes that he's his bodyguard as well. If you want to visualize him just Google Terry Tate office linebacker. The videos are hilarious and that's his nickname. He's truly a

teddy bear though. When I walked off the elevator I checked in at reception. It's the only way in or out that doesn't trigger an alarm. We have four receptionists and I know them all. Sue greeted me, saying, hi Amanda, we didn't expect you in today. I said, I know, while handing her a stack of files that had our used toy contracts from the shop. She grabbed them and asked, timing. I replied, I'll be leaving at about 10.30 and will need to take the files with me. She said, no problem, while putting the files in a sealable bag and attaching a barcode sticker to it. We are a paperless office. All documents are handled in this way, they are scanned, and we get an email notification with a link to the documents.

We then pick up the originals at the front desk or they are mailed back to the source. Sue then asked, your usual office. I said, not today, I'm just here to meet with Alan for a bit. She giggled and said, oh, so you're one of the lucky ones, while smiling at her neighbor, Nancy. Office gossip is a crazy thing. Everything I've been thinking about the past 12 hours is along this same line. People's perception may be their reality, but it isn't necessarily the truth, is it? This FN realization has been an epiphany for me.

48 hours ago, I was convinced that my husband was cheating on me. Now I'm convinced that he's a criminal. I thought that Alan was this single available guy because everyone in the office believed that he was. Not once was it mentioned that he was married or a father. Everyone gets so excited when he's here. The young people talk about seeing him, Daryl or one of his high-profile clients like they've spotted a superhero. Reception gets giddy like today. He doesn't have IG or FB.

We've all looked. There are pictures of him online standing next to some band or athlete. Darrell's sometimes seen in the wings, but there's never been a woman at his arm. I should have asked him if there was someone special in his life, but I didn't, and I feel like a creep because I didn't. Just thank goodness I didn't go to far and end up with him thinking that I'm some sort of office flusy. Sue buzzed me through the door, and I went upstairs and towards the north end of the floor. On the way there I passed various iterations of offices, open spaces with seats and coffee tables,

and innovation areas. The innovation areas are very cool to me. They have these clear walls that are smart boards. I've used them for team planning sessions and the boards capture what we write so that we have a record of the discussion. It's a useful tool to gain engagement from your team, when appropriate, of course. I've always liked the North End because it feels so calm and nice. It has a little buffet area that always stocked with various juices, soda, and milk on ice. There are also hot and cold snacks, it's early so there's breakfast sand.

sandwiches and serial options. We have one of these stations on each floor, but this one has a seating area with a view. Daryl always stands at a high table near the door to the corner boardroom when Alan's there. He smiled at me when I walked up to him. His voice is always so smooth. He said that Alan and Jennifer will be ready for me in about 15 minutes. He picked up on my confusion immediately, and followed up with, Jennifer Danforth is a forensic accountant from L.A. that flu in this morning. I've added these past four paragraphs as I've been waiting. I plan on heading to the shop after this meeting. I'll update when I can. As always, thank you for your support. Part 13, I can't do this anymore. I've been trying so hard to be confident and strong,

when the reality is that I've made so many mistakes that I feel incompetent. I wish that there were some easy answers that would change the situation, but there aren't. Life is hard and control is definitely an illusion. Forensic accountants are trained in fraud detection and prevention. They participate in white-collar crime investigations. They act as special witnesses for the courts. They are the cool kids in the accounting world. Everyone loves thrillers, right? I'd love to have a story where my curiosity exposed some fantastic scheme to steal from good, hardworking people. Yet here I was explaining how my FN husband was using his and his brother's money to do something that gave them more money back and paid a couple of side chicks. That's the gist of my story and no one

will be making a special about it. Jennifer at least had real-life experience in what I was dealing with, though. She understood my hesitation to pass final judgment. She agreed that probabilities were high but there are no smoking gun here, and assumptions are dangerous. She made it clear that I was her client. Not the government, not Allen, not the shop, just me. She looked at the purchase contracts that I had our front desk PDF, and her opinion was that the signatures were all made by the same person. Not six different people but one person. That was the final straw. Ian was falsifying documents. Oh, what a bad hombre right. How dare he sign fake names to paper? Such a scary Halloween monster. That's the

nature of white-collar crime though. Some individual finds some con or loophole and then steals money from someone else. The benefit here doesn't make sense because there's no need for fake paperwork. It's being done for someone else's benefit. The key questions are who and why. Jennifer laid out options for me given the known situation. Here's what they were. Option 1, do nothing. She explained that this is always an option and anyone that doesn't consider it as a fool.

I can choose to ignore everything that I know. I'm unaware of any illegal activities and it is possible that nothing illegal is happening. I'm clearly not involved so why worry about it? The key is to just accept this as reality. option two lay out what I know to authorities she said that she could have the local DEA representatives meet us within the hour she agreed that the DEA was the right approaching point because they had done a search on the owners of XYZ wholesale it came up as an anonymous numbered company but the upstream structure was consistent with other cartels she warned though

that they wouldn't care about me and the lack of true evidence could lead to problems option three wait and see she has seen on rare occasions people make making horrible decisions without any common sense. She laughed as she talked about a situation where a woman unknowingly walked herself into one of the biggest drug busts in California history. She mirrored my thoughts, though, when she said, once can be a mistake and this isn't that. This option only makes sense if you need to know rather than accept the probability. It's risky but understandable.

It truly means acting like you've chosen option one but understanding that option two is the most probable result, with a better result. If you've been paying attention to my story and understand who I am, then you know that I chose option three. I needed to know even though I had my assumptions. I've been focusing on myself so much. I haven't given Ian a chance to even try to explain. He's worth that at the very least. I'm just praying for some honesty.

I've labeled him a coward, I've questioned his fidelity, hell, I even considered betraying him and our union. It's truly time to give him a chance after his mountain girlfriend stirred up this hornethe. its nest. My boss and his expert had some conditions, though. The first was easy. My phone's GPS needed to be available to both of them. We set that up right there and then. The second was that I shouldn't acknowledge seeing either of them or Darrell if they were visible. They were clear about the fact that they would be going to be around me for the next 24 hours. They were there to assist me and would help if they could but they were not going to put themselves in direct danger. If nothing significant was revealed, then we would meet to discuss next steps the

next day. The final requirement was tough to accept, but I understood why. I needed to always have a voice recorder on me. Normally, this would never happen, but I understood the seriousness of the situation. I'd promised Ian that I would be at the shop around noon. I'd also given TJ a heads up when I left the city to minimize the initial drama. My plan was simple. After what would probably be some initial emotions between Ian and I, the discussion would be turned to the missing used inventory. I was still clinging on to some faint hope that Ian had some crazy scheme where he was buying and selling useless batches of parts for a profit. That could be the truth, right? It wasn't, though. What I got was a very well thought out and complicated farce.

Ian greeted me as soon as I pulled up to the shop. We hugged and he whispered into my ear how sorry he was for how he behaved last week, how he loved me, how he'd never betray me. I just kept saying, I know, over and over. It felt like we were standing there forever, just sharing energy, it was nice to feel. My head took control, though, and I pulled back. I love this man, but he may be doing things that will hurt me. I looked into his eyes and said, you, me and T.J. need to talk a bit. He stared straight back into mine while saying, yes, I understand. His confidence caught me off guard. I was expecting trepidation, maybe even fear. This wasn't that.

He held my hand as we walked into the shop. He actually smiled at me which, if I'm being honest, pissed me off. How could he feel like everything in his life was good enough to smile? Anyways, we walked into the large mechanic bay where all the different toys were, and there was T.J. standing beside Leah. They'd clearly been watching us walk in through the bay door window. They looked like that American Gothic picture. Just a little less serious. I wasn't expecting Leah to be there.

I felt a rush of enraged energy fill my body. I'm pretty sure that my face turned as red as my hair. I started to aggressively walk straight towards her. I couldn't help myself as I said, WTF are you doing here? Ian didn't let go of my hand and T.J. moved between us. Leah just put her head down and said, I'm so sorry for that FN text Amanda. I really didn't mean anything by it. I was just drunk and acting like a dick shit.

What could I do? I guess that there is no Ronda Rousey versus Sansa Stark MMA battle today. I'm pretty sure I would have taken the belt. I hadn't felt that energized since the national finals of the 200-meter medley. I was full of mad-ass energy, everyone knew it. That's when Ian said, Leah sold the toys you've been looking for in Phoenix this past week. She came back with $120,000. I puked in my mouth a little bit as I looked at T.J. and saw his satisfied nod.

I wanted to turn towards Ian and slap his face. Like seriously, is this the bullshit you're going to try and sell me? I didn't turn, though, so Ian had no clue how angry and betrayed I looked. There was no hiding it. He went on to say, our used inventory was getting a little too high, so I sent Leah to a recreation vehicle show in Phoenix with a few of our key pieces. She wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure how successful it was going to be, so I asked her to keep it quiet.

She felt guilty about that and sent that stupid drunken text. I'm so sorry for how I reacted to your questions. I was caught off guard and reacted like an idiot. All I could think was, wow. The story is so good. It all was tied into a nice tidy bow. If only I hadn't called XYZ. If only Ian hadn't written that FN number on the contract.

I would be able to select option one without any care for any other choice. I could keep on with my fantastic life with an incredible guy, in this unreal place. Reality is a bitch, though, and my mind won't allow for that kind of perception distortion. In the end, truth will out. I had no plan for this sophisticated of a story. I thought I could bust holes in anything, but at that moment, I was baffled. I needed to know what they were truly buying and selling. My hope of Ian just being stupid was out the door.

I was struggling with my next step. do I expose the lie here with T.J. and Leah? Do I wait and confront Ian alone? Do I walk away, and live to engage this BS another day? This was all running through my head as Carrie's Jaguar pulled up to the shop. She stormed in like every rich bitch you've ever seen on TV. Full of designer clothes, fake tits, and Botox everywhere else. She yelled, who T. T. F. called XYZ. It echoed for at least 20 seconds. I'm sure that my jaw was hanging over. I realize that my choices are FD. now. Time for some truth. I yanked my hand out of Ian's grasp, turned towards her and yelled back, it was me, and you need to tell me what you've got us

into. Right now, bitch. I've had so many messed up moments this past week and a bit, but this wasn't one of them. I knew at that second that Carrie is the seed that spawned this mess. Funny thing about rich people. They only have power if you give it to them. Otherwise, they are just the sum of their personal physical and emotional attributes. They get power from people's desire to be monetarily rewarded by them. Take that away and they are FD. She pulled back seeing an aggressive, talish, pissed off redhead charging towards her. She didn't expect it, and I felt inspired.

I unleashed a verbal lashing that would have made my Irish grandmother proud. She cowered in the wake of my wrath. I stopped short of slugging her and realized what I was doing was wrong. She gathered herself, stood straight, and admitted to using us all. She rambled about government regulations and the desire to protect rather than share cultural artifacts. She talked about Guatemala, Belize, and Mexico. She raved about the beauty of Mayan culture.

She argued that people need to be proud of how beautiful it is and how important it is to share. Her eyes were so intense. She believed every piece of horseshit she was spewing out of her mouth and when I looked around, yeah, they FN believed her. Everyone has their own moral line in life. Welcome to yet another truth bomb for you as readers. I left at that moment, didn't look back.

Ian tried to track me down and was slamming himself on my car door as I drove away. I'm at my mother's now and yes, the phone calls and texts are annoying AF. How many FN people do I need to deal with now? Ian and Alan being at the front of the line, but FML. How do you measure the love of your life against some desire of some third world country's desire to contain cultural artifacts. Drugs would have been so much easier, but why is that? Is my thought process borderline or even obviously racist? Why do I view the use of banned substances so much worse than selling some ancient civilization's treasure? I have this intense desire

to just move back on in my life that was so healthy, successful, and rewarding. Please help me work through this. Part 14, here we are, a month after my world fell apart. So many people being so disappointed in how my story ended. It would have been so much easier to have some obvious immoral acts end my marriage. Better yet, it was some wicked perception issue that I'd walked myself into and figured out just in time. Either end of the spectrum is so fitting for what gets love and likes in the Reddit verse. What's awesome is that this sub just allows you to throw your story out to the world without worrying about hurting anyone or being hurt in return. I left Ian. That was my moral choice. It was so FN hard to do though.

Who did he hurt? I'm sure that there is some bureaucrat sitting at some cubicle in some bland FN building that is apoplectic about Ian, Kerry and Leah's actions. It's the golden rule that wins, though, right? How would I feel if China or Russia were stealing our history? Imagine the Lincoln statue sitting in the middle of the Red Square or Tiananmen. I totally get anyone that says, who cares? In the grand scheme of life is this worth such a hullabaloo. I didn't turn anyone into the authority.

Judge me however you wish, the recordings were my property. Jennifer made that clear. I was the client. I expected some sort of moral outrage from Alan and Jennifer. None ever came. Jennifer treated me like the client I am, and Alan looked me in the eye and said, Everyone has their personal line. I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't agree with the things I've forgiven and accepted in my life.

He did say that if it didn't stop immediately, he would make it his personal mission in life to jail them all. jail them all. I passed that message on to all of them. I'm pretty sure that T.J. didn't care about the unsanctioned artifacts, so I treated him the same as the rest. I told them that everything Carrie admitted to was recorded and it would remain private provided that all activities ceased immediately. I added a warning that they were now under government scrutiny, but that was a lie, I had no clue if they were. I do know that Jennifer is connected enough that someone is probably watching them. I write this because Ian was served divorce papers today. We've talked about it.

There was no shocking surprise delivered to the shop. That's not my way. We've met, we've cried, we've laughed, but he understood eventually that making and maintaining a lie is not how any healthy partnership should work. I couldn't trust him again and he created a professional jeopardy for my career that was unforgivable. He and T.J. did recognize my contribution to the shop.

They agreed to a payment for my past services that I thought was fair. I used the money to hire them a good bookkeeper for the next two years with the salary paid for from a simple trust account that I had set up. I'll be fine, right? Me and my mom against the world. Ian explained his choice as pure greed. The shop was struggling, he was in Mexico meeting with part suppliers and signing contracts when Kerry showed up to introduce him to another business opportunity.

He wasn't sure how the main shop was going to work out and this was just another revenue stream to him. He didn't understand the issue with funding the purchases and running fake transactions through the shop. He knew he couldn't tell me the truth, though. That's why he understands and accepts the divorce. The Saturday Mountain biking trips were when they dropped off payment and received product. They rode way above what any layman rider could do. They met with a representative of XYZ at one of the many hunting lodges that Ian and Leah knew about and made their payment.

They came down the hill with a fake invoice, a key, and storage locker number. That's why this ridiculous story started. They freaked out that I was keeping up with them and concocted the stupid fall by Leah to make me stop and allow Ian to make the meeting. This event triggered Leah's guilt about deceiving me and the remaining crapshow that is this story was just me and my imagination running free. Ian wants to continue contact and maybe explore reconnecting. I'm not sure. I'm considering a move to L.A. to join Jennifer's forensic accounting team. She offered and I'm interested in it.

I must admit that the discovery of this fraud and working with her was a. exciting. I just need to temper my emotions a bit before deciding on that big of a move. The truth is that I have a bright future ahead of me. I will always look at my three years with Ian as a blessing. I can make the choice to be angry about the situation he put me in, or I can choose to move on. It really is that simple. I wish him the best because I love him and always will. We just have different values and that's okay. I'm glad I found out before we had kids. My love and blessings to you all. Author's note, Amanda will absolutely return. I've grown fond of her fire and ice. I'm working up a modern-day Mrs. Marple-type story. My wife owns every

publication by Agatha Christie, and I've read most of them. Please let me know if you do or do not think this is worth my time. Feel free to DM me if you don't want to share your thoughts with the world. I'm going to take a break first, though. I may post a story that is a bit of folklore next. Not sure, but thank you all so much for your support. It wasn't some hardened criminal, or a scary-looking skinhead or a badass gangster. It was a little old woman, but she was a legit killer. She'd shot her husband in the chest with a shotgun two years prior to me meeting her. She did not do any jail time because she had numerous witnesses that had confirmed her story of self-defense.

The rumor around the hood told a different tale, but regardless, she had truly killed a man and the shotgun that leaned in the corner of her foyer was probably the murder weapon. Anyway, I met this woman at the height of my drug addiction. I'm sober now, going on six years, but at the time I did opioids. My favorites were Percocets. A fellow junkie happily informed me that we had a promising new plug who sold her 70-pill prescription each month, Miss Coco. I go to the address the very next day and realize this woman lived only a few streets

down from my home girl, Selena. I stopped by her place first to say hi. When she asked me why I was in the neighborhood, I told her I was coming to see Miss Coco and her expression changed. That's when I learned not only the story of the murder, but a bunch of other crazy stories about shit she'd done to people in the hood. Selina begged me to be careful. I'm like, whatever, it's an old woman.

I ain't scared. I slide over to the address of this little shotgun house and knocked on the door. She was supposed to be expecting me. The door cracked barely open and I saw how short and old she was. All I could really see was a slice of her face and one of her bloodshot eyes. She asked my name, I told her and she opened the door for me, motioning for me to enter. Right away I saw the gun leaned in the corner. She told me to follow her and I finally got a real good look.

She was so feeble looking, not skinny, but short and hunched over and walked with a cane. Her head was wrapped in a silk bonnet and she was wearing something like a moo-mooh. Diabetes had taken part of her left foot. We're in the living room now and she asked me to sit down. I chose the only empty spot on the couch, the entire house was cluttered, but not dirty. Suddenly, an oddly placed rug on otherwise bare floors made me wonder how hard it was to get blood out of wooden floorboards. Did Selina say she actually killed that guy in here?

She offered me a drink and a snack. She looked at me with surprisingly kind eyes. What a strange drug deal I thought, but how sweet of her. I remember thinking Selena was foolish for buying into all the hood tales of how dangerous this woman was. I drank a soda, declined a snack, and purchased her entire script of pain pills. She'll be getting it filled again on the same day next month, she informed me. Okay, great, see you then. I returned on a routine schedule for several months, always drank a soda, declined a snack,

and went happily on my merry, intoxicated way. I even got to know her a bit during my visits, her diabetes, her kids, how high helpful weed was for her pain. I brought her a joint to share here and there. I even helped her move some furniture one day. Never a mention of her late husband, though, and I wasn't going to ask. I had long forgotten any sort of wild ideas about this old, sweet woman possibly snapping at any moment. One summer month, it was my day to go to Miss Coco's. My boy Shane was with me already, so I decided to let him ride along. We show up, go inside, same routine as always. She looked at him somewhat suspiciously, but I told her he was good people and she allowed him in.

During our little chat, Shane mentioned something about wanting to see a movie that had just come out. I cannot for the life of me remember which movie. Miss Coco got excited and told us she happened to have a bootleg of that exact movie that we could borrow. She let us look through a giant stack of bootleg, burned DVDs and borrow whatever we wanted. We took three of them and she simply asked that we returned them when we were done. That night we decided to watch the one Shane had wanted to see, so we popped it into the player at my place. Immediately it was unwatchable.

It seriously looked like a cell phone video. You could see people in the theater walking around in front of the screen, the guy filming was talking loudly to his date the entire time. Garbage. We laughed about it, assumed the other two were just as bad and watched something else. A few days later I was going to hang with Selena, so I figured I'd swing by and return the DVDs to Miss Coco. I tried calling, but she didn't answer. I walked up to the doorstep and knocked, but still no answer. I figure, no big deal, I'll just leave M here by the door for her.

She had a storm door that had a screen on the top half, and was solid metal on the bottom half. I opened that door, propped the shitty DVDs up against her actual door, and then closed it. That way they couldn't be seen, and were protected from the weather as well. I go on to Salina's place and don't give it a second thought. Later that night I'm getting high with my friends and my phone starts ringing. I'm seriously fated so I just decide to ignore it, I don't feel like talking. It rings again and again. Finally my homie is like you gonna answer that. So I pulled out my phone to check it. It was Miss Coco. She never calls me. Ever. Especially not late at night. having her number in my phone was strictly for the purpose of me calling her on the 12th of

each month to announce what time I'm coming over. That's it. Today was only the ninth. I thought maybe something bad had happened and she needed help. I called back and she picked up before it even rang one time. She was furious. I mean absolutely livid. She did not sound like the little old lady whose couch I chill on. She was extremely pissed about the fact that I had left her DVDs in the door. She lectured me about how a dumb-ass white person like me just doesn't understand how things work in the hood. Someone could have seen me leave them there, and could have come behind me and stolen them. I should have waited until she was home. I was disrespectful and rude and ungrateful, she went on and on. I didn't have an attitude in my voice, and I did

apologize, but I also mentioned that even though I appreciated the gesture, the movies were really pretty terrible and not worth anything. Abruptly, and very eerily, her tone changed. Suddenly she was sweet old Miss Coco again. She told me I was right and she was just a little on edge that night. She apologized for her reaction and told me I was good to her and didn't deserve that. Then, she says, as a matter of fact, she had gotten her script early this month. She picked it up earlier today. Why don't I come on over and get it tonight?

Now, any sane, sober person would have immediately noticed red flags here, but in my infinite it nodded out wisdom, I thought Junkie Jesus had performed a miracle for me and that my night was about to get even better. Time to get extra fated brothers, I'll be back with more goodies ASAP. I head off down the street to Coco's house. I'm still very, very high. I'm walking up to the house and I see that the DVDs are still there. Coco opens the door before I even get on the step and tells me to pick up the movies and

bring them inside. Her voice was stern, which was unlike her, but she didn't sound crazy like she had on the phone. I bring them into the living room where I always go to sit, and something is just, off. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I realize she's still behind me, in the foyer area. She starts telling me the same thing she was saying on the phone, but calmly this time. My back is still to her. I don't say a word.

I set the DVDs onto a side table and despite being extremely inebriated, finally realized that I'm definitely not here to pick up pills. A temporary sobriety of the survival instinct variety kicked in all at once. Everything just sort of, clicked, into such a clear, crisp vividness that I'll never forget. I knew she was standing exactly where the shotgun leans. I knew she was between me and the door. I knew that she wanted to kill me, and I knew that she already had a whole gang of local folk ready to corroborate whatever story she came up with.

Every single detail that Selena had described to me the day she warned me about Miss Coco played through my mind in a matter of seconds. I ran. I burst out the back of the living room, knocking over that stack of fucking bullshit bootlegs as I scrambled past it. I'll be honest, once I had found my way out the back door,

I wasn't that scared anymore. It's not like she was going to catch me. I circled back around the tiny house and took off down the street, probably before she even managed to hobble around and look out of the front door for me. I never did see if she actually picked up the gun. My back was to her,

and I made the decision to run without even turning around, but I just knew. It. I felt it. It was a feeling I won't soon forget. The scary part was knowing just how absolutely mind-nummingly high I was, and how oblivious I was, until the very last second. And that's the story about how I was almost taken out by a crazy little old lady with a shotgun, over the world's shittiest bootlead DVDs, makes you wonder what small infraction her late husband committed. Yes, this is a true story and I have lots more drug-fewed.

wild encounters if any of you would like to hear more. When my boyfriend, let's call him Mike, was in high school, around 16, he had this close friend, Jay, Jay was Mexican, a really chill guy, always had a joke up his sleeve, and was the type of friend who'd have your back no matter what. They had met in freshman year, bonding over their mutual love for old school rock music and an intense hatred for algebra. Over time, they became inseparable, always walking home together after school, stopping by their favorite convenience store to grab sodas and snacks before heading their

separate ways. The town they lived in wasn't exactly the friendliest place. It had its fair share of good people, but there were also pockets of outright hostility, especially towards minorities. While most of the racism was subtle, there were a few people who made it their mission to be loud about it. One of those people was a guy will call Eric. Eric was trouble. Everyone knew it. He had been suspended multiple times, had a swastika tattoo, which was insane for a teenager, and spent most of his time trying to intimidate anyone who wasn't white. He wasn't just about the talk, he had a history of getting into fights, usually picking on kids who he thought couldn't fight back.

Mike and Jay did their best to avoid guys like Eric, but in a town like theirs, it was impossible to never cross paths. One fateful afternoon, after the final bell rang, Mike and Jay were heading to. home like they always did. They were laughing about something stupid that had happened in gym class when out of nowhere, Eric came sprinting up behind them. Before either of them could react, he swung a brick straight into Jay's head. Jay dropped instantly. One second, he was laughing, the next, he was crumpled on the sidewalk, unconscious. Blood was already pooling beneath him. Mike froze for half a second, his brain struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

Then he heard Eric laughing, a sick, twisted laugh, as he started kicking Jay's unmoving body. Something in Mike snapped. He wasn't thinking anymore, he just reacted. The same brick that Eric had used to attack Jay was right there, so Mike grabbed it and, with all the strength he had, smashed it against the back of Eric's head. The impact made a sickening sound, and just like that, Eric collapsed, motionless. Everything that happened after that was a blur. Mike barely remembered fumbling for his phone to call 911. People had started gathering, staring in shock at the two bodies on the ground.

Someone else must have called the cops too because sirens were wailing in the distance. When the police arrived, Mike was still crouched next to Jay, trying to stop the bleeding with his hoodie. He was in such a days he didn't even register that the officers were pulling him away until they had him in cuffs. The ambulance took Jay and Eric to the hospital. Jay had to get 35 stitches on his head. He was lucky, no skull fracture, no brain damage. Just a brutal wound that would leave a scar. Eric, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. The brick had hit him in just the right spot, and he ended up in a coma. Months passed before he woke up, and when he did, he wasn't the same. The doctor said he had permanent damage, though no one really knew the full extent of it at the time.

Meanwhile, Mike was in deep trouble. He had been arrested on the spot, taken to the station, and treated like a violent criminal. Despite witnesses confirming that Eric had attacked first, the police seemed more interested in the fact that Mike had used a brick to fight back. Then, things got worse. Eric's family pressed charges, claiming that Mike had attempted murder. It didn't matter that there's some. had been the one to ambush Jay, they were out for blood. This is where fate threw in a lifeline.

Jay's parents happened to be personal injury attorneys, damn good ones too. The moment they got word of what had happened, they went full defense mode. They gathered witnesses, reviewed security footage from a nearby store that caught part of the attack, and tore apart every argument Eric's family tried to make. The case dragged on for months. Mike had to deal with court states, legal fees, and the very real fear that he might actually end up with a criminal record. Through it all, Jay stuck by his side. He blamed himself, saying that if he hadn't been there, none of this would have happened. But Mike never saw it that way. In his mind, he had done what anyone should do, protect a friend. Finally, after what felt like forever, the judge ruled in Mike's

favor. Thanks to Jay's parents' relentless defense, the case was dropped, and Mike walked away with no charges. Eric's family wasn't happy, but there was nothing they could do. Their son had been the aggressor, and even though he had suffered the worst injuries, the truth was clear, Mike had only been defending his best friend. Life slowly returned to normal. Jay healed, and their friendship grew even stronger. As for Eric, he eventually left the hospital, but he wasn't the same guy anymore. Rumors floated around about his condition, some said he had memory problems, others claimed he had trouble walking. Whatever the case, he disappeared from their lives, and no one really missed him. Fifteen years later,

Jay still comes over for dinner sometimes. Every now and then, the story comes up. They laugh about it now, though there's always a lingering sense of disbelief. It was one of those life-altering moments, the kind you never see coming until it smacks you, or your best friend, in the head with a brick. Mike never saw himself as a hero. He just did what needed to be done. But in my eyes, he'll always be one. I've been waking up at six in the morning since I was 12 years old. It's just one of those routines that stuck, like a worn-out record that never skips a beat. The city's still asleep when I get up. Everything is quiet, too quiet, some might say, but I like it that way. There's a calmness in the silence, like the world is giving me a little breathing room before

the madness kicks in. First thing I do is head downstairs, pour myself a cup of coffee, and make some jam on toast. Simple stuff. Nothing fancy. The smell of toasted bread and coffee is oddly comforting. It's like the smell of familiarity. I don't clock in at work until nine, so after breakfast, I usually get dressed for my daily walk. It's about an hour-long stroll that passes by a few local spots, Jeannie's General Store, Saul's Speakeasy, and Beverly's brothel.

Yeah, a weird mix, I know, but I know the owners of all three. Good folks. Sometimes I stop in for a quick chat or just to say hi. There's a certain comfort in seeing the same faces, hearing the same voices every day. Makes the city feel smaller, in a good way. After the walk, I head home, take a shower, get dressed for work, and prep the car. It's nothing fancy, just a modest little vehicle that gets me from point A to point B without throwing a tantrum. I work at Dean's post office, which is a solid 30-minute drive from home. It's a steady gig, pays decently well, well enough that I'm not constantly stressing over bills.

In today's economy, that's basically a miracle. Sometimes I wonder why I get paid as much as I do. Not that I'm complaining, but when most people are struggling just to keep the lights on, it makes you question things. I was lucky, or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. I inherited my house from my dad. He died in a drive-by shooting. Apparently, the Honduras crime family was responsible. To this day, I have no clue why he was targeted.

As far as I knew, he had nothing to do with gangs or the mob. Just a regular guy in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. My mom tried to keep things together after he passed, but it broke her. Two years later, she took her own life. I had just turned 18. Since then, I've lived alone in that same house. The walls have seen a lot. Too much.

But today. Today was dead. different. While I was sorting through mail at work, I heard a loud explosion nearby. It rattled the building. Naturally, everyone rushed out to see what had happened. I followed. Turns out another general store had been hit. I ran toward the scene, trying to see if anyone needed help. That's when everything went dark. Someone had knocked me out cold. When I came to, I was lying on the floor, groggy, and staring up at two guys in suits, red and black suits, like something out of a gangster flick. They looked at me like they were waiting for me to say something. What's going on?

I managed to ask. They didn't answer. Instead, a third man stepped forward. He was older, well-dressed, and had this air of authority that made you sit up straight without thinking about it. Don Oliver Fernandez. He looked at me and said, What's going on is that your father, before he died, made a deal with me. He was working to bring down Don Honduras. He infiltrated their ranks, acted as a double agent, and passed me valuable intel. My jaw practically hit the floor. My dad.

Working undercover. Feeding info to another mob boss. That didn't sound like the man I knew. But the Don's face was deadly serious. So. Don Honduras had him killed. I asked. He nodded. Yes. And what's worse is, he stole a file your father had gathered. That file could put him away for good. We need you to get it back. It felt like a punch to the gut. They wanted me to finish what my dad had started. Me. A male sorter with a quiet life. I didn't want anything to do. do with the mob, but here I was, being handed a legacy drenched in blood and secrets. I asked, what's in it for me? And what happens if I say no?

The Don didn't hesitate. Immunity from law enforcement. A salary ten times what you earn now. And you'll become a full member of the Fernandez family. If you say no, then nothing happens. You go back to your quiet life. think about it, can you really live knowing your father's killer walks free? I told him I needed a week to think it over. Very well, he said. We'll meet at Saul's speakeasy in seven days.

Here's something to help with the decision. He handed me an envelope and left. I waited until I got home to open it. Inside. $50,000. Cold, hard cash. That's enough to buy a flashy car or take a first-class vacation. But all I could think about was what it represented, an incentive. A bribe. Or maybe a key to something bigger. Now I've got a week to decide. Keep living my peaceful, average life or jump headfirst into a world of crime, secrets, and danger. One option promises security and routine. The other offers justice, and chaos. And deep down, I think I already know which one I'm leaning toward. The end. Last week, something happened that completely flipped my world upside down. It started with a package, just a simple, brown cardboard box sitting quietly on my

doorstep like it belonged there. The thing is, I live alone in a tiny apartment in the middle of the city, and I don't usually get unexpected deliveries. I mean, who does these days? Everything comes with a tracking number and a million shipping notifications. But this box. Silent, anonymous, and heavy. There was no label. No return address. No branding.

Nothing. It was just there, plain and oddly ominous. My first thought. Maybe it was a mistake, a misdelivered package meant for a neighbor. Or maybe one of those weird viral marketing campaigns where you open it and it turns out. out to be a promo for some new show. But the weight of it? That was the first red flag.

It felt dense, like whatever was inside was valuable. Or dangerous. Curiosity one, of course. I brought it inside, locked my door, and sat it down on my little kitchen table. That's when I noticed the ridiculous amount of tape wrapped around it. Whoever sent it didn't want it opened easily. I grabbed a knife and slowly cut through layer after layer of thick tape, like peeling away the skin of some strange fruit. Eventually, I cracked it open and saw, another box.

But this wasn't any ordinary box. It was wooden, dark stained, with beautiful carvings all over it. Looked antique. The kind of thing you'd find locked away in a museum or buried in someone's attic. I ran my fingers along the edges. It was smooth and cool to the touch. This thing had history, no doubt about it. My hands were trembling a bit as I opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in deep red velvet, was a small brass key and a folded piece of parchment. Not paper, parchment. Thick, old-fashioned, with a smell like a library that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. I unfolded it carefully, and written in elegant, almost calligraphic handwriting was a message. Dear Valentina, if you're reading this, you've been chosen to embark on a journey. Inside this box is the key to a secret only you can uncover. Trust your instincts, follow the clues, and remember, not everything is as it seems. Good luck. R, that was it. No other details. No instructions. Just that cryptic little message. And yeah, part of me thought, okay, this

has to be a prank. Some elaborate joke. But there was something about the way the letter was written, the smell of the paper, the texture, the way my name was scrawled with such intent, that made it feel real. Deeply, hauntingly real. I stared at the key for a long time. It was small, old, and ornate, with swirls engraved into its surface. I checked the wooden box again for any hidden compartments, any locks. Nothing. So what was the key for? I barely slept that night. My brain wouldn't shut off.

I kept going over everything again and again. Who was R? Why me? What was the key for? The next morning, I walked down to this quirky little antique shop I'd passed a million times but never gone into. The place looked like it was stuck in another century, faded signs, dusty windows, wind chimes made of old cutlery. Inside, the air was thick with incense and old books. An elderly woman with bright eyes and silver hair stood behind the counter.

She looked like she'd seen it all. I showed her the key. She didn't say anything at first, just stared at it. Then she looked up at me and said, this looks like a desk key. An old writing desk, maybe early 1900s. Do you know where it might fit? I shrugged. no idea it came in a box with this note when i showed her the wooden box and the parchment her

eyes widened she asked me to bring it back later that day said she wanted to take a closer look i agreed figuring maybe she knew something i didn't or maybe she was just curious like me but things escalated quickly over the next few days more packages arrived one after the other always unmarked always with some new object or clue a fragment of a map a riddle written on an old playing card

a film reel a cassette tape each one stranger than the last and every item led me somewhere else an abandoned building on 6th Street a locked room in a library I never knew existed A forgotten corner of an old cemetery. It was like I was being guided through a scavenger hunt designed by someone who knew me better than I knew myself.

And you know what? I loved it. It was scary, yeah. Exhausting, definitely. But also thrilling. Each puzzle, each mystery, each strange place, they felt like they were pulling me deeper into something ancient and important. I met people along the way, too. Weird people

Mysterious people A man who spoke in riddles A little girl who handed me a flower and said He's waiting Some seem to know who I was, like they were part of it Eventually, I ended up at the edge of town At this old estate completely covered in ivy and moss Looked like something out of a Gothic novel

It was quiet Too quiet I walked through the front gates and into the house, my breath catching as I stepped inside. Dust danced in the sunlight streaming through broken windows. Furniture covered in sheets. Portraits on the walls whose eyes seemed to follow me. And in the very center of the main room, there it was. A writing desk. Just like the shopkeeper described. Tall, wooden, ornate. I pulled out the brass key. My fingers were shaking as I slid it into the lock. It clicked, smooth and easy. Like it had been waiting. Inside the drawer

was a single letter. Yellowed with age, sealed with wax. My name was on it. I opened it slowly, and the handwriting matched the first letter. It was for my great-grandfather. A man I'd never met. The letter explained everything. He had been a collector, historian, someone obsessed with secrets and hidden knowledge. The estate have been his. The items in the packages were part of his legacy. The whole scavenger hunt had been designed by him years ago, in hopes that one of his descendants would find it, follow it,

and prove themselves worthy. Me. The letter said he believed curiosity was the most valuable trade a person could have, that those who seek answers are the ones who shaped the world. He wanted someone who would protect and continue his work. and I had passed the test. The estate was mine. The collection. The knowledge. All of it. It felt like something out of a dream. One day I'm just a regular person, going to work, binging shows, eating microwave dinners, and the next I'm the guardian of a massive, secret legacy. It was overwhelming.

Still is. But it also felt, right. Since then, I've been living. I've been living. living a double life. On the surface, everything looks the same. But underneath, I'm digging through journals, unlocking hidden compartments, learning about my great-grandfather's discoveries. There's so much more to all of this, I can feel it. So, here's what I've learned. Sometimes life hands you something bizarre, something that makes no sense at all. A box on your doorstep. A puzzle with no instructions. A message from the past. And your first instinct might be to ignore it, toss it, walk away. But maybe, just maybe, that moment is the beginning of everything.

So if you ever get an unexpected package, open it. Follow the clues. Trust your instincts. And remember, not everything is as it seems. Because you never know when the adventure of a lifetime is about to begin. The end. I was a burnt out detective on the NYPD. For every case I solved there were 10 more that remained unsolved.

The constant barrage by family members who wanted to know who murdered their loved ones started to eat away at me. One day I was perusing federal jobs and I came across a job at the Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, which was a newly created position titled Director of Parks Investigator. The new position was developed related to the scrutiny the park had developed for not having trained personnel in dealing with fatalities and missing people in the park. I convinced my wife that we needed to make a change so after the televised. phone interview my wife, two kids, and myself moved to Estes Park, which is right

outside the eastern entrance to the park. The superintendent of the park hired me because he was looking for someone with no affiliation with the area and someone who wasn't afraid to make waves. The park has hundreds of employees that fall under different divisions to include administration, facility management, interpretation and education, and resource stewardship. I didn't fit into any of those divisions and I was hired to directly report to the superintendent. The park had four entries, which including included two major entrances that were connected by a 48-mile highway referred to as the Trail Ridge Road or Highway 34. My first day I was handed a file of all the missing people

and fatalities that had occurred in the park. I had done online research prior to starting the position on missing people and fatalities, but I was amazed on the amount of incidents that didn't hit the media. The superintendent explained that nothing good had come about receiving negative press about fatalities and missing people, so why go out of the way and alert the media if the media had little interest to begin with, so I already knew that the actual number of fatalities and missing people were underreported. One third of the park rangers were temporary employees, one third of the park rangers were full-time employees who had less than 10 years of experience, and the last third were seasoned rangers who some had been employed for 40 years.

The first missing person case I took was from a 33-year-old male who never returned from a solo hiking slash camping trip. He did the old Fall River Road Trail which isn't as popular as some of the other trails. The hardest part of this investigation was that I knew that there must have been people who had seen him, but the majority of people are tourists that don't realize that the innocuous man they saw actually vanished, while they're 1,000 miles away in their hometowns. Since the search teams found no trace of him besides his abandoned car, I asked the superintendent if we could send out a mass email to the National Park Season pass holders.

He explained to me that doing something like that required 10 levels of approval which would ultimately get rejected because it would advertise that the national parks weren't safe and the tourist wouldn't renew their annual passes. I took a look at the rangers who were assigned to patrol that Old Fall River Road. There were four rangers where two of them were temporary staff and one of them named Mike was a three-year F.T veteran and there was a guy named Floyd who was a 35-year veteran. The temporary rangers mostly patrolled the parking lot and the foot of the mountain where the trail started. The full-time employees Mike and Floyd actually patrolled the trail itself. The missing hikers family had called the park rangers office when he didn't call

or return home from his three-day camping trip. I had actually called the missing man's wife to try to get a little more information. She told me that she couldn't go that weekend because of her job. She told me everything about her husband to include that he wore the same outfit and the same Eddie Bauer boots for the past two years. The four rangers who were assigned the trail really had no insight or leads into the missing hiker. I had asked Floyd the 35-year veteran to take me along with him during one of his patrols of the trail. During the four-hour hike, I got to know more about him and the park itself. He said that he knew every trail in the park like the back of his hand.

Floyd was completely different than anyone I knew in NYC. He was pretty much a yes or no type of guy who would occasionally throw jabs at me because I was an outsider whose physical activity consisted of jogging the streets of NYC before my shift and here I am now looking at these magnificent snow-capped mountains. Floyd told me that most of the times the campers don't pay the necessary fees and camp in the designated places so it's difficult to know exactly where the missing camper went. The one thing that struck me odd when talking to Floyd was when we were talking about the possibility that the hiker fell of the cliff.

I remember saying, the trail really gets narrow in some spots so potentially he could have just fallen off the cliff. Floyd responded, anything's possible especially if someone was wearing inadequate hiking boots. But eddies are sufficient and we hadn't seen any evidence of him, as he said that. that, I quickly jogged my memory. I didn't see anywhere on any report the type of hiking boots the missing person was wearing. The only person who had mentioned it was the missing guy's wife when I talked to her on the phone. Eventually, I regained my thoughts and I responded

to Floyd and said, by the way, have you spoken to any of the missing hikers family members? He said, no, but I would imagine they're going through a real hard time right now. I didn't want to question him about the hiking boots. I didn't want him to think I was suspicious in any ways of him. I decided to keep an eye on Floyd. I learned that he would associate with a group of other park rangers every Saturday at a bar in Estes Park, which was near the east entrance to the park. I just happened to show up to the bar with my wife on the following Saturday. There was a group of about nine other long-time park ranger veterans. They all gathered around a table. I made it a point for Floyd to see me while he was getting a drink at the bar and I said,

Hey, Floyd, how's it going? He responded, oh, the guy from New York, how are you doing? I said, oh, my wife and I decided to check out this bar. Then he just went back to his table with the other park rangers. I got the impression that he didn't want to talk with me. I thought to myself at least I know who he associates with now. The following Monday I went through the personnel files of all ten of the park rangers at the bar. The only odd thing I found buried deep in their files was that about 20 years prior all ten of them were discovered deep in the park on a Sunday afternoon, where they supposedly had called off sick. There was no mention what they were doing other than a previous superintendent got an anonymous tip that the ten of the Rangers

were out there. That superintendent since has passed away and I had no other information regarding that incident. I continued to look through other incidents of missing people and I felt an eerie feeling on how all of them just had vanished with no trace. Some of the cases were over 50 years old with absolutely no clues. I thought to myself it's virtually impossible that nothing had ever turned up. I remembered a famous expression from the NYPD that people just don't vanish. Either they're intentionally hiding or someone is hiding them either dead or alive. I didn't tell the superintendent of my suspicions on Floyd or the other rangers at the bar. I just did my own surveillance.

I utilized the park's cameras to track them. I came across something peculiar that each one of ten rangers requests off Sundays about every three months apart. The Sundays all corresponded with the change of the season. I knew that this Sunday corresponded with the start of the summer season. Early on Sunday morning, I parked up the road from where Floyd lived and waited for him to leave to see where he was going. At 6 a.m. he exited his driveway and proceeded to drive towards the park. I tried staying as far back from possible from him.

About an hour later he parked at a portion of the park that was only open to authorized personnel. The other nine guys were already parked and were waiting in their cars. I parked further up the road, so I wouldn't be seen. I had brought binoculars and I wanted to stay as far back as possible. I knew these rangers were real outdoors men and they would sense me from a mile away, so I had to be really careful for them not to see me. About two hours into the walk they stopped at an area that might have been used by Indians during some long-gone ceremonies.

There was one large flat rectangular rock that resembled a table. Then there was a group of boulders about two feet high that surrounded the table. All ten of the men got completely naked and put on these red togas with red masks that fit their heads like paper bags. Then each of the ten men got on their knees and bent forward in a praying position which looked extremely uncomfortable. Then someone completely dressed in bare fur emerged from the woods carrying a handmade satchel made from bare skin.

The bare man stopped at the rock altar and put the satchel down. The bear man put both his hands up towards the sky then picked up the satchel with both hands and raised it to the sky. The bear man put the satchel down and reached in with both hands and pulled out a bunch of intestines and guts and raised them to the sky. He held it there for approximately five minutes, then returned the guts to the satchel. Then the bare man disappeared into the woods and all ten of the men got up. The men disrobed and put their clothes back on.

I didn't want to get lost so I followed them from a safe distance. I was completely perplexed. I'm not sure if I just watched a crime. I thought were those animal guts or were those human guts. I tried to look online for any type of help trying to decipher what I just absorb. I thought those kind of ceremonies only occurred in low-budget horror movies. Eventually looking online, I came across a 16th-century pagan ritual book. The book had an identical illustration, where ten men dressed in red bowed to their master who was dund in animal skin.

The ritual paid homage to the pagan gods for a prosperous season. I was still clueless to the reason why the rangers were performing rituals in the middle of the woods. At this point, I'm afraid to go to work. I don't have the protection or support from anyone like I did in the police force. I have no real evidence of what I observed in the woods. I was too far away to get any meaningful pictures from my phone. I was really second-guessing taking this job. I was working with at least ten lunatics and I didn't know who the bare man was.

While I was at work on the following Monday, I received a frantic message from my wife. Someone had placed a package of intestines and guts on our front porch. I told my wife to call the police and she did. The local coroner came and identified the remains as non-human and most likely elk or deer meat. Now I know the rangers observed me following them and worst of all they're trying to intimidate me. I really know no one in this town and I'm not sure to what extent others are involved in these rituals. I decided to confront Floyd. I met him on the same trail that we had previously walked.

He pretended that nothing happened regarding the package being at my house. I said to Floyd, don't ever fucking send anything to my house again. He responded, you're barking up the wrong tree. You shouldn't go around blaming peoples for something that you don't know they were responsible for. I said, I saw you and your fucking disturbed buddies in the middle of the woods doing God knows what. He responded, should I follow you on your days off to see what you're doing? The last time I checked I have the right to practice whatever religion I want without your approval.

Then I said, I know you know more about the last hiker that vanished. You slipped up when you said what type of boots he was wearing. Come clean and tell me what you know. He said, once again you're accusing me of something with your preconceived notions. Your head is so fixated on trying to solve a crime, but maybe you need to go back and read a person's rights in this country and what the actual laws say. He then abruptly ended the conversation and I was left pondering what the fuck he just told me. I decided to retrace my steps back into the woods where I observed the ritual occur. I told my wife before I left on the

approximate area to look for me in case I didn't return. For the most part the Rangers followed a dear trail to where the ritualistic area existed. It took me a little bit longer than I anticipated, but eventually I found the boulders with ceremonial rock table. I looked all around to try to find some additional clues. The bare man didn't follow the rangers out, so I thought to myself where did he go? About a quarter mile away, I started to smell the familiar smell of burnt wood. I knew there were no legal camping areas anywhere close to here.

I took out my handgun that I wasn't supposed to be carrying. I followed the scent which eventually brought me to a large cave opening. I said, come out with your hands up. Then something completely unexpected happened. About 20 unkempt men and women came out of the cave ranging in ages from their early 20s to well into their 80s. I said, who the fuck are you people and why are you here? One of the old guys says, we are here because of the same reason why you're here. I said, I'm here to investigate missing people and figure out what the fuck is going on in these woods. The guy responded, I know in your mind you're telling yourself why you're here,

but I want you to really think about it. Why are you really here in Colorado? You're doing the same thing we're doing. As you got tired of your previous life, so did we. Some of us have been living in this cave for more than 40 years. Then it dawned on me. These are the people who vanished. I recognized the most recent missing hiker based on the picture's four-e scene and the attire he was wearing to include his boots. I stood there with my mouth wide open, and then I put my gun away. I realized what Floyd meant in that it's not a crime to disappear. They invited me into the cave and it was one of the most peaceful, tranquil experiences that I ever had.

That day I decided to stay in the woods. I thought to myself that my family would eventually receive a $2 million insurance policy. I can't lie and I feel like I need to bring some fun to what I've been writing to everyone here. My wife is a fantastic woman that just finished sharing an incredible, mind-bending, loving, 20 minutes with me. She's sitting beside me and we're recovering. I love my life and my wife right now, and always babe. She can give me the side I all she wants. Reddit Purves can make up anything they want about what we did the past 20 minutes.

Go for it. I'll guarantee you can't think of anything near what I felt. My wife rocks. I needed this. I've been so negative about my daughter that I forgot about the path we started for her and how important these next few days are. Please don't misunderstand me here. This is the result of my wife and I realizing that we're doing a pretty good job, honestly, she was aware of this a few days before me, but please give me a bit of credit.

I've talked about Aurora, my personal insecurities, laid out my living of a parental nightmare, can't believe I did that, but it seriously helped, and my misguided thoughts about not only our support network, but also Aurora's choice of a suitor. In short, yeah, I've realized what an ass I've been. It is what it is, I'll guarantee you're not perfect either. I spent today, Thursday, thinking about our path to get to where we are. I reflected about the bad, see my last story, I'm so sorry that it triggered AutoMod attention, but honestly, I spent most of the day in awe of my daughter's accomplishments.

Aurora was a surprise for my wife and I. We were newlyweds with plans to live life then have our 2.5, 3 really but yeah, welcome to the world of ridiculous stats, kids and rock this world. We weren't ready but were accepting of the early result, please people, don't rely on the pull-out method unless you're truly ready for an unexpected surprise. I was a new professional still learning with my firm and my wife had started her career making marketing write-ups for new websites, she speaks three languages and is just, plain, awesome, at making anything exciting. I was so excited to be a dad. I've mentioned that I live in the future,

and I was ready and excited to be, the dude, for my child. As any new parent knows, yeah, the birth experience is an event. Our daughter was born after 14 hours of labor. my wife did slap me during the ordeal for having bad breath, but I'll own that. Aurora was flawless from the moment she was born. There isn't an opinion in this world that will convince me otherwise. She has every right to live her best life as anyone else. She started showing delays in development early. She didn't walk until she was 24 months.

She didn't start talking until she was three years old. My wife and I worked very hard to help her through each milestone. Let's be clear though, Aurora has all. always been the boss of what she did, or did not, want to do. From the time she was six months old, she'd crawl to and up the stairs when she heard a bath running. It was incredible to watch her determination, and it scared a couple of young, new, parents tremendously, but she showed us her strength and focus. It was my wife that first started to notice Aurora's delays. It was when she first started communicating her worries that I came to my first realization

that parenting isn't some pre-written Disney script like our lives were. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'll just state it openly. My wife and I have lived a privileged life. We met at one of the most respected universities in our country. She was a gymnast, I was in track and field. We had scholarships, but that really didn't matter. Her family owned pharmacies, my family owned a large farming slash ranching operation. They'd both sold their businesses at about the time we got married. The plan was pretty simple, I'd get my investment credentials, manage both of our family's money while growing a reputation to become the next Warren buffet. If I didn't get that successful, it was fine, I just needed to take my magnet cum laude degree and ensure that I made a place

for myself in the real world. My wife went into marketing. She does the marketing write-ups for many prominent companies online. Many of her initial clientele came from her family, but it was her linguistic background that set her apart. She gained that background because her parents traveled a lot, and she had a natural tendency to picking up new languages. It was a tale as old as time in our world when we got married and announced that we were having our first child. I have always gone back to my thoughts before becoming aware of Aurora's challenges. As part of her baptism, I was asked to write my, dream, for her.

I started with what I thought was a standard promise of being a kind, loving, protector, and provider for her. I went on to say that it was my desire that she grew to, dream big fantastic dreams and have the courage and strength to pursue them. A bit naive, sure, but I found that throughout our journey, this has been my true guide for her. It didn't take me long to realize that my dream for her shouldn't or couldn't change. She's my daughter and it's up to her to create her dreams and pursue them. It was her first birthday party when my wife first noticed it. We had a big room booked, all sorts of balloons, games, candy, catering. Any new parents that say that they don't look at other

kids and compare our liars. It's human nature. You compare your spawn to others and assess how awesome your kid is. Aurora didn't want to hang with the other kids, though. In every picture we had, the kids were playing, and Aurora had her back to them, sitting in a corner, reading books or making puzzles. School wasn't easy for her. She would get overwhelmed with noise or act different and be judged, even bullied by her peers. Her responses were always loud, abrupt, and even violent. School systems aren't built for abnormal.

Teachers are overwhelmed and unprepared for disruptions. Society as a whole would rather separate perceived problems than figure out solutions. Not in my backyard, NIMBY, is a truth. If you want to waste everyone's time arguing about it, then you're just a liar, extremely sheltered, or an idiot. We had so many experts tell us what Aurora could and could not do. So many people with these general, pre-boxed, solutions to our daughter's life. Even both of our parents had ideas and shared thoughts of institutions that would help our daughter while keeping her separate from our family and their embarrassment.

That was truly the biggest betrayal that we had to deal with. People suggesting that our life would be improved by separating our own FN daughter from us. Keeping our child hidden from our world. I always get this shiver in my diaphragm when I think of it. Our life is different because of Aurora. The poem, Welcome to Holland, by Emily Pearl Kingsley helped us truly understand. and give up on our Disney dreams. I became empathetic, I no longer walked past people in need,

ignoring them, showing disdain over my perceived understanding of their situation. Aurora taught me that challenges can happen to everyone, and sometimes those challenges can't be overcome by just some hard work and perseverance. We were fortunate to have our love for each other and the resources to adapt and change. We connected with people that had already experienced the challenges of helping guide their children, we listened and learned from their experiences, both failures and successes. We got help from my wife's sister and family. We did whatever we could to help our family succeed and achieve, but at the end of the day, it's Aurora and her alone, that determined

her own path. It was Aurora that insisted that she'd go to regular school. In the early years, she was often sent home for behaviors. My wife has always had a flexible schedule, and she would be there to pick her up when called. Teachers and administrators aren't tolerant of disruptions and not all bullying is easily identifiable. It was Aurora that insisted on continuing to try in her that resisted segregation. Some years were better than others, some teachers were more open to her needs, some administrators were more capable of organizing accommodations. Aurora learned to control her violent responses to her triggers, loud or consistent noises,

and ignorance of her personal boundaries were her early struggles. We helped her learn that punching, screaming, and biting were not acceptable. She learned to just pinch instead. It reduced disruptions, it wasn't as violent, and she was still able to express her discomfort. Mary helped Aurora set clear boundaries with classmates, along with a lot of discussions between administrators and my wife and I, teachers began giving Aurora permission to just leave a class if she felt that her environment was becoming uncomfortable. It was a give and take that allowed her to avoid isolation from and a means to function in society. The culmination of all of the above being that a real life, honest to goodness, boy, that she expressed an interest and told her friend, who then set them up to meet, was asking her on a date.

It's a fabulous common thing that I personally had started to dismiss. Yep, I suck. I do, you know, what Jim was talking about. It is what my wife and I have been doing throughout Aurora's life. I'm thrilled to say that the date is going to happen tomorrow, but we did need to do some work to set up the playing field. We, being my wife, Sally and I, met with Ben's mother and two sisters tonight. They are lovely people, and Ben does sound like a good kid. They talked about how gifted he is at painting and described this award-winning picture of Fenway Park that he had made.

Sally said that this is what originally caught Aurora's attention, and it makes sense to me. She's always been fascinated by that ballpark and has asked me to take her there someday. My wife and Sally had talked to Ben's mom on Wednesday while I was getting my ass handed to me in darts with Jim. Ben's mom was made aware of the challenges that a date and dating Aurora involve. She and her daughters joined us to discuss ways to proceed because they feel that Ben is somewhat aware that challenges exist but also wants to know more about Aurora. Not her condition or how she manages, but her. We'll see if that ends up being the truth, but it's a good place to start.

We discussed options and Ben's family left with some things to discuss with Ben. We've had a family session, Sally and Mary included, and are ready for what Ben and Aurora choose to do tomorrow night, hopefully, fingers crossed. So that's it, that's where we are at. I've shared my journey from insane dad to involved dad. It's been quite the 24 hours. I've appreciated your assistance and some of your advice. I'll touch base again if I feel the need. Two Little Girls Genre, 90s slash narrative slash based on real events slash autobiographical slash nonfiction. Plot, a true story for my childhood, about two little girls, and how moments of my life tie into their murders. Picture it, Springfield, Ohio, August of 1992. I was an eight-year-old

that particular summer. My parents only recently started letting me go outside by myself and I was taking full advantage, but I had rules to follow or my rights would be immediately revoked. For one, I couldn't leave my family's property. We kids had a large backyard with two outdoor play sets with slides and swings, so entertainment wasn't an issue, even if I had to keep it contained to the yard. Mom said it was for our own particular. She said that strangers can't be trusted, so we had to stay in the backyard, and never play in front or by the side of the road where we could easily be snatched. I didn't always obey this, but I never got caught either.

This changed quickly one wet, balmy summer afternoon when my mom got word that two little girls about my age were missing. They had last been seen at the bakery just down the street from our house while buying sweets, their bikes discarded by the side of the road as if the girls were snatched. Or so that's what my mother told me. The search, the girls, Free Morrow and Martha Leach, aged eleven and twelve, were found dead in a gruesome, horrible fashion. I won't go into it here because the awful things they did to those girls isn't the point

of this story. However, the shit I'm not talking about here is easily found online with just a quick search. Just know though that the details are fucked up and it's not for the faint of heart. The parents of Springfield changed that day. All of my newly given freedoms were revoked. After all, the killer, or killers, were still at large. For all my mom knew, it could have been one of our neighbors. She didn't trust anyone anymore.

I didn't understand it at the time, but as a parent now, I fully get it. If I were my mom, I would have locked my children down, as well. What else could she have done? There were so few options available. Who else was going to protect us if not our own parents? Everyone else was too busy trying to figure out who the murderer was. I frankly didn't care at the time who killed them. I only cared that they were dead and not coming back.

I didn't know Martha very well, but I was pretty familiar with Free. The girls were a bit older than me, and we didn't share any classes, but I knew Free Most through a summer gym program we both attended a month or so earlier. My brain couldn't wrap around it. I kept hearing about the horrible details of their deaths, of the terrible state that the killers left them in, of facts I wasn't mentally prepared for, but had to hear anyway. The news left few details out in those days, and what I didn't fully understand at the beginning of a school day, I was well educated in the schoolyard by the time I got home in the afternoon. Eight-year-olds have no business hearing about the cruel ways their playmates' corpses were desecrated, but there I was.

I heard the funeral was a real shit show, but I obviously wasn't there for that. My mom had a thing about me and funerals. She didn't think I was ready to go to any until I was well into my teens, and even then, was overprotective in the extreme when I finally went to my first one with her. I thought she was being extra back then, and I was mostly right, but now as an adult, I really do see where she was coming from a lot more than I used to. That said, to be honest, I think going to the funerals might have actually also been beneficial for me, all things considered.

I've never been able to fully process their deaths, so maybe being able to say goodbye would have helped, but I have no way of knowing for sure. What I do know was that my mom was sure that she made the right decision when she heard that there were fights and family feuding allegedly taking place during the viewing and burial, but of course, I have no way of knowing if that's true or rumor. Small towns are sadly like that. Folks who weren't even there will claim anything they can to make themselves look more interesting. Meanwhile, some of us truly wish they could have attended, if anything, just for the closure. I didn't even get closure when they caught the killers.

I'm not going to name them here, nor give them attention. They don't deserve it. All you need to know is there was a group of middle-aged to old men led by one of their gang of peers. The bastards tried to molest the girls, and when they fought back, they didn't just hurt the girls. They brutalized and destroyed them. There was no excuse for the monstrousness of killing anyone, let alone two little girls. There was nothing they could have done to deserve that. I didn't care about the reasons given for the murders. I didn't care what the murderers had to say at the trial. Their confessions meant less than nothing to me. All I cared about was that my friends were and knowing the horrible details weren't going to bring them back.

Frankly, hearing the killer's excuses was an exercise in self-harm. One that I refused to subject myself to again. Though I did try to read a book on the murders once, but I never got to finish it. There's actually a really crazy and ironic reason why, too. Fast forward to Christmas of 2005. I was a new mother to a sweet little baby girl and times were hard. Homelessness was new to me, but I wasn't wearing it well. A local church was offering a free turkey feast and gifts for children at a holiday party,

and my friend had invited my daughter, now son, and I to attend as well, despite not being members of the church. Of course, I jumped at the chance, and we all went together, her and her kids, and me and mine. It was lovely at first. My kid got to sit on Santa's lap and received a cute teddy bear and some candy. Then we had the feast, but I ended up realizing my allergen was in every dish, so I pulled out a book to read while I waited for my family to finish eating. I was reading a book written about the murders, which also happened to be in the town it happened in. To be fair, I should have known better, but how was I to guess that I would be sitting at the table of someone directly related to the case? Springfield is a small town,

but I never guessed that small. As I was reading, I noticed a guy staring at me. Then my friend told me to put the book away and wouldn't tell me why, but I did as I was told. I still didn't know why she was acting that way while we were leaving after the party and was alone for a moment in a parking lot having a cigarette before we left when a middle-aged man walked up to me. I said hello, and he responded with, I bet you want to know what I know about those girls, don't you? This threw me through a loop. I was like WTF. Before I could really speak to him, though, my friend grabbed me and my kid and dragged us back to her car, telling us to get in as quickly as possible. Only when we were pulling out did I finally realize exactly what had happened

back there. Mrs. J., my friend and driver, told me that was the brother of the head of that killer gang of middle-aged to old men. She asked me what he was saying to me, and when I told her, her face turned white with fear. Needless to say, I wasn't invited back to that church. I never finished the book. It felt, weird, after that particular encounter. Years passed, and I had almost forgotten about this event. That is until I was at the city library one afternoon before closing time and was gathering my things to leave. I saw the brother of the head murderer and immediately recognized him. There was no mistaking this man. He had a look about him that was hard to forget. Still, I was convinced that he'd never remember me. Not in a million

years. That is, until the guy ran up to me, his face glowing with recollection. It was clear he knew exactly who I was and that he wanted to continue with the conversation we were having years before. He looked excited to see me. After a quick greeting, I told him that I had to get going, but he followed me out the door and all the way to the bus stop. I waited there for the bus, listening to his constant reassurance that he didn't know anything and was passed for being a suspect on account of his innocence. It was, quite frankly, a redneck murder version of Forrest Gump as this strange man blathered on and on about his life, his brother, and how the crime affected his life on that random bus stop bench. The whole exchange was strange in the

extreme, but I was patient and polite throughout. Not only to be respectful of another human being, but also, I didn't know this guy. I had no reason to believe I was safe. After all, his brother was literally the most notorious murderer in the entire city. And then it hit me. There would be no way I could get off at my usual stop, because then he'd know where I lived at the time. I didn't know what to do, but I felt extremely uncomfortable. This man would not stop talking. I don't even remember all of what was said years later, but I just know I was unnerved and desperately wanted the social exchange to end as soon as possible. To my horror, it didn't. He followed me to the bus stop where I was to make my transfer to get home. However, when I said

my goodbyes as I got on, he got on as well, and said he was heading my way. When asked where that would be, he couldn't give me an answer. This is when I was forthcoming with him and said he was making me uncomfortable. I politely and softly explained that I didn't want to talk anymore and would like some quiet time now. Then, I got off a few blocks before my usual stop and instead of heading home, I walked to the fire station on that route and rang the doorbell. When I turned around to see where he went, the strange man was all the way across the other side of the street as if to avoid me. The fire department was kind and had someone escort me home safely. Never saw him again. The beginning of the end, my name is Jonas, and this is the

story of how I survived the Great War, the Great War of Ewasically of the Year 2018. This is the story of the scars I bear from the images being on the front lines. Born in the year 1990, I was born under the name of Josiah M. Springfield. My mother worked as a carpenter, and my father, well, I didn't see him much, but I hear outlandish stories about his adventures. Some say he was a pirate working off the Lorita Coast, others say, he was a scrap car mechanic in a place called a scrapyard, working on a secret project of some sort. Many had found and infiltrated his garage, however, whomever went in, didn't come out again.

I myself worked in a few different places where I could find work, with the war going on, work was scarce, as was fuel and other necessities. Luckily I didn't drive and I ran everywhere or cycled, meaning often others picked on me for not being able to drive, but this meant if I needed it. I could run about 50 miles or so without getting tired because I wasn't lazy and I was extremely active. However, because of my fitness I used to get beat up a lot, with them saying, this little shit, and sometimes they still do, because I'm weak.

As a cruel joke, they sign me up to 588 bombing squads, because they knew physical wounds heal, but trauma. That never leaves you, you'll never forget the horrors of war. But, it's my sense of right and wrong that keeps me going, and my persistence. Those would be the key to keeping me alive, throughout the most turbulent years since the early 2000s. Everything was going well, until one day whilst eating breakfast, Post came for me in the mail and I was assigned to the 58th Air Corp in the Tietoelian Air Force under the command of Lieutenant Leif,

the war against the so-called furies, was going incredibly poorly. Bombing raids took to the skies every night in the small town of Handleton with the estimated population of an average football stadium. They loved to intimidate people. They took to history for inspiration of how to intimidate mainly with World War II documentaries. Using blueprints, they recreated old warplanes with the improvements making them flawless. Though highly intelligent furries, they were very easily distracted by something shiny, this was the main method to combat them until they made a type of injection that overrides

any sort of indulgence and any possibility of them getting distracted. I was assigned to a bombing crew of 22 men, and the plane was called Lucky 13. I was given dog tags and told to bomb the two main cities along with the crew. Those two cities were called Owaton and Ferry. Two hours pass and we are flying over the metropolis of Owaton. The first commander up in the cockpit shouts at us, right, you maggot fodder. I want to see these bombs drop over this city so much I don't want to see an inch of it left, let's give these furfags a taste of their own goddamn medicine.

What say you, everyone promptly responds with a quick burrow. As soon as the bombs begin dropping, there's a deafening silence, and a chuckling of twisted crewmates, that's when the chaos came. Though up in a bomber plane, it was as easy to see every single one of them down their scamper to safety, though almost comparable to ants, when a. nest was found and then, it was hurt again, then, same. Commander looking back at us with an incredibly contorted face, shouting at us to fly down there and finish the job, right you good for nothing pieces of cows hit, get down there and finish them off and if I so much is here

is one of those hairy pricks being saved, so help me I will dishonorably court-martial you myself. One by one, the men jumped out of the plane in three by three formation in perfect synchronicity without fail chanting military tunes to motivate themselves, all until it was just me left. And then there was the unmistakable sound of 303 caliber round bullets riddling the sides and engines of Lucky 13, and it was now or never, I had to jump where I would die, there was no mistake I would. I prayed to the Lord above and jumped out of the back and everything slowed down and began to almost stop, was this where I died? I heard the growling of the dreaded hyena MK2 bore in on top of me the propeller barely missing my head by a four or five meters not far

behind the hyena, was the notorious WASP MK3. Both of these planes were two of the most feared plane models ever created by the Arvacian Army not far behind is the sea serpent-class battle-cruiser weighing in at approximately 150,000 tons of the finest and most pure steel one can create by hand. As I continue falling, watching my life flash before my eyes and the wind rustle my hair and pierced my ears, I hear an off-distant calling very quiet, but quite prominent, he, again, I hear the sound of sounding like, a female voice. Hey, Prick, you'll ruin the cement. Hey!

What the hell snap out of it? I snapped away and I see I'm less than 200 meters from the ground and continuously barreling toward the ground and I pull my parachute in the nick of time, fear and anxiety paralyze me as I pull it. My knees catch the roof with a tremendous force and I hear an incredibly large snap and a surge of pain in both my knees. The parachute drags me across the roof with the most unimaginable pain possible, finally I slide down off the roof and hit the ground.

I hit my head off a sole flower pot and felt myself being dragged inside. Chapter 2, Blood, Sweat and Gears As I felt myself slowly be dragged into this stranger's home, I could feel them struggling with the weight of my lifeless body being dragged through the door, the occasional light flickered past my crusted eyes, flickering at an inconsistent rate, showing that I had been put on a bed of some kind. There was an intense smell.

Something I'd never smelled before now. It was almost thought I had dunked my head into skunk piss mixed with pig slurry. I awoke suddenly screaming, the screams delayed from whence I was falling to my doom, my heart beating quicker than ever before, my anxiety was at peak, I finally awake to see absolutely nothing, there was an inexplicable darkness that cloaked my face though it was drawn to it like a moth to a lamp. I awake, screaming, screaming with such ferocity and intensity my vocal chords felt as though they were about to shatter, the lights flickered at the intensity, and then there was the unmistakable sound of a door hammering open, it reverberated around the room with such intensity. I'd never experienced it before, finally, after what seemed like years of slumber, I heard a distant voice, only barely able to make it out, was that him? I didn't expect him to wake so soon, put the plans for him on hold. My cell door opened, it took a very long time for the light to penetrate every corner

of the room, as it seemed the room itself indulged itself in the light, absorbing every particle into the padded walls, like a connoisseur of chocolate, enjoyed every moment of it. I wish I never woke up once I saw the state of the room, every square foot of the room was soaked in blood, entrails, and shit. And I figured out what the smell was when I first arrived was, when the light finally settled in the psychiatric style padded cell, and once my eyes had finally adjusted, I saw a lady, though she wasn't fully a lady, I couldn't make out the shape. My mom got done her phone call and immediately called a family meeting. We were all just lingering, killing time anyways, because we knew she was talking with Aurora's

mom. I'm trying to figure it all out now, but the conversation was intense. My mom had gone into her bedroom about 45 minutes into the phone call. At the start of the call, she was excited and had mouthed, it's Aurora's mom, early in the conversation. My sisters got this excited look on their faces, and I was just, well, confused about it all. In my mind, Aurora and I were going on a date and why does it matter if her mom was calling? I could hear my mom talking about how we were just talking about this date and giggling about, how cute it is that Aurora and I were connecting so well. NGL, I get my mom and sisters' excitement, but seriously. I have no desire for acute relationship anymore. I was a bit concerned that my

mom was messing this up. This is about where my mom's disposition started to change. Her smile faded, she started to jerk a bit to what she was hearing, and she was starting to look at me with a bit of a concerned face. I heard her say that, the kids should probably figure this out. Just before she went into her room. It was just before 11 when she came out of her room. I'd laid claim to my mom's lazy boy chair, it's the best seat in the house, sitting in my PJs after making sure my clothes for tomorrow were set up by the sofa. Dishes were done, the kitchen was clean, Brenda had gone to her in Bailey's room to chat with her newest boyfriend, Bailey was on my sofa, doing homework on her laptop. I was watching sports updates on the TV and flipping

back and forth to the Padres game. I did text the Aurora, Mary, Liam, and I's message group when my mom went into the bedroom. I should say that Mary made it clear that direct texts to Aurora or any direct social media contact were not allowed by her family. Her IG and FB were strictly blocked for anyone, but family. Her parents monitored her phone very closely. She had explained at the time that Aurora had some very major incidents from her modeling that forced her family to take these precautions. She had asked if a group chat was okay, and her family agreed.

I shared some fun baseball posts in the group chat that Aurora liked, and she had sent some pretty complicated baseball analysis stuff that I liked as well. It's amazing how deeper interest in baseball goes. I think she knows more about baseball statistics than my coach's TBH. Mary and Liam pretty much just kept their comments to confirming our cafeteria meetings. I sent a message saying that my mom and Aurora's mom were talking. I asked if anyone knew what this was about. Mary just responded that her mom and Aurora's mom were probably just working through logistics

with my mom. I've been on dates before, I didn't understand why this was any different but clearly there was something going on. My mom came out of her bedroom and asked for us to join her at the kitchen table. My sisters were sitting there before I had time to unpack myself out of my mom's comfortable recliner. My mom had a stern look on her face as she waited for me to sit. She then asked while looking straight at me, Ben, I need you to tell me why you want to be more than friends with this girl. Why is this date important to you? I immediately thought of the obvious, but I didn't think that saying, she's beautiful like a morning sunrise, or I get this

aching in my chest when I think of her and she's not nearby, would work in this situation. It's the truth, but I felt that my mom was way too concerned to want to hear about my romantic thoughts. While I was considering my response, my sisters, while trying to help, started to give their opinions. Bailey began with, Mom, Ben has been talking about this girl for a year now. Then Brenda added, haven't you noticed how his face lights up when he talks about her lately? My mom glanced at each of them as they spoke and gave nods to their comments, but she continued to stare at me. It was my words that were the only ones that mattered at this moment. That's when I said, she makes me feel calm, like when I'm painting, and I'd like to figure out

why. When I was young, before I started school, I was very angry. I'd get dropped off at our local church when my mom went to work. When I look back, the other kids weren't mean to me or anything. I just couldn't stay calm when everyone around me was laughing and screaming. We'd all be packed into this basement area together. Every sound would echo, every scream would reverberate, every laugh would boom. I hated it. Then some other boy would want my toy, or my ball, or whatever, and I'd get violent. Generally, it was a push and a yelled, no, but sometimes the other boy would push back and then it became, well, more. I honestly just wasn't used to being in a confined space with other boys. The energy in the space just didn't work for me, probably because I'd

spent my life in small spaces with my mom and sisters. It wasn't easy and we made it work but the new environment was a lot less forgiving. Thankfully, there was an older, grandma, type lady that recognized my struggle. She started to take me, and a few others, out of the main area into a room that was way quieter. There were craft supplies, paint brushes, cheap canvases and easels. We started with water coloring. She showed me how to mix colors to create a new color. She taught me how to hold a brush and make my hand do what my mind wanted. I would lose track of time, noise, my surroundings, everything. I feel that this is what inner peace means.

I have learned to tolerate these spaces now. It's one of the things that basketball has helped me with. Playing a sport in a loud gymnasium taught me to ignore outside influences while focusing on my personal goal and the movement slash choices that can get me there. I can see that Aurora is trying to do the same, with her focusing beyond me, looking to her hands but keeping her hand actions undercover, and really concentrating on her words. I can tell that she's trying to connect with me, and I really want to figure out how to connect with her. I think that my mom truly understood all of that when she heard my response.

Her gaze softened immediately while saying, okay, baby, okay. My sisters were quiet and looked a bit bewildered T.B.H. My mom looked at both of them and said, are you available tomorrow evening? They both nodded yes. She then looked at me and said, your practice tomorrow is four to six right. I said, yes. She responded, your sisters and I will be out for a while tomorrow evening and we may be late. Are you okay taking care of yourself? I said, of course. I loved these evenings when I got the apartment to myself. I put the ballgame on, pull out my sketchbook, eat pizza pops, and just chill. It isn't often that I get to just hang without my women pestering me. I enjoy those moments sometimes. We did talk about the situation a lot

more than I have time to write. My mom doesn't see her parents being concerned about our social status or anything perception related. She just feels that Aurora's parents want to make sure that this isn't some sort of game for me. I understand their worry, I've had girls that I've dated be more interested in showing ourselves out in public than truly getting to know each other. That's never impressed me, and I've always ended it when I figured out that she wasn't interested in getting to know me. It's what thrills me about Aurora, I have this need to get to know her better and I feel that she wants to do the same. My mom did mention that a movie may not be the best choice for a first date.

We're going to talk about it more tomorrow, but I've been reading everyone's comments and appreciate the ideas and thoughts. I truly appreciate everyone's continued support in my journey to get connected with this beautiful person. I'll update tomorrow and thank you for reading. I feel like I have one chance with the girl of my dreams and my older sisters are driving me nuts with their advice and giddiness with my predicament. Please help me to not screw this opportunity up. She's the most beautiful girl in our school, probably our city, maybe even our country, and

she said yes to a date with me. She isn't part of our school's popular girl click. She's indifferent to them TBH. I've been watching her from afar for the past year and she just doesn't care about being social with anyone but her friend Mary. It's actually one of the things that I've grown to respect about her because I wish I didn't care as well. I'm not the school jock or valedictorian.

I'm not really popular, but I do play sports, and I do well in class. I love art and creating things with my hands. I truly need that in my life right now. I've dated a few times and even been in a couple of months or so long relationships. It's all felt a bit superficial to me, I've kissed some girls, I've spent time talking about who I believe I am, what I feel I need in a relationship, and what I want to do with my life, with these girls. Some have been nice, some have been demanding, maybe even judgmental,

I really don't know what love is yet. According to my sisters, it's a feeling, not something that you know until it happens. I really don't get that. This girl, Aurora, has always been so mysterious to me. The first time I saw her was when we passed each other in the hallway heading to my first class last year. She honestly looked like some elven princess just glowing and floating by me. Her perfume lingered in my nostrils, like when you suddenly noticed the smell of a fresh

waterfall. I was amazed and continued to be by her. I was in a couple of classes with her last year and I'm in a couple with her again this year. She always sits front and center of the class with no regard for the people around her. I tend to sit around the middle rows but on the outside so that I don't get much attention from the teacher. I've watched her walk into the classroom and go straight to her desk. It's like she doesn't even notice the rest of us. She sits so proper and attentive that she looks like a beautiful sculpture to me.

I don't think I've ever seen a teacher ask her a question now that I think about it. Maybe it's because she's always so focused on the teacher's lesson, IDK. Every guy that I know has talked with me about her at one point or another. She's viewed as stunning, guarded, statuesque, and unobtainable by most. Some have tried to approach her. The attempts have always ended with various comments about her or Mary being, stuck up or bitchy. I chose to treat those statements as sour grapes, but I also understood their frustration. To me, Aurora is that girl that goes to school but is too mature.

for school, if you know what I mean. She's always wearing something smart and fashionable. Other girls have shown me pictures of her modeling brand name clothes. It's crazy to me that this girl goes to my school. I've never seen her have a bad hair day, or just show up in jeans and a sweatshirt without it looking intentional. I play baseball from late spring to early fall, I then play basketball to kill time until baseball season starts again. I love playing baseball. I play third and short. My coaches keep telling me that I'm too tall to play short long term. I feel that I'm better there, but I trust my coaches. They taught me to be a switch hitter, and it is a bit easier hitting lefties from the right side, but I prefer hitting from the left side in general.

The best pitcher on our high school team is Liam. He's big and tall and can absolutely deal when he's on. He started dating Mary a month ago, and that's how Aurora and I finally met. It was Mary that asked Liam to invite me to the cafeteria with them at the start of this semester. I knew that Aurora would be there because Mary and her are never apart when not in class. Liam met me at my locker, and I was an utter nervous wreck while walking with him to the cafeteria. I asked him why Mary invited me, he said IDK. I asked him if Aurora would be there, he said IDK. I asked him if this invite thing meant anything and he said, you guessed it, IDK. I was starting to think that this was all a set up when we walked into the cafeteria and saw them. They were sitting in the back

corner of the room and clearly had prepared for us. There was a basket of fries, for plates, for drinks, and they both waved as we came in. Mary was clearly excited, I've never seen her show that before. Aurora just sat in place and waved like those princesses you see on parade floats. I sat down beside Liam and across from Aurora. I looked at her and said, hi. She wasn't looking at me in the eyes, it was a bit towards my right ear, and she responded, Hi Ben, with the most infatuating voice I'd ever heard. It was like the first two chords of your favorite song, she caught and held my attention before I had a chance to freak out and let my mind mess up the opportunity. I said the first thing that came to my mind, wow, your voice is beautiful.

She looked down to the table and blushed. It looked to me like she was holding back something, her hands were out of view under the table, but you could see that she was doing something with them. Mary broke up the moment and just said, have some fries ben, let's just chill for a bit, while staring at me with a smile. We didn't have a lot of time, baseball practice started at four and we had to be ready for it, that gave us about ten minutes, and I needed to eat. I grabbed some fries with the cheap, dollar store, tong sitting in the basket and put some on my plate. I then looked to Aurora and asked if she wanted some. She nodded and I put a couple scoops on her plate. She kept looking down at her, invisible, hands under the table.

Mary grabbed the tongs from me and gave her and Liam the rest. I asked Aurora if she liked baseball and she looked straight into my eyes while saying, yes. There it was that was my cue to just start talking about how fun baseball is. How exciting it is to hit a ball purely or catch and throw a ball perfectly. I couldn't shut myself up and when I told my sisters what I said later that night, they gave me shit. I look back and I don't know what came over me. It had to be nerves and the fact that she actually showed an interest in one of my passions. Right? She didn't stop staring at me as I talked, and I took it as her being interested. My sisters are telling me that this is what girls do, they pretend to like what

you're talking about, but I'm not sure that's what I saw. Her eyes are green like one of those Caribbean coves that you see on Instagram. She was staring straight at me, but not reacting to what I was saying. I was lost in them and just talked about how baseball is played, how hard it is, and how awesome you have to be to play. She just stared, listened, and looked like she was trying to keep up with what I was saying. I did see her chin quivered a bit and that's when I finally stopped because we had to get going. I'd been chewing on fries as I talked. My sisters gave me crap for that as well. We had to get to practice so I thanked Aurora and Mary for the drink and fries while standing up with Liam to go. I was in a trance throughout practice,

and it wasn't until I got home that I realized how bad I messed up, with my older sisters yelling at me, of course. Thank goodness she let me keep joining them. Over the next week or so, I did get to know her a lot better. Liam and I started paying for our meals every second time, it was only fair. Aurora kept looking past my right ear, or at her hands hidden under the table, unless a topic came up that interested her. Mary helped me a lot. She would mention that Aurora loves horseback riding and I would start to ask questions like, do your horses jump obstacles? No. Do you barrel ride? No. Are you into show horses? Yes. Okay, what color horse do you ride?

Brown. Is your horse a male or female? Gelding. What does that mean? Neutored. What's your horse's name? Red. Her chin started to quiver when I laughed and asked, why would you name a brown horse red? I think I got lucky that Liam and I had to head out right then. It took a week before she started asking questions. Her first one was asking me if I had made the picture in the hallway. Last year I won an art competition in the school. It was a picture of Fenway Park in Boston. My picture didn't show the iconic green monster wall, though. It was a painting of what I thought it would look like if I was standing at shortstop

and looking into the batter while the pitcher was throwing. I remember thinking about how everyone was feeling while the pitch was being thrown. Not just the pitcher, batter and catcher, but the coach, players and fans that were watching. It took me all summer to paint, and it ended up winning the competition. The school framed it and hung it in the cafeteria hallway. She asked me if the pitcher was throwing a fastball or breaking ball, I said that it was a breaking ball in my mind. She smiled, for the first time to me, and followed up with a whisper down to the table of, Slider. I was stunned because that's the exact pitch I was thinking about when I drew the picture.

We didn't talk further about it that day. A couple days later she asked me what pitch I hated the most. I told her that there was a left-handed pitcher that always made me look like a fool. He'd throw the ball and I would swing, thinking that I was about to crush it because it was middle-slash-middle-in, only to swing at air and see the catcher stopping the ball at my back foot. She got a grin on her face, again my first time seeing that, and said, Slider, right? I said, yes, and she immediately followed up with, that's the pitch you were thinking about

when painting your picture. All I could do was accept the truth and say, yes. I'm not an idiot. She clearly knows about baseball to a point where she can identify what I was thinking while making a painting of a pitcher throwing a pitch. It's so creepy and awesome at the same time. I was getting this weird combination of a gut punch and tummy tickle thing every time I thought of her.

I was describing it to my sisters and they both got this weird look while telling me that I need to ask her out. Today, Wednesday, I sat down, stared across the table and asked if she wanted to go to a movie with me on Friday. She looked down at the table, clearly doing her hand thing underneath, and said, yes. Mary gave me a look of pure surprise while yipping, let's make it a double date. I looked back at her and just stated, no, I'd like our first date to just be me and Aurora. Is that okay? She went from happy to doubtful and mumbled, we might be able to make that work. What's your mom's number? I was fully prepared for my interrogation tonight.

My mother always insists that we eat supper together every night because it is the only time the four of us, my mom, myself, and two sisters, can get together at the same time. I've never had a dad in my life, my mom raised our family by herself. My twin sisters, Brenda and Bailey, are both 19, but they are very different. They both finished high school the year before I started. Brenda works at a manufacturing plant, driving a forklift and loading trucks all day. Bailey is going to our local community college, learning business administration. I've never met my dad, but my sisters have described him as violent. They were four when I was born and they remember the day, about three months after I was born,

that my mom packed us all up and drove us all far away to the coast. I know that my first five years were a difficult time for my family. I only have brief flashes of memories about being dropped off at the local church. We would all gather and walk to the local park, like soldiers in a line, nice days. We'd stay in a big room in the basement on rainy-slash-snowy days. My sisters had started kindergarten, so it was just me at the church. I do have these flashback kind of memories of my mom hugging me, or my sisters picking me up at the church on their way home from school. I was four when I started kindergarten myself. Things changed a lot for us at that

time. We originally lived in the basement of a house. It was an open area with no privacy. There was a bed, a pull-out couch, and I had kind of a bench-slash-crib that I slept on. There was a small kitchen area and a bathroom with a shower. The week before school started, we moved to an apartment near my school. It had two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom with a tub and shower, a full kitchen in my mom's room had another bathroom and shower. It was amazing. I started out sharing my mom's room but eventually moved to the pull-out sofa when I started

to be more independent. Being only a block from school I was able to spend time at the place. playground. My sisters would come with me, and we would play basketball or catch. I loved running, throwing, climbing, and jumping. I think my sisters did as well and we were inseparable. This lasted until I was eight and they were twelve. They started being interested in boys and I started organized sports. My mother was our rock. She made sure that we had a safe, secure life as a family. So, I knew the coming interrogation was going to be from a really loving place. I told them about the date as soon as everyone sat down. My sisters gave me a cheer

and said that they were proud of me for being brave enough to ask Aurora out. I'd been talking about her for the past two weeks with them and they know everything that I wrote above and a little more. We started talking about the date. What should I wear? Did I need a haircut? Should I bring a gift? Everything paused when my mom asked me about Aurora's parents. I had to be honest and say that we never talked about them. We just finished eating and her phone rang. She's been on the phone for more than an hour now, we do know that it's Aurora's mom who called. My mom has a serious and concerned look. I'm not sure what they're talking about, but I'm making use of this time to ask for any ideas from Reddit. Please help me to make a great impression on Aurora and her

family. Thanks for your help and support. This story is over a decade old, but I've been thinking about it often recently. I apologize if there are any mistakes in my English, I'm not used to writing compelling stories in a different language. The names have been changed. My best friend Adam, then 11, and I were in the same class at a German school, but we were both from Poland, which made us connect immediately. As we grew older, he became more rebellious and sneaky, developing into a bit of a combinator, someone who tries to gain an advantage through questionable means by tricking others. The Polish community in our hometown was small, so gossip about other polls spread quickly. I'll explain later why this is relevant. Half a year before graduation,

Adam started facing family problems, similar to many of us at the time. We both came from low-income families and lived in a poor neighborhood. However, our family dynamics differed significantly, my family cared about me and my surroundings, while his was a degenerate bunch of alcoholics, including an older brother who was a gay porn star. This negative influence, combined with a fascination for gangster rap and drug use, led Adam to delude himself into believing he was a ghetto warrior. He embraced the thug life mentality, complete with the clothes, music, and a pension for committing petty crimes. Fast forward to a few weeks later, we were the first generation, to have color display mobile phones, and I was thrilled to own a Sony Erickson Walkman W.A. 10I,

a hand me down from my stepfather. One day, Adam asked me for a favor, claiming he had accidentally broken his phone. He asked if he could borrow mine to stay in touch with his mom. Naively, I agreed and we exchanged SIM cards. A few days later, he also asked for the charger, which I gave him. Nearly four weeks passed, and I missed list. to music on my way to school. When I checked in with Adam, he confessed that he had been robbed by some guys in his neighborhood. Knowing the type of people he described and having had similar experiences, I believed him without question.

I relayed this story to my parents, who were understandably upset but sympathetic since our families were friends. However, gossip began to circulate. My cousin, whom I'll call Dennis, heard that Adam hadn't been robbed. Instead, he had sold the phone for 40 euros, and the reason he pushed me to bring the charger was that he hadn't included it in the sale. He sold the phone to a notorious figure, whom I'll call John, who was later convicted of rape.

His victim tragically committed suicide. John was a war refugee known for his violent tendencies, so any attempt to retrieve the phone seemed futile. The betrayal stung deeply. I was furious and disappointed that my best friend, had done this to me, all for a pair of Air Jordans. I called Adam and convinced him to meet me early at school the next day, pretending everything was fine. The following morning, I waited impatiently for him to arrive. When he finally entered the classroom, a rush of anger

overcame me, and I attacked him, fueled by the martial arts training I had undertaken to defend myself from bullying. I threw him around the classroom, smashing one of the chalkboard wings against his head multiple times. My classmates, shocked, tried to intervene, but I pushed them away. Eventually, Adam fled the school. Our class teacher arrived amid the chaos, and my classmates filled her in on what had happened. She was ready to call the police and expel me, but she gave me a chance to explain. I told her everything, including Adam's plans to attack me with a screwdriver. Shocked, she supported me, promising not to punish me. Later, Adam's mother called my mom, accusing me of viciously beating her son and threatening to press charges. I explained the situation to my

mom, who then spoke with our class teacher, who confirmed my story and assured her of her support. Furious at the deceit, my mom confronted Adam's mom, revealing the truth and detailing Adam's suspension from school. In a disturbing twist, we overheard Adam being beaten by his mother over the phone, his screams filling the room. That evening, a mutual acquaintance, David, messaged me on MSN, initially threatening me on Adam's behalf. However, after hearing my side of the story, David apologized and assured me he would handle Adam. A few days later, Adam was beaten by David for lying about the situation. Adam messaged me, refusing to acknowledge his wrongdoings and instead trying to blame me for

exposing his schemes. I cut all ties with him, ignoring him at school. Later, he stole several phones from locker rooms during PE classes, sealing his fate as a pariah. His reputation was destroyed, and he had to repeat a year of school. Years later, I encountered him again. He was acting like a stereotypical gangster, perpetually broke, high, and drunk. He tried to apologize by buying me drinks with his welfare money, but I could see through his facade. After a failed attempt to impress us, he became violent, pulling a knife. A mutual friend signaled me to run, and we escaped without further incident. The last I heard of Adam was that he had been arrested for armed robbery while drunk at a gas station. I hoped never to see him again. The day I got a job offer,

Cindy, my cousin's wife, announced she was pregnant. Just as the whole family was celebrating, Cindy suddenly said, Now that Sierra has found a job, and I'm pregnant, it's going to be inconvenient to live together once the baby arrives. Maybe Sierra should move out. The room fell silent. Seeing that no one agreed, Cindy backed down a little. If you insist on staying, fine,

but you'll need to pay $10,000 a month for living expenses. But the house we're living in now is mine, and the money we use comes from me. Who should really be paying whom? 0.1. The day I received my offer letter, Uncle Mark made a huge feast, bringing out his best wine. Even Jason, my cousin, who was usually too busy with work, rushed home before dinner.

After a few rounds of drinks, Cindy, who had been quietly eating, suddenly spoke. I'm pregnant, the room went silent for a few seconds before it burst into laughter and excitement. Jason's face turned red with joy as he stared at Cindy's belly. Really? Cindy, why didn't you tell me? Cindy smiled shyly. I wanted to surprise you, No one was happier than Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda.

Jason and Cindy had been married for three years without having any children. Finally, they had something to brag about to the relatives. I was genuinely happy for Cindy and thought to myself, I'll definitely give my future niece or nephew a big gift. As the joyful atmosphere grew, Cindy suddenly put down her chopsticks. There's one more thing I want to mention, she said. Aunt Linda, her eyes still full of joy, asked, what is it? I think Sierra should move out, Cindy said with a cold expression. She's already found a job, and now that I'm pregnant, it's going to be inconvenient after the baby is born.

The room instantly became silent, and Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda's faces grew awkward. Cindy, though usually quiet, had never spoken to me with such a cold tone. I had always thought she was nice, so I responded kindly, there shouldn't be any inconvenience. I'm not a guy, and when the baby arrives, I can even help take care of it. when the baby comes, there won't be enough room for everyone. How could that be? I said, trying to be considerate. We can clean up the attic floor and make room for your little family. There will be more than enough space. This estate house was large, with several rooms on each floor. We had been living comfortably on the second floor for years. Cindy shot me an

inexplicable glare. Aunt Linda chimed in to reassure her, Cindy, don't worry, we'll make sure neither you nor the baby is uncomfortable. Cindy wasn't finished. When I have the baby, I'll be recovering and won't be able to move around her dress properly. It's just not right to have an outsider in the house. Suddenly, her expression softened again. Sierra, I'm not trying to force you out, but you've been living here for so many years. Isn't it time you moved on? Seeing my face darken, Cindy added, your parents passed away early. When you were in college and grad school, my in-laws covered all your living expenses. Nowadays, young women are all about independence. It's time you learn some self-respect and started living on your own. I looked

around at Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda. Uncle Mark, who had been silent for a long time, finally slammed his hand on the table, yelling at Cindy, that's enough. You're getting out of line. Jason, take your wife back to your room. Jason quickly stepped in to defend her. Dad, Cindy's pregnant. Why are you yelling at her? Besides, she's not wrong, Uncle Mark lost it. He slammed his glass down and shouted at Jason, then you can get out to, Zero-2, Cindy wasn't wrong. My parents had passed away when I was young.

My dad, Steve, was a company owner, and my mom, Mary, was an architect. Seven years ago, they were in a car accident and both became comatose. That year, I was about to take my college entrance exams, juggling between school and the hospital. It quickly became too much, and I started thinking about hiring a nurse. When Uncle Mark found out, he came to me and said, Sierra, you don't need to hire a nurse. Aunt Linda and I can take care of them, I wasn't sure about it. Uncle Mark had always been kind to me, but taking care of one person in a coma was already hard, let alone too. It's no trouble, he said, tears welling in his eyes.

They're my sister and brother-in-law, after all. No one will care for them better than family. Plus, Mrs. Hudson, who shared a hospital room with my parents, told me some nurses don't take care of patients properly. Bed sores, neglect, it wasn't uncommon. After thinking it over, I agreed and paid Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda triple the normal rate to take care of my parents. They did a great job. Every time I visited, there was no smell or mess on them. They looked after my parents for over a year before both passed away. I went to college in another city. Some people suggested I sell the estate house. But I couldn't. This house had been my parents' marital home, every tree and room designed by my mother. I wanted someone to take care of the house while I was away. When Uncle Mark heard this, he volunteered. And so, they moved in and stayed for years.

When I started grad school, Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda urged me to move back home, saying they could help look after me. After today's confrontation with Cindy, I finally understood why she had been distant with me all along. After Jason and Cindy left, I asked Uncle Mark, does Cindy not know about the house? Aunt Linda smiled nervously. That's my fault. I told Cindy and her family that the house was ours. You know Jason's family insisted they wouldn't marry him off unless he had a house. But you know we don't have money. So, we had to say the house was ours, I could understand that. Uncle Mark had never been responsible. My parents had arranged several jobs for him, but he never stuck with any of them, always relying on my family's support to start his own. But in recent

years, Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda had been good to me. I gently said, you can only hide the truth for so long. It's better to explain this to Cindy sooner rather than later. If she really needs a house, I have another one I could let them live in. Uncle Mark replied, Sierra, you've done more than enough for us. Don't worry. I would never take advantage of you, hearing that, tears welled up in my eyes. Uncle Mark, we're family. Don't say that, without Uncle Mark, I would have had no home. 0.3. With Uncle Mark's assurance, I didn't think much more about the matter.

For the next few days, I saw Cindy around the house. She was either giving me cold looks or making passive-aggressive comments while watching TV. Some people really have no shame, living in someone else's house like it's their own. You can't even kick them out, she would say, clearly directed at me. me. Certain people think they're some kind of pampered princess, like everyone adores them. But honestly, people can't stand her. I kept quiet, hoping Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda would handle it. I had just started my new job and was swamped with work. I often stayed late at the office, only returning home long after everyone had gone to bed. One night, I came home earlier than usual,

but it was already dark. The house was silent as everyone had gone to sleep. I quietly made my way upstairs, wanting nothing more than to collapse on my bed. But the moment I lay down, I heard a sharp scream, ouch. I jumped up, and the room lights came on. There, lying in my bed, was Cindy, dressed in her nightgown, staring at me in shock. Uncle Mark and Aunt Linda rushed in. What happened? Uncle Mark asked. I tried to stay calm. Cindy, why are you in my bed? Cindy's face turned cold. This is my house. I can sleep wherever I want, I frowned, confused and irritated. Aunt Linda pulled me out of the room, trying to smooth things over. Sierra, I forgot to tell you. Cindy moved into your room,

when, this afternoon. She said she wanted to enjoy the sunlight through the large window. My room, which my mother had designed especially for me, had a huge floor-to-ceiling window. When the sun rose, the room would be filled with light. In the winter, it was the warmest and coziest spot in the house. I was upset. They had moved her into my room without even asking me. Aunt Linda noticed my displeasure and softened her tone even further. Sierra, I'm sorry. We didn't ask for your permission, but Cindy's pregnant, and her morning sickness is really bad. She said the sunlight makes her feel better. I had friends who were pregnant. I knew pregnancy could make women act strangely because of hormonal changes. Uncle Mark came out looking frustrated. What is going on here?

Everyone gets pregnant, but no one behaves like this. She can't just take over your room. Cindy needs to move out of there, I quickly intervened. It's fine, Uncle Mark. Uncle Mark had always been protective of me, no matter what happened. I didn't want to cause tension between him and Aunt Linda, so I said, Really, it's okay. I'll just sleep in another room.

Cindy's pregnant, and she needs the space more. Uncle Mark hesitated, looking conflicted. But this is unfair to you, I smile. We're family. It's not a big deal. Besides, where did you move my things? Aunt Linda replied, we put everything in the room on the far west side. The west room was the smallest in the house.

It didn't get much sunlight and had just one small window. It was originally meant for the housekeeper. Moving from the best room to the worst one didn't sit well with me, but seeing Uncle Mark's troubled expression made me let it go. The day I signed my first big contract at work, at work, I stopped by the house in the afternoon to grab some documents. I thought about asking Aunt Linda if she'd like to celebrate with me over dinner. As I approached their bedroom door, I overheard Aunt Linda speaking to Uncle Mark.

What are we going to do? Cindy says if we don't get Sierra out of the house soon, she'll never let us see our grandson. We just need to wait a little longer, Uncle Mark replied. Wait for what? Cindy hasn't even let Jason sleep in the bed these last few days. Aunt Linda was panicking. And what about the medicine? We've been giving it to Sierra for over three years, and she's still perfectly healthy.

When is she going to die? The hairs on my neck stood up. What medicine? Aunt Linda wanted me dead. It suddenly made sense. Since moving back home, my health had deteriorated. I used to be so resilient, but now a simple breeze left me feeling feverish. I'd been suffering from nosebleeds and losing hair for no apparent reason.

How can you not see it working? Uncle Mark revealed another horrifying secret. How do you think her parents died? We drugged them to death, a chill ran down my spine. No wonder my parents' conditions had suddenly worsened when they were previously stable. Aunt Linda sighed. Should we increase the dosage, Uncle Mark thought for a moment before nodding. That might work.

Her parents lasted a year before they died. It's been three years for Sierra, so no one will suspect anything if she goes now. We should have just had someone run her over years ago. Instead, we've dragged this out, and now she's almost spent all her parents' inheritance. What are you worried about? It's all going to be ours eventually, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My mind went blank. Uncle Mark's kindness had all been an act.

They'd been poisoning me this entire time. And my parents' deaths, were they truly accidents. I stumbled downstairs in a days, passing through the living room, where Cindy was watching TV. She called out in an unusually friendly tone. Come over here for a moment. I was still in shock, but I managed to respond, Do you need something, Cindy? I've been thinking, she said, her voice sickly sweet.

It's not right to kick you out now that you've just started working. What's going on? Before I could figure out her intentions, she continued, were not really family, after all. Jason is already supporting the entire household. Since you found a job, you should help out. I think it's only fair for you to start paying $10,000 a month for living expenses. You'd have to pay even more if you were renting somewhere

else. So, that's her game. I smiled coldly. That's perfectly fair, Cindy. But I guess you didn't know this estate is actually mine. 0.5. Cindy froze, staring at me in disbelief. What are you talking about? That's impossible. It's true, I replied. Not just the house, but all the expenses around here, food, utilities, everything, have been paid by me. Before I moved back in, Uncle Mark had been taking care of the estate and would request maintenance money every month. It was always something, the lawnmower had broken, or the walls needed repainting. As a student, I didn't know much about these things, so I gave him whatever he asked for. Since I returned, I'd taken on all the household expenses. Thinking back, I realized I needed to check

though. So there I was in some random city park on a scorching afternoon, desperately trying not to melt into the pavement. Out of nowhere, my neighbor Pablo, this Uruguayan guy who moved to the states like a million years ago, plops down next to me on the bench. He takes a slow sip of his mate, gives me that intense look, and goes, listen up, kid. I got to tell you something about going into business with friends. Trust me, it'll knock your socks off. Honestly, I was rolling my eyes inside, figured he was about to lecture me on.

never mix money with friendship. But girl, let me tell you, the drama he spilled was a full-blown telenovela I did not see coming. Turns out, Pablo and his long-time buddy Felipe, both from Uruguay, tight as can be, started this business together after landing in the U.S. They had their wives on board, the whole dream team vibe, like something out of a success story. Everything was going peachy, until Felipe shows up one day looking like he'd seen a ghost and drops a bomb. My wife's been kidnapped. They're demanding a ransom. Pablo, trusting the guy with his whole heart, grabs the business funds, yep, the business funds and hands it over, no questions asked. Picture me there, mouth half open like, dude, you sure about that? But hey, that's the kind of loyalty

we're talking about. A few days after coughing up all that cash, Felipe disappears. Poof, no calls, no text. no nothing. Just a big, fat question mark hanging over Pablo's head, what the heck just happened? Fast forward 27 years, yes, you read that right, and the truth finally surfaces in the wildest way. Pablo is strolling through some mall, probably queen center or something, and bumps into Felipe's wife. You know, the alleged kidnapped victim. She's all like, kidnapped? Are you kidding me? I was never kidnapped. Boom. My jaw dropped. So, get this, no kidnapping, no ransom, no shady guys in ski masks. Just a giant, messed up lie. The wife then spills that Felipe vanished 27 years ago, right after that so-called rescue mission. Rumor has it he took off back to Uruguay with an old flame and a secret kid. By now, Pablo's world is basically flipped upside down. So he starts investigating, wanting to confront Felipe. And guess who he finds instead?

Maria, the mother of that hush-hush kid. She's the one who tells Pablo that the money didn't go to any ransom. It went straight to Uruguay for a life-saving surgery. Yep, that child was Felipe's son from a fling ages ago, desperately sick, needing a transplant to survive. And here's the real kicker, Felipe died on the operating table, donating his kidney to save that kid. I kid you not. The same guy who lied and ran off used his own organ to keep his child alive. No epic romance with Maria or anything, just the

responsibility of a father who messed up big time and tried to make it right in the most extreme way. So there I am, basically reeling from all this drama, when Pablo goes in for one more gut punch, you know what kind of business Felipe and I actually ran. We were legal consultants, for hospitals, clinics, and insurance companies. Basically the folks who decide the fine print on who gets an organ transplant and how the system is managed. And it wasn't exactly patient-friendly, Pablo just looked at me with this heartbreak in his eyes, then said, see why I'm warning you about business deals with friends? And you never really know what a person's up to, not even your closest pal. Let me tell you, I walked away with my

throat dry and my heart heavy. You ever think you've got it all figured out. Like, you're living the life people only dream about. That was me, once upon a time. High school sweetheart, fairy tale romance, prom king and queen, the whole damn cliche. I was 16, fell for her so hard I practically left a crater. She had this laugh, man, like sunshine and fireworks had a baby. I was all in, no life jacket. We went to the same college, same friend group, same cramped dorm parties where cheap beer made everything feel like an indie movie. I thought we were building a future. After we graduated, we moved and together, tiny apartment, mismatched furniture, ramen noodle dinners, but it was home. Five years in, I got down on one knee and asked her to marry me in the

middle of the park where we had our first date. She said yes, crying like it was the happiest day. of her life. I thought I'd won the lottery. What I didn't know, what I couldn't possibly have imagined, was that for the last 12 months of our engagement, she'd been hooking up with my best friend. Nick. Freaking. Nick. Yeah, that Nick. My ride or die since middle school. The dude who helped me pick out the ring. The guy I asked to be my best man. My literal brother from another mother. And he was out here playing house with my fiancé behind my back. I still can't figure out how he looked me in the eyes every day and smiled.

He was planning the bachelor party and sleeping with the bride. That's some Shakespearean betrayal. It's one thing to get stabbed in the back, it's another to get hugged while the knife is going in. The day of the wedding, the sun was shining like the universe approved. My mom was crying, my dad was shaking my hand too hard, and everyone was buzzing like this was the best day of their lives. I felt like a balloon about to float away from happiness.

My suit was sharp, the venue looked like something off Pinterest, and I kept thinking, this is it, man. You're doing it. You're about to marry the love of your life, and in a way. I was right. Something life-changing was about to happen. not the way I expected. Ten minutes before the ceremony, I was fixing my tie in the mirror when the door opened. Nick walked in. Pale as a ghost. Eyes like he hadn't slept in

days. He looked like he'd seen someone die. I laughed nervously, like, bro, you okay, and he just sat down. Didn't say a word at first. Then he looked up at me, dead serious, and muttered, she's not coming. My brain froze. My heart dropped like someone kicked it off a cliff. I stammered, what do you mean, not coming? Did something happen? Is she okay? He couldn't meet my eyes. That's when it clicked. You ever have one of those moments where your gut just knows. No facts, no evidence, just this primal instinct that screams something is seriously wrong. That was me. Every hair on my body. he stood up. I pressed him. He just sat there. I wanted to throw him across the room. Five minutes

later, she called me. Crying. Not cute crying. Ugly crying, the kind where the words come out between gasps like your soul is leaking. She said she never loved me the way I deserved. Said she and Nick didn't plan it, but it just happened. That being with him felt right. That starting a life with me would have been a lie. I dropped my phone. She left me at the altar. For my best man. Now, let me be real with you, I wish I could tell you I held it together.

That I walked out of that venue with my head held high and gave a rousing speech about self-respect. Hell no. I crumbled. Hard. I ghosted everyone, packed my crap, and left the city like it had burned down. I cut off friends, quit my job, shut down emotionally like someone pulled the plug on me. I ended up in this dingy one-bedroom above a laundromat. The ceiling leaked when it rained, and the neighbors argued like it was a sport.

I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't even look at my reflection without wanting to punch the mirror. I freelanced to pay rent, writing blog posts, doing random tech gigs, delivering food some nights. Anything to stay afloat. I cried. A lot. Like, more than I ever thought a grown man could. It was dark. Real dark. But sometimes, rock bottom's the best damn foundation to build on. Something changed in me. I got angry, not petty angry, but the kind of fire that fuels you. I realized they didn't just break my heart, they tried to break my future. So, I started building. I was broken, broken, but I had time and pain.

That's a dangerous combo if you use it right. I built this simple project management tool, nothing fancy, just a better way for freelancers to organize work. No one cared at first, but I pushed every single day. I pitched it in forums, tweeted at strangers, cold emailed tech blogs. Slowly, it started getting traction. Then, out of nowhere, it exploded. Two years later, my company had over 50 employees. We closed a series B funding round.

Investors actually listened to me. I wasn't rich, rich, but I had money. I had options. I had peace. And then, guess who showed up? It was a rainy Tuesday night. I was scrolling in. Instagram, half watching Netflix, half ignoring life.

That's when the message came in. Hey, I know it's been a long time. I've been thinking about you. Would love to catch up. I sat there, blinking like the words were written in another language. Her profile was public. I clicked it, don't judge me, and wow. She looked, different.

Not bad, just, warn. Like life had. dragged her through a couple dumpsters. No more picture-perfect captions. No cute couple selfies. Turns out, Nick cheated on her with some barista. Emptied their joint account and dipped. Just vanished. She had this whole meltdown on social media, cryptic quotes, teary-eyed selfies, passive-aggressive updates about healing and finding herself. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash. And now, she wanted to, catch up. Part of me wanted to ignore it. Just delete the message and move on. But another part, the curious, wounded, still a little

bitter part, wanted closure. So I replied, we set a time. A coffee shop downtown, the kind with too many plants and overpriced lattes. When I saw her again, it felt like watching a movie from a life I used to live. She smiled like none of it happened. Like we were just long-lost friends. She even reached out like she expected a hug. I didn't move. We sat down. She started talking, how much she missed me, how she regretted everything, how life had been cruel to her. She looked older. Not in a bad way. Just like time had hit her hard and fast. She asked if we could try again. Not even romantically at first, just friends. Maybe see where it goes. Said she'd changed. That she understood now what she threw away. I listened. I really did. But then I told her the

truth. I told her I was happy now. That I wished her peace, truly. But I couldn't go backward. Some things, once broken, just don't get fixed. You can't unshatter glass. You can't rebuild trust like it's Lego. Once you stomp on someone's heart, there's no rewind button. She cried. I didn't. I stood up, told her to take care, and walked out.

I remember the air felt lighter, like I'd been carrying her ghost on my shoulders for years and finally let go. Closures weird. Sometimes it comes in a letter. Sometimes in therapy. And sometimes, life just gives you a front-row seat to karma-kicking ass. She and Nick betrayed me. But I got out. I rebuilt.

I found myself in the ashes. And now? I don't need revenge. I don't need, I told you so. I've got peace. And honestly, that's better than any apology. I-25 grew up in what I thought was a solid, closed-knit family. I have a younger brother 24M and a younger sister 22, and we were always pretty tight.

My parents 52M, 50 raised us to value family above all else, and for most of my life, I believe that. We spent every holiday together, had Sunday dinners, and even when I went off to college, I still made it home most weekends. We all went to the University of Minnesota, it was kind of an unspoken tradition. If you had told me a year ago that I'd be where I'd be where I'd be. I am today, I would have laughed in your face and told you to lighten up. But life has a funny way of slapping you upside the head when you least expect it. I met Stacey 24 during my sophomore year of college. She was beautiful, smart, and funny, the kind of person you could talk to

for hours and never run out of things to say. We hit it off immediately and started dating. By the time I proposed to her last December, I thought we had the perfect relationship. She's She said yes, and we started planning our wedding for the following summer. The future seemed bright. We were going to settle down in Minnesota, start a family, and live happily ever after. But then April happened. I came home early one day. Just a normal, random day.

No warning signs, no gut feeling, nothing. I walked into our apartment and found my brother in bed with my fiancé. My brother The one person in the world who was supposed to have my back no matter what And there he was betraying me in the worst way possible I don't remember much about what happened in those first few moments

My brain shut down My vision blurred I remember yelling though I remember feeling like my chest was going to explode And then I left I just walked out because if I had stayed I honestly don't know what I would have done. Stacey tried to come back a few days later, all teary-eyed and apologetic.

But not because she regretted what she did. No, she told me that she had fallen in love with my brother over the years and that she was sorry, but that's where her heart was. She packed her things, moved out, and that was that. I blocked her. I blocked my brother. As far as I was concerned, they were dead to me. At first, my family took my side. My parents were furious, my sister wouldn't speak to my brother, and he was effectively banned

from family events. It didn't fix anything, but it helped. I needed space to heal. And slowly, I did. Then, out of nowhere, life threw me a lifeline. My boss called me into his office and offered me a chance to lead the company's office in Chicago. Apparently, things were a mess over there, and they wanted someone from headquarters to whip things into shape. It was a huge opportunity, one I never would have even considered before all of this.

But suddenly, Minnesota didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a crime scene. So I said yes. This was all happening in early November, and the plan was to move after Christmas. I figured I'd tell my family at Thanksgiving, spend one last Christmas with them, and then start fresh in a new city. It seemed like a good plan. But, of course, my brother and X had to twist the knife one last time before I could leave. I showed up for Thanksgiving, not expecting anything unusual. The whole extended family was there, so the driveway was packed with cars. I didn't even notice my brother's car among them. But the second I walked through the door, I saw them. I saw the them, my ex and my brother, standing there, chatting with my aunt like nothing had ever happened.

I froze. My brain just short-circuited. Then my aunt called for my mom, and suddenly, I was being ushered into the living room. I sat as far away from them as possible, but I couldn't help but notice how the rest of the family, my sister included, sat closer to them. That's when my mom started talking. She said that what my brother and Stacy did was wrong and awful, but that she hated seeing the family torn apart. That I needed to find it in my heart to forgive them. My brother and Stacy both started in on their apologies, but I wasn't interested. I put my hand up to shut them up and turned to my sister instead. I asked her if she agreed with our mother. If she really thought I should forgive them. She had tears in her eyes, but she nodded.

That hurt. Then I turned to my dad, hoping, praying, that he would at least be on my side. But he just said yes. Firmly. Without hesitation. That was the moment I realized I was alone. I stood up and walked out. I heard people calling after me, but I didn't care.

I got in my car, drove to the nearest McDonald's, and ate the worst Thanksgiving meal of my life while trying to figure out my name. next move. By the time I finished my sad, soggy fries, I knew what I had to do. I needed to cut them all off. All of them. I had savings. I didn't need their support. And the best part? They didn't even know where I was moving. The next week, I turned in my phone because I was still on my parents' plan. Got my own plan, my own number. Doubled my phone bill, but it was worth every penny to make sure they couldn't reach me. I blocked them on social media, called my boss, and told him I wanted to move to Chicago early. Found an apartment, talked to the landlord, and was able to move in by December 15th.

Just like that, I was gone. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just a clean break. And for a while, it worked. I settled into my new life, started exploring the city, and felt like I got. could finally breathe again. But, of course, my family couldn't leave well enough alone. Last night, I got an Instagram DM from a new account, one that I'm almost certain belonged

to my mom. She asked why I had moved without telling them, said that the family missed me and loved me, and that I still needed to make time for Christmas. I stared at that message for a long time. And then I responded, you only have one son now. I am no longer part of this family. blocked her new account. Locked down my profile even further. And now. Now I'm looking into changing my last name. I want to erase every trace of my past, start fresh, and build a life where I don't have to be reminded of what they did to me. I don't know what the future holds, but I know one thing for sure, I'm done looking back. Chicago is my home now, and I can't wait to see what this city has in store for me. Here's to new beginnings. As a college freshman I had planned to come home for

Thanksgiving. I had two younger siblings. Grace who was in the sixth grade and Liam who was in the eighth grade so I knew my parents were always busy and I would only call them once a week. I am the older sister being that I'm 18 years old. I had called my parents the previous Thursday to let them know that I would be home the following Thursday, which would be Thanksgiving day at around 10 a.m. Thursday came and I left Penn State main campus at around 7 a.m. to be home in Philadelphia at around 10 a.m. When I got home I was expecting to be greeted by my annoying younger siblings, but instead there was dead silence and a note on the dining room table that said, dear Alice, Your father and I decided to move with your brother and sister to Florida. You can come and go

from the house anytime you want, because we have no plans on selling the house. Love mom, I I felt like I was punched in the stomach. I immediately called my mother and heard the generic voice message, we're sorry, but the phone number you're trying to reach is no longer in service. Goodbye. I then called my father and received the same message. I was confused and perplexed. I felt completely abandoned.

I called my Aunt Reba and she apologized to me and said her sister, who is my mother, gave her very little details other than they wanted to start over in Florida and they didn't leave an address. I've never heard anything like this before. My parents weren't mad or anything else at me the last time we talked. I looked throughout the house and it definitely looked like they had moved out with no intentions of coming back. I called the police and about a half hour later a detective had showed up. I told the detective that when I came home for Thanksgiving break there was a brief note that my family moved to Florida and my parents gave me no information on where they moved to or an explanation on why they had moved.

The detective asked permission to search the house, which I allowed. The detective said, I searched the house and found no evidence of a crime, because of that there is nothing that we can do. I replied, how do you know they weren't kidnapped or killed or something? The detective replied, since you have a note with your aunt corroborating the story, what's the crime? On top of that there's no evidence in the house that a crime had occurred. I said, well, they gave me no notice and no reason why they were.

they left. The detective said, your 18, their legal obligation towards you is over. Though this situation sounds extremely harsh and a bit cruel, there has been no crime committed, the detective then asked, what about your parents or your siblings' email or social media accounts? I said, the social media accounts were taken down and I haven't gotten an email response from any of them. My dad has his own IT business, which is almost impossible to track down because he doesn't advertise. The detective said, well, I hate to say, say this but it sounds like your parents wanted to separate from you. Call me if you come across any evidence that would suggest a crime had occurred. The detective had left and here I am 18 years old

during Thanksgiving and I'm now completely alone. I look online to try to find similar situations to what is happening to me and I find nothing. Also, I have to assume that I'm going to be completely cut off financially. I'm going to have to get a full-time job, but at least my loans will keep me in college. I'll transfer to one of the branch campuses to make it easier to find a job and it would be a bit cheaper living in this house versus paying rent. I asked my neighbor if they had seen or heard anything. My neighbor replied, there was a big unmarked truck that came, with guys who were putting stuff from your house into the truck. I thought your parents were doing fall cleaning and donating old stuff away. I hadn't seen either of your parents since last week,

I thought to myself whoever those movers were knew not to take any of my stuff which my parents or someone else had to tell them. I thought through these events that had transpired to see if there was anything that I had missed. I called my brother and sister's school district and the principal said the receptionist received a phone call from a person who identified herself as my siblings' mother who said they were moving to Florida, where my siblings were going to be homeschooled. I thought to myself either the detective was right where my parents wanted to completely disassociate from me or this is a very carefully orchestrated crime. My mother hadn't worked in months so I couldn't question her employer. I always thought my father's job was boring and I never

really paid attention to who his clients were so I don't know who to contact regarding my father. I'm now completely out of thoughts on what to do or what avenues I should pursue. I went back to the main campus to finish the semester. I got a part-time job at the university and a part-time job at a bar. I would check my emails constantly and still no response from any of my family members. My parents had paid off the mortgage so I would just have to pay the utilities and the taxes. It's now December and the fall semester had finished. I drove back to Philadelphia with a car which probably wouldn't last much longer. My parents' house was in the desirable historic district whose property value had skyrocketed over the years. The area was also prone to break in so I

always felt weary about sleeping in the house alone. Being a female, it was extremely creepy going into my parents' house with no one else being there. I unpacked all of my things from college. I was hoping that one of my friends would move in with me and pay rent. As nighttime approached the quietness of the house became more and more creepy. It's now 2 a.m. and I'm upstairs in my room playing with my phone because I can't sleep. I hear an unsettling sound from downstairs. I swore I heard the front door close. Then I heard the most terrifying sounds imaginable. I heard footsteps on the hardwood floors. I become paralyzed and fear I know I have to do something. I pull myself together and quietly sneak into my closest. I lay down and put the

spare sheets and blankets over me. Then I hear click-clack as the footsteps come up the stairs. I can't see this person so I don't know who this person is. I try to hold my breath so whoever this unknown person is can't hear me. My heart jumps out of my chest as the unknown person walks towards the closet door. The door opens and I stay as still as a tree. The unknown person then turns and walks away, then the person does a quick look through the other rooms upstairs and then proceeds to leave the house. After hyperventilating I call the police. They take down my statement and kind of brush me off, because whoever came into the house most likely had a key because there were no signs of forced entry and also there was nothing taken from the house.

I had to go to Home Depot in the morning and change out all the locks. It took me forever and I spent money I really didn't have, but at least I felt safer now. The odd thing was is whoever the person was probably had a key and the person went straight to my room. If it was one of my family members I would think they would see my car and at least call my name out. I had to suspect that the unknown person who was in the house was there to harm me, which made me all the more terrified of being in the house alone. I went the next day to the ASPCA to adopt a dog. I now felt a little better with having, Buster, in the house. I would hope you would at least bark to scare the intruder away. I wish I knew where in Florida my parents moved.

It's such a big state that it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack without knowing at least the city. Everything is just so weird. First, my parents abandoned me and now someone might be looking to harm me. I couldn't rule out that something sinister happened to my family, but someone would have to know the passwords to their social media accounts to be able to disable them as well as other personal information. But why? Was the question I kept asking myself. Why would someone want to harm my parents or why would my parents abandon me?

Either question was plausible and I'm not sure which one I preferred more of either being abandoned or that someone harmed them. My Aunt Reba was the only family I had left. I would visit her about once a week. I tried to brainstorm with her all the possibilities of what was going on. I'm also not completely naive. The only person who is not a suspect is me if something did happen to my family, but what would be the motive? Then it dawned on me. How could I be so stupid. My parents' house is worth a half million dollars which is a hell of a return on an investment considering they only spent $30,000 for it. If I'm dead then someone could lay claim to the house. I thought it was odd how my Aunt Reba doesn't reach out to me unless I make the

effort and she never told me about my parents moving until I approached her. But what would be her motive she has no kids and she's a retired school teacher so she has a pension and she has a house that's as equally as valuable as my parents. Logically, she would be able to figure out all of my parents' passwords, which more than likely my mother probably inadvertently had told Riba over the year. She also has a key to my parents' house. I'm now convinced that my aunt is responsible for my parents' disappearance and now it's time to catch the rat. Jealousy and greed were the only motives that I could think of why Riba killed my family. With the new locks, I gave Reba a spare key to the house. One of my old shady boyfriends lent me his stolen handgun.

First, I want to approach Reba and let her know that I was aware of her scheme and she needed to tell me where my parents' bodies are buried. So I went to Reba's house. I left my gun at home. She answered the door and I said, I know it was you. You killed my parents. She replied, dear, I would never hurt anyone on top of killing my own sister and her kids. I said, don't play games, you are the only logical person. Tell me what you did to my family and I'll give you time to leave before I call the cops. She said, dear, please leave now. Those are some serious allegations you're alleging. I said, fine, but eventually I'll figure out what you did to my family, then I left. Christmas is only two days away and I have never felt so depressed and lonely. I try to

fall asleep but I can't. As I start to doze off, once again I hear that terrifying sound of someone coming through the front door. I'm as equally as scared as the last time this happened. I grab my gun and hide in the closet. I'm an 18-year-old girl who's never harmed anyone. I don't know if it's my aunt, one of her goons, or someone else. I hear the click-clack sounds of steps coming up the stairs. I am now shaking in terror in the closet. I hear the footsteps come to my room then towards the closet. I have the gun pointed at the closet door. As the footsteps approach the closet door, I unload six shots and yell out in pure horror. Then I hear a big thump and I cautiously open the door. It's my aunt. I see that one of the bullets hit her in the forehead.

I feel a sense of relief and a sense of sadness. I'm now hysterically crying in a fetal position on the floor. I think to myself two months ago I was just an ordinary freshman. Now my family is presumed dead and I just killed my aunt who is their probable killer. I call the police and the coroner comes and takes my dead aunt away. I'm questioned down at the police precent. The police aren't as understanding as I thought they would be. I told them of all the circumstantial evidence I had against my aunt.

The police questioned why I gave my aunt a key and also my aunt had no weapons on her when I shot her. Also, there was no proof that my family is dead or that my aunt had anything to do with their disappearance. I left the police station and I was told that I would have to meet with the Attorney General for further questioning and possible charges. I went to my parents' house and fell asleep on the couch from pure exhaustion. It's Christmas Eve and I'm extremely depressed. I doze off into a deep sleep and I'm awakened by knocks on the front door. I figure it's the police so I open the door. As I open the door I see my parents then everything goes blank.

I wake up on the couch with my family hovering over me. I must have fainted I thought to myself. Then I say, Mom, Dad, Grace, Liam am I dreaming? My mother says, no honey it's us. Then I say, where were you guys? What happened? My mother responded, well, we decided that we had enough of everything in Philadelphia so we went to Florida. I said, why didn't you tell me? Why did you leave me? My father then said, well, honey, we wanted you to grow up. You were too reliant on us for everything. I said, what? I'm an 18-year-old kid. All of my friends are like me. My father then said, compared to me and your mother when we were your age, our parents had much higher expectations and we weren't allowed to be just 18-year-old kids. Then I said, said, I killed Aunt Reba last night. I thought she had killed you guys. My mom said,

What? And then she broke down and started crying. My father said, oh my God. What did you do? Why? Then I started to cry hysterically and I couldn't talk anymore. My parents moved back to Philadelphia. The district attorney offered me a plea deal for killing my aunt. I would have to spend at least a year in prison and spend 10 years on parole. I accepted the deal and I was expected to report to prison on January 2nd. I thought to myself it was like I made a deal with the devil in exchange for getting my family back. Prison was as miserable as I thought it would be, but at least my family visited me once a week. I have served six months so far and it feels like 20 years. At least my parents were visiting today, I thought. I was happy to see my parents.

As backwards as their parenting style is at least I had them. We were finishing up our meeting and my mother said, Sorry dear we are not going to be able to visit you for a while. I said, why? Then my mother said, well with the money we got from your aunt's house we are going to travel the country. Then it hit me. My head starting to spin like I was in a different galaxy.

I regained my senses and said, you fucking snakes. You planned this from the very beginning. You lined everything up to make me think. Aunt Reba killed you guys for your house, but instead you set me up to kill her. You gutless rotten snakes. I hate the both of yous. Then they both facetiously grinned at me and my mother said, Goodbye, dear, I woke to the creek of my own floorboards. Not the kind of sound made by a stray breeze or the scuttle of vermin, no, this was deliberate. A sound made by a human footfall. Someone was here again, intruding in what had become my eternal sanctuary and my endless prison.

The house I built with my own two hands. It was a day like any other in the existence I've carved out for myself. Or, rather, the one that was carved out for me when I drew my last breath in this very place. I suppose I should begin at the beginning. After all, what else do I have now but time? Endless, cruel time. The house, my house, was born in 1902. Built with nothing but my blood, sweat, tears, and love.

My wife and I had dreamed of a home together, a place where we could live and grow old. She'd wanted a wraparound porch, a sturdy hearth, and tall windows to let the sun pour in. I gave her all of that, though she never lived to see it. Consumption took her a year before the last nail was driven. I built through the grief, every plank and beam a testament to my devotion. The house became her monument, a way to say, see, my love. I finished it for us. I threw a housewarming party and showed the finished product to all the men and women that

helped me make this possible. Without them I would have never finished this build during my lifetime. I was incredibly grateful for them. More than they would ever know. Little did I know this night would become my last. My heart betrayed me during the celebration, and I fell to the floor of the great room I had so lovingly sanded smooth. There was no warning, no fanfare, just the sudden silence of a body that had given everything

it had to give. I had thought, in that moment, that I'd finally get to see her again. I was wrong. Instead of light and warmth, I awoke to the darkened house. My house. I was tied to it in ways I hadn't understood at first. I could feel it, the grain of its wood, the cool stone of the foundation, the sturdy iron of the nails.

It was as if my spirit had seeped into every fiber of its being, making the house and I won and the same. At first, I didn't mind. The thought of staying here, in this place I built with her in mind, seemed comforting. But as the decades rolled by, I realized the truth, I was not staying for her. I was trapped. I couldn't leave, no matter how much I wanted to. And she was not here.

The first family who moved in after my death was kind enough. They treated my home well, hatching leaks and replacing loose boards. They didn't even mind when the occasional draft swept through a room, or when the piano played a single note in the dead of night. I hadn't meant to scare them, only wanted to make myself known. To be acknowledged. To connect. But time has a way of souring kindness when it's met with loneliness.

I've watched generations come and go, some caring for my house and others abusing it. The ones who harm it, the ones who pound nails into my walls for cheap decorations or let vermin infest the pantry, those are the ones I cannot abide. I've driven them out when I could, turning their own fears against them. doors, whispering their names, shattering their delicate trinkets. They always leave, though they never take their things. My house, my rules. I've tried to show myself before, to step into the form I once wore in life. It takes energy, more than I often have, and the results have always been disastrous. My features are hazy, my form flickering. Once, I managed to speak.

Hello, I had said to a man, a brusque fellow who smoked cigars in my parlor and let his dog urinate on my floors. He screamed and bolted from the house that same night. So now I wait. Watch and hope. Today, a new family arrives. A young couple with a baby and a dog. The child's laughter echoes through my halls, and for the first time in years, I feel a pang of something warm. Nostalgia hope. The dog bounds through the rooms, its nails clicking on my floors, sniffing at every corner. It pauses once, looking straight at me, or at least where I linger in the foyer. It barks, its tail wagging furiously. I wonder if this time will be different. If they'll be different. Perhaps they'll understand. Perhaps, this time, I can find a way to connect without

sending them running. I'll start small, a breeze through the curtains, a gentle creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Maybe I'll hum a tune, something my wife used to sing as I hammered away. If I can reach them, maybe, just maybe, they can help me find her. Or help me find peace. The couple seemed different. They moved through the house with a certain reverence, as though they could sense the weight of its history. Late one evening, I saw them light a candle in the center of the dining room table. The man carried a Bible, worn at the edges, and the woman whispered words I couldn't quite catch. I drifted closer, drawn by curiosity.

If there's a spirit here, the man said, His voice steady but soft, we're not here to harm you. We want to understand. To help. Show yourself, if you can. The flame of the candle flickered, and to my astonishment, the table seemed to glow faintly, as though drawing me toward it. I hesitated.

Was this a trick? A trap. But the pull was undeniable. Summoning my strength, I allowed myself to coalesce. My form shimmered into being, faint and fragile, like a reflection on rippled water. The woman gasped, but she did not flee. The man's eyes widened, but he stayed rooted in place. Can you speak, he asked, his tone gentle.

I, my voice wavered, thin and ghostly, but it was there. I built this house. I am bound to it. Who are you? My name is Michael, the man said. This is my wife, Sarah. We want to help you. Tell us your story, I hesitated.

It had been so long since anyone had spoken to me without fear. Could they truly help? Could they understand the depth of my sorrow, my longing? The candles flame burned steady, and their faces, illuminated in its glow, held no malice. Only patience. Only kindness. And so I began to speak to these people I told them my story, what happened in the last years of my life, describing to them. the love for my wife and my life's work in building this house, and my life ending in this house after

I had nothing left that I needed to do, they seemingly understanding explained that they want to help out and find a way to help me pass on, for which I was extremely glad. They brought in a medium, a priest, and a shaman. The medium could see and speak to me, even hear me, but could not help me pass. The shaman could do nothing. Completely useless. Between them all the priest is the one that had the idea that he was going to exorcise me explaining that it would work. So I agreed to try. The exorcism began in the parlor, the same room where I had collapsed all those years ago. The round table was set with candles, their flames flickering in the dim light.

The priest stood firm, Bible in hand, murmuring words in Latin that stirred something deep within me, a resonance from my church-going days, when I still knelt beside my wife in the pews. The table began to glow, its edges shimmering with a light that seemed to pull at me. I was drawn toward it, unable to resist, compelled by the force of the priest's chance. And then, the glow changed. The table's surface rippled, folding inward like water in a whirlpool. A portal opened, vast and dark, revealing a scene that froze me where I stood. Towering spires of jagged stone jutted into a smoky, blood-red sky.

Rivers of molten lava carved paths through the barren, charred ground. Everywhere, there was fire and torment. Creatures stalked the landscape, giant, horned beasts that tore into screaming souls, devouring them or flinging them into the flames. It was a vision of hell, raw and visceral, and it was meant for me. No. I cried, my voice trembling with panic. Stop this.

I can't go there. The priest continued his incantation, unwavering, his voice rising above my protests. The couple stood behind him, there faces a mix of determination and pity. You don't belong here, the woman said, her voice soft but firm. This isn't your place anymore, this is my house. I roared, the walls shaking with the force of my desperation. I built it with my hands. I poured my soul into it.

You need to move on, the husband said, though his voice faltered slightly. But I couldn't. The pull of the portal grew stronger, dragging me closer to its fiery mall. I thrashed against it, my incorporeal form wavering as I fought to resist. I won't go. I shouted. You can't make me, in my panic, I sought refuge. If I couldn't remain as I was, perhaps I could find a vessel. Desperately, I lunged toward the husband, trying to enter his body. But his spirit resisted, pushing me out with a force that left me reeling. I turned to the woman, only to find her equally fortified. Even the priest,

steeped in his faith, was impenetrable. My gaze darted around the room, searching for another option. The dog barked frantically, its eyes wide as it sensed my turmoil. I hesitated. I didn't want to live as a dog, bound by instincts I didn't understand. Then my eyes landed on the baby, strapped in its rocking chair upstairs, peacefully asleep. My heart sank. The thought of taking this innocent child's life horrified me. But the pull of the portal was relentless, the flames licking at the edges of my being.

I had no choice. It was that or oblivion. With one final, desperate surge, I lunged toward the baby. The house shuddered violently as I poured every ounce of my will into the attempt. For a moment, everything went dark. Then, silence. Downstairs, the priest closed his Bible and exhaled deeply. The couple embraced, their faces alight with relief.

It's over, the priest said. The spirit is gone, but I wasn't gone. I was upstairs, bound now to the baby's fragile form. I couldn't move or speak, trapped within the confines of the child's tiny body. The rocking chair creaked gently as I settled in, a strange calm washing over me. I smiled. I had escaped the portal, the fiery hell that had awaited me. For now, that was enough.

Georgia, 1873, five years after the ratification of the 14th Amendment, eight years since the last Confederate surrender. The Reconstruction Act had papered the South in Federal Blue, but the rot beneath festered. The Fulton County Stockade, a repurposed cotton mill ringed by oak stumps and rusted track lines, housed, incorrigibles, union loyalists, carpet-baggers, and the odd freedmen who'd forgotten his place. Tonight, it housed something else entirely. The wagon creaked to a halt, its iron-rimmed wheels sinking into mud the color of dried blood. Chains rattled. A whip-crack snap split the air, not to punish, but to announce. Christ a mighty, hissed Deputy Willis, thumbing the sweat off his brow. His Remington Model 1858 trembled in its holster.

Ain't no man that size. That's, that's a goddamn spectacle. The thing that clambered down from the wagon wasn't a man. Not anymore. Eleven feet of corded muscle and scar tissue stretched over a frame that seemed to warp the lantern light, casting a shadow that swallowed the stockade's limestone walls. His skin, black as pitch under the moon, gleamed with sweat and old blood, his masters, they said.

The shackles around his wrists were shepherds. ship anchor links, the kind used to more steamers in Savannah Harbor. They won't against the earth-like funeral drums as he walked. Name, barked the warden, a skeletal Mississippian with a voice like a saw blade. His ledger lay open, inkpot trembling. The giant stared. His left eye was milk-white, blinded by a lie burn. The right held a flicker of something older than rage.

Ain't got one, he rumbled. Gullah Creeole thickened his words, the saltwater drawl of the Carolina Lowcountry. Masa Kalmi Brick, for I mash I'm, laughter sputtered among the guards, nervous, jagged. Deputy Willis spat a stream of tobacco. Brick, huh. Fidden. Venna need a bigger hammer when the boys in the yard get thirsty. The yard.

A half-acre pit of Georgia clay, studded with the stumps of oaks felled for rebel ramparts. The prisoners, Irish railroad saboteurs, chalked a horse thieves, a one-armed buffalo soldier who'd gutted his captain overback pay, pressed against the stunts. decades in a fence. Their eyes glinted in the dark. Brick, the warden repeated, scribbling. Charged with murderant Reginald Devon, Esquire, of Charleston. Sentence, death by Hanjin, pending federal review. He smirked. Yankees love their paperwork. Reckin you got a month, for they not a rope. Till then, welcome to Hell's Ice House. The cell, Brick's new home was a former smokehouse, its walls still greasy with decades of hog fat. The floors

sloped toward a drain clogged with rat bones. Deputy Willis tossed in a tin plate of hoaxaxe and sowbelly. Supper, he sneered. Eat up, Samson. Tomorrow, you dig, they put him on the levy crew. Dawn broke over the Chattahoochee River, its bank swollen with spring runoff. Twelve prisoners, ankles shackled, hacked at the mud with shovels while rifle trusty convicts watched from horseback. Brick's tool was a felling axe, its handle splintered. Move, you lazy near. The guard slur died as Brick turned. The man paled, spurred his mare back. Leave, I'm B. Hollis, called the overseer, a grizzled Arkanzan with a star revolver on his hip.

Big UN's got a date with Mr. Gallows. Let the river waste, I'm, Brick swung the axe. Each strike split the earth like a skull, the rhythm sinking with the chain gang's workchance. O.L. Riley, O. Heavy hammer, O. Mossa in the big house. Riley in the holler, a Choctaw man to Brick's left, face-poxed with smallpox scars, muttered in broken English, they say you kill master.

How, Brick didn't pause. He tried a brand me. Took the iron. Put it, cross he eyes. He scream, then he don't, the Choctaw grunted. Good. White men steal our land, our children. You steal his breath.

Yikoki, thank you, a rifle but slammed into the Choctaw's ribs. Shut your hole, Taffy. Hollis snarled. Next word, I mail your tongue to Oklahoma. The fight, it came at sundown. The yard's hierarchy was Darwinian, the strong eight, the weak starved. Bricks rations, triple portions, out of fear or fascination, drew eyes. A pack of Irish roughnecks, their faces still soot-stained from burning Sherman's rails,

circled him at the water pump. Lads, their leader, a red-bearded carryman named Finnegan, grinned. Let's see if the Big N asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk R's hearts as soft as his mass as skull. Brick drank slowly, his back turned. Finnegan lunged, Schiff carved from a bed slat aimed at Brick's kidney. The giant moved. Later, witnesses would argue over what happened.

Some swore Brick's fist caved Finnegan's chest, ribbed splintering inward to puncture the lung. Others said he grabbed the Irishman's head and squeezed until an eye burst like a muskidine. Truth was Messier, Brick caught the Shiv mid-throat thrust, snapped the wrist bone, then drove the wood sliver into Finnegan's throat. The Irishman drowned on his own blood, gurgling a banshee's curse. Anyone else? Brick roared, Finnegan's body dangling from his fist like a cornhusk doll. The yard froze.

The buffalo soldier, name unknown, rank long stripped, nodded once, respect glinting in his one good eye. The Choctaw spat at Finnegan's corpse. Deputy Willis raised his Remington. Drop him, brick. Now, Brick let the body fall. He done dropped already, he said, turning away. The fever, no one warned him about the swamp rot.

Three days later, Brick's left leg swelled hot to the touch, the old brand on his calf oozing yellow pus. Malaria, the guards called it. An asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk are sickness, Hollis jeered. He'll be dead by Easter, the Choctaw brood apultus, crushed willow bark, river moss, stolen whiskey. Here, he grunted, smearing the paste on Brick's leg. My people's medicine. Better than white man's poison, Brick's fever broke in waves. Hallucinations clotted him, his mother's voice singing, combia, as the auction block loomed, De Vaughan's blood bubbling

between floorboards, the thud of the gallows trapdoor. Why help me, he rasped. The Choctaws face hardened. You fight. You live. That is enough. The noose, they came for him on a rain slick Thursday. Federal orders execute sentence of death upon the Negro known as Brick et al, for the crime of murder. The gallows stood in the yard, its hemp rope looped like a waiting serpent. The prisoners watched silently. The Buffalo soldier hummed Shenandoah. Last words, the warden asked, smirking. Brick stared past him, toward the river. Ain't afraid, he said. Dunn seen hell already. It white, and it burn. The trap door dropped, and the road rope snapped. God damn it, the warden screeched. Hollis. Fetch another rope, chaos erupted.

The Choctaw lunged, tackling a guard. The Buffalo soldier seized a rifle, bayonet flashing. Brick, sprawled in the mud, roared, a sound felt more than heard, and surged upward, snapping the hangman's platform like kindling. Bullets tore the air. Brick's fist found Hollis's jaw, shattering it. The deputy screamed died as Brick hurled him into the stuccade wall, spine cracking like a dry twig. To the river, the Buffalo soldier bellowed, tossing brick a stolen axe. They ran. Men fell, the Choktaught took a mini ball to the gut, cursing in Muskogee as he bled out. The Buffalo soldier made it halfway across the Chattahoochee before the sharpshooters found him. His body sank, pulled down by the weight of his chains. Brick alone reached the far bank,

axe in hand, blood in his teeth. Behind him, Fulton County burned. Ahead, freedom. Maybe. Or just another master. But for now, he ran. Author's note, the Fulton County stockade was real. In 1873, it held 128 prisoners, mostly black men arrested under vagrancy laws, in a 24-by-24-foot room. Six died of disease, the rest were leased to railroads. The, Buffalo soldier, references the 10th Cavalry, deployed to subdue Plains' tribes post-Civil War. The Choctaw's Pultus mirrors traditional Muskogee Remedies. The guy who kissed me wasn't my boyfriend. That much I knew for sure.

The kiss was too intense, too desperate, too, wrong. Nathan hadn't touched me in months. Not since the night everything changed. Not since the accident. He tried to pretend everything was fine, like he could still love me, like we could still be that perfect couple we used to be. But he couldn't look past the damage. He said my eyes haunted him.

He said they were lifeless now, empty like the night I went blind. You didn't have to do it, he said once, cold and sharp. I never asked you to save me. I had stepped in front of the car. That's the truth. He would have died if I hadn't. But that didn't matter anymore. Not to him.

Not to anyone. After that fight, things unraveled quickly. We screamed at each other until we couldn't scream anymore. He told me he was done. That he was sick of carrying guilt that didn't belong to him. That he wanted to move on. Without me. It was raining when he threw me out.

I had nowhere to go. I curled up behind our apartment building, soaked to the bone, shivering, hugging myself like that could hold me together. And that's where it happened. The next morning, I woke to the sound of sirens. The alley was taped off, buzzing with voices, cops, noise. Two men were dead. The officers told me I might be the only witness.

Miss Carter, one of them said, what did you see? I'm blind, I replied quietly. I didn't see anything, they nodded like they understood. But they didn't. No one did. He's called the wraith, another officer said. A vigilante. Targets people who slipped through the cracks.

Unconvicted criminals. If you remember anything, anything at all, you have to let us know, but I didn't have anything to give them. The truth is, just stepping outside had become a monumental task. My world was a tangle of shadows and sounds, and that night, it had rained so hard I could barely think, let alone listen. I'm sorry, I kept repeating. I'm sorry, that was when I felt hands around my waist. Warm, firm, intimate. I gasped. My phone slipped from my fingers. Who were you talking to, sweetheart? He pressed against me, chest to back, like he belonged there.

His hands skimmed beneath my nightgown, fingers brushing skin that hadn't felt warmth in too long. People say it feels better when you can't see, he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and heavy. Is that true? His voice was so close to Nathan's it made me dizzy. But it wasn't him. Because Nathan was dead. I killed him. An hour earlier, he told me I had to go. That his new girlfriend would be moving in soon.

He said it like it was no big deal. Like we hadn't been together for years. Like I hadn't sacrificed my eyesight for him. You don't get a medal for that, he said. I didn't ask you to be a martyr, I begged. I cried. I reminded him of who we were, what we had. But he was cold, detached.

Tired. I'm over it, Alina. People break up all the time. Even married couples split. You think we're special. I stood there, blind and broken. listening to the man I once thought would never leave me say he was done. He was everything to me.

My home. My safety. My future. And suddenly, I had none of those things. When I ran out of money, spending it all on surgeries, medications, failed treatments, he stopped pretending to care. He stopped trying. The guy who used to cry when I got paper cuts now rolled his eyes when I bumped into furniture. At a dinner with college friends, I knocked over a wine glass.

He didn't help. Didn't laugh it off. He snapped in front of everyone. Jesus, Alina. That bag costs more than your rent. Can you try not to ruin everything? Everyone went quiet. I laughed it off, pretending I wasn't dying inside.

But that moment was a crack in the dam. It all came flooding out after that. one night he threw my suitcase into the hallway told me to go i stumbled over the couch trying to grab it he didn't even flinch then he tossed a few business cards at me like he was doing me a favor maybe get a job at some trashy bar he sneered you're already good at opening your legs might as well get paid that was it I don't remember choosing the knife I just remember the rage I remember the feel of it in my hand

I remember the screaming his mine and then the silence the metallic smell of blood hit me like a wave it brought me back I didn't think I didn't plan

I just acted I scrubbed the floor I hid his body under the bed I washed my hands, changed clothes, answered the phone like everything was fine, I told myself I could pull it off, that no one would find out. But then, the door opened. And now, someone else was here. The man held me like he owned me, like we've been lovers forever. His kisses were urgent, claiming, I couldn't breathe. If he wanted to kill me, he could have done it already. He had me. I was blind. Helpless. Easy. So why was he kissing me? I stepped back and felt

something sharp under my foot. I screamed. Blood pooled around me. Easy, he said, crouching down. There's broken glass. Why aren't you wearing shoes? I didn't answer. My whole body was shaking. relax he said brushing my foot you're safe with me safe with a stranger in my house he lifted me into his arms like i weighed nothing and carried me to the couch i felt the world spinning beneath me what do you want i asked my voice a rasp he didn't answer instead he leaned close and whispered you're not alone anymore alina i've been watching that chilled me more than anything. He knew my name. I saw what you did, he said. My blood froze. He knew. I saw him hurt you, he continued. You did what had to be done. I swallowed hard. Are you, the wraith? I asked. He chuckled. People love giving names to things they don't understand. Did you kill those men in the alley? I punished them, he said simply. They deserved it. My hands trembled in my lap. What do you want from me?

He sat beside me, gently lifting my hand to his lips. To help you. Protect you. Love you, I jerked away. This is insane. You think anyone else is coming to save you, he said quietly. You think the world cares, tears streamed down my face. I didn't mean to kill him, I whispered. You did what he forced you to do. You survived. His fingers brushed my cheek. I've seen you cry yourself to sleep. I've heard him yell at you. I've watched you walk into walls, struggle to cook, burn your fingers trying to light a stove. You're stronger than anyone knows. How long have you been watching me? Since the night in the alley, the silence stretched. Then he added, I won't leave you. Not like he did. I didn't know what to think. Was this

my savior, or a new monster. He stood up. I'll come back tomorrow. Think about what I said, and then he was gone. I sat there, blind and bleeding, trying to figure out if I was free, or trapped again. But one thing was clear, the world thought I couldn't see. But maybe, just maybe. I was finally beginning to understand. The end. The world spun beneath an artificial twilight, cities glowing like galaxies captured in glass. Skyscraper stood like monuments to human ambition, their neon veins pulsing with electricity, fueling a civilization that believed itself at the pinnacle of progress.

But unknown to most, their success was not entirely their own. Unseen and unacknowledged, vampires walked among them, their intellect honed over millennia, their once predatory instincts now funneled into fields such as engineering, medicine and political strategy. The war had ended centuries ago, and survival had demanded an uneasy alliance. But history, like a scar, never truly faded. Whispers of the coal still echoed in vampire circles, a ghost story for the immortals. It had been humanity's last stand, a desperate rebellion against their nocturnal overlords. They had stormed hidden layers, dragged vampires from their

crypts, and burned them beneath the merciless sun. The numbers had been against the vampires, and for a time, extinction had seemed inevitable. But exhaustion had claimed humanity first. Their infrastructure had crumbled under the weight of their war. Their own survival hung by a thread. And the vampires, ever the pragmatists, had seen the writing on the wall. So they had offered a truce. In exchange for their knowledge, their solutions to problems human beings, humanity had deemed unsolvable, half of the world's blood donations would vanish into the night. No more stalking in alleys. No more screams in the dark. Just an agreement. Progress, exchanged for an unspoken sacrifice. It worked, for the most part. Not every vampire had embraced

this new order. Not all of them had found solace in boardrooms and laboratories. The thrill of the hunt had been bred into them for generations, and not all could abandon it. Every so often, a rogue emerged. A vampire who tired of bureaucracy and diplomacy. A creature who longed for the old ways, for the taste of warm, pulsing life slipping away beneath their grip. They became predators, serial killers stalking the unwary, leaving behind husks of what had once been vibrant human lives. The media crafted careful narratives. They spun the deaths into tales of human crime, of tragic accidents. And behind the scenes, the vampire elite sent their own enforcers to clean up the mess.

To them, rogues were not simply killers, they were liabilities. Reminders of what vampires had been. What they could still become. Mara, a young journalist with a relentless curiosity, started to notice the patterns. The way certain deaths mirrored old folklore. bodies drained of blood. Defensive wounds that suggested the strength of something far beyond human. She followed the breadcrumbs, deeper and deeper, until she uncovered traces of the cull, ancient records buried under layers of forgotten history. The truth clawed its way

into the light. Her search led her to Lucien, a vampire who had been instrumental in drafting the peace accords. An immortal who had witnessed the war firsthand, who had seen the brink of his kind's destruction and chosen another path. He had met humans like Mara before. The ones who couldn't leave well enough alone. The ones who had to chase the truth, no matter the cost. There was something about her, though, something that reminded him of the war. Of how close they had all come to oblivion. We don't hunt anymore, Lucian told her one evening, as they stood in his high-rise office, the city sprawling below them like a sea of artificial stars. Because we realized we needed you more than you needed us.

Then why are people still dying, she challenged, placing her research in front of him. Lucian exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Because some of us remember the taste of fear, he admitted. And they miss it, he never tried to stop her from publishing the story. It didn't matter. The world, lulled by centuries of peace, dismissed it as paranoia. A conspiracy theory for the terminally skeptical. But the vampires listened.

And in the depths of the night, enforcers sharpened their weapons, preparing to hunt their own in the name of the future they had built. The world continued turning, progress accelerating. But in the quiet spaces, in the places just beyond the reach of electric light, the old hunger waited. Because peace was never the absence of violence. It was merely the will to keep it restrained. All right, no more beating around the bush, let's get into it. My name is Ivan. I own a renovation business, I do all sorts of construction work, and in my free time,

I'm a DJ. One day, my girlfriend and I were arguing about life, just typical relationship stuff. You know how it is, sometimes you just don't see eye to eye. I needed some fresh air, so I decided. to take a walk and clear my head. She just wasn't understanding what I was trying to tell her. As I was walking and thinking about why we just couldn't get on the same page, I noticed something in the distance, a gray 4x4 SUV with dark tinted windows and big rims.

The license plate was unfamiliar. They cut their headlights and started slowing down. Immediately, two thoughts ran through my mind, robbers or gangsters. I had no clue what to do. Should I run? Should I scream? Should I just act like I hadn't seen anything? Before I could decide, the car came to a complete stop, right in front of my elderly neighbor's house.

And I thought, what? The mafia dealing with old people now, the couple who lived there were the sweetest, most peaceful people you could imagine. The man, Juan, was 71. His wife, Monica, was 68. They had one son, Janiton, but he wasn't around, he was living in Russia. He had originally moved there for work but ended up falling in love with a Russian woman and staying. He visited his parents whenever he had vacation time, but most of the year, they were alone. Anyway, back to the SUV.

Three guys got out. Two of them looked like they were in charge. I could tell because they were barking orders at the third guy, telling him he needed to prove himself, show he had the guts to do whatever it took to be accepted. I watched as they walked up to the elderly couple's house, kicked the door in, and stormed inside. Since Juan and Monica were older, they weren't able to scream for help, and on top of that, the intruders immediately covered their mouths. Juan, trying to stay calm, said, If you want money or valuables, take whatever. you want, just please don't hurt us. We're old, that's all we have. I was frozen in place. Their mistake. Leaving the door wide open. I crouched behind some bushes in a neighbor's yard

across the street, peeking through the leaves, barely breathing. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The two higher-ups turned to the new bee and said, show us you belong. Prove you have the guts and the mindset of a killer. His face was already covered in blood from the beating they'd given him. He and Monica were crying, begging for their lives. The newbie hesitated, like he wasn't sure he could go through with it. But the other two pushed him harder. You backing out. You don't want to be powerful. You don't want to prove you've got what it takes. Remember how they used to step all over you. You want to go back to being nothing, that seemed to flip a switch in his head. His whole demeanor changed, and

suddenly, he was shouting, I won't be stepped on again. I'm powerful. Yes, yes, I am powerful, and I'll prove it. He turned to Monica and started stabbing her. Over and over. I lost count. Maybe seven times. Maybe eight. I don't know. One, I was too far away. Two, I was in shock. Three, I literally couldn't move. Four, I didn't have my phone to record. Five, if I made a single noise, I was dead. It was beyond anything I could have ever imagined. All this, just to get a position in some gang.

Just to earn respect from guys who had treated him like dirt. He kept stabbing her long after she was already dead. Then he started cutting off her fingers, slashing her throat, gouging her eyes. gouging her eyes out. My whole body was shaking. Juan sobbed, please, please, stop, but the guy wasn't listening. He was completely gone. Then he turned to Juan and said,

Your turn, old man, he pulled out a pair of pliers and started cutting off Juan's fingers, one by one. The poor man was screaming, but no one could hear him. Or maybe no one wanted to. I wanted to stand up, to run, to do something. but my legs wouldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed. After that, the guy stabbed Juan twice more, just enough to weaken him.

Then he took out a hammer and started smashing his legs, over and over, until they were completely deformed. The pain was too much, and Juan passed out. But they shocked him back awake with a stun gun, just so he could suffer longer. When they finally decided he'd had enough, they slid his throat and kept mutilating him, like they were playing with a toy. That guy wasn't just proving himself, he was enjoying it. Somehow, I managed to snap out of my shock. Bit by bit, I forced my body to move. Then, without even thinking, I took off running. I sprinted straight to the police station

like my life depended on it. When I got there, I couldn't even talk. The officers sat me down, gave me some water, told me to breathe. Calm down, you're safe now. Eventually, I got the words out. I told them everything. When we arrived at the house, the scene was straight out of a horror movie. Their bodies were mangled beyond recognition. Their hands and legs had been severed and arranged in an X shape, one on top of the other.

The stench was overwhelming. Neighbors gathered around, asking what had happened. My girlfriend showed up, her face pale. I was completely out of it. The whole neighborhood was crying. We weren't just neighbors, we were a family. My girlfriend grabbed my arm. Are you okay?

Did they hurt you? You look so pale, I told her no, I'd been hiding. That I saw everything, but I couldn't do anything, I'd been too paralyzed with fear. A detective showed up to get me. more details. A neighbor mentioned he had security cameras, though they were a little far from the house. Still, when they checked the footage, they could clearly see the SUV, and they could see me jumping into the neighbor's yard to hide. A few days later, they found the SUV, burned to a crisp. Inside, they left the hammer they'd used to break Juan's legs. A message. Slowly,

things settled down, until they caught the killers. I got to. called in to identify them. It was them, no doubt about it. When they were arrested, Yonatan came face to face with them and said, my only goal in life now is to kill you all. They laughed in his face. But their laughter didn't last long. They were sentenced to death. Even with justice served, our neighborhood was never the same. A deep, unsettling silence took over. The kind of silence that haunts you. I kept asking. asking myself, why? Why kill innocent people just to earn a spot in some gang? A cop explained to me how these groups work, names, symbols, rituals. Killing is how they prove their worth.

I went home, still shaken. My girlfriend just looked at me. She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. I visited Yonatan. He was a wreck. He didn't want to talk to anyone, just sat in silence. I told him he should see a therapist. Told him I was going to therapy too, I needed to erase those images from my mind. A month and a half later, I made a decision, I was leaving. I sold everything, said goodbye to my neighbors, to Yonatan, knowing I'd never see them again. Six months later, I was still going to therapy. Still trying to move forward. All I can say is, there are plenty of ways to earn your place in life. But real success doesn't come from violence or crime.

That's my story. Thanks for listening. The end. I'm going to tell you a story that sounds so wild, you'd swear it was straight out of a gritty TV crime drama or some twisted action movie, but nope, this happened for real, right in a quiet corner of deal, a town that most people would never imagine being the setting of a full-blown bloodbath. Buckle up, because this one gets real dark, real fast. It all went down at 17 Gantz Hill, this fancy private mansion tucked behind tall hedges and an ornate gate. You know the kind, immaculate lawns, polished marble floors, the sort of place that screams money. Well, that night it screamed something else entirely, carnage. By the time cops arrived,

the scene was absolute chaos. Picture it, blood smeared on the tiles, bullet casing scattered like confetti at a twisted party, and bodies everywhere. Not just one or two, seven of them. Some were half covered by police tarps, others lay sprawled in gruesome displays of violence. It looked like something from a war zone. These weren't the bodies of innocent partygoers or unfortunate victims, though. According to Deal PD's Sergeant Royston, every single one of them belonged to a criminal gang. But not just the any gang. These guys specialized in wearing disguises, were talking Hollywood-level masks, full-on prosthetics, wigs, makeup, the whole package. They weren't robbing gas stations in ski masks.

No, they had a whole setup like they were prepping for a Broadway production. Royston gave a statement that left reporters practically speechless. They had some sophisticated disguises on, he said. Very realistic and very believable. We even had two white members who passed off as black men. That was how detailed the prosthetics were. They weren't amateurs. Turns out, these guys had been scoping out 17 Gantz Hill for weeks, if not longer. They didn't just storm in guns blazing.

No, they had installed hidden cameras all over the house, living room, bathrooms, bedrooms, even the basement. They had been spying on the people who lived there, studying routine. teens, vulnerabilities, everything. It was high-tech creepiness at its finest. The mansion had multiple residents, including the homeowner, his elderly mother, a housekeeper, and a 31-year-old gardener who lived in a little annex in the back. And it was that gardener who triggered the panic alarm from the basement when he saw something he wasn't supposed to. By the time cops rolled up, two of the gang members had already slipped into disguise mode, telling officers they were

caregivers assigned to the elderly mother. That might have worked if the cops hadn't been tipped off already. One look at their gear, their ID badges, and their general vibe, and D.LPD knew something was off. What happened next was quick, brutal, and final. A shootout erupted, one of those lightning-fast, adrenaline-pumping exchanges you only see in movies. cops returned fire without hesitation, and when the smoke cleared, all seven disguised criminals were dead. Royston didn't mince words. They were all good shoots, he said bluntly.

These people weren't medical staff. They were a gang of criminals. They wanted to die. Officers tried to defuse the situation, but when you're fired on, you don't get the luxury of second-guessing. None of the officers were injured, which was frankly. amazing given how outnumbered they were at first. The mansion's occupants were shaken but unharmed. But the questions were just beginning. A full-blown investigation is still underway.

Like always, all officers involved in a shooting have been placed on paid suspension pending a complete internal inquiry, standard protocol. But Royston made it clear, nobody's losing sleep over taking out a bunch of heavily armed, identity-shifting home invaders. Now, here's Here's where it gets even weirder. According to a forensics team member on the scene, several of the dead criminals had fake IDs. We're talking some serious forgery here, plastic cards, embossed logos, barcodes, the whole thing. Some even claimed to be from a company called Hilsen Medical. Reporters reached out to Hilsen Medical for clarification, and their response was swift and furious. Andy Miles, who runs staffing for their Southwest Division, went on record

saying, Hilsen Medical does not conduct surveillance on patients. We do not spy on anyone. We don't install cameras in private homes. That's insane and criminal. All our staff are physically present when giving care, and every single one is accounted for. He went on to basically tear apart any notion that the criminals could have possibly been affiliated with them. This is criminal behavior that has absolutely nothing to do with us.

If anyone out there is impersonating Hilsen medical employees, they are doing so illegally and without our knowledge or consent. As if that wasn't disturbing enough, one of the dead gang members was identified as Dean Patel, a name that rang serious alarm bells. Dean Patel is a convicted felon from India with a rap sheet that reads like a nightmare, armed burglary, attempted murder, and even attempted rape. He served 11 years before being deported back to India. So how the hell did he end up back in deal, heavily armed and disguised as a black man?

Apparently, the guy smuggled himself back into the country through the Arizona-Mexico border. Somehow, with all the surveillance and immigration crackdowns, he still slipped through. The whole thing is like a jigsaw puzzle made of broken mirrors. Every piece just reflects another layer of insanity. Neighbors were understandably, shocked. One woman said she thought the gunfire was just kids playing with fireworks until she saw a swat van roll up. Another neighbor, a guy named Barry who walks his dog past the mansion every morning, said he'd noticed, a lot of strange vans and delivery trucks coming and going in the weeks before the raid. He just assumed it was home renovations or landscaping work.

The homeowner has declined to speak publicly, and honestly, who can blame him? One minute you're sipping tea in your multi-million dollar estate, and the next you're ducking behind a marble column while bullets fly and masked freaks with fake IDs try to kill your staff. And what about the Gardner? The 31-year-old guy who hit the panic button. Local news dubbed him a hero. He hasn't spoken to the press, but sources say he saw one of the disguised criminals messing with a wall panel where a hidden camera was placed.

That's when he knew something was very wrong. He ran to the basement, hit the alarm, and locked himself in the laundry room until police arrived. He's since been moved to a safe house while the investigation continues. So where do we go from here? Honestly, no one really knows. The cops did their job. The mansion is now surrounded by police tape. The coroner is busy identifying the rest of the gang.

And somewhere out there, someone had to have helped them get those prosthetics, that equestead. equipment, those fake IDs. Maybe even help them get back into the country. But for now, one thing is crystal clear, whatever the hell happened at 17 Gantz Hill, it wasn't just a robbery. It was something much darker, much stranger, and way more disturbing than anyone wants to admit. And that, my friend, is the kind of nightmare you can't just wake up from. The end. We had been driving for over two hours when the nightmare began. The anomalous behavior that would affect the area started as abruptly as a lightning strike. I felt strange and dissociated. Goose bumps rose all over arms as a smell like ozone filled the air, filtering through

the air vents in thick, invisible clouds. I am so excited to see this, my girlfriend Alice, cried happily in the passenger seat. Do you know I have never seen a full solar eclipse before? I glanced over, feeling nervous. Yet Alice didn't seem affected in the slightest. I wiped my forehead, clearing the trickles of sweat that had begun forming there. Do you smell that? I asked, changing the mood abruptly. Alice glanced over at me, the smile falling off her face in a space of a moment.

She shook her head. No, smell what, she said. I gave her a look of disbelief. The smell of ozone was so thick that I could almost taste it at the back of my throat. I repressed an urge to gag. I rolled down the windows. The breeze cleared out some of the smell, but I still caught hints of it even on the fresh currents of air that streamed through the car. All around us, the slit wrists of the sky shone a cyanotic blue, covering the earth like a suffocating blanket.

Mountain ranges loomed overhead, their sharp peaks hidden under fresh virgin snow. We planned to hike to the top of the highest peak before the solar eclipse began. This whole place is so, empty, Alice said, brushing a lock of blonde hair the color of platinum over her ear. I can't remember the last time I saw a house. She took out her phone. She flicked on the screen before heaving a deep sigh. And we get absolutely no service all the way out here. You better not get injured.

We won't be able to call for help. I laughed nervously, wondering if she had just jinxed us. You're the one who's accident-prone, I said, starting to relax slightly. The last trace of the foul ozone smell had dissipated by now. The clean mountain air and majestic landscapes rising all around us made the place seem like some kind of wonderland, far removed from the small sufferings and agonies of daily life. After another twenty minutes of driving, surrounded on all sides by dark forests filled with evergreens and shadows, we saw a faded, brown sign reading, T. O. Mount Bloodstone.

Five miles, finally. Alice cried triumphantly, her whole expression changing into one of excitement. I've never been here before, but Caitlin told me this place has the best view in the county. As the mountain loomed in front of us like a crouching giant, I could see why. It towered over all the surrounding mountains, it's sharp, white peak stabbing upwards in. into the blue sky like a spire. Steep cliffs of light brown stone surrounded it on all sides. Untouched forests of maple, oak and pine grew thick and vibrant on Mount Bloodstone's rocky soil. We still have four hours until the eclipse starts, Alice said, looking down at her cell phone.

The pavement suddenly ended, and the road turned into a snaking path of treadmarks and loose stones. My SUV handled it easily, but it was slow going. A few minutes later, we broke out through the forests and thick brush that carpeted the land. On the driver's side stood a cliff of jutting rectangular stones and a drop of hundreds of feet to a field of massive stones far below us if I accidentally veered off the narrow road. On the passenger's side, there were just smooth, vertical walls of hard granite. The parking area is supposed to be up ahead just a few miles, Alice said excitedly. I felt sickening waves of dread passing through my stomach as I glanced out the window

at the steep drop waiting only inches away on my side of the car. I wasn't exactly terrified of heights, and I had no problem going on planes or roller coasters, but situations like this always sent butterflies fluttering through my chest and caused my feet to tingle with anxiety. It was the idea of unsecured heights, the realization that an accidental jerk of the wheel or attire blowing out at the exact wrong moment could send us careening over the edge. You're not nervous right now. I asked.

Alice only laughed. Nope. I trust you, Brian, she said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. Her soft skin reminded me of swayed, unmarked and unlined. I still couldn't believe that such a beautiful girl wanted to be with me. We had been together for three months, and it had been one of that. happiest periods I could remember. I looked over at her with love, taking my eyes off the road for a moment. Suddenly, it felt like all of the tires exploded at once, and the car began

swerving wildly out of control, the steering wheel spinning wildly in my hands with a pull like a falling stone. Fuck! I cried. Alice screamed next to me, her voice filled with mortal terror. The SUV nearly swerved off the edge of the cliff when the metal rims caught on something and veered hard in the opposite direction. The vehicle swung hard into the rock wall on Alice's side. There was the tortured shredding of metal, the explosion of glass. Screams filled the car, but I didn't realize until later that they had come from my own mouth. My head flew forward, smashing hard into the steering wheel.

I immediately tasted salty blood as I bit my tongue hard. My vision went white and pain like lightning ripped its way through my heart. forehead. Time seemed to spiral away into something strange and alien. Stunned, I sat there, not knowing what had happened. Brian. Alice's voice rang out from next to me, sounding muted and far away. I felt someone shaking my arm gently. Brian. Can you hear me? I blinked fast, my vision starting to return to normal. My head felt like it was being pressed in a vice. A splitting migraine ripped its way through my skull. I groaned, raising my hands to my forehead.

I tried pushing on the sides of my head, as if I could keep it from splitting apart from simple willpower alone. After a few moments, the pain subsided slightly. I inhaled deeply and spit blood on the floor. Yeah, yeah, I'm okay, I said, though I wasn't sure how true that was. I pulled my fingers away from my forehead, seeing they were slick with blood. I glanced over at Alice, but other than a small cut across her cheek, she seemed totally unhurt. What the fuck just happened?

She shook her head, uncertainty crossing her eyes. We had an accident, she said, glancing down at her cell phone. She tried calling 911, putting it up to her ear. She gave me a grim look and shook her head. There's no cell phone towers anywhere around here. We're going to have to walk. to find help, or at least until we can find somewhere with cell phone reception. An accident? With what? The goddamned air. A rush of adrenaline pushed the pain away temporarily.

I flung the door open, stumbling out of the SUV. I looked back on the dirt road that spiraled around its way around the mountain and out of view, seeing the glint of steel. Confused, I started over in that direction. Wait. Alice yelled, quickly jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting to catch up with me. You don't look very steady on your feet yet. Maybe you should sit down, look at this fucking shit. I cried, pointing to what lay stretched across the road, dug slightly into the dirt. Alice's eyes widened in understanding as she saw it too.

Someone had set up a spike strip. The gleaming spikes of metal reaching up like claws still had pieces of my shredded tires caught on their sharp points. Someone's out to get us, I whispered nervously, glancing both ways down the dirt road. I had no idea what to do now. We were out in the absolute middle of nowhere. I didn't even know which direction to go, unless I wanted to try hiking back dozens of miles to the last gas station we had seen.

The SUV was blocking the narrow road. Further down, I saw a small dirt turnaround jutting off to the side. I drove the vehicle on its rims and pulled over, locking the doors. I grabbed my backpack and filled it with my water bottle, buck knife and the small amount of food we had in a car, mostly trail mix and candy. It wouldn't last long, I knew, and the water would run out even sooner if we didn't find a river or stream. I grabbed my Swiss Army knife and lighter and put them in my pocket, just in case of emergencies. Which way? Alice asked.

It was a good question. This road didn't just lead to the trail that wound its way to the top of Mount Bloodstone, after all, but also continued down the other side and potentially to civilization. I had no map, so I just shrugged and motioned forward. I think we should keep moving in the same direction, I said. The last gas station was at least 20 miles back that way. For all we know, there could be a house or another gas station much closer if we would. just keep going straight. It was weak logic, and I knew I was grasping at straws, but at that

moment, straws were all we had. Alice grabbed her backpack and, side by side, we started hiking up the winding road that ascended the steep slopes of Mount Bloodstone. We had been walking for nearly an hour when I noticed a strange smell wafting on the breeze. It was an overwhelming smell of ozone, thick and cloying, just like I had noticed earlier. I nearly gagged, bending over. Oh God, what is that? I asked. It's like a chemical factory is nearby or something. Alice just shook her head. From the nearby forest, a cacophony of branches snapping and trees falling started reverberating all around us. When I first heard it, it sounded distant. I looked at Alice at first, wondering if it was some sort of avalanche or earthquake on another nearby mountain.

Is that an avalanche? I yelled as the sound rapidly increased into deafening echoes of smashing and breaking, heading in our direction. A predatory cry rang through the mountains, full of power and energy, reminding me of the roaring of some ancient Tyrannosaurus wrecks. It shook the ground and mixed with the noise of destruction that came at us like a tidal wave. Alice and I started sprinting blindly up the road. She tried to say something, but I couldn't hear her over the ringing in my ears. Whatever was causing the racket veered away from us and deeper into the woods, angling itself straight up the side of the mountain.

I glanced back, seeing trees fall and branches crash. In the middle of this path of destruction, I caught a glimpse of something massive and alien. It slithered forward like a snake, hundreds of feet long. Its body was covered in soft layers of blood-red feathers that rippled gently in the breeze. A deep turquoise line of feathers ran straight down the center of its spine. From the top of its body, two enormous wings jutted out like the wings of some enormous dragon. They had soft, pink blood vessels spiderwebbing throughout the pale gray flesh. The wings beat at the air, and the enormous feathered snake slowly flew up,

it's sharp, spiked tail ripping more trees out of the ground as it slammed from side to side. Within a few seconds, it gains speed, flying up and over an enormous stone cliff and out of view. The world seemed to go silent as the beast disappeared, the echoes of its destruction rapidly fading off into the valleys below. Alice had gotten far ahead of me. I sprinted up to her. She turned to me, covered in sweat, her skin looking chalk white from terror. her. Did you see it? I asked breathlessly. She gave me a strange look. See what, she said. When the avalanche

started, I ran. I didn't see anything. I stared at her, Malthagap. You didn't look back a minute ago. There was some massive animal causing all those trees to fall. That wasn't any avalanche, I said. It sounds absolutely bats hit insane, but it looked. like an enormous feathered serpent. That's ridiculous, Brian, she said condescendingly. Are you sure you're not still suffering from hitting your head during the accident? Sometimes that kind of stuff can cause weird side effects. What, are you saying I'm tripping out? I'm telling you, I saw it as certainly as I see you here in front of me right now. It was moving away from us, and I didn't see its face, but I saw its body. It must have been two or three hundred

feet long, I said grimly, trying to convince her. Alice only sighed and glanced forward. We should keep going, she said. We're going to want to get out of here before nightfall. It gets cold up in the mountains in April. I've got my lighter, I said. I'll start a fire if we need to. I'm not worried about that.

I am worried about who the hell spiked my tires and why there's a giant snake slithering around the mountains, though, but deep down, I'm not. I knew Alice was right. Regardless of whatever weird shit was going on around us, we needed to keep moving. I didn't want to be here after dusk either, but not because I was worried about the cold or about running out of food and water. The solar eclipse is only a couple hours away, Alice said, glancing down at her phone. I really don't care, I said glumly.

I pulled out my water from the pack and took a long swallow. I held it up to the sun and realized with growing anxiety that my water was already mostly gone. Why do you think someone would put spike strips on this road? I asked. The thought had been bouncing around my head, growing louder and more insistent. I kept coming back to the same answer, to ambush, kidnap, or possibly murder them. The dark woods began to feel more sinister, the shadows deeper and darker. I kept my head on a swivel, looking constantly for any signs that we were being followed.

It's probably just kids or teenagers screwing around, Alice said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. I mean, who else would do something so dangerous and stupid? Someone who wants to rob or kidnap someone, or maybe a serial killer looking for victims, I responded, feeling sick. I had taken my buck knife out of my backpack and now held it tightly in my hand, my knuckles, white. I felt better just holding it, even though I knew it would likely do no good against someone with a gun, and that it would do absolutely nothing against that enormous snake if it came back. I looked into the wood stretching up the side of the mountain. Behind the nearby cluster of

bushes, a pale face peeked out, something that looked mostly, but not entirely, human. It had bone white skin and slitted pupils in its glowing yellow eyes. Its hairless face split into a grin. Two obsidian fangs swiveled out like the teeth of a rattlesnake. I stopped in my tracks, stuttering and pointing. Alice glanced over at me. She followed my finger and froze like a deer in the headlights. The creature hissed as it crashed through the bushes, its jaw unhinging and jutting forward like a snake's. Its black fangs looked as sharp as needles.

Its hiss grew into a gurgle. In the trees behind it, I saw more movement. more pale faces rising up, their slitted pupils radiating hunger and bloodlust. Run! I screamed, tearing off up the road without looking back to see if Alice would follow. On my left stood a drop of what must have been a thousand feet down to a babbling river far below. The only possible escape was forward.

I was already exhausted from my long hike, but I pushed myself forward with every ounce of my will until my head pounded and my vision turned white. I felt ready to collapse. I heard rustling from a thick cluster of brush up ahead. I tried moving past it as fast as I could. I saw a pointed, reptilian head emerge from the leaves, the bone-white skin cracking as its lipless mouth split into a wide grin. Its fangs swiveled out, surrounded by dozens of smaller black teeth shaped like needles.

It leapt at me, its scaled white body soaring through the air. I felt its sharp talons of fingers rip into my chest as it knocked me down to the ground. Kicking and swearing, I tried to bring the buck knife up into the thing's chest, but it grabbed my head and slammed it hard into the dirt road. My temple smashed into a rock with a cracking of bone. My ears rang as the world exploded into blackness. Everything spun around me and then I was falling into eternal nothingness. I woke suddenly, the migraine in my head now so bad that it felt like torrents of lava were

burning their way through my skull. I groaned, blinking quickly. The sunlight streaming down from the sky made me feel weak and nauseous. I turned, retching, but my stomach had nothing but water in it. I ended up vomiting up water with pink streaks of what looked like blood in it. I raised my head, looking around. Welcome to hell, buddy, a middle-aged man with a face like a bulldog said from a few feet to my right. I glanced over at him, seeing he was tied down with coils of rope to a rough-hewn wooden bench. I realized I was situated the same way. My hands and feet were tightly tied together.

I tried wriggling them free with no success. Dozens more people were situated in a line stretching off into the distance, each of them tied down to their own primitive table of rough planks. I looked to my left, expecting to see Alice, but she wasn't there. It was an elderly woman with an enormous purple bruise over her left temple. Her dark eyes fluttered as she stared at me with horror. More people were tied down on that side, too, all of them moving their heads and looking around with dead eyes and expressions of horror.

They got you too, huh, the old woman asked in a weak, strained voice. Her eyes looked far away, as if she were already on the other side of the veil and no longer existed in her physical body. Where are we? I asked. What's going on? You're in the town of Nocturn, the man on my right said, his fat face quivering with fear. From what I've gathered while I've been held prisoner here, those creatures worship the snake god, who only comes out during the solar eclipse. Apparently they feed him, and in exchange, he lets them drink his blood, which makes them immortal. They're not creatures,

the old woman said. Those are people. I looked at her askance. If the situation weren't so grave, I might have even laughed. Those are people. I said sarcastically. With the slitted eyes and the forked tongues and the fangs that come out like a rattlesnakes. I'm not sure our definition of people is the same thing.

The woman just shook her head. You don't understand, she said. When they drink the blood of the serpent, they change. They started just like you and me. They're cultists. I raised my head and looked around, realizing that we were situated in what looked like an abandoned town cut into the forest near the peak of Mount Bloodstone. In the center, there was a church whose walls had so many holes that they reminded me of Swiss cheese. The exterior may have once been white, but it had turned gray with age.

Vines and patches of dark mold grew over its wooden walls. Houses two and three stories tall were scattered randomly around us. Trees were growing through the walls of many, their branches and roots intertwining with the collapsing structures. All the glass of the windows had long ago been smashed and turned to dust. Many of the roofs had collapsed inwards. Bird nests and streaks of dirt covered the outside. Next to the dilapidated structures sat what looked like hundreds of cars. Some were apparently brand new, and others were so rusted and ancient that I couldn't even tell what make or model they were.

They all had ripped open tires. Nocturn, huh? I asked, Do these people actually live here? It looks like this entire town is about to fall into the earth. I tried to think, to formulate some sort of plan. I had no idea how I could possibly escape this apparently hopeless situation. Then I felt a lump in my pocket, suddenly remembering the Swiss Army knife I had put in there. I struggled with the rope, moving my hands as close as I could.

After a lot of effort, I managed to pull the Swiss Army knife free. The sky had begun to go dark. With horror, I looked up, realizing the solar eclipse had begun. The moon slowly ate the sun, and the sun. feathered serpent would soon be here to drink our blood in celebration. Dozens of the transformed snake people filtered out of the collapsing houses, the church and the surrounding forest as the eclipse rapidly progressed. They moved towards us in a circle. Among the crowd of monsters, I saw a few regular people with glassy eyes and the blank expressions of true believers. One of

them was Alice. She held the hand of one of the abominations, its sharp talons wrapped in her soft fingers. When she saw me looking in her direction, she grinned. The superficial charm and charisma was gone now, revealing the cold psychopathic determination underneath. My father, she said by way of explanation, looking at the abomination with clear love and adoration. He always said I would join the Holy Ones, that I would be able to drink the blood of Kolkulkin. I only needed to bring my own sacrifice for the God. So thank you, Brian. in. Your death will allow me to rise into immortality, into eternity, into the endless procession of eclipses and feedings that will follow. I was too stunned to speak. My teeth

chattered in terror. But I didn't get to think about it long, for at that moment, the trees in the nearby forest started falling with a crash. An overwhelming smell of ozone filled the air, marking the coming of the strange beast. I heard an ancient, predatory roar that ripped its way through the mountains like thunder, and then the feathered serpent's body appeared through a patch of trees. Its blood-red feathers shimmered in the mountain breeze as its wings beat the air. I quickly ran my small Swiss Army knife over the rope, trying to cut my hands free, but the rope was thick and the knife dull. It was slow going, and under the stress of the moment and the wailing of Kolkoken, it became hard to think. As the eclipse neared its climax,

the transformed snake creatures raised their heads to the sky. Their hissing grew louder as many voices mixed together, until it rose into a wailing scream. As if called by the keening of his many followers, Culkulin broke through the edge of the forest. He had eyes like pools of liquid flame in his enormous, monstrous face. Two nose holes like those of a snake were situated in the center of his face. His jaw unhinged, showing off hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.

that glittered like opal. Inside that gaping mouth, in the place of a tongue, I saw a hairless, screaming human face with black sockets for eyes. The visage hidden inside the mouth of Kolkoken radiated pure insanity and agony, and I wondered if this was the true face of the serpent god, the face that had lived through countless aeons and seen millions of eclipses. The feathered serpent lunged at the nearest of the more than 40 bound people tied to wooden planks in the shape of crude sacrificial tables. He gnashed his shimmering, opalescent fangs together with a crack like a gunshot. Then he carefully closed his enormous mouth over the first of the sacrifices, a young woman who screamed in terror as the teeth closed and around her

like a bear trap. The blood exploded from her body, covering the hairless, pale face inside the serpent's mouth with splotches of blood. The face twisted in a silent scream, reminding me of some sort of monstrous, eyeless infant. Its toothless mouth opened, hungry in waiting. Kolkulkin drank with a disgusting sucking sound. As his teeth pierced her vital organs, he let the warm crimson fluid stream into his hungry mouth. I had nearly gotten my hands free by this point. Panicked, I cut as fast as I could, accidentally slicing a deep gash into my right hand, but my adrenaline was so high I barely felt it. Finally, with a surge of hope so powerful it felt like my heart might explode, I felt the rope give way. I sat up and began

cutting the rope tying my legs down as Kolkoken moved closer, feasting on the next of the victims. The snake abominations had slowly gathered around the long body of the serpent god. As their fangs protruded like switchblades, I saw them biting deeply into the god's flesh and drinking the black i-court that leaked out from the many wounds. The sun flickered overhead like a dying comet as the eclipse neared its peak. The rope holding my legs gave way and I jumped up. An animal panic ripped its way through my chest as I looked back, wondering if Kolkoken would see one of his tributes escaping and give chase.

But the snake god was distracted by his feast of fresh blood. The eclipse had reached its zenith by this point, and the world had gone dark. The stars came out, twinkling like chips of white ice in the endless void. The wailing of the dying and the soon-to-die rang out like the cries of the damned from hell. I sprinted towards the forest. I was almost there when Alice stepped out from behind a tree, holding a large folding knife in her hand. Her eyes seemed as cold as empty space, as dark and lifeless as a black hole. You're not going anywhere, she hissed through gritted teeth.

The god must have his fill. She ran at me with the knife raised high. Instinctively, I jammed the Swiss Army knife out in front of me, stabbing her directly in the neck. She gave a cry like a strangled rabbit. With the last of her strength, she swung a wicked blade at my arm. With a burning agony, I felt it sliced deeply through the skin and muscle. Warms rivers of blood flowed down my arm, leaving ruby drops behind me on the ground of the dark forest. Alice collapsed to the ground, kicking and seizing. She grabbed at her throat, her eyes accusing and filled with a cold, furious hatred. I sprinted past her dying body. She choked on her own blood as it frothed and bubbled through the gaping hole in her throat. The cries of the dying and the predatory screaming of the serpent god followed me down the side of Mount Bloodstone as I ran in a panic, still shell-shocked and dissociated, my head still screaming with a burning migraine from the many injuries I had suffered this day. I ended up finding the dirt road and following it back the way I had come. I hiked as far as I could

that day until night fell. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and Mount Bloodstone as possible. I had a fire in the forest that night, and I kept a constant watch. I thought I caught glimpses of pale faces with slitted pupils peeking around bushes, but whenever I looked, I saw nothing. Perhaps it was just my sleep-deprived, exhausted mind suffering from too much stress and trauma. Perhaps. I ended up reaching a gas station the next day. I felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert reaching an oasis. With thanks, I looked up to the sun and the sky, glad to see its light burning. At that moment, I hoped I would never see another solar eclipse again. The story unfolds in the quiet town of Carnation, Washington, about 40 kilometers from Seattle. Christmas

is there, like most across the U.S., were times when families gathered, decorations were abundant, and people enjoyed the warmth of togetherness. But on December 24, 2007, something chilling happened that would turn this town upside down. Around 5 p.m., a harrowing call reached 9-1-1. A woman's voice, strained and terrified, broke through the line. She screamed for help but offered no detail before the call abruptly cut off. Despite the haunting urgency of the call, the police didn't immediately enter the property. The front gate was locked,

and nothing appeared out of place. Authorities, uncertain of the situation, opted to monitor the premises rather than force their way inside. The property, belonging to 61-year-old Judy Anderson and her 60-year-old husband, Wayne, lay silent as the day turned into night. Judy and Wayne were the embodiment of a wholesome,

middle-class family. They had three children, all grown, though information on their eldest daughter, Mary, is scarce. Their second child, Scott, was hardworking and had married his wife, Erica. Together, Scott and Erica had two children, Olivia, and Nathan. The youngest daughter, Michelle, at 29, hadn't found the same stability. She lived with her boyfriend, Joseph McEnroe, in a trailer on her parents' property, a rent-free arrangement that let them live comfortably.

Judy Anderson was a long-time postal worker and a respected member of the community. Her best friend, Linda Zill, worked with her and shared a close bond built over years of friendship. On December 23rd, as they wrapped up the day's work, Judy and Linda chatted about their holiday plans. Linda spoke of her family, Christmas festivities, and the decorations she was setting up. Judy, in turn, described her own plans to spend time with her grandchildren, gift-wrapping, and celebrating with the family, though Mary, her eldest daughter, wouldn't be able to join them. When their shift ended, Linda and Judy said their goodbyes, agreeing to meet on December 26th when the postal office reopened after the holidays. Linda arrived early that morning, expecting to see her friend before their shift. However, as the

minutes ticked by, Judy didn't show. Concerned, Linda approached their manager and requested to check on her friend. With permission granted, she drove to Judy's house. Arriving at the property, Linda was greeted by an eerily locked gate. Unable to drive through, she parked her car and walked to the house. She reached the front porch, rang the doorbell, and waited. Silence. She tried calling out, but the only response was stillness. The unease grew, so she tried the door handle.

To her surprise, it opened. She stepped inside, calling out for Judy, but no one answered. What she found next would haunt her forever. In the living room, sprawled lifeless on the floor, where three bodies, an adult man, a woman, and a small child. In shock, Linda immediately dialed 911, reporting what she saw. When police arrived at around 9.30 a.m., they discovered three more bodies in the house, all shot to death. Further investigation led them to a shed outside, where they found the bodies of Judean Wayne. Six lives had been brutally extinguished, and the nature of the crime pointed to a targeted,

deliberate act. Forensic experts quickly deduced that all victims have been shot with two types of guns, a 9mm-millimeter handgun and a .357 magnum. The date of death was established as December 24th, but the sequence of deaths revealed a twisted escalation. Judy and Wayne were killed first. Although their bodies were discovered in the shed, evidence suggested they had been murdered elsewhere in the house and later moved. Around the time the 911 call was made, Scott, Erica, Olivia, and Nathan had arrived. Their return to the house marked a tragic turn. According to police theory, Erica had managed to place the call while struggling to survive,

but she was too late. The call had only lasted a few seconds, enough for a brief scream before being cut off. Who could have carried out such a gruesome act? The Anderson family was widely respected, well-liked, and close-knit, with no known enemies or ongoing disputes, until Michelle Anderson and Joseph McEnroe arrived at the property during the police investigation. Their casual demeanor, lack of visible distress, and calm questioning about the police presence instantly raised suspicions.

The couple was quickly separated and questioned by detectives. Michelle and Joseph claimed they had last seen Judine Wayne on the evening of December 24th before setting off for Las Vegas to elope. They told the police they'd gotten lost on the way back and decided to turn around, only to find a police scene at the property. Their account was shaky at best, but Michelle's calm began to waver under scrutiny. When a detective asked why the police might be there, Michelle's response was chilling, it's not Joe's fault, it's all mine. As soon as I pulled the trigger, I knew. What had I

done? I'm a monster. Michelle's confession was stark and remorseless. She traced her resentment back five years, claiming to feel like an outsider in her own family. Her siblings were successful and praised, while she was the overlooked, criticized one. Her parents' disappointment, constant nagging about marriage, a stable job, and buying a home weighed on her. But the breaking point, she said, was the unpaid $4,000 loan to her brother Scott and her parents demand for rent on the trailer. They'd once let her and Joseph stay rent-free, but now, influenced by Scott and Erica, they wanted her to start contributing.

In the growing resentment and feelings of betrayal, Michelle began plotting to murder her family. She convinced Joseph to join her, securing two guns, a nine-millimeter and a .357-7-man. If all went smoothly, there would be no need for violence, but if her family crossed any line, she was ready to act. On Christmas Eve, they went to Judy in Wayne's house. Everything was cordial at first, but when the subject of rent and their future home came up, Michelle's anger boiled over. Wayne excused himself to wrap gifts in another room, and Michelle followed.

She attempted to shoot him, but her first shot missed, and her gun jammed on the second. In that moment, Joseph stepped in, killing Wayne, then turning on Judy. The couple quickly cleaned up the blood and moved the bodies to the shed. Their grim work wasn't over. Scott, Erica, and their children arrived, eager to celebrate the holiday. Tensions flared as Michelle confronted her brother, accusing him of betrayal. The argument escalated until Michelle opened fire, shooting Scott multiple times. Erica tried to escape, grabbing the phone and calling 911.

But Joseph noticed her efforts and quickly tore the phone from her, smashing it and disabling the line. He then shot Erika before turning to the children, killing Olivia first, followed by Nathan. The pair's confessions took two days. They led investigators around the crime scene, recounting every detail of the massacre and pointing out where each victim had fallen. By December 28, both Michelle and Joseph were charged with six counts of aggravated murder. The prosecution initially sought the death penalty, but the process dragged on for years,

with legal delays and plea bargaining stretching the trial until 2015. Joseph McEnroe's trial began on January 20, 2015. His defense attempted an insanity plea, painting him as a troubled man under Michelle's manipulative influence. During one courtroom outburst, he wept uncontrollably, allegedly haunted by his actions. Nevertheless, the jury found him guilty on March 25, 2015, sentencing him to life without parole. Michelle's trial began on January 25, 2016, and she took a different approach, showing little

remorse. She even uttered coldly, I lost my life for these idiots. It's not fair when describing her feelings toward her family. Her hatred for Erica, whom she felt had stolen her brother's affection, seemed to fuel her rage. On March 4, 2016, Michelle was also found guilty of all charges and sentenced to life in prison without parole. This tragic case shattered a seemingly ordinary family and left lingering questions about how deep-seated resentment can twist one's mind. Michelle's jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, and perception of betrayal drove her to a horrific act of violence that forever changed the lives of everyone involved.

The story of the Anderson family's murder remains a cautionary tale, a dark reminder of the deadly consequences that can arise from unresolved conflicts and suppressed anger. The story I'm about to share with you begins on a cold winter day in 2005, a day that seemed like any other, but for Paul Dyson and Joan Nelson, it would be the beginning of an unimaginable tragedy. This is the story of Joan's mysterious disappearance in the dark secrets that would eventually come to light about Paul Dyson, her fiancée, who, on the surface, appeared to be a loving, charming man, but had a history that no one knew about.

It all began on February 14, 2005, in the city of Hull, Yorkshire, England. It was a Monday, and for Paul Dyson, it started like any other workday. He woke up early, prepared some gifts for his fiancé, Joan, and they shared a peaceful breakfast together. They had been living together for a while now, in a cozy home they had bought together, planning their future. After breakfast, they dressed in their work clothes and headed off to their respective jobs. Paul went to work, spent some time at the gym, and then, after a long day, came back home, expecting to find Joan waiting for him as she always did. But when he arrived, something felt off.

Joan wasn't home. This was strange because she was always there before him. If she was going to be late, she would have called him, so Paul immediately began to worry. He tried calling her work, but they hadn't seen her that day. He reached out to friends and family, but no one had heard from her. In a panic, he jumped into his car and drove to her parents' house, hoping for some answers. But once again, no one had any information. At this point, Paul was desperate.

He didn't know what else to do, so he called the emergency services. Now, let's rewind a bit and talk about Joan herself. Joan Nelson was born in 1983 in Hull, England, the daughter of Jane and Charlie Nelson. Joan was known for being a shy, reserved, and sweet person. She had always been a diligent student and had big dreams of traveling the world and achieving great things professionally. But life had other plans for her. In 2003, when Joan was just 19 years old, she went out with some friends to a club in Hull called the Mint.

It was there that she met Paul Dyson, a 27-year-old doorman. Paul was charming, and within just a few conversations, he had Joan completely captivated. They hit it off immediately, and within days, they were a couple. They seemed like the perfect match, despite being so different from each other. Paul was outgoing, full of energy, and had a lot of friends, while Joan was quiet and introverted. it. But somehow, their differences complemented each other perfectly. Over time, their relationship blossomed, and the couple bought a house together for 110,000 pounds. They even started planning their wedding. The wedding was going to be small, just a few close friends and family,

but the honeymoon was going to be something special. They planned to spend several weeks at a luxury hotel in Mexico, a trip that would mark the beginning of their new life together. From all outward appearances, they seemed like a happy couple. Joan adored Paul, and Paul treated Joan with respect. But on that fateful day, February 14, 2005, Joan went missing without a trace. There were no signs of where she went, no phone calls, no messages. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. Paul, along with Joan's family, made desperate attempts to find her.

They went to the media, pleading for Joan's safe return. On February 16th, Paul appeared on local television, tearfully begging Joan to come home. Joan's parents did the same, urging anyone who might have information to come forward. But as the days went on, something began to seem off. The police started to notice odd details in Paul's behavior. In the interview, Paul made some strange gestures. His eye contact with the interviewer was minimal, and his tone was flat and robotic. While this could be a sign of someone who was grieving deeply, it also raised suspicion.

And then there was the moment when the camera zoomed in on his hands. Paul was gripping a handkerchief tightly, and the camera clearly showed deep scratches on his fingers. These weren't just ordinary cuts, they looked like marks from fingernails digging into his skin, as if he had been struggling with someone. The police began to wonder if these injuries were a clue. Had Paul been involved in something darker than just the disappearance of his fiancé? The more the police learned about Paul Dyson, the more unsettling his story became.

Born in August of 1974 in Hull, Paul was the son of Christine and Peter Dyson. As a child, there was no sign that Paul would grow up to be capable of such violence. However, his temper was known to be quite volatile, and he had a history of exaggerating his life's events. Paul often lied about his experiences, claiming to have done heroic things or to have been a victim of terrible circumstances. But perhaps the most troubling aspect of his character was his admiration for his father, Peter Dyson. Peter Dyson had a criminal past. In 1967, when Paul was just a child, Peter had

been convicted of murdering two people, including stabbing a man named John Dickinson, who was allegedly having an affair with Peter's wife. After serving time in prison, Peter had a car accident that killed another driver. Despite this, Paul seemed proud of his father's violent history, constantly exaggerating his father's criminal exploits to anyone who would listen. As Paul grew older, his behavior became more erratic. He had trouble controlling his anger, and his outlet for this aggression was kickboxing. He was so good at it that, at the age of 21, he became a reserve for the British team at the World Championships. But Paul's violent tendencies didn't stop at sports. In 1993, Paul began a relationship with a woman named Carrie Thompson.

They had great chemistry, but when they fought, Paul would lose control. He would chase her around the house, hitting walls, doors, and furniture. When Carrie tried to leave, Paul would physically restrain her. Eventually, Carrie became afraid for her safety and ended the relationship. In 1999, Paul started dating Jenny Marie Clark. Once again, their chemistry was undeniable, and Paul proposed to her after just two weeks. They got married, and soon after, they had a daughter. But the wedding night would be the beginning of a nightmare for Jenny. Paul, in a drunken rage, her until she passed out. The next morning, Paul apologized, claiming he didn't remember what happened.

He promised it would never happen again, but the violence continued. Paul grew to enjoy strangling Jenny until she lost consciousness. Eventually, Jenny gathered the courage to file for divorce. By the time Paul met Joan, his history of violent behavior was already well established, but Joan didn't know about it. Paul's charm and smooth talk won her over, and they seemed to have a picture-perfect relationship. But Joan, unknowingly, had become involved with a man who had a dark side. When Paul's story began to unravel, the police began to suspect that he had been involved

in Joan's disappearance. They began to watch him closely, following him to work, to the gym, and even to his meetings with friends. But everyone in Paul's life, from his friends to his family, claimed that he was a good man, albeit a bit of a bragger. No one knew about his violent past, and no one suspected that he could be capable of something like this. But then, a breakthrough came when security footage showed Paul buying cleaning supplies and garbage bags at a local supermarket on February 13th. While this alone wasn't enough to

prove that he had killed Joan, it was a significant clue. The real turning point came when Paul's friend, after a conversation with him, went to the police. He confessed that Paul had admitted to killing Joan. Soon after, Paul's mother also turned him in, and Paul was officially arrested on February 18th, 2005. Initially, Paul denied everything, but under intense pressure, he eventually confessed. He claimed that he and Joan had been arguing about household chores, and on February 13th, Joan had gotten angry because he hadn't done the laundry. In a fit of rage, Paul strangled her, intending to knock her unconscious, but he didn't realize his own strength and ended up killing her. Afterward, Paul disposed of Joan's body,

wrapping it in garbage bags and cleaning up the crime scene. He then drove her body to a remote location, but he couldn't remember where exactly he had left her. Despite repeated attempts to get Paul to reveal the location, he couldn't recall the details. He kept describing a metal gate and broken bottles, but nothing more. It wasn't until a breakthrough came from a team of forensic experts who analyzed particles found in Paul's car and shoes that they were able to narrow down the search area. On March 24, 2005, the body of Joan Nelson was found under a pile of birch branches, just as Paul had described. After months of investigation, Paul finally confessed to the murder,

and in November 2005, he was sentenced to life in prison. The case shocked everyone who knew Paul, as they had never suspected him of such horrific actions. But as it turned out, the man they thought they knew was someone entirely different. Now, I'll leave you with this question, do you believe Paul really didn't remember where he left Jones' body? Or do you think he was simply trying to cover up his crime? Either, let me tell you a story that still makes my brain hurt just thinking about it. I've dated three women in my life who had borderline personality disorder, and calling them, crazy, feels like saying a hurricane is a little bit breezy. Each one of them had their own brand of madness, but the first one. That one

was a damn roller coaster with the tracks on fire. So buckle up, because this isn't your average dating horror story, this is borderline chaos. All right, picture me at 22, young, dumb, of hope. I meet this insanely hot Puerto Rican woman through some mutual friends. She's 30, has two kids, and had just moved to our city from out of state. At the time, she and her kids were couch surfing at her cousin's place. Despite the situation, she seemed put together, funny, and smart. We hit it off instantly, joking and vibing like we'd known each other forever.

She told me she was a paralegal, planning to go back to law school, yawks. yada yada. Me, being naive and thirsty, was impressed as hell. We exchanged numbers and started texting like teenagers. Then her cousin calls me out of nowhere and drops a truth bomb. This woman never graduated high school, let alone worked in law. Everything she told me was pure fiction. But she was hot, and my brain short-circuited any time I looked at her, so I ignored it. About a week into our texting and late-night hangouts, she goes ghost. Poof. Vanishes with her kids.

No texts, no calls, straight to voicemail. She even packed up and dipped from her cousin's place. Two weeks later, she pops back up with some nonsense excuse about her phone being broken and moving in with friends. But her whole vibe had changed. Weird text responses, only messaging at random. them hours, never wanted to talk on the phone or hang out. I started pulling away, and her cousin eventually spilled the real tea, she was back living with her abusive ex, the same guy she had a restraining order against. A violent drunk, according to her. Then, out of the blue, she sends

me lingerie picks at like 2 a.m. and says, come fuck me. My dumb 22-year-old self was already in the car before I finished reading the message. I met her down the block for from the house she was staying in. She sneaks out while her ex is supposedly passed out drunk, and her kids are asleep. We do the deed. Then we keep doing it. Two to three times a week, I'd sneak her out like some teenage rom-com but make it toxic. She kept claiming she wasn't really with her ex, just roommates, no shared bed, blah, blah. And I believed it. Then one night she stays over at my place, well, my parents' house, and we fall asleep after sex. I was supposed to take her home by 5 a.m., but we oversleep.

She wakes up at 9 a.m., panicking. Oh shit, he's going to fucking kill me. We rush back, and later that evening, I get a chaotic call. Screaming, things breaking, then silence. She calls again later, says he attacked her, strangled her, and she called the cops. Dude got arrested. Felony battery, strangulation, bail said at $10,000. She invites me to stay with her at the house while he's locked up. I do.

We have non-stop sex like it's the honeymoon phase of a normal relationship. Except it's in a house where she doesn't even have a lease, and the landlord doesn't know she exists. Reality hit me. If this dude makes bail and walk, walks in to find me there, sleeping with his baby mama. Yeah, no thanks. So I start sleeping with my point two-two pistol on the nightstand.

Just in case. And boy, did that come in handy. One afternoon, this tweaker-looking woman shows up banging on the door, screaming, you owe me money, bitch. Where's my $200? I get between them to stop a fight. Borderline girl disappears to the bedroom. I'm thinking, she's getting the gun.

I bolt in after her, but she's already walking back outside. I check the nightstand, no gun. I follow her outside, and boom, she's got the point two-two tucked in her waistband. She pulls it out and smacks the tweaker in the mouth. Blood everywhere. Then she points it right at her head. I'm screaming, and no. Don't do it.

Stop. And she lowers it, telling the woman if she ever comes back, she'll kill her. The other woman runs off, sobbing, blood-soaked. I snatched the gun and lose it. Are you out of your fucking mind? That's assault with a deadly weapon. You could go to prison. She just shrugs like she doesn't care.

This same woman who pretended to be some classy law student just turned into a Tarantino character. I hid the gun outside in case the cop show. showed up. They never did. I still don't know what that woman was ranting about, but I bet my life it involved drugs. And yet, I stayed. Because I was a horny idiot. The next day, the landlord shows up, surprised as hell to see us there. Turns out he had no clue she was even staying in the house. He cuts off the electricity and kicks us out. So what do I do? I get her and her kids into a budget hotel. Bought two weeks' worth of nights. That was when the madness really hit the fan. She started stealing everything. From everywhere. I think she was a kleptomaniac. She'd walk into gas stations,

chucked four locoes in the bathroom, tossed the can, and walk out like it was a Tuesday. Once we went to this tiny mom-and-pop store. I was talking to the owner while she went into the back and stole his wallet. We walked out, and she flashed $400 in cash like it was some game. My soul felt dirty just being around her. There was even a coke dealer at the hotel she tried to rob. One day, I caught her cheating on me with him. I left, but of course, I came back. She had a hold on me. Her mom eventually sat me down and admitted that her daughter had been diagnosed with BPD since she was a teen. She'd always been like this.

After a while, I was done. She drained every ounce of energy and sanity I had. I ghosted her completely. Abandoned the apartment I was renting because I knew she'd find me. Turned off my phone. Crashed on a buddy's couch for a month. And that was it. That finally got her off my trail.

Last I heard, she spiraled hard. She got into smoking crack, lost custody of her kids to her mom, and ended up doing a year in prison for felony theft. I went years without seeing her or hearing her name. But I'll never forget the night I first laid down on my friend's couch. No texts, no screaming, no insanity. Just silence. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, I felt peace. Actual, real peace.

I almost didn't recognize it. That's how messed up I had gotten. The end. Lately, everything seemed to hang in the balance, like a delicate thread stretched too thin. The morning had passed in silence, with only the sound of Mia Thompson moving about the apartment and the occasional hum from the refrigerator filling the space. She sat on the couch now, her hands resting on her growing belly, her fingers nervously tracing circles on the fabric of her oversized sweater. Her dark curls, usually wild and untamed,

were pulled back into a messy bun, her caramel skin glowing faintly in the dim afternoon light. The loose maternity leggings she wore were soft against her swollen legs, but nothing could comfort the weight she carried inside, not just from the baby, but from the fears gnawing at her heart. Every time she closed her brown eyes, she saw the bills piling up, imagined the future, wondered how they'd make it. Her boyfriend, Noah Harper, had left early in the morning, chasing the music dream that had once excited her, but now, it filled her with dread. When he walked back through the door, his lean frame casting a shadow across the room, he looked worn but hopeful. His locks were tied back with a simple band,

the ends brushing against his neck as he moved, and his faded band T-shirt clung to his slender body. He had that same rugged charm she had always loved, his deep brown skin glowing with a natural radiance, but today, all she could see were the struggles in his eyes. Where have you been, she asked, her voice tighter than she intended. Out, working on something, he replied, setting his keys on the counter and walking over to her. He adjusted the chain around his neck as he approached, the old leather jacket he wore creaking softly. What's up? She looked up at him, tears forming before she could stop them. I can't do this, I can't keep pretending everything's fine.

The baby is coming soon, and we can't live on what you're making. The world is changing so fast, people are using AI to make music now. You know how competitive it is. What chance do you really have? I get it, I do. But I need you to listen to me, just for a second. He waited until her tear-filled eyes met his. I have some good news.

What do you mean? A famous musician is coming to town, someone big. He's putting on a concert, and he's looking for local talent to open for him. They picked me. He let the word sink in, watching her face for any sign of relief. This could be my break, and the pay, it's good. It's really good. For a moment, she just stared at him, trying to process what he was saying.

Then, slowly, her lips trembled. Really? You're not just saying that. I wouldn't lie to you. She threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest as he held her tight. After about a minute, she pulled back, wiping her face. What do you want for lunch? He shook his head, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

No need to worry about that. I'm heading to moms to tell her the news. Good luck, she whispered, kissing him softly before he left. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues across the front yard as Noah pulled into the driveway. He walked up to the door and knocked softly before pushing it open. Inside, the smell of something cooking greeted him, and the warmth of the small, modest living room hit him with an odd sense of comfort and anxiety. Mama, he called out, and before long, Sarah Carter appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

She was shorter than him, her dark hair streaked with gray, tied back in a simple bun. Her deep brown skin was marked with the lines of age, though her soft eyes still carried a warmth he had always known. She was wearing a floral print blouse tucked into loose jeans, the kind of casual clothes she always wore when she was cooking or cleaning. There's my boy, she smiled, walking over and pulling him into a tight hug. He hugged her back, feeling the love and the embrace, but also a twinge of guilt. She'd been through so much, raising him mostly on her own, and he knew she worried about him more than she let on. How are you doing? She asked, pulling back to look him over.

And how's she doing? She's all right. You know, some days are harder than other. others with the baby coming soon. But we're managing, she raised an eyebrow, catching the strain in his voice but didn't push further. Come on, she said, gesturing toward the kitchen and he followed her. Do you want lunch first, or are you going to tell me what's on your mind? Let's sit first, he said, sitting down. I've got good news. Just as he settled into the chair, he heard something, a faint scuffling sound from the back of the house. What was that? His love. His love mother glanced towards the hallway quickly before looking away, a forced smile on her lips. Oh, it's nothing, just the cat pushing things around again. You know how she gets. He nodded slowly,

but something about her tone made him uneasy. All right, so, there's this big musician coming to town, he began, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. And he's asked for some local talent to open for him at his concert. I got picked. This could be my big break. He waited, expecting her eyes to light up, but instead, her expression faltered. She sat back in her chair, her hands resting in her lap as she sighed. What's wrong? What if this doesn't work out? What if the concert gets canceled or you don't get the break you're hoping for? You have a baby coming soon. You can't rely on luck to raise a family. You need a real job. I know you've been working so hard, but sometimes.

dreams aren't enough. What if she has a miscarriage? What if I die tomorrow? We can't live by what ifs all the time. Everything is luck. Every day we wake up is a gamble. I know you've been through a lot and I know you've lost things, but don't lose hope. She looked away and he could see the pain behind her eyes. Bringing me up was luck too, he added, his voice softening. But you managed. And you'll see, good things come. Just don't worry so much. I'll make it work. He reached over and hugged her tightly, feeling the tension in her body. After a long pause, he pulled away, looking into her eyes. My music career will work out. And I'll raise this kid with the money I get from it. Just then, a figure appeared at the edge of the kitchen doorway.

His father, Richard Harper. He hadn't heard. the man approach, but there he was, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Noah's face hardened instantly, and he shot up from his chair. What are you doing here? Richard was a broad-shouldered man, his hair graying at the sides, with the same dark brown skin as Noah. He wore a wrinkled shirt tucked into old, worn jeans, and his face held the tired, almost weathered look of someone who had been through too much.

His voice was deep and calm when he spoke. I've been here, with your mother, Richard had been out of their lives for years. He had gone to jail for the first five years of Noah's life for crimes he had committed, and after being released, he didn't return to his family. He just disappeared. No calls, no visits, just vanished from their lives. Now, he was trying to find a way back into his mother's life, but Noah couldn't bring himself to forgive the man who had abandoned them.

You shouldn't be here, Noah said coldly, his eyes narrowing. I know I wasn't there, and I regret it. But I want to help now. I don't think you should pursue this music career. I've seen how tough the world is. You need something solid, something that will really provide for your family. Noah laughed bitterly, shaking his head. You're saying that like you know what's best for me.

Like you're some expert in raising families. Just shut up, and why are you letting him back in? His eyes flicked toward his mother, who sat quietly, her head bowed. After everything, why are you allowing him into your life again? She didn't answer, just kept looking down at the table, unable to meet his gaze. I'm leaving, Sarah looked up quickly. Won't you even have lunch, I'm not hungry anymore. And don't bring him to the concert.

He's bad luck. Without waiting for a response, he stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving his parents in the tense silence of the kitchen. On the day of the performance, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in deep hues of orange and pink. Noah left the apartment early, kissing Mia on the forehead before slipping out the door. He told her to meet up with his mom later, and the two of them could head to the concert together. They promised to be there, front row, cheering him on. That thought alone kept his excitement bubbling under the surface, even though he felt the weight of the day pressing on his chest. When he arrived at the venue, a small outdoor arena that could barely hold a few thousand people, it was already buzzing with activity.

Roadies setting up the equipment, sound engineers running final checks, and a few early arrivals trickling in. The local artists, like him, were hanging out backstage, mingling and trying to calm their nerves as they waited for the big headliner who had yet to arrive. He took a moment to breathe it all in, the noise, the energy, the faint smell of street food from nearby stalls, it felt surreal. This was what he had dreamed of for so long, and now, it was right in front of him. As the hours ticked by, he managed to snap some pictures with a couple of the bigger celebrities who had arrived for the the show. They were cool, polite, and encouraging. He even managed to get one of them to shout him out in a quick video that he posted to his social media, tagging it with a hopeful caption, Big Night, Big Things Coming. Thankful for the opportunity, it wasn't long before the notifications

started lighting up his phone, friends, fans, and family alike hyping him up. That brought a brief smile to his face. The organizers were rushing around, talking into headsets, and ushering people into their places as the concert drew closer. Time moved fast, but slow at the same time. It was that kind of anxious wait where everything blurs until you realize the moment is almost here. About half an hour before his performance, his stomach was doing flips. He needed something to ground him. Hey, is it cool if I take a quick look? Just want to see where my family are sitting, he asked one of the stagehands. The guy hesitated for a second, scratching his head.

Man, I don't know. If people see you, it might be a whole thing, you know, I just need a peek, that's it. Won't even step out all the way. All right, but make it quick. He slipped towards the curtains, just enough to crane his neck and look out into the dimming light. The concert wasn't packed yet, but there was a good-sized crowd form. morning. He scanned the front row and then he saw them. Mia, sitting beside Sarah, both of them smiling, talking with each other. Mia looked beautiful in a flowing sundress that made her belly

more noticeable. Sarah was in her usual casual get-up of jeans in a simple blouse, her hair pulled back. He felt a swell of love and pride seeing them there, ready to support him. But then, just as he was about to pull back from the curtain, his eyes caught a thither. third figure sitting beside them, Richard. The sight of him sitting so casually beside his mom made his blood boil. The man who had abandoned them, the one who only came back when it suited him, was now sitting there like nothing had ever happened. It felt like a slap in the face. One of the other performers backstage must have noticed the change in his expression because they clapped a hand on his shoulder. You good, man. You look a little pale. Nerves.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to stay calm. I'm cool. Just getting in the zone, the other guy nodded, satisfied with that answer, and left him to his thoughts. Finally, the MC strode on to the stage, grabbed the mic, and hyped up the crowd with his booming voice, sending waves of excitement through the audience as the energy soared. He went through the usual speech about supporting local talent, thanking the crowd for coming out, getting them pumped for the main act. His name would be called soon. He could feel the minute stretching into what felt like hours. The MC paused for a moment, then looked down at his

cue cards. And now, folks, we've got one of the best up-and-coming local artists you'll ever see. Give it up for, Noah. The moment his name was called, it was like the world stood still. All the anxiety, the nerves, the weight of everything on his shoulders suddenly felt lighter. The crowd roared in approval as he walked out, the spotlight hitting him square in the face. It was blinding, but in the best way. The music kicked in, and he started to perform, his voice rising over the beat. The adrenaline surged through his veins as he moved across the stage, letting the rhythm take over his body. People were cheering, clapping, shouting his name, it was everything he'd ever dreamed of. All the struggles, the sleepless nights,

The countless rejections, none of it mattered now. This was it. He was finally making it. Suddenly, in the middle of his song, something shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the front row. Richard. Standing up. His throat tightened.

His voice wavered, just for a second, but he pushed through and kept performing. But then, Richard started moving. It was subtle at first. first, like he was heading to the bathroom or something. But no. He wasn't walking away from the stage, he was walking towards it. He tried to keep going, tried to focus on the music, but he couldn't. His eyes were glued to his father, who was now climbing onto the stage. The crowd was confused, murmurs rippling through them as they watched the scene unfold. Then once on top of the stage, Richard, his father, lunged at him. Before he could react, before he could

even step back, Richard's fists were crashing into him. The first punch landed squarely on his jaw, and the pain exploded in his skull like fireworks. He stumbled back, dropping the microphone, but Richard was relentless. Another punch, this time to his stomach, which knocked his breath out of him. Quit your music. It won't get you anywhere, his father screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he grabbed him by his throat. He felt his father's hands wrap around his throat, squeezing, cutting off his air. He clawed at his father's arms, panic rising in his chest as he struggled to breathe. The world around him started to fade, the lights growing dimmer, the sounds muffled. And then, just as suddenly as it started,

the pressure was gone. Security had finally rushed the stage, prying Richard off him, but it felt it had taken forever. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. His body was shaking, trembling uncontrollably, but he couldn't stop it. The pain was everywhere, his face, his ribs, his throat, it all hurt, but none of it compared to the ache in his heart. He felt broken, like everything he had worked for was shattered in an instant. All the hope, all the dreams, gone. Sarah and Mia rushed onto the stage, their faces streaked with tears as they knelt beside him, calling his name, touching his face, trying to comfort him. But he couldn't hear them. He couldn't process what was happening. Finally, the paramedics rushed in, quickly

lifting him onto a stretcher and carrying him away from the chaos. The ride to the hospital felt like a blur, flashing lights, sirens, the sterile smell of the ambulance. Sarah held his hand the entire time, her grip trembling but firm. Mia sat quietly, her eyes swollen from crying, staring down at his limp body. He lay there, barely moving, his mind racing in a whirlwind of pain, anger, and confusion. When they arrived at the hospital, the doctors quickly rushed him through a series of tests, x-rays, CT scans, checking for internal injuries. His body was bruised, his face swollen, but the doctor finally took.

came in after what felt like hours and told him, you'll be all right. You're lucky, no fractures, just some swelling and bruising. Lucky. He wasn't sure if he felt lucky at all. Once Sarah and Mia were allowed inside to see him, they found him lying in the hospital bed, his face turned away from the door. Sarah rushed over, sat on the bed but didn't say anything. A few seconds later, he turned, his voice weak and cracked. Why do you think he did it? Sarah shook her head, her voice breaking, I don't know. I'm so sorry for bringing him back into our lives. I thought he had changed, that he really wanted to make things right. I never thought he could do something like this. He closed his eyes, still crying, his chest aching not from the physical blows,

but from the betrayal, it's okay. You're too good for him. He was just using you. He was just using you, like he always did. He's a monster, Mia stood nearby, her own tears falling silently as she watched the exchange, feeling the overwhelming sadness between mother and son. After a long moment, they all began to compose themselves. The air in the room felt heavy, filled with all the unsaid emotions. Mia wiped her eyes, pulling out her phone, and glanced down at the screen, a small smile creeping onto her face. Hey, she said, Said softly, the concert didn't end when you left, he looked up at her. It didn't, no, it went on.

I've been checking on mine, there's actually something amazing happening right now. What do you mean? Sarah asked. Mia held up her phone, showing them the screen. There it was, a crowdfunding campaign for his medical bills and, another concert organized by people for him to perform. While in the hospital, Mia had posted on mine, clarifying what had happened, explaining that it was his father who attacked him, and not some fan or rival.

They're raising money for you. And, they want to see you perform again, Mia said, a light shining in her eyes. I don't know if I can do this, he muttered, his voice shaky. I don't even know if I should be happy about this. Sarah lightly patted his arm, you should just rest, baby. Get better first. We'll figure everything else out later. You've been through enough today.

He nodded weakly, the exhaustion starting to take over. Where's that monster? He asked quietly, looking at Mia. He's been taken to jail. They've opened a case for assault, so he won't be able to come near you, especially not here. A small, weak smile crossed his face at the thought of that. His father, locked up. The way it should have been all along.

A few days after his discharge from the hospital, life was beginning to settle, at least outwardly. His fans had organized a concert, set to take place in a few weeks, and the media had turned him into a symbol of resilience. Interviews showcased the struggles faced by artists like him, while articles delved into his complex relationship with his father. As support poured in, the concert evolved into a celebration of not only his talent but the strength of the community that had rallied behind him. Noah and Mia sat in their small rented house, the quiet stillness around them a strange contrast to the storm of emotions they had been through.

Their peace was interrupted by Sarah's call which he picked up quickly. Hey, Mom, he greeted warmly. What's up, sweetheart, you need to come home. Fast, why? What's going on? Just, come. You'll see when you get here, is he back? No, no, he's still long.

locked up. It's something else, just, please, come home. I can't explain it on the phone, he ended the call, his hands trembling slightly. What's wrong? She asked softly. I don't know, he said, standing up and grabbing his keys. She just told me to come over. Something's wrong, I'll come with you, she offered, starting to stand as well. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. You need to rest, especially with the baby. I'll be quick. I'll call you as soon as I know what's going on. She nodded reluctantly and he kissed her forehead and left. When Noah arrived at his mom's house, he found her anxiously sitting in the living room. She looked up at him, worry etched on her face. What happened, he asked, his voice thick with concern as he rushed to her

side. Is everything okay? She didn't answer at first, but eventually pointed toward the laptop sitting on the table. Go read the email. Confused and anxious, he slowly made his way to the laptop. Sitting down, he saw that an email was opened. The subject line read, to my wife, a wave of unease washed over him as he began to read, Hi, Sarah, I'm writing this knowing you'll receive it days later, after everything has happened. The reason I attacked our son on stage wasn't out of anger or hatred. It was because I wanted to help him. I knew that if I did this, the Internet and the world would sympathize with him,

and he'd finally get his chance to shine as a musician. People loved to root for the underdog, and by making myself the villain, I knew he'd get the exposure he needed. I know we were starting to rebuild our relationship, but our child is more important than anything. That's why I sacrificed what we had for him. I just hope it all worked out the way I planned. Please don't tell him why I did this.

If he finds out, he might act emotionally and ruin his own career. I love you and I hope, in time, you can forgive me. As he finished reading, his chest tightened. The room seemed to close in around him. His father, his father had done all of this, on purpose. To help his career. Tears welled up in his eyes as he slowly stood up, turning to face Sarah, who was now watching him intently. Why?

Why did you show me this? I couldn't live with it. I couldn't. I had to show you. He wasn't the man you thought he was. He, he loved you, in his own messed up way. His heart pounded in his chest, anger rising, mixing with confusion, sorrow, and disbelief. He proceeded step out of Sarah's house.

the door creaking shut behind him. As he left, she understood he needed time alone, so she didn't bother speaking to him. The Chris Baer seeped into his bones, mirroring the emotional storm within him. The drive to the police station felt like a burden, bringing back memories of his father, marked by longing, anger, and a deep sense of abandonment. When he reached the entrance of the station, he took a deep breath and walked up to the guard at the front desk. I'd like to see my father, he said, his voice steadied despite the turmoil inside.

The guard, a seasoned man with a face hardened by years of dealing with the lost and broken, replied, What do you plan to do? I just want to talk. The guard scrutinized him closely, and after a moment of hesitation, said. All right. Follow me. His heart raced as they walked through the sterile hallways, the harsh glow of fluorescent lights amplifying the bland surroundings, making him feel like a ghost haunting the echoes of his father's

choices. The guard stopped in front of several cells, pointing to the last one. Good luck, he muttered, stepping away as Noah made his way toward it. When Richard saw him, he spat, go away, I know, Richard's eyes widened in shock. What do you know? Mom showed me the email, a moment of silence enveloped them, the weight of unspoken words pressing down like a thick fog. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Noah couldn't hold back any longer. If you loved me, why did you make those stupid decisions? Why did you do that crime and end up in jail? And why didn't you come back once you got out? Each question hung in the air, heavy with the trauma that had played Noah for years. Richard's expression shifted,

the bravado fading as he sank into a nearby bench, his face contorting with regret. I did the crime because your mother was pregnant with you, he began. I didn't have any money. I thought if I could just pull it off, I'd be able to take care of you both. I was desperate. But I got caught, and I ended up here. As Noah listened, the pain of Richard's choices cut deeper than he anticipated. Once I was out, I promised myself I wouldn't come back until I was financially stable, Richard continued, his voice filled with shame. But with my criminal history, getting me, Getting a job was impossible. Weeks turned to months, and months turned to years.

I didn't want to be a burden to you and your mother. You should have just come back, Noah's voice rose, his emotions spilling over. It's not all about money. I needed a father figure, a presence. Instead, I got nothing, no guidance, no support. I was raised as if you were dead, while you were still here. Richard looked down, remorse etched into his features. I'm sorry, he whispered, his voice barely audible.

If I could go back and make things right, I would. I deserve everything that's happening to me right now. Noah sighed. No. I won't let you go to jail because of me. If people know that I did it on purpose to make you go viral, they might cancel the show and think we scripted everything. You might even get cancelled for good.

I'll say it, Noah. insisted. If it ruins my career, so be it. As Noah turned to leave, Richard called out. Think about your child. Noah paused, the reminder cutting through him like a knife. He had spent so many years trying to fill the void left by Richard's absence, but now he was faced with the possibility of perpetuating the cycle. He left the station and drove back to the small house he shared with Mia. The door creaked open, and he found her waiting for him. What happened? she asked, rushing to his side. Noah took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush.

He attacked me on stage because he thought it would help my music career. He predicted the world would sympathize with me. What? Yes, he replied, running a hand through his hair. But I have to tell the world the truth, I won't be able to live with the thought that my music career was born out of a lie. What if it ruins everything? She asked, a note of panic in her voice. Your music is taking off right now.

We're finally gaining traction. Why risk it? He is a repeat offender, he calmly said. I can't let someone rot in jail because of me. She fell silent, the weight of his words hanging between them. With that, he set up his camera, his heart racing as he prepared to speak. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, staring into the lens as if it were a lifeline. Hey, everyone, he began, his voice shaky but determined.

I need to talk about what really happened at the concert. The truth is, although my father's actions were planned, they came from a place of wanting to help me. The TLDR of it is that, he knew by assaulting me, I would go viral and this would help my music career. But, it's more complicated than that, he continued to share the full story of his life, the emotions raw and unfiltered. revealing all the twists and turns. After posting the video, the couple waited intense silence, their hearts pounding as they refreshed their feeds, hoping for a positive response. Minutes later, the comments started rolling in. This is so brave of you. Your dad made a mistake, but he was trying to help, sending love to your family. Can't wait for the concert. An hour later,

people pledged to pay for Richard's bail. The realization hit Noah like a wave, and he could hardly believe it. Without wasting another second, he dialed Sarah. The phone rang twice before she answered. Noah, I just posted the truth about what Dad did at the concert. I told everyone that he attacked me because he thought it would help my music career, and, how did people react? They're reacting better than I ever imagined. They have even started to donate his bail. I, I can't believe it. Sarah let out a breath, one filled with both relief and disbelief. I didn't think anyone would ever understand his actions. I thought everyone would hate him for it. Me too, Noah admitted. For a moment,

neither of them spoke, the gravity of the situation hanging between them. Noah could almost hear the tears in Sarah's voice when she finally broke the silence. Once your dad's out, I want you to come home. We need to sit down together as a family and talk this through. Noah nodded as she spoke, even though she couldn't see him. Okay, he replied and hang up. On the day Richard was released, Noah and Mia drove to his parents' home. As they approached the door, Noah felt the weight of the moment settle over him. He took a deep breath, knocked and walked through the door, spotting Richard sitting on the couch with Sarah beside him. The sight of them together felt surreal, and for a moment, they all just stared at each other, emotions swirling in the air.

Then, without a word, Richard rose and opened his arms. Noah stepped forward, and they embraced tightly. As they hugged, Noah felt the warmth of forgiveness starting to seep in, even as the memories of abandonment lingered. For a moment, Mia watched from the sidelines, her heart swelling at the sight of their reunion. But then she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around both. Sarah joined them, and soon they were all locked in a collective embrace. They held on, soaking in the connection, knowing that healing would take time but feeling hopeful

for the future. On the day of the concert, the atmosphere was electric. Noah stood backstage his heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. Richard, Sarah and Mia stood at the front of the stage, ready to cheer him on as he prepared to perform. The concert kicked off with several other artists, each bringing their unique flair to the stage. Noah soaked in the energy of the crowd, feeling the anticipation build as he waited for his turn. In the days leading up to the concert, the internet buzzed with speculation about how Richard had come up with the idea for the infamous incident. Noticing it trending, Noah decided to keep the momentum going by announcing that Richard

would address the burning question during the concert, further heightening the excitement. When it was finally time for Noah to take the stage, he stepped up to the microphone and said, Hey, everyone. Thank you so much for being here tonight. I first want to invite my dad to the stage to answer the question that's been on everyone's mind for weeks. Please welcome my dad.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Richard climbed the stage and Noah handed him the microphone. Richard took a moment, looking out at the sea of faces before him. Hello, everyone, he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. I want to take a moment to thank you all for the incredible support you've shown my son. There's been a lot of buzz about where the idea to make my son go viral came from. The truth is, I got the idea from wrestling. In wrestling, for the good guy to really get loved by the crowd, he has to face a very, very bad guy.

So I decided to become a real-life bad guy to make my son the biggest good guy in the world. The crowd reacted with cheers and laughter, and Noah felt a swell of primal. for Richard's boldness. My goal was just to push my son into the spotlight, but in the end something incredible happened, something that doesn't even happen in wrestling. We both became good guys, Richard concluded with a heartfelt thanks, and the audience roared with applause. Once Richard stepped off the stage, he took a deep breath and began his performance. He poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, and the crowd responded with enthusiastic cheers, singing along as they connected with his music. After the concert, he was approached by representatives

from major recording labels who offered him deals on the spot. His mind raced with possibilities, but he politely declined, telling them he would think about it. For now, he wanted to enjoy this moment with his family. As they drove home together, Noah felt a sense of peace wash over him. The journey hadn't been easy, but they had made it through the storm together. As they reached their home, he knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it as a family, united and unbreakable. The end. Thank you for reading the story. It took me months to develop this story and if you appreciated it and would like to help my author career, please go leave a review on Amazon. You can leave it for free or if you can afford it, you can buy the book before leaving a

review. The link to the Amazon page is in the description. All right, let's dive into this story of mine. It's long, it's messy, it's filled with pain, hope, and a whole lot of growth. I'm not writing this to be dramatic or to make anyone feel sorry for me. I just want to tell the truth, my truth. I want to get it out of my system, put it into the world, and maybe, just maybe, someone who needs to hear it will stumble across it and feel a little less alone. So here it is. Here's what I've carried with me for so long, like a quiet shadow that. never left. I kept it hidden out of shame, out of fear, and because I honestly believed that if people knew the whole story, they wouldn't see me at all. They'd just see the headline.

The Legacy. The bloodline I never asked for. My grandmother was Judy Benoano. If that name doesn't ring a bell, let me give you a quick rundown. She was Florida's first female serial killer. Executed in 1998. Most people only know her as a character in some true crime documentary or a topic of morbid curiosity on late night Reddit threads. A name you hear once and never forget, but for all the wrong reasons. To most of the world, she's a monster in a story. To me, she's my grandmother. She's the woman whose DNA I carry. And that's not something you just shrug off? That's a wait. A constant hum in the background of everything. Now, I didn't know all the details right away. The truth came to me in layers, over time, like peeling an onion

that never seems to stop making your eyes burn. What I did know early on was the pain. The tension. The unspoken trauma in my family. My mom, her daughter, grew up in that environment. and while I won't put all her private details on display, I will say this, she didn't grow up in love. She grew up in survival mode. That alone should tell you plenty. That kind of hurt doesn't just disappear. It doesn't stay in one generation. It seeps into everything. Into the way people talk, or don't. Into the silence at dinner. Into the way we flinch at small things. Into the way we deal with anger, sadness, fear. Or worse, don't deal with it at all. Growing up, our home wasn't like the homes I saw at my friend's houses. Even when everything

looked fine on the outside, something always felt off. Like we were stuck in a loop, reliving a story we didn't write but couldn't escape from. Hurt people, hurt people, they say. But sometimes, hurt people just hurt quietly, over and over, because they don't know what healing even looks like. And me? I took it all in. I absorbed it. I didn't know how to process any of it, so I started numbing it. That started young. I didn't care what it was, painkillers, alcohol, anything to just make the feelings shut up for a while. And once I started, I couldn't stop. I was on autopilot, self-destructing slowly and constantly. For years, I honestly thought that was it for me.

That this was my story. The grandson of a murderer, the son of a survivor, and now me, just another broken man adding to the chain. I thought I was doomed to be another tragic ending. Another guy who couldn't figure it out. And then, out of nowhere, something shifted. My best friend, the one person who had never given up on me, even when I was a man. I gave up on myself, told me she was pregnant. It wasn't even her baby. It was her sisters, technically. But that little girl was going to be my niece. And in that moment, something cracked

open in me. I couldn't stop thinking about her. This innocent baby girl, being born into our family, into this messed up, haunted legacy. And I realized, plain and simple, I had a choice. I could keep going down the road I was on, dragging the pass behind me like a ball and chain. Or I could stop. I could do better. I could be better. I wanted her to have an uncle she could look up to. Someone safe. Someone who laughed, showed up, stayed sober. Someone she could count on. I didn't want her to grow up like I did, with secrets and shadows and silence. So I got clean. not overnight not easily but I did it I started the long brutal climb out of that hole I went to meetings I found support I faced the stuff I'd buried under years of drinking in pills I faced my guilt my anger my grief

I looked my past in the eye and didn't blink that was six years ago six years sober I haven't touched any since. I won't lie to you and say recovery was magical. It wasn't. It was messy and painful and full of setbacks. It made me feel raw, like I had no skin. But you know what? I started to feel real. For the first time in a long time, I was actually present in my own life. And that feeling, that clarity, it was worth everything. And somewhere along the way, I stopped being ashamed of my name. Of where I came from. I stopped flinching every time someone brought up true crime, stopped holding my breath when someone asked about my family. Because here's what I learned, legacy isn't set in stone. It's not some curse you carry around forever. It's a story you can

rewrite. Not erase, but reshape. I'm not my grandmother. I'm not her crimes. I'm not the darkness she left behind. I'm her grandson, yes. But I'm also a man who made it out. Who chose light over numbness? Who decided that the pain had to stop somewhere, and maybe, just maybe, it could stop with me. These days, I do prison ministry.

I go into jails, talk to people who've been forgotten, left behind. Not because I'm better than them, but because I see them. Because I was them. I know what it's like to feel unworthy of love, of healing. And I know what it's like to realize, one day, that you still have a shot. My niece is older now. She knows me.

She hugs me tight when I visit. We laugh. We play. She calls me her favorite uncle. And every time she does, it hits me all over again, this. This is why I did the work. I kept going. If you're still reading this, thank you. Truly. I didn't write this for sympathy. I just needed to speak it into existence. To say, out loud, that you can come from

some really dark places and still find a way into the light. Your past. It's not the end of the story. It's just the first chapter. And you've got a whole book left to write. So if you're carrying something heavy, I see you. If you've made mistakes, I get it. If you think it's too late, it's not. Trust me. You can change. You can heal. You can build something new, no matter where you started. That's not just some feel-good quote on a coffee mug. It's the truth. I know because I'm living it. One day, one breath, one choice at a time. Her breathing was wheezed. Her pacing was quick and her focus was everywhere. Sasha's adrenaline was spiking her heart and movements in a way that shouldn't be possible. Her energy was almost

endless because of it. The screams of the hostile beings running after her were loud, ear splitting even. Sounds that would render someone's throat raw if attempted to replicate. Their footsteps matched her pace, if not quicker. Feet sprinting in the grass that shuffle from theirs and her own movements. The grass surface turned to cement. Her shoes clunked against the hard surface as she ran for her life. Dodging towering metal crates and screeching monsters, her way was blocked by a looming metal warehouse. Seeing no other option, she kept her pace up for its wide open door. Hearing one of the creatures behind her grow ever so closer, feet getting faster and louder,

breathing more quickly and heavier down her neck, she dove for it. The moonlight was masked by pure darkness, her body toppling to the cement ground of indoors, her flashlight shattering on the ground. Turning to look at the open door she threw herself up. It screamed before she threw the door closed, turning the lock. Her breathing wheezed, shuddered as she slouched forward against it, resting her forehead against the door's surface. Her breathing was so strained it was difficult to pin it between her lungs begging for air

or emotions taking over and she was on the verge of crying. Either way she was struggling. Her legs shook in weakness, the adrenaline fading almost begged for her to collapse. She kept herself standing, however. Looking over her shoulder, she only just now realized that the building was completely pitch black. Her mind was too originally focused on escaping with her life still intact. Diving to her knees with a flickering flashlight on the ground, she picked it up. No. No, no, no, no, no.

The glass was shattered, the light bulb inside flickering in an attempt to stay alive. She smacked its surface onto the palm of her hand in aggressive attempts. That only seemed to make it worse. With one more firm pound of it against the palm of her hand, it died. The light dimmed before the entire building shrouded her in complete darkness. Her breathing shuddered. She was completely defenseless against the weavers. The weavers.

Human hybrid creatures of complete hostility. Broad-shouldered human beings who have succumbed to their form. Clothes ripped and tattered to almost nothing but rags. skins a sickly pale, black bags under their glowing orange-hungry eyes like goggles, hands and feet completely black like they were burned, nails so long that they could reach their knees without even bending over, ears sharp and pointed, and jaws split into arthropod like mandibles, salivating, clicking and screeching in communication. Their motivation is unknown and so is their origin for what she knew. But the way they treat humans is cemented and

true. Angry, hostile, and deadly. Some kill on the spot. others dragged them away, never to be seen again. She was pursued by three of them in that chase. From the glance she got over her shoulder, two were male and the other was female, easily distinguishable by their appearance and host. The people at the safe house told her it was a bad idea to go out by herself. Sasha, you'll get yourself killed. She took it anyway.

Sasha lifted her head, staring into the empty black void of the warehouse before her. her black long hair, she reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She opened up the camera and pointed her phone to the darkness before her. With a press of her thumb, the camera flashed. With the camera flashed the terrain was revealed to her for only a second. Towering metal shelving units with wooden crates. She hated that she could only see for a split second. She hates the dark.

She doesn't fear it itself. She fears what might be hiding inside it. She fears that something would just jump out at her the moment she presses that camera button. Despite the fear growing inside of her, she pressed on. She slowly stepped further into the darkness to accomplish her quest that she started the moment she stepped out of the safe house. To find her two missing kids. It has been hours since she has last seen them since this whole problem began.

A part of Sasha wanted to look for a light switch but in reality that would be fruitless. The town is devoid of any power. The power plant was ambushed by the Weavers, the phone tower was attacked and the radio towers were cut. The town is stuck in a blackout. No lights, no power, no communication to the outside world. They were isolated and the world was completely ignorant to what this town is currently going through.

Pressing the camera button on her phone again, it flashed, exposing her path for another second. She was slowly treading down a narrow hallway of towering metal shelving units. But in the end it was hard to tell where she was going since all she could see was just a wall of darkness in her path. She pressed it again and her heart stopped for a second. Laying on the cement ground before her in that second long flash was a pink ribbon. She dove to her knees, shock overcoming her as she gently scooped up the pink glistening ribbon. Her breathing shook as did her arms as she lifted the light little ribbon in her hands.

Her daughter's ribbon. A ribbon fixed into a bow in the back of her head to make her hair ponytail and here it was, laying on the ground and now clutched in her mother's hands. Lifted her head, looking forward, her heart stopped again. A shoe. A blue sneaker. Her son's sneaker. Sasha felt like she could cry.

She buried her face into her daughter's ribbon, weeping for them. She could just imagine the situation they were in. Her daughter holding her brother's hand, leading him away, running, screaming, their young child shrieks echoing in the warehouse before being caught by these monsters. She expected the worst to happen to them and the thought would not go away. It brought tears to her eyes, water falling down her face as she sobbed into the tattered pink bow in her hands. A small part of her had a glimmer of hope.

Maybe they were dropped in their escape. Maybe her bow wasn't fixed tightly to her head and unraveled off. Maybe her son's shoe slipped off during the run to safety. A choked breath jumped out of her as she lifted her head from the ribbon. Okay, okay, she regained what little composure was left. Stay focused. With the mindset that they have escaped, she pressed on. She shambled through the darkness, occasionally pressing the camera on her phone to illuminate

her way for a second. She stepped into a small opening, or at least it felt like she did. The thick air suddenly got thinner and it felt more open. Sasha shuffled forward through the dark, treading through a blanket of nothing. Her foot slipped on something wet. Her leg was thrown forward. Gasped, toppling backwards. She crashed to the cement floor, the breath being knocked out of her.

A groan growled from her throat as she sat up. She stared ahead to make out anything that she stepped on, but it was near impossible. Sitting up and shuffling to her knees she lifted her phone to the floor, pointing the camera at it. With the press of a button, the camera flashed. Sasha's blood ran cold. Gore. Remnants of something tainted the floor before her.

of mutilated flesh, bone and blood, rendering its shape completely unknown. Sasha flashed the light again. As if the first glance wasn't already sickening enough the second one bore more answers. There were no traces of clothing in the fleshy mess. Instead, remnants of torn and ripped fur which could mean it was an animal. An animal, sure, but as for what kind was completely beyond her. It was too messy, mangled, and bloody to tell. Movement caught her attention in front of her.

breathing spiked as she lifted her chin. For the time she has been in the dark warehouse her eyes seemed to have adjusted ever so slightly. In her vision she could make out two shelving units side by side. One of them shook. Sasha's breathing shuddered as she stood up. She stared at the wall of darkness in front of her. A low, gurgling, croaking noise filled the dead silence in the warehouse. Sasha slowly lifted her phone, pointing it at the darkness before her. Her arm shuddered as she did. A whimper came out of her as she bit the bottom of her lip. She pressed the camera button on her phone.

The camera flashed. The weaver shrieked. Sasha screamed, the male creature shielding its eyes from the blinding flash of the camera light. Her feet reacted, attempting to back her away from the hostile creature. The humanoid creature strained a scream back, pouncing from its narrow space between shelving units onto her. She was forced to the ground as it straddled on top of her.

Sasha struggled as the creature pinned her to the floor. A shriek left its throat and passed the four large mandibles of teeth in its mouth. She threw her arms into directions, but it kept a firm grip on them to keep her still. Its alive eyes narrowed inside the black bags under them as a strained noise left its throat, its salivating tongue flinging out of its mouth for a quick moment. It lurched its head forward. A blood-curdling scream echoed throughout the warehouse from the poor victim as the sharp teeth punctured the flesh of her neck, digging deeper and deeper before it threw its head back,

violently pulling away. Sasha gasped, or at least she tried if she could. Her throat gurgled, choking in on itself as she clasped it with her hands. The weaver looked down at her, her chunk of flesh in its jaws dripping with blood. It stood up off of her. Sasha extended an arm out to the ceiling as if trying to call for help but her voice didn't come out. Just choking, drowning in her own blood. It then threw itself up to stand, but the was too quick as it lifted its bare bony foot, as Sasha lifted her hand-like in protection, before the humanoid foot was thrown into her face in a vicious curb stump. The choking silenced.

Her blood pooling beneath her, eyes open and bloodshot in fear and horror. The weaver tilted its head at her, mandibles twitching as clicking came from its throat. It crouched down, wrapping his fingers around her ankles before standing up, looking over its shoulder and began backing away to drag her off. remained still and lifeless, her body cold and fear struck as she was dragged away, her fear of something lunging out at her in the dark dragging along with her. You ever hear of unit 731? Probably not unless you've dug real deep into some of the darkest corners of World War 2 history. It's the kind of thing they don't talk about in school. But it's real. Dead

Raoul. It was this secret Japanese unit during the war that did all sorts of unspeakable things in the name of science, or whatever twisted excuse they had. We're talking about experiments on living people. Not volunteers. Prisoners. Civilians. Even kids. Pregnant women.

No one was safe. They dissected folks while they were still breathing. Injected them with the plague and other nasty crap. Used them like lab rats. Some say they killed hundreds of thousands of across the area. My mother? She lived through it. Barely. She made it out when most didn't. And I'm here now because she survived. She told me her story before she passed, and man, it's haunted me ever since. You don't hear this kind of stuff from a textbook. This was her

memory, seared into her soul. She was just a girl when it happened. Lived in a small village about 50 miles out from Manchuquo, which, for those who don't know, was basically the headquarters for Unit 731. The day it all began. September 1st, 1942. My mom never forgot that date. It was the day the world she knew burned to ash. She told me about this one weird-looking bomb that dropped out of the sky like a feather drifting in slow circles. It wasn't loud. didn't make a sound like the bombs you see in the movies. Just a soft hiss as it spun through the air, then a crash when it hit the ground, like a giant ceramic vase exploding.

Only one plane flew over their town that day. White with the red circle of the rising sun painted on the side. It passed over quick, low enough to see, then it was gone. My mom said she remembered merchants stepping out of their shops, shielding their eyes from the sun, looking up all confused. She was just a little girl, five or six. She saw the bomb fall and run out to the backyard of her neighbor's house. The thing had shattered like pottery.

She ran back in to tell her mom. Ma. A plane dropped something. It broke like a plate. Didn't even blow up. What was it? Her mom, my grandma, froze. She was brewing tea,

waiting for her husband to come back from work. The moment she heard the word Japanese, she paled. All the color drained from her face. Stay inside, she whispered, rushing to the window, peering out like she expected death itself to walk up the road. She didn't answer any more questions. Just stared and stared, waiting for her husband. They didn't leave the house that whole day. My mom told me she just sat beside her mom in silence.

The tea cooled. The sun fell. No sign of her dad. My grandma kept twitching and flinching, staring out the window like a ghost might appear. Eventually, she grabbed my mom's hand, held it tight, and said something my mom never forgot. Something bad is coming. I don't know what. But it's close.

If anything happens, I want you to know, I love you. I love you more than you can imagine. My mom said she nearly started crying. Her mother had never talked like that before. Ever. Right before nightfall, her dad finally came back. He burst into the house drenched in sweat and panic. Didn't even say hi.

Just slammed the door and ran to his wife. We have to go. Now. We're already too late, but we've got to try. What happened? Grandma asked, voice shaking. That ceramic bomb, what was it? He couldn't even look her in the eye.

We went to look at it, he said. Me and a few of the neighbors. We shouldn't have. It wasn't a bomb. Not a normal one. Then what was it? Flee's. Thousands of them.

Dead ones in the broken pieces. But way more alive, jumping around. I got bit. A lot of us did. Now, this is the part where my mom, being just a kid, laughed. She said, fleas. That's it. I thought it was going to be something scary.

She didn't know then. No one did. That same night, they packed up what little they had and got the hell out. Thought they were safe in the next town over, staying with grandma's parents. But they were wrong. So wrong. Three days later, my great-grandma came back from the market carrying a basket full of veggies. She looked pale.

Complained her head hurt. Said her stomach was acting up. Just something I ate, she joked, trying to wave it off. She even smiled at my mom, toothless and proud. That night, she collapsed. First came the fever. Then the vomiting. Diarrhea.

Sweating. Rashes. Sounded like the flu at first. But then came the boils. Big black bumps on her neck, under her arms. Puss leaking out in tiny streams. She coughed up blood. My mom was there.

She brought a cold cloth to her great-grandma's forehead. Tried to keep her cool. But it wasn't helping. Her skin was turning dark. purple and black. Her nose was rotting. Literally. Is it harvest time already? The old woman muttered. It's me, Grandma. Jing. Jing. She blinked like she was looking through a fog. Then came the blood. Coughing. Hacking. It spewed out. Thick. Black. Stained the sheets.

she started mumbling to ghosts asking for her mother saying things like take me home and then the worst part one of those boils popped right on her neck it burst with a wet hiss smelled like rotting garbage that was it for my mom she ran she couldn't take any more hours later her grandpa got sick too same symptoms same end died moaning and grabbing its shadows it spread like wildfire the plague black death that's what it was but at the time they didn't have a name for it just fear soon nearly everyone in that little town was sick my mom and her parents were the only one still standing until they saw something far worse than any boil or fever Outside, just past the window, under a moonlit sky, they saw them. Japanese soldiers. White suits. Gas masks. Gloves.

They looked like aliens. Like monsters. They were knocking on doors. Dragging people out. My mom's mom rushed to her side. They're here. You have to hide. No hesitation.

My grandma pushed her towards the giant metal oven in the corner of the kitchen. Back then, they didn't have microwaves or fancy appliances. Just a firewood burning beast of an oven. She yanked open the door. It was cold inside, ash and soot everywhere. Get in, she hissed. My mom hesitated. Sneezed.

Coughed. No time. Inside. She crawled in, curling up tight. The door slammed shut. Darkness. Silence. Just her breathing.

Heart racing. Then came the knock. Hard. Loud. Open, a voice barked. In broken Chinese, someone ordered them to come out. She heard footsteps. Voices.

Then silence. One soldier. said something about logs. Another replied. She caught one word, fire. That's where she stopped the story the first time she told me. But years later, when she was dying, she told me the rest. They burned the house down. My grandma and grandpa never made it out. But somehow, the fire didn't reach the oven right away. Something collapsed, maybe. Maybe God intervened. My mom, my mom. My mom Mom escaped hours later when the embers cooled. She crawled out of the ash like a ghost, her skin black with soot.

Alone. Everyone gone. Just smoke and silence. She wandered the countryside. Sick. Scared. Starving. But she made it.

And she swore she'd never forget. Neither will I. It's weird to grow up with that kind of legacy hanging over your head. Knowing your mom survived one of the worst war crimes in history. That your very existence is a middle finger to the people who tried to erase her. She didn't tell many people her story. Too painful. Too unbelievable. But she told me.

And now, I'm telling you. Because stories like this need to be heard. Not buried. Never again. Never forget. To be continued. As the last of the Japanese soldiers disappeared from the house, something twisted deep in my gut. I could barely breathe.

I was still curled up inside the old oven, wedged into the fetal position like I was trying to disappear into the metal. I broke down crying, hot tears soaking my cheeks as I gave up on any kind of hope. Everything felt broken, doomed. The situation got even worse when I tried to leave the oven, and the damn thing wouldn't open. The door had somehow locked from the outside, and I was stuck, completely and utterly trapped. No light. No air. Just metal pressing in on me, and the growing horror of being buried alive. At first, I whimpered and tried to push the door open gently. But that didn't do anything. So I started to kick, softly at first, then harder and harder until my feet were throbbing.

I punched, I banged, I screamed. Hello. Can anyone hear me? I'm stuck. Let me out. Please. My voice cracked from yelling, and my whole body shook. Time passed. I don't know how long, it felt like hours. My chest burned, my lungs were tight, and panic buzzed in every nerve.

And just when I thought I might pass out, the door suddenly flew. open. Bright light hit me like a hammer, and I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing and gasping for air. I expected to see my mom or even a Japanese soldier, but no. Three men stood over me, Chinese partisans with tired faces and worn, filthy uniforms. They looked almost as surprised to see me as I was to see them. One of them knelt, gently brushing the ash and grime for my hair. It's all right, little girl, he said softly. We're not here to hurt you. We're partisans.

We're trying to stop the Japanese, to put an end to what they've been doing here. Another man leaned down. He only had one good eye, but that I was filled with something I hadn't seen in a long time, kindness. Where's your family? he asked. They took them, I said, the tears returning. They made us sick. Then they took them all away. What's your name?

The one-eyed man asked. Jing, well, Jing, I'm Chin. This is my group. You're with us now. You're safe, I wanted to believe him. I really did. But I shook my head. No, we're not safe.

Listen, and I told them everything. The ceramic bomb, the fleas, the sickness. The round-ups. The vanishing of my family. By the time I finished my story, the mood had changed. The two men standing behind Chen looked pale and worried. Chen, one whispered, sweating buckets, if that story's true, we've all been exposed,

Chen didn't blink. Whether we have or not, we move forward. We have to. This confirms what we feared. We know where the Japanese took the townspeople. We end it tonight, I nodded. I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't about to be left behind.

Maybe they could still save my mom. I didn't dare hope for my grandparents. My heart ached when I thought of them dying in some cold, dark place, their bodies rotting from the inside. We stepped into the night. I followed behind the men, silent. The moonlight made everything look silver and haunted. The road was splashed with dark stains. Blood?

Maybe. or something else. It hadn't dried, even though the dirt around it was dry as bone. We walked for over an hour. That's when I saw it. A huge building loomed in the distance, well lit and almost elegant. It had a balcony above the main entrance. Light poured from every window. Looks like someone's home, I whispered to Chen. He just nodded, scanning the area. crackling sounds came from the nearby trees as more partisans emerged, saluting Chen. The group had grown to seven. Chen gave the order, stick to the plan.

Kill every last Japanese soldier and doctor inside. Leave no one breathing. They nodded, and just like that, the group split up, some ran to the front, others circled around back. Chen knelt beside me. I need to go too, he said, voice low. Will you be okay here? I want to go in, I said fiercely. That's my mom. I should help. You're a kid, Jing. You don't even know how to shoot. He looked sad. If I don't come back in 30 minutes, run. Find family, anyone.

This place is cursed. Then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness. Gunfire exploded from inside the building. Flashes of light danced in the window. It sounded like chaos, sustained bursts from different floors, screams mixed in with the blasts. Then silence. A man stumbled out the front door, one of the partisans. He was missing an arm, blood gushing from his shoulder in violent spurts. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on the wound.

He tried to scream. Then he went still. Dead. I had to go in. Screw what chin says. said. That was my family in there. I ran past the body and through the open door. Inside, the lights were blinding. The white hallway was smeared with blood and bits of flesh. A severed arm still gripping a gun lay beside the wall. I bent down and took it, my fingers trembling.

This was it. I had a gun now. I wasn't helpless. I was going to find my mom. I turned the corner. and saw chin. He was barely standing, leaning against the wall. His face was a shredded mess. His scalp had been ripped open, and his chest was torn wide, organ spilling out. You, have to run, he gasped, reaching for me with a bloodied hand. They're all dead. I found no one, then he collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. But I wasn't leaving. Not yet. I found stairs and descended into the basement. The first room nearly made me vomit. Stainless steel tables filled the space. On them were bodies, pregnant women, dissected while still alive. Their babies were laid out beside them, little bodies cut open like science experiments. The walls held shelves of glass jars.

Inside floated fetuses, heads, hearts, livers. Human remains, cataloged like pickles in a pantry. I staggered out, dry heaving. The next room was full of charred bodies. Some were just blackened bones. Others were still moaning, barely alive. One burned figure twitched, trying to reach for me. Chen had been wrong, someone had survived. Then came the noise.

Heavy, wet breathing from behind me. I turned, gun raised. It was, a thing. An abomination. Towering and sewn together from multiple bodies. Five legs, ten arms, all stitched grotesquely into its flesh. Three mutilated heads grinned down at me, each with animal and human eyes. Dark fluid oozed from its seams.

I screamed and pulled the trigger. The gun jolted hard, but I hit it in the shoulder. Black blood sprayed. It screeched and started coming toward me, legs moving like a spider. I turned, and tripped over a corpse. A Japanese soldier. The creature's fingers closed around my ankle. H-E-Y, someone screamed behind me.

Gunfire rang out. I twisted around. My mom stood there. She was covered in sores. Her skin was blotched black from the plague, and her nose was rotting. But she was alive. She fired again and again into the monster. her, each shot tearing into it. When the gun clicked empty, she threw it aside and leapt onto the

thing, biting and clawing like a wild animal. I ran. After the outbreak, the Chinese government sealed the entire area. To this day, nobody goes in. It's a dead zone, poisoned forever. Years later, I took a DNA test just out of curiosity. One result stood out, I had a rare mutation that made me resistant to the black death. Maybe that's the only reason I made it. But surviving didn't mean forgetting. I still see those people, their bodies covered and boils the size of eggs. I still hear their screams. I see the women, dissected alive. The fetuses, the preserved heads. And my mother, charging a monster, a plague burning her alive as she fought to save me. What unit 731 did wasn't just war. It was evil. Pure, unforgivable evil. And it lives in my memories.

The end, I used to love camping when I was a kid, exploring the outdoors, climbing trees, the smell of marshmallows on a campfire and sleeping under the stars. Nature was my happy place. Not anymore, though. Not since my best friend disappeared. It was a cool October evening when I was loading the last cardboard box into the moving van. I was finally moving out of my parents' house and into my first apartment. Just as I was getting ready to close down the van door, my mom stepped out of the garage holding an old plastic tote. Hang on, I found some more of your stuff in the attic. I shook my head, I don't think I will have room for anything else. The apartment is small and I don't want to fill it with my old junk. Are you sure? She asked

sitting down the tote and popping it open, there may be something here you want. I closed the door and turned to face her, I'm sure, I have enough crap to get organized as it is. Oh, it's your old stuff and lookets, she trailed off as she held up an old battered blue backpack. The backpack I had taken on my last camping trip, nearly ten years ago. I'll just put this stuff back. She said dropping the backpack back into the tote and reaching for the lid. I reached out and stopped her, no, it's okay. I bent down and retrieved the backpack from the tote. Seeing it again, after all this time. It brought back a lot of memories, a lot of feelings, a lot of fear. I haven't seen this in a long time. Mom put her hand on my shoulder. Are you okay? She asked. She knew what this backpack

meant to me. Knew what had happened on that trip. I nodded, yeah, I think I'm just going to head up to my room for a little bit. She looked down at the faded blue pack I clutched to my chest. Okay, I'm here if you need to talk. I made my way through the house and up the staircase to my room. I closed the door and sat the backpack on my bed. I hadn't opened it since that last trip. For a long while I just stared at it, my mind flooded with feelings I had long forgotten. The smell of the campfire. Climbing trees and rocks. Running through the forest.

Kyle and I laughing at my dad's jokes. Kyle. Wondering where he had gone. The fear I felt when I thought someone took him. I thought back to that time in the woods, my last camping trip. When I was twelve, my grandparents bought an abandoned piece of land with the hopes of fixing the place up and flipping it. There was a long winding path that led to an old rundown house, surrounded by dense forest.

The whole property was about 60 acres of mostly forested land. As a kid, it seemed like the perfect place to explore and find something or somewhere lost or forgotten by time. Our first time visiting the property, I remember how excited grandpa was to get started renovating the dilapidated house. My mother was always telling him that he was getting too old to be doing this kind of work. Grandpa would just smile and say, probably so, but if I can, I will. That's how he was, a strong, determined man.

If he saw something that needed to be done then by God if he could do it, he would. I think I missed that about him the most. That and his ability to make people smile, even in the darkest of times. Like a few months later, when he got the cancer diagnosis. I'll never forget how he just kept on smiling, all the way to the end. The old house never did get renovated. After Grandpa passed, Grandma didn't want to keep the property. She said it was his project and that she didn't want to work on it anymore.

We all understood, even if I was a little disappointed. I had just begun my exploration and hadn't made it nearly as far into the woods as I wanted. I had planned to bring my best friend Kyle out for a camping trip. But now that seemed like it wouldn't happen. A few days after Grandma had decided not to keep the property, my dad surprised me when I got home from school with a fully packed Jeep for a weekend camping trip. He smiled when he saw my excitement and said, we have access to the land for a little while yet. I know how badly you wanted to explore the woods, so hurry in and get packed. We're burning

daylight, shaking with excitement, I ran up and hugged my dad, oh wait, I said, can we call and see if Kyle can come? Dad smiled, sure thing kiddo, now run along and I'll give his parents a call. After running to my room and quickly packing some clothes and my survival gear, a canteen, a compass, a lighter and my cheap-o military surplus survival knife. I ran outside and jumped into the waiting jeep. Did you call Kyle's house? I asked. Dad nodded, I did, he should be ready when we get there. Yes. I exclaimed, after the short drive to Kyle's house, the half-hour drive-out to the property felt like an eternity. On the way we talked about what we might find in the forest. Maybe we will find an old abandoned

gold mine, said Kyle. Or an old army bunker, or a fallout shelter. I added, Looking back now, I realize how ridiculous we must have sounded to my dad. But, being the guy he was, he just joined in with us, or maybe you'll find an old cave system, where outlaws used to hide their treasure. Kyle's mouth dropped open, no way, did they really do that? I nodded excitedly, I heard that Jesse James, hit all his money in a cave somewhere. When we finally got to the property, it was just after 5 p.m.

After hurriedly setting up our tents near the tree line, we waved goodbye to my dad as we headed into the forest and left him. to finish setting up the camp. We had a lot of ground to cover and not nearly enough time to do it. Did you remember the paper? I asked, he nodded, as he took off his backpack, I got it and colored pencils, that way we can make the map super detailed. Kyle had been designated the cartographer for the weekend.

We both knew we probably wouldn't be able to come back out here after this camping trip, but we didn't care. We were going to make the best of the time we had. After about an hour of trekking through the dense trees, and seeing nothing of interest except an impressively massive boulder that we climbed all over. We decided to head back to camp. We had so much fun that day, exploring the forest, drawing out our map. That evening after we had eaten our hot dogs and marshmallows, we sat around the campfire late into the night.

Talking, joking, and telling spooky stories. Eventually the three of us climbed into our tents and drifted off to sleep. Later, I had woken up screaming from a nightmare. When Dad finally got to my tent and calmed me down. We realized Kyle's tent was wide open, and he was gone. The police searched the forest but never found him. They say he ran away, but I remember at the time I didn't believe that. I was convinced he had been kidnapped, but I think I just couldn't accept that my best friend

would run away without telling me. It was no secret that Kyle didn't have the best home life. His parents fought all the time and they usually blamed him. He always had new bruises with new stories of how he got them, but I think we all knew. It made sense that he ran away, even if I couldn't accept it. I could never bring myself to go camping again after that. I stood there, staring down at the backpack. My hands trembled as I reached for the zipper.

After all this time, I still couldn't open it. Why the hell couldn't I open it? There was a knock on my door, Will, are you all right? I shook off the feeling and threw the pack over my shoulder before opening the door and facing my mom. Yeah, I'm fine. I think I will take this with me after all. Mom nodded, okay. Did you? I think I'm going to head out early, I said interrupting her. You're not staying for dinner. She asked as I stepped past her. No, I think I'm just going to head over to the apartment. Lots of unpacking to do. After saying goodbye to mom and dad, I made my way across town to my new

apartment building. I had the van rented for the whole weekend, so I decided I'd just unpacked tomorrow. The apartment was small and bare. So far all I had set up was my bed, an old couch from my parents' garage and a dining table I got from Craigslist. I tossed the backpack on the couch and took a couple ibuprofen before flopping down onto my bed. Thinking back to that time had given me a monster of a headache. But after a few minutes of lying there, I drifted off to sleep. Gradually, I became aware of a sound coming from somewhere in the apartment. Someone was whispering.

I focused my hearing but couldn't make out any of the words. I thought that surely it had to be coming from one of the neighboring apartments. But, did I leave the front room light on? I leaned up and looked through the bedroom door into the front room. The blue backpack still lay there on the couch, only now it was open. Not wide open but fully unzipped, a faint sliver of darkness that seemed to be growing wider. The sound of the whispering grew louder and louder and the scratching sound began to emanate from within the pack as the entire thing began to gently wriggle with movement from within.

I stared in horror as an emaciated gray arm reached out from between the zipper, long jagged nails scrabbling for something to grasp onto. Will, the voice was frail yet familiar, and it came from inside the bag. I shot awake as my eyes darted around the room. There was no whispering and all the lights were still out. I climbed out of bed and stepped into the living room, staring down at the backpack. What the hell was that dream about? It felt so real.

I knelt down in front of the couch. My entire body trembled with anxiety as I reached for the zipper on the backpack, then faltered. Was I really ready for this? Opening the backpack meant facing the memory of losing my best friend all over again. I took a breath and before I could second guess myself, I reached out and pulled the bag open in one quick motion. I looked over the contents in confusion. There was an old water bottle, a kiss tea shirt and right there on top of the pile, staring me right in the face.

The map. This wasn't my backpack. The memory came rushing back. That school year, Kyle and I had gotten the same blue backpack. This was his, he must have grabbed mine when he left by mistake. I felt tears running down my cheeks as I dug through my long-lost friend's belongings. It felt a little intrusive, but it was also good to see some of his old things again. I looked over the map we had made and realized, it was a lot more detailed than I remembered. There was the big rock we had climbed on, but then further up on the page, Kyle had drawn a cluster of trees with some kind of strings for ropes hanging from the branches.

Kyle hadn't been the best artist, but I could make out different splotches of color on the strings. For some reason, looking at the picture made me feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. I decided that I had seen enough for now. I put everything back into the bag and zipped it closed. I couldn't believe it had taken me nearly ten years to work up the courage to open it. It was nice to be reminded of the fun I had with my friend, and it also seemed like a little bit of weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I flopped back onto my bed, my mind buzzing with questions that probably never be answered. Why had Kyle left? Where had he gone? Why did the trees on the map make me so unsettled? Eventually my mind quieted and I drifted back to sleep. The next few days were pretty uneventful. Mom and Dad came over and helped me unpack the rest of my things from the moving van, the apartment had begun to feel a bit homier. How have you been doing?"

Mom had asked. I sighed, knowing full well what she wanted to ask. Leave him alone, Jan, he'll talk when he's ready. Said Dad putting a hand on her shoulder. No, no, it's fine. I said, taking a breath. I opened the backpack, both of my parents stopped what they were doing and focused on me. It turns out when Kyle left, he took my backpack by mistake. It was his we had all this time, Mom looked like she was about to break into tears, oh honey, I'm so sorry. That must have been so difficult. Actually, what was in it? Dad interrupted.

I shrugged, just some of Kyle's old stuff. It felt weird digging through it, but also kind of cathartic. Mom stepped forward wrapping me in a hug. I'm so proud of you, Will, this was a big step. I returned Mom's hug, but I couldn't help noticing the look of concern on Dad's face. Dad, what's wrong? I asked. He looked up at me, hmm.

Oh, nothing. I just can't believe I never thought to make sure the backpack was yours. I remember now, that you two had the same one. It's a shame we didn't realize before Kyle's family moved away. Said Mom, we could have given it to them. What do you plan on doing with it? Asked Dad. Well, I'd still like to return it to his family.

I just don't know to get in touch with them. Dad nodded, I think that's a good idea, son. Do you want us to hang on to it? See if we can track them down. I'm sure we could find them online somehow, maybe Facebook or something. Said Mom. I shook my head, thanks guys, but this feels like something I should do. Maybe returning it will give me some kind of closure.

They both nodded in understanding. But for some reason, I had the feeling that Dad was upset about my decision. That night, after my parents had left, I decided to search online for Kyle's family. After about an hour of searching Facebook and a bunch of random people finder website, and having no luck, I decided to call it quits and go to bed. I was pretty tired from unpacking, so sleep came easily. Will. Will, will, I sat up groggily, what dude, come check this out.

Came a voice from the front room. I climbed out of bed and stumbled to my bedroom doorway. I blinked in confusion, my brain struggling to make sense of what I was seeing. Instead of the darkened front room, the doorway led to a brightly lit forest. I stepped through the threshold feeling the crackle of leaves. and the cool dirt under my bare feet. Will. A familiar voice called in the distance.

Kyle. Is that you? I called out. Come check this out. I stepped further into the forest and as I did, I felt a cool breeze at my back. I turned to see that the doorway to my bedroom was now gone. Kyle. I called out, where are you?

I saw a flash of color moving behind a tree in the distance. Hey, wait. I yelled as I ran after him. When I got to the spot I had seen him, he was gone. I spun in a circle looking for any sign of my friend. Kyle, there was another flash of movement, but it was back where I had started from. I ran after him, stop man, just wait. But again, when I got to where I had seen movement, there was nothing.

Damn it, I began to wander aimlessly through the dense forest, looking for Kyle, for my bedroom, for a way out, for anything. After a time, I found my way into a clearing. I found my couch, from my front room. And sitting on the couch with his head in his hands was Kyle. He looked almost the same as he did on the last day I saw him, only he was covered in dirt and scrapes. I cautiously approached him, Kyle, his head snapped up and he smiled wide, hey man, come

check this out, check what out? I asked nervously. His face was streaked with dirt and tears, he shook as he clinched something in his fist. I stepped closer, what is it? I asked. He smiled wider as fresh tears began to flow down his cheeks, Come check this out, he said through gritted teeth. I had the impulse to turn and run away from him, but curiosity drove me on.

I reached out and placed my hand on his. His skin felt cold and dry, but the shaking stopped. His fist was clenched tight, but I managed to pry his fingers open. I stared down in confusion, his hand had been empty. There was a slight discoloration at the center of his palm, the skin had turned gray and cracked. Before I could ask what it meant, the discoloration began to spread out until it completely covered his hand and his fingers began to break away. I looked up into his face and fell back in fear and disgust.

His eyes had rolled back and his cheeks had sunken as the decay began to cover his entire body. No. No. No. I started to panic as his body began to crumble right in front of me. I reached out trying to hold my friend together, but there was nothing I could do. He slowly disintegrated into a pile of. of bones and dust in my hands as I screamed. Kyle! I came awake screaming and thrashing.

Trying desperately to hold on to what was left of my friend. It took me a moment to realize I was out of the dream. I sat there gasping for air, wondering what the fuck was happening to me. Why had that felt so real? I looked at the time on my phone, it was already 3 a.m. I wouldn't be getting back to sleep after that, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. After downing the first glass I turned on the sink for a refill, as I did, I looked up into the front room and felt my stomach drop. There on the couch was Kyle's backpack.

I swore I had put it away in the back of my closet, but there it was. But that wasn't the worst part, on the carpet in front of the couch was a pair of small dirty footprints. I stepped up to the couch looking down at the backpack. How did it get here? Was that really just a dream? It had to be a dream. Maybe I had gotten it back out and just forgotten about it. it.

My eyes slipped from the couch to the floor, to those impossible footprints that my mind had refused to believe were real. Only now I couldn't look away from them. I took a breath and tried to clear my head. If that wasn't just a dream, then what was it? Was Kyle trying to tell me something? Of course he was, but what? A warning, a message, a clue.

What was I missing? My vision drifted back to the couch. Was there something in the backpack I had missed? That had to be it. I grabbed the pack and ripped it open before dumping the contents out onto the floor. I fell to my knees and pawed through it all. Scanning over every item, looking for something, for anything of significance. I found nothing new.

I began to feel like I was losing my mind, maybe it was just a dream. Come on, man, what am I missing? I waited for an answer, but then realized I was talking to an empty apartment and shook my head in frustration. I began stuffing everything back into the backpack. It was just a dream, I thought to myself. I was just stressed and the bag was bringing up old trauma. Zipping the backpack closed, I picked it up, ready to toss it back into my closet.

I made it halfway across the room, when I realized I was gripping onto something within the folds of the blue material. I stopped and unzipped the backpack. Just underneath the outer flap, was a small Velcro pocket. One that I hadn't noticed until now. The sound of the Velcro ripping open was the loudest sound in the world in that moment. I reached into the pocket and removed the object within. When I opened my fist and saw the thing resting in the center of my palm, I felt goosebumps rise on my skin and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

It was a small length of twine with white and red beads and a small shard of bone tied to one end. There were carvings on the beads, but they made no sense, just swirls and loops surrounding odd letters of some kind. I felt panic rising within me, I had seen this before. Tears burned in my eyes as the memory came rushing back all at once. Will, come check this out. Kyle called to me. What is it?

I asked. We had been charting a path through the woods and were a good way into the adventure. We already had several markers drawn on our map. Kyle was facing away from me but turned and held up a small piece of twine that had been tied to a tree branch. At the end of the twine were several calls. carved beads and what looked like a small piece of bone. I don't know man, but it's kind cool looking," said Kyle. Maybe it's off of a necklace or something.

Kyle shook his head, nah, if it was a necklace, there wouldn't be so many of them. What do you mean? I asked, just look. He said as he pointed a head through the trees. As I looked, I felt something cold wriggle up my spine. There were dozens of strands dangling from the trees ahead of us. held multicolored beads and bones fragments, and a few seem to hold bits of cloth or hair. I think we should go back. I said staring ahead. Why? Are you scared? Are the strings going

to get you? Said Kyle chuckling. Dude, I'm more worried about whoever put them there. Kyle scoffed, look man, they are super old. I bet whoever put them there is long gone by now. Let's put this spot with the strings on the map, then go a little further until we find the next thing to put on the map. Then we can go back, we still have some daylight left. I didn't like it, but I couldn't let him know how freaked out I actually was, all right, but just until we find the next map marker. As we walked through the trees, I did my best to avoid touching the dangling strands. I couldn't believe how high some of them reached, some had to be nearly to the treetops.

Who would go through all this trouble, and why? Suddenly Kyle came to an abrupt stop right on front of me. I began to ask what was wrong, but he held a hand up to silence me. He pointed a finger to his ear, he wanted me to listen. I stood as still and quiet as I could, straining my ears. For a moment all I could hear was the wind through the trees, then I heard it. The sound of a someone talking, somewhere off in the distance. The voice sounded strange and rhythmic, almost like singing.

But the tone was just wrong somehow and I couldn't make out any actual words. Whatever it was, I didn't like it. I tapped Kyle on the shoulder and silently mouthed, let's go. He nodded and we began to slowly back away. As we did, I stumbled and fell onto a fallen branch that snapped loudly. Kyle reached out his hand to help me up. When I looked up at him, his eyes were widening in fear. It took me a second longer to realize what was wrong, the voice had stopped.

As he pulled me to my feet, the forest went deathly silent. Suddenly we heard a new sound, growing louder and louder. The sound of leaves crunching under running feet. was running through the forest and they were coming closer. We turned and ran as fast as we could back through the woods, down the paths we had just blazed. I never looked back, but I would have sworn someone was running right behind us. Ahead of me, Kyle tripped over a stump and fell to the ground hard. As he struggled to climb to his feet I spun, planning on pulling my knife from my belt to defend

him. Instead, I spun too quick and fell to the ground next to him. To my surprise, there was no one behind us. Where'd they go? I asked, I don't know, did you see them? Groned Kyle, rubbing his ankle. No, I didn't want to look back, me neither man. And what was that singing?

It sounded like church music or something. Said Kyle, you mean hymns? Yeah, kind of. Anyway, let's get back and tell my dad, we dusted ourselves off and headed back to our campsite. It was starting to get dark just as we made it back to camp. Dad already had a roaring fire going and greeted us with sticks for roasting hot dogs. Hey guys. How'd the adventure go? Dad asked. We found some weird stuff in the woods, I think someone else might be out here. I said, yeah, Kyle interrupted. We heard someone singing,

and we heard footsteps running after us. Dad looked at us dubiously, did you actually see someone? I shrugged, well, no. But, Kyle's right we heard them. Singing and then running after us, and we found these hanging all over the place in one part of the woods. said Kyle holding out the strand he had shown me. You dumbass, you kept that thing. I exclaimed. Will. Dad snapped his fingers at me, language, sorry.

I muttered. Dad took the strand of twine from Kyle and examined it, whom looks like a Native American artifact of some kind to me, really? Kyle and I said in unison. Looks like it. Anyway, it doesn't seem like anything to worry about to me. He said, What about the singing and footsteps we heard?

Asked Kyle. Dad just shook his head, Boys the wind through the trees can make some strange sounds. And as far as the footsteps go, there are lots of animals out here, could have just been a deer or a fox or something. I had to admit, Dad's explanation of things did make me feel a little better. Kyle stuffed the strand back into his backpack and tossed it onto the ground by his tent. With our mood lightened, we cooked and ate our hot dogs and marshmallows.

We stayed up late into the night, sitting around the campfire, talking, joking and telling spooky stories. Eventually after Dad had stretched and yawned his big dramatic yawn for the third time, a sure sign that he was ready to get to bed. He stood and said, Okay, guys, I'm going to hit the sack. Stay up as late as you want, just remember to put out the fire before bed. We told him good night and watched as he climbed into his tent and was snoring within minutes. After a few minutes of silence, I turned to Kyle, hey man, I think I'm ready.

ready for bed too. He nodded, yeah, I'm barely keeping my eyes open at this point. We stood and kicked dirt over the fire until the glow of the embers was all but gone. Our flashlights lit the campsite in bright beams as we made our way to our tents. Kyle picked up his backpack and tossed mine to me before unzipping his tent. Hey, I said before climbing into my tent, I know dad said it was nothing to worry about, but, we should take it back, tomorrow. Kyle interrupted. I nodded, yeah, I think we should, having decided to return the artifact, as Dad called it. We climbed into our tents. Night, Kyle, Night Will, sometime later, I heard a noise outside my tent.

I was in that place between dreaming and waking, and the sound was distant, indistinct. The noise eventually resolved into something I could recognize, someone was whispering. I couldn't tell what the words were, though, that seemed far away and muffled. What? I called out, thinking maybe it was Kyle or Dad trying to work. whisper to me. When I called out, the whispering stopped and I could hear movement. I came awake enough to sit up and look around the inside of my tent. It had been a full moon that night so there was plenty of light to show the shadow moving along the outside of my tent. I focused on the

figure, sure now that it wasn't Dad or Kyle. It could have just been the distortion of the shadow on my tent's fabric, but it looked wrong somehow, tall but hunched over. I wanted to call out for my dad but I couldn't find my voice. The figure moved on towards Kyle's tent and began whispering again. The voice was horrible, it was full of hatred, both frail and menacing. Most of the whispered words, I couldn't understand. But two made their way to the front of my horrified mind. Flesh! Thief, they were here for Kyle, I was still too afraid to speak, but I had to do something. Clining to me feet, I quietly made my way to my tent opening and unzipped it just enough to peek out.

The figure had its back to me, they were some kind of cloak made of animal hide and had a mass of long tangled gray hair hanging down from a bowed head topped with some kind of headdress topped with deer antlers. I began to scream for my dad or for Kyle, but the figure whipped around and looked right at me. It was an old woman, her face lined and wrinkled and covered in dirt. The headdress wasn't a headdress, the antlers were protruding from the skin on her forehead. I fell back into my tent praying she hadn't seen me, I crawled over and into my sleeping bag covering my head. head. After a moment of silence, I peeked my head out from under my sleeping bag. She was right there. I hadn't heard any sound of movement, but there she was peeking back at me through my open tent flap. The shock and terror of that face brought my voice back and I screamed.

Dad help, the woman turned and ran, there was a rustle of movement outside and suddenly Kyle was screaming. Help me. Will. Help someone please. I couldn't look, I covered my head and continued He continued yelling for my dad. Will. Kyle. Dad began shouting. What's wrong? Please help me, Will.

Kyle shouted for the last time as his voice quickly faded into the distance. Kyle was gone. She took him. Later, after I told the police what I saw, Dad came and sat next to me. During the commotion, his tent zipper had gotten stuck. He eventually just ripped it open, but by that time, it was too late. Will, are you sure about what you think you saw, he asked. I looked up at him, it was an old woman, she came from the woods and took Kyle,

and she took him because of the twine thing. I shrugged, I think so, I heard her say thief. Dad was silent for a moment, then said, the police say, that he took his backpack with him. That the tent was just unzipped, I know what they think. He didn't run away. She took him. I turned to face him, didn't you hear him screaming for help? You know Kyle, you know he wouldn't run away.

Why don't you believe me? He put his hand on my shoulder, son, I can't imagine how you're feeling right now and I believe that you believe what you're saying. I never saw an old woman, and I only heard you screaming. I don't want to believe that Kyle would run away either, but he had a rough home life. Maybe we don't always know people as well as we think we do. Over the next few days, the police searched the entire forest from end to end. They found no sign of Kyle, no sign of the woman, and no sign of the twine artifacts. After a week, the search was called off. Without a body, Kyle was labeled a runaway. His picture was on the news for a while, his parents went from town to town hanging up missing person posters, but nothing ever came of it. Time passed and Kyle was forgotten.

Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that he had run away, just like everyone said.