Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Ultimate Haunted Compilation 9 Hours

Episode Date: December 5, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #hauntedcompilation #ghostencounters #supernaturalhorror #nightmarecollection “Ultimate Haunted Compilation – 9 Hours” is an immersive marathon of terrifying tales that explore the darkest corners of fear and the unknown. From restless spirits that refuse to leave to cursed houses whispering in the dark, each story drags you deeper into a chilling world where reality blurs with nightmare. Perfect for sleepless nights, this 9-hour collection gathers the most spine-tingling paranormal accounts and disturbing confessions ever shared. Get ready to lose yourself in the ultimate descent into darkness — one story at a time. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedcompilation, ghoststories, supernatural, paranormalencounters, hauntedhouses, nightmarefuel, darktales, creepyencounters, sleeplessnights, fearcollection, hauntednarration, spinechillingstories, horrorcommunity, trueghoststories

Declan loves a leisurely Sunday drive, even on a Tuesday, ignoring all the angry honks of people trying to get home from work. You see, with Dunstores click and collect, Declan is never in a rush. He can order online and collect his groceries at a time that suits him. From online grocery shopping to buy me same day delivery, there's a way to shop for everyone. At Dunstores, always better value.

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Terms and conditions apply vouchers can use. next grocery shop. I had just returned from a vacation with some of my high school friends. Since most of us live far apart now, meeting up once a year is how we stay connected. After being away for a week, I was absolutely wiped out. All I wanted was to spend the weekend at home, recovering before diving back into work. When I walked in, I didn't even bother unpacking. I headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed some snacks to substitute for dinner, then turned off the lights and flopped onto the couch. I didn't even turn on the TV. My plan.

Eat, scroll on my phone for a bit, and pass out. Sure enough, my eyes grew heavy before long. I set my phone on the coffee table, closed my eyes, and drifted off. It was late, though I can't remember checking the exact time before conking out. Sometime during the night, I woke up abruptly. It wasn't like I heard a loud noise or anything, I just snapped awake, instantly alert. It was a strange sensation, like my body knew something was off. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and grabbed my phone, figuring it was time to head to bed.

Maybe my brain just felt weird because I'd fallen asleep in the living room. As I glanced toward the stairs, I noticed the backyard porch light was still on. Not surprising, since I'd left it on during my vacation to make the house look occupied. But when I went to turn it off, my eyes landed on the back door. It was unlocked. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. I was imagining it. I opened the door to check, and it swam open.

My heart sank. Quickly, I closed and locked it. No way had I forgotten to lock that door before leaving. I'm meticulous about double-checking doors and windows before trips. I do it every time. Turning around, I flipped on every light downstairs and did a sweep of the house, looking for signs of a break-in. But everything seemed untouched.

Still uneasy, I returned to the door and tested the lock. Even with it engaged, the door opened. Upon closer inspection, I noticed part of the latch was broken. At that moment, pure fear gripped me. Someone had been here, recently. I knew the chances of them still being inside were slim, but I couldn't shake the feeling until I checked. Here's where I should have called the police.

Honestly, I'm not sure if I was too tired to think straight or just overconfident that no No one was still there. Either way, I decided to check the upstairs rooms. Turning on the hallway light, I saw all the doors were closed, just as I'd left them. My bedroom was at the far end, with a bathroom and guest room closer to the stairs. I checked the bathroom first, opening the door cautiously. Empty. Nothing out of place.

Next, I moved to the guest room. This room mostly served as storage, so there were boxes and furniture scattered around. I carefully walked through, checking behind every object. Then, suddenly, I heard it, soft, almost imperceptible footsteps coming from my bedroom. They crossed the floor toward the door, then stopped. It was as if the intruder and I were both frozen, listening, waiting for the other to make a move. My anxiety skyrocketed. I could hear my heart pounding as I stood there, paralyzed, staring at the doorway leading to the hall.

Then, I heard the creak of my bedroom door opening. A second of silence passed before loud, rapid footsteps thundered down the hallway. A shadow dashed past the guest room doorway, and I couldn't move. Frozen in fear, I listened as the footsteps raced through the house and out the back door. Still shaking, I grabbed my phone and called the police. This wasn't just a break-in for theft, whoever had been in my house had plans, plans I didn't want to think about. Nothing was stolen, and the police didn't find any evidence suggesting they'd been there long. They must have broken in that day, somehow knowing I'd be back.

And they hid in my bedroom, waiting for me to walk in. I don't like to think about what would have happened if I had. I worked at a gas station for a couple of years when I was 30. It wasn't a glamorous job, but it paid the bills. If you've ever been at a gas station late at night, you know it's usually just one employee on duty. Maybe bigger stations have more, but at hours, it was just me. There wasn't much to do, so one person was enough. But it could definitely get creepy.

I'd often stare out the window by the counter, looking at the faint glow of the gas pumps surrounded by darkness. Our station was on the outskirts of town, a few minutes from anything else. Most of our traffic came from truckers and travelers passing through. On this particular night, it had been raining non-stop. The upside of the rain was fewer people coming into the store, meaning less work for me. By midnight, only a handful of cars had stopped to refuel. I was struggling to stay awake from sheer boredom.

Then, suddenly, a car pulled in. Moments later, another. And another. What are the odds, right? I started paying attention. Looking out the side window, none of the drivers got out. They all just sat there with their engines running. After a few minutes, I debated going out to tell them it was unsafe to leave their cars running

by the pumps. But before I could, a few doors opened. men stepped out, all wearing heavy winter jackets despite the rain. Leaving their cars running, they walked toward the door. As they entered, each one made direct eye contact with me. I was bricking it. The fact that they left their cars running felt like a bad omen. One of the men approached the counter while the others spread out through the store.

How's your night, buddy, he asked with unsettling confidence. Glancing past his shoulder, I saw the others grabbing products off the shelves and stuffing them into backpacks. The sheer boldness of their actions scared me more than if they'd been shouting or waving weapons. They knew I couldn't do anything. We'll be out in a couple of minutes. Everything's going to be fine, the man said. One of his buddies walked over, hopped onto the counter, and said, open it. I complied, letting him empty the register. But being late at night, there wasn't much cash in there. The guy pulled out a few bills and showed them to the first man. where's the rest he asked we don't keep much cash overnight my boss empties the register before

shift changes i explained my voice shaking the man stared at me for an uncomfortably long time before smiling have a good night buddy he said gesturing for the others to leave they returned to their cars and drove off as soon as they were gone i called the police i was almost certain they'd and now a look at the forecast we're seeing lots of wind plenty of sunshine to come and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland at air grid

our forecast is for a sustainable energy future we're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit we're powering up Ireland learn more at airgrid.i Oh, Amy, my little one. I ask myself a million questions every day. When will you give me your first smile? How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along?

At the HSE's Mychild.I.E and in the free MyChaw books, you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other experts. Mychild.com.I.E. Expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health. hit another gas station nearby, and I was right. The police arrived too late to catch them, but they found the worker at the other station injured, nothing life-threatening, but enough to make my stomach turn. I've never seen those guys again, and I'm not even sure if they were caught. But I'll never forget how powerless I felt that night. I'm 22, and this happened a few months ago.

I live in an apartment just off my college campus. The building is nice and new, but the surrounding area is sketchy. Still, I never felt unsafe since I mostly kept to myself, driving to campus and back. It was a Friday, and I'd stayed late at school to study, so I got home around 7 p.m. I parked in the lot, climbed the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, and walked in. Dropping my backpack by the door, I grabbed a pre-made salad from the fridge and plopped onto the couch. While scrolling through YouTube, I heard a sudden, loud banging sound from the floor below me. Startled, I paused for a moment but shrugged it off. A few minutes later, the same sound echoed again.

This time, I paused my video and sat still, waiting to see if it would happen again. Curious but not alarmed, I figured it was just one of my neighbors. Little did I know, I was dead wrong. Lana Clarkson made it clear from the beginning, she was only having one drink, just one, before heading home. Adriano de Sousa, her driver, parked the limo outside and waited. What was supposed to be a brief drink turned into two hours? The last anyone knew, by five in the morning, Lana was found lifeless, slumped in a chair.

Let's rewind to February 3rd, 2003. At around five in the morning, a gunshot echoed through Phil Spector's Grand Castle. Hearing the sound, Adriano, his driver, quickly rushed out of the limo towards the castle entrance. Spector was known to be reckless with guns, often flaunting them, so Adriano thought maybe Spector had accidentally fired at some furniture. But when he arrived, he found Phil Spector standing in the doorway, pistol in hand, saying the haunting words, I think I killed someone. Initially, Adriano couldn't comprehend what was happening, but turning around, he saw a woman's body practically sprawled across a chair. That's when the frantic call to 911 was made. When the police

arrived at Spector's castle, they encountered a tense, dangerous scene. Officers entered through the garden, peeking through the second floor curtains to see a figure darting around inside. They knew someone armed was inside, and they couldn't predict how volatile he might be. Suddenly, Spector emerged as if nothing were wrong, and he stated bizarrely, you won't believe what you're about to see. The police ordered him to raise his hands, but Spector acted like it was a game, lifting and lowering his hands repeatedly and even stuffing them into his pockets. It was as if he didn't grasp the seriousness of the situation.

Eventually, the police subdued him and realized he was extremely. intoxicated. What they discovered inside the mansion was even more shocking. There, in a chair, was the lifeless body of actress Lana Clarkson, 40, who had apparently died from a gunshot wound to the mouth. Around her, bits of broken teeth were scattered, and at her feet lay what seemed to be the murder weapon. A nearby table held empty bottles, hinting that the night had started as a romantic evening gone tragically wrong. Lana Jean Clarkson was born in Long Beach, California, on April 5, 1962. Even as a child, her family predicted a bright future for her in Hollywood.

Charismatic, blonde, and blue-eyed, she grew into the tall, striking figure often seen on the runway. She began modeling internationally in places like Italy, France, and Japan, but her dream was always to break into the film industry. At 20, she made her film debut in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which was her ticket into Hollywood. Over time, she landed roles in various movies, appearing in Scarface, Brainstorm, and Amazon Women on the Moon, though she was often limited to minor roles or single lines. Hollywood wanted younger faces, and though Lana was still stunning, it wasn't enough. Around 2 a.m. on February 3, 2003, a peculiar pair entered the House of Blue's private area, a seemingly elderly woman in a wig and a younger woman.

With the dim lighting, Lana mistook them for two women politely informed them that the area was exclusively for men. A co-worker then whispered to her that the elderly woman was none other than Phil Spector, the legendary music producer. Harvey Philip Spector, famously known as Phil Spector, was born on December 26, 1939, in the Bronx, New York. He was raised in a Jewish, middle-class family, but tragedy struck early when his father committed suicide when Phil was only 10. In 1953, still carrying that grief, Phil's mother moved the family to Los Angeles. Phil began his musical career with Teddy Bears, writing their hit to know him is to love him, which reached number one on the Billboard charts in December 1958. But his real success began when he co-founded Phil's

records in 1961. By 21, he was a millionaire, renowned for his Wall of Sound technique, layering multiple tracks to create a unique, symphonic effect. He produced music for big names like the crystals, the Runettes, the Ramones, and even the Beatles. Spector developed a reputation not only as a musical genius. And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come, and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland.

At Airgrid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.com. Oh, Amy, my little one. I ask myself a million questions every day. When will you give me your first smile?

How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSE's Mychild.I.E and in the free MyChaw books, you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other experts. Mychild.com. expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health from the HSE

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For more, visit Understandinginsurance.I.E. forward slash underinsurance, brought to you by Insurance Ireland. But also as an eccentric. His style included dressing to match his guns, white outfits with a white-handled gun, black outfits with a black-handled gun. He would often brandish these weapons to emphasize a point or just to entertain himself. People tolerated it because he was Phil Spector, and could seemingly do no wrong. But behind the scenes, Spector's life was chaotic. His 1968 marriage to singer Veronica, Ronnie Bennett of the Ronnettes became infamous for his alleged abuse. According to Ronnie, Phil would lock her in a room to keep her from leaving and even bought a coffin to, remind her of what could happen if she didn't obey. His behavior became increasingly erratic after a severe car accident in 1974 left him with head injuries requiring over 700 stitches.

From then on, he frequently wore wigs due to hair loss. In 1998, Spector purchased the Pyrenees Castle, a mansion as grand and extravagant as he was. By the early 2000s, he had somewhat retreated from the public eye, but that night in 2003, he decided to re-emerge. Witnesses later testified that on the night of the incident, Spector had been drinking with an old friend, Rami Davis, at a bar. When she noticed he was getting intoxicated, she left him there. Spector wasn't ready to end the night, so he phoned another friend, Kathy Sullivan, inviting

her to meet him at the House of Blues. After a brief argument over her choice of water over alcohol, Kathy left as well. Left alone, Spector's attention turned to Lana Clarkson, who, despite ending her shift, reluctantly agreed to accompany him to his mansion after persistent coaxing. Adriano drove them back, while Spector and Lana shared drinks in the back seat. She repeated to Adriano that she was only having one drink and then going home. Adriano parked and waited, but hours passed, and the next thing he knew, she was dead. The trial became one of the most publicized cases in U.S. history, rivaled only by the O.J. Simpson trial. With a mountain of forensic evidence, including gunpowder and blood traces on Spector's jacket, Lana's

death was deemed likely a homicide. Spector was arrested, and his legal defense team argued that Lana, distressed over her stalled career, had taken her own life. The prosecution argued otherwise, pointing to Spector's violent past with women. The trial itself was dramatic, with Spector hiring and firing numerous attorneys and exhibiting disruptive behavior. In September 2007, the jury reached an impasse, resulting in a mistrial. But in a second trial in 2008, with the added testimony of Lana's mother, who mentioned how they'd shopped for new work shoes on the day of her death, contradicting any intention of suicide, the jury found Spector guilty of second-degree murder.

He was sentenced to 19 years, marking the tragic end to both Lana Clarkson's life and Phil Spector's Freedom. Chapter 1. Crash Course in Chaos. You know when people say, this isn't what I signed up for. Well, that was me, standing in a sweltering room with peeling wallpaper, a flickering fluorescent light, and a mountain of paperwork that screamed bureaucracy. Just a week prior, life had been normal, routine even. Wake up, work out, grab a coffee, and tackle the 9-to-5 grind. Nothing extraordinary, but hey, stability isn't so bad. Then came the call. Hey, can you swing by tomorrow? We need to discuss some, changes, manager's voice echoed through the speakerphone, dripping with ominous undertones.

Changes. That single word turned my peaceful existence upside down. The next day, I found myself reassigned to a completely new role. Apparently, company needs trumped individual preferences. My task. Oversea a project that had been in limbo for months. A pet project no one wanted to claim but everyone wanted to see succeed, a Frankenstein of initiatives, held together by duct tape and wishful thinking. To make matters worse, my team consisted of a mishmash of misfits. Linda, the spreadsheet wizard who communicated almost exclusively in passive-aggressive emails. Jamal, a creative genius but chronically late. And Sarah, and in turn with more enthusiasm than experience. Great. Just great. Chapter 2, Welcome to the Deep End. The first meeting felt like

a hazing ritual. We gathered in a dimly lit conference room, probably a relic from the 80s. complete with full wood paneling. As I introduced myself, I could sense the skepticism in their eyes. They'd seen people And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come,

and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At air grid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland Learn more at airgrid.e

Oh, Amy, my little one I ask myself a million questions every day When will you give me your first smile? How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSE's Mychild.I.E and in the free MyChaw books you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other

experts. Mychild. I.E. expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health from the HSE. Like me come and go, promising change but delivering chaos. All right, team, I started, trying to sound authoritative. Let's get to work. Linda raised an eyebrow. Jamal yawned. Sarah eagerly scribbled notes. Not exactly a standing ovation. Over the next few weeks, I learned two important lessons. One, leading a team is harder than it looks, and two, nobody likes mandatory team-building exercises. The first brainstorming session devolved into a heated debate about whether we should use Canva or Photoshop for a presentation. Linda and Jamal nearly came to blows, while Sarah nervously Googled conflict resolution techniques. Guys, guys, it's not about the tool, it's about the outcome, I interjected, channeling every TED talk I'd ever watched.

My words were met with begrudging silence. progress chapter three sink or swim just when i thought things couldn't get worse they did one morning i walked into the office to find an email from upper management the subject line urgent project deadline moved up fantastic instead of three months we now had six weeks to deliver a comprehensive strategy complete with a pitch deck financial projections and a marketing plan this is insane linda muttered scrolling through the email thread. Challenge accepted, Jamal said with a grin, clearly mistaking, insanity, for inspiration. Sarah looked at me expectantly.

What's the plan, boss, boss? The word felt heavy, like a crown made of lead. But there was no time for self-doubt. We broke the project into manageable chunks, assigning tasks based on each person's strengths. Linda handled the analytics, Jamal took charge of the creative, and Sarah, bless her, volunteered to tackle the logistical nightmare of scheduling meetings. Chapter 4, The Turning Point, halfway through our truncated timeline, a miracle happened. Well, sort of. During one particularly gruel cracked a joke about how our project was starting to resemble a reality TV show. Linda, surprisingly, laughed.

The tension that had been hanging over us like a storm cloud began to lift. From that moment, things started to click. Linda and Jamal found a rhythm, collaborating instead of clashing. Sarah's relentless optimism became infectious, and even I started to believe we might pull this off. We worked late nights fueled by bad coffee and worse takeout, but there was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before. Chapter 5, The Big Day, the day of the presentation arrived faster than any of us expected. As we set up in the boardroom, I couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and panic. This was it, months of effort boiled down to a 30-minute pitch.

The executives filed in, their expressions a blend of curiosity and say, skepticism. Linda kicked things off with a data-driven overview, her slides immaculate and her delivery flawless. Jamal followed with a visually stunning pitch deck that left everyone in all. Sarah wrapped things up with a concise summary of our logistical plan, earning a nod of approval from the COO. Finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath and launched into the strategic vision, emphasizing not just what we'd accomplished but how we'd done it, as a team. By the time I finished, the room was silent. Then came the applause. Actual applause. Chapter 6, lessons learned. In the weeks that followed, our project was greenlit, and our team was hailed

as an example of cross-functional success. But beyond the accolades, the experience taught me invaluable lessons about leadership, collaboration, and the importance of resilience. Was it easy? Absolutely not. But sometimes, the most rewarding journeys are the ones that force you out of your comfort zone. And as I looked around at my once-misfit team, now bonded by shared struggle and triumph, I realized something, this wasn't just a job. It was an adventure. What secret will I take to my grave? This might turn out to be pretty long. When I was 18, I started dating a girl, let's call her Jessica, someone I had wanted to ask out for years. We had known each other since we were about 11 or 12, and she was all... On the many nights of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to

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Book now at giddlestorhouse.com. Get the facts be drinkaware, visit drinkaware.com. and now a look at the forecast we're seeing lots of wind plenty of sunshine to come and a long-term outlook that's bright for ireland at air grid our forecast is for a sustainable energy future we're upgrading the electricity grid so every home business and community can benefit we're powering up ireland learn more at airgrid dot i e Always carefree, beautiful, and just amazing to be around. She was the kind of girl you just couldn't stop thinking about. When I was 15, she started dating someone else, and I waited. I guess I always hoped I'd get my chance. And finally, when we were both 18, I worked up the courage to ask her out.

From the moment we started dating, we were inseparable. Every weekend, she'd come over to my house because my dad worked abroad most of the time. We'd just hang out, smoke weed, watch movies, and play games. It was perfect. By the time I turned 19, we were still together, and things were going great. I'd started working for my dad and had managed to get my own place. Jessica moved in with me, and it was like a dream come true. At first, I was planning to move abroad for work and end things with her, but I convinced

my dad to let me stay in the UK so I could be with her. We quit smoking weed and settled into our new life. She was still perfect to me, laid back, stunning, and just the kind of person you want to spend every moment with. But over time, something changed. That carefree spark she had as a teenager started to fade. She became more irritable, less interested in just hanging out. We were still happy, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't the same.

I was doing well at work, and we moved into a nice apartment when we were 21. But there were moments when I wished we just had that one amazing year together and then parted ways. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Then Jessica got pregnant. We found out we were having a baby girl, and in her excitement, I caught glimpses of the girl I fell in love with. My dad passed away around this time, and Jessica was there for me like no one else. She held me when I cried, pushed me to get out of bed and go to work, and brought that carefree spirit back into our lives, even if just for a little while. When our daughter was born, Jessica seemed happy again.

For a month or two, she was that fun, light-hearted person I'd fallen for all those years ago. But then it started to fade again. She loved our daughter, but she wasn't very involved. I was the one changing diapers, waking up in the middle of the night, and doing all the exhausting parts of being a parent. The sleepless nights wore her down quickly, and we fell back into this stagnant routine. And once again, I found myself wishing we'd just had that one year together instead of all this. Don't get me wrong.

I love my daughter more than anything in the world. I'd do absolutely anything for her. But Jessica wasn't the girl I fell in love with anymore. She felt like a shadow of the person she used to be. Then, when our daughter was about four months old, everything changed. Jessica was walking back from the store one day when she was hit by a car. She was rushed to the hospital, and I got the call while I was home with our daughter. I left her with our neighbors and went straight to the hospital.

When I got there, they told me they'd done everything they could, but she hadn't made it. She'd died before the ambulance even arrived. What I felt in that moment wasn't what I expected. Instead of grief, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. It was like this weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I had to fight the urge to smile. I felt euphoric. I wouldn't have to deal with breaking up with her, fighting for custody of our daughter,

or coming home to see her sitting on the couch watching terrible TV shows, reminding me of the person she used to be. I felt free. They took me to see her body. In the movies, you see people breaking down, holding their loved ones, crying, asking why. I didn't feel any of that. I just stood there, looking at her, and felt nothing. The nurses were watching me, so I forced myself to turn away and leave the room.

Hours later, I went home, picked up my daughter, and sat on the couch holding her. That's when I cried, not for Jessica, but for my daughter. I cried because she'd lost her mother, and one day, I'd have to tell her about it. I cried because I'd have to pretend to care. I told my daughter I was sorry, even though she was too young to understand. At first, I didn't know why I said it, but then it hit me. I wasn't apologizing for Jessica's death, I was apologizing for the relief I felt when I found out.

Now, I'm 25. My daughter is perfect, and I'm happy. I don't miss Jessica. When I think about her, I only remember the carefree teenager I fell in love with. I block out everything that came after that first year. I'm glad I don't have to share my daughter with her. I'm glad it's just the two of us. I'm glad Jessica isn't here.

My daughter will never know this. No one who knows me will ever know. When I talk to my daughter about her mother, I paint a picture of the outgoing, fun-loving girl I fell for. But the truth haunts me. I should have felt some kind of loss, but instead, I feel felt happiness, and that hasn't changed. Jessica never did anything wrong, which makes it even worse.

I spent months trying to convince myself that my feelings were just some twisted form of grief, but here I am, years later, still feeling the same way. When I was about 12, I went to summer camp. I've always been a shy kid, so camp was basically hell for me. We had a couple of hours of free time at the end of each day, and I'd usually spend it walking alone in the woods near this big open field where everyone else was throwing frisbees or doing whatever. One day, I saw this huge wasp nest in a tree, easily the size of a watermelon, maybe bigger. For some reason, I decided it would be a great idea to throw a rock at it.

The rock went straight through the nest, knocking it to the ground, and suddenly, there were wasps everywhere. I ran like hell and, somehow, didn't get stung. But all the kids in the field, they weren't so lucky. Two of them had to go to the hospital to get checked out. I felt And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come, and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At Airgrid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid

so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.i. When somebody has a seizure, it all becomes clearer when you know what to do. Time the seizure. If it's over five minutes, call an ambulance. Keep the area around the person safe. Stay with them after the seizure passes. Time, safe, stay means you can make a real difference. Be clear on how you can help. Visit epilepsy.com.i and learn more about time, safe, stay. Funded and sponsored by UCB Pharma. Christmas the Guinness Storehouse brings to

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book now at Guinness Storehouse.com Get the facts, be drinkaware, visit drinkaware.com Horrible. I cried myself to sleep that night. No one ever found out it was me, but I still feel guilty about it, and I'm almost 40 now. Here's another one. My mother-in-law was really close to this couple who had two kids, a boy and a girl. The couple was different.

They had an open marriage and were kind of odd in general. Let's call them Lori and Dave. One day, my wife and I were having pizza with Lori and her kids. The boy was eleven, and the girl was five. Laurie started talking about how she kept catching her son doing inappropriate things on his phone and how he wouldn't stay out of his sister's room at night. I was confused and kind of horrified by how casually she was talking about it. I asked her what they'd done about it, and she said they'd grounded him for a week but that

he kept doing it. The worst part. This entire conversation was happening in front of the little girl. The girl eventually started chiming in with her own disturbing details. I couldn't listen anymore. I smiled, excused myself, and went to another room until they left. After they were gone, my wife and I talked to my mother-in-law about it. We decided to call child protective services, even though my mother-in-law begged us not to.

Within two days, the kids were removed from the home. Turns out, the boy had been abusing his sister regularly. The parents ignored a court order to keep them separated and even took them to Disneyland, where it happened again. The parents were arrested. Laurie served nine months in jail, and Dave got two years. The girl was adopted by a loving family, and the boy ended up in juvenile detention. No one knows it was us who made the call.

Everyone thinks it was Laurie's sister. They don't speak anymore. I'll never admit it was us, but I know we did the right thing. When I was 16, I got my first job at Chick-fil-A. I've always been good with money, so I started saving $100 from every paycheck. Eventually, I got a better job and increased it to $250. Now, at 36, I save $1,250 from every paycheck and have about $500,000 invested. My wife and kids don't know about this money.

We live a comfortable life, but I've made it a personal mission to save as much as I can. Growing up, my family was dirt poor. At one point, we were almost evicted. My dad had a drug problem, and my mom was often too depressed to function. We even had to share our tiny apartment with another poor family. I promised myself that my future family would never go through that. I planned to keep saving until I die, and then my kids and wife will inherit it. By then, it'll probably be over $5 million.

It's not a secret I'll take to the grave, but it might as well be. No one would believe me if I told them. He was about my age, working in a similar field, and planning to start business school the following fall. He showed up right at 2 a.m., maybe a few years. minutes early, if I remember correctly. It was closing time at the bar, and the staff was practically shoving us out the door. At this point, I was pretty drunk, wobbling drunk. Walking in a straight line felt like a monumental task. He was slightly better off, but not by much. We were both unsteady, so we ended up holding onto each other for support as we staggered toward

my hotel. To get there, we had to cross an overpass that spanned the highway. The road cut through the middle of the city and was sunk down below street level. As we shuffled along, he stopped midway and pointed to the new arena that had just opened off in the distance, right by the highway. I remember squinting at the building, trying to focus, when suddenly he stepped in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, and pulled me toward him. Before I could process what was happening, his lips were on mine. I froze.

Shocked. My immediate reaction was to push him away, not wanting to be rude but needing space to explain that he'd misunderstood. But in my drunken state, I pushed harder than I intended. Too hard. He stumbled backward, lost his balance, and fell over the edge of the railing. Time seemed to stop as I looked over the side. He hadn't landed on the highway itself but in the drainage ditch that separated the lanes.

It was about five feet down. I didn't know what to do. Panic consumed me. I told myself he'd be fine, that he'd climb out and get help or that someone else would see him and call 911. I walked away. The next day, I couldn't shake the guilt. I kept waiting for news, but nothing came. By the time another day passed without any updates, I convinced myself that everything had resolved itself somehow. Then, two days later, I saw an article in the local paper. His box... And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come,

and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At Airgrid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.i.e. Someone has a seizure. I think is an important way to do when someone has a seizure.

When somebody has a seizure, it all becomes clearer when you know what to do. Time the seizure. If it's over five minutes, call an ambulance. Keep the area around the person safe. Stay with them after the seizure passes. Time, safe, stay means you can make a real difference.

Be clear on how you can help. Visit epilepsy.orgia and learn more about time, safe, stay. Funded and sponsored by UCB Pharma. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity. experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse

enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the gravity bar. My goodness, it's Christmas at the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at ginnestorehouse.com. Get the facts, be drinkaware, visit drinkaware.com. Buddy had been discovered.

The report said his blood alcohol level was over 0.15. and authorities believed he'd fallen while drunk. That was the end of it. There were no follow-ups, no investigations. I've never told anyone about this. Not a soul. Writing it down now, I thought I'd feel some sort of relief, but all it does is bring the images back into my mind.

It's not cathartic, it's haunting. And yet, that's not my only secret. I've been married to my wife for nine years. She's my best friend, and I love her deeply. but she's asexual. Physical intimacy isn't something she enjoys, though she'll occasionally agree to it for a few minutes, usually with a sarcastic joke about getting it over with.

It's always clear that she's doing it for me, not because she wants to. Outside of those rare moments, the only physical contact we share is hugging or cuddling. When I try to talk to her about it, she gets defensive. It inevitably turns into an argument that lasts for hours, until I'm the one backing down. She'll promise to, try harder,

and for a week or two, things improve slightly. We'll have sex two or three times in that period, but then everything goes back to how it was. Over the last seven years, I've cheated on her. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's the only way I've found to meet my needs. Finding women willing to sleep with a married man is challenging, especially when you're shy and not particularly charismatic.

I've resorted to Crake's List and similar avenues during the loneliest stretches, when months pass without any real intimacy. These encounters are brief, 10 or 15 minutes, but they're the only moments when I feel seen and wanted. Afterward, I'm filled with disgust. I hate myself for doing it, but in those fleeting moments, someone cares about me. Someone pays attention to me in a way that's so desperately lacking in my life.

I've kept this hidden from my wife. She doesn't know, and I can't imagine ever telling her. The guilt is overwhelming, but it's better than destroying the life we've built together. Or at least, that's what I tell myself. Still, that's not the only secret I carry. In college, I met a guy who quickly became my best friend. We lived together for three years while finishing our degrees, and I got to know him better than anyone else.

He was brilliant, but had a tendency to let people take advantage of him. For example, he was once engaged to a girlfriend who cheated on him when he was just 20 years old. After they broke up, he jumped into another relationship with someone he barely knew and started planning to marry her too. He had this idealized view of love, probably because his parents had married young and stayed together despite their struggles. I hated to say it, but his parents weren't exactly role models. They'd had a tough life, and yet he wanted to follow in their footsteps. During our time in college, we became friends with a young professor who had just

joined the faculty. This professor took a liking to my roommate and went out of his way to help him. He pulled strings to get him into a prestigious graduate program, complete with a full scholarship and a teaching assistantship. The department even created a position specifically for him. Then, out of nowhere, my roommate decided he wasn't going. He planned to turn down the offer, proposed to his new 19-year-old girlfriend, and settled down. I couldn't believe it.

I was struggling to get into any program, facing rejection after rejection, and here he was, ready to throw away this incredible opportunity. Worse, I knew that if he declined, it would ruin the professor's credibility. Nobody would trust his recommendations again. So, I went to the professor behind my roommate's back and told him everything. I begged him to intervene, but I asked him not to reveal that I'd been the one to tell him. The professor was shocked but agreed to talk to my roommate. The next day, my roommate came home with a long story about how the professor had convinced him to go.

He ended up accepting the offer and, unsurprisingly, broke up with his girlfriend a few months later. He went on to become incredibly successful, while I spent the next year living at home with my mom, trying to figure out my own path. Now I'm in a great program myself, but I've never told him what I did. I worry that if he knew, it would cheapen his accomplishments. So I just smile and congratulate him whenever I see him thriving. But even that isn't the worst of my secrets. When I was about seven years old, I walked home from school every day. My friends would walk with me partway, but they always... And now, a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come,

and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At air grid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid, so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.I.E. When somebody has a seizure, it all becomes clearer when you know what to do when you know what to do. Time the seizure. If it's over five minutes, call an ambulance. Keep the area around the person safe. Stay with them after the seizure passes. Time, safe, stay means you can make a real difference. Be clear on how you can help. Visit Epilepsy.I.E and learn more about time, safe, stay.

Funded and sponsored by UCB Pharma. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the Gravester.

were. My goodness, it's Christmas. At the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at ginnestorehouse.com. Get the facts. Be Drinkaware. Visit drinkaware.com. I had to turn off at the main road to head in a different direction. That left me alone for the last stretch, which was a 20-minute walk along an exposed road. My mom had chosen this route because she thought it would be safer, but it wasn't. High school students from the nearby middle and high school would hide along the road, waiting to ambush me. They'd sneak up behind me, grab my back. and throw me to the ground. They stole my lunch money repeatedly, sent me home with black eyes, and tore my clothes.

I begged my mom to pick me up from school, but she was too busy running her business while caring for my sister and my disabled dad. My dad, a former Marine, tried to teach me how to defend myself. From his wheelchair, he showed me how to punch and kick, but I was outnumbered and overpowered. One day, I decided I'd had enough. As I walked home, I saw the group of bullies approaching and hid behind a church sign. I waited until they passed, then slipped out and hurried down the road. I thought I'd outsmarted them, but two of them were waiting for me by the hardware store.

They shoved me against the wall, pinning me there as they waited for the others to catch up. I remember looking across the street at the police station, wondering why nobody would help me. Cars drove by, but nobody stopped. One of the boys started punching me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. The others laughed and cheered him on. Something snapped inside me. I let my fear turn into adrenaline, shoved the boy with all my strength, and ran.

He stumbled backward into the street just as a bus came barreling down the road. The driver couldn't stop in time. The boy was thrown several feet by the impact. The other kids scattered. Nobody seemed to notice me, so I ran home and hid in my room, shaking and crying. I was certain the police would show up any minute, but they never did. I didn't tell anyone what had happened. The next day, the bullies were gone.

They never bothered me again. I heard on the news that the boy had survived but was in the hospital with serious injuries. The town used the incident to raise awareness about pedestrian safety, encouraging kids to use crosswalks and look both ways. Years later, at my high school graduation, there was a presentation showing highlights from our childhoods. It included a clip about the bus accident. That's when I learned the boy hadn't recovered. He died in the hospital.

His family had moved away shortly afterward. I'm 27 now and seeing a therapist for other reasons, including a traumatic brain injury I suffered about a year ago. That injury erased many of my childhood memories, but not this one. I've never told anyone about it, not even my therapist. Writing it here is the first time I've ever shared it. I thought confessing these secrets would bring me some kind of peace, but instead, they've just stirred up old feelings of guilt and shame.

Still, I suppose it's better than keeping them buried forever. We begin, Jesus Maria Miranda Riccondo, better known as Yazumari, was a 67-year-old retiree originally from Barack Aldo, Vizcaya. We know that practically his entire life, he held a very important position at the bank and, because of that, he never lacked anything financially. He had money, investments, and acquired various properties. Additionally, now being retired, according to La Sexta, he received a pension of no less than 3,000.

Some time ago, he was married, and from that union had two children, with whom he no longer spoke in the present day. Time passed, he got divorced, and after the divorce, he kept a duplex. It said he was a quiet man who always met with the same people, especially his brother Andres and his two cousins, Carlos and Alfonso. a very calm person who liked going to the countryside and meeting with friends for lunch every Monday. Jesus Mari met up with his friends, they would gather for lunch, get together with their partners, and throughout the week he kept in touch with them via WhatsApp. He wasn't a very

communicative or extroverted man, but everyone knew how he was. They knew how he wrote, how he communicated. They knew this man, his way of being, and this point would later become very important. And so we arrive at October 2011, when Jesus and several friends show up at a local cafe, and the waitress, around his age, immediately catches his eye. The woman's name was Maria del Carmen Marino Gomez, better known as Carmen, and at the time she was 61 years old. Carmen was from Yutura, Seville, and was the eldest of six sisters. As a teenager, she moved to the Basque Country. There, at 16, she began working in the meat industry. She got married, had two children, but in the year 2000, she got divorced, reporting abuse for which she received

a pension as a victim of gender-based violence. Years later, her ex-husband passed away, and she moved to Castro Urdeales, Cantabria, where she apparently found the perfect place for herself. There, she immediately made friends. They said she was charismatic, love to dance very vain but also pointed out that she had a strong character and couldn't this Christmas on Sky you can turn a silent night

into stoppage time delights an old mince pie into a stunning try and a winter chill into an alley-pally thrill with over 50 Premier League games exclusive Champions Cup and URC and all the darts

turn your Christmas into a sportsmus to remember with Sky Sports and Sports Extra Merry Sportsmas And now a look at the forecast We're seeing lots of wind Plenty of sunshine to come And a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland

At air grid Our forecast is for a sustainable energy future We're upgrading the electricity grid So every home, business and community can benefit We're powering up Ireland Learn more at airgrid.I.E. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity.

Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the gravity bar. My goodness, it's Christmas at the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at ginnissorehouse.com.

Get the facts, be drinkaware, visit drinkaware.e. Stan being contradicted. As soon as she arrived, she joined the Andalusian Center, and every Monday and Thursday she went there to dance several on us. Of course, each week she also went to the hair salon. They had to do updose, put on her makeup, she always had to look pretty and well-groomed. At the salon, everyone knew her. Everyone was delighted with her. However, this woman had a few little secrets.

Apparently, she had several complaints against her and had been convicted of fraud on various occasions, specifically in 2013 and 2017. According to Foro de Vigo, what she committed were romance scams, she would supposedly date men and ask them for money, which was never returned. It's believed she scammed at least two men, and not content with that, she also scammed her own family, specifically, her aunt's husband, Miguel Pan. Apparently, with complete trust, she got into his house, searched his papers, took his bank account number, and withdrew thousands of euros, between 6,000 and 7,000. Miguel also accused her of stealing jewelry and cash,

and emphasized that no one trusted her. She's done me a lot of harm. She stole my money, my jewelry, and if she could have, she'd have taken my house too. Miguel also claimed that Carmen moved to Castro Urdeales with her sisters, but after some time, none of them spoke to her. So now, she was alone. Days and weeks passed. She settled there, and suddenly, she met Jesus Mari. Not long after, she moved in with him.

According to friends and neighbors, the couple lived very well, always eating out, traveling, always together, smiling. However, a friend of Carmen tearfully said that in recent months things weren't going well. There was tension, bickering, they were no longer as close. But it seemed like just a rough patch. And on Monday, February 11, 2019, Jesus Mari attended his usual lunch with friends. The day went completely normal. But the following Monday, he didn't show up.

No matter how much they messaged him, he didn't respond, No replies on WhatsApp, no answered calls. His phone appeared off or out of service. That's when his cousins Carlos and Alfonso became worried. One day we called him, and it was always off. We contacted Carmen, and she told us his phone fell in the bathtub and stopped working. Curious, because the house doesn't have a bathtub, just a shower stall. Then she gave them a new number.

They would call, but he never answered. He would send messages like he was on vacation in Galicia and such. But eventually, we got suspicious and warned him that if he didn't answer the calls, we'd report it to the Guardia Civil. That same day, that phone also stopped working, probably because of the threat. Carmen's version was that he went on a trip, met with friends, left, but she had no idea who these friends were. She said he wanted to disconnect, take time for himself.

One day he was in one place, the next in another. She constantly provided new phone numbers. And the strangest thing, Jesus Mari began responding with monosyllables. At first, short messages, two or three words. But over time, the phrases made less sense. They got longer with more information, but at the end of each phrase, he would say, Abrasso, a hug. And Jesus Mari would never say that. That wasn't how he spoke. It made no sense. People kept insisting, asking him to send voice notes, to call. But he would either change the subject

or stop responding. In fact, one of the messages said, Hi, cousin, you don't have to worry so much about me. I'm doing very well. I just want to be away for a while. I'll call you soon. A hug to everyone. Jesus Mari's friends received a dozen messages from three different phones. In those messages, he was supposedly having fun, he was here, then there, moving around, changing places, and saying things that didn't sound like him. For example, I'm enjoying myself like a pig and mutt. That phrase wasn't even his.

It was something Carmen used to say. Not him. Nonetheless, the woman insisted it was him, that he didn't have a phone, that it kept changing, and she herself received messages too. She showed them to everyone. They were affectionate, close, he supposedly loved her deeply. And at one point, she began to... This Christmas on Sky, you can turn a silent night into stoppage time to lice.

An old mince pie into a stunning try. It's stupendous from Lundster. And a winter chill. into an alley-pally thrill. Luke the new political! With over 50 Premier League games, exclusive Champions Cup and URC rugby, and all the darts,

turn your Christmas into a sportsmus to remember with Sky Sports and Sports Extra. Merry Sportsmas. And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come, and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At Airgrid, our forecast is for a sustainable,

energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.I.E. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with brett taken views of dublin city from the home of guinness live entertainment great memories and the gravity bar my goodness it's christmas at the guinness storehouse book now at ginniss storehouse dot com get the facts be drinkaware visit drinkaware dot ae consider giving him power of attorney in his absence because the trip was being prolonged so much the messages

kept coming she kept showing them but by april two thousand nineteen hasty Suis Mari's cousins had had enough. They didn't believe the story anymore. They didn't believe that man was really him. So they demanded proof, a photo, a voice note, a video, anything, even just a one-second call. And that man sent his last message on April 6th. After that, there was only silence. Everyone was worried. But they noticed Carmen was moving on with her life. She went to the Andalusian Center, danced, never missed it. Went to the hair salon, got her hair and makeup done. People asked about him, about her partner, and she repeated he was on a trip.

She looked sad, worried, but at the same time, not very affected. For her, nothing was wrong. Everything was normal. Seeing all this, on April 9th, Alfonso Riccondo, Jesus Mari's cousin, went to the Guardia Civil Station and formally reported his disappearance. He spoke of the supposed trip, the phones, the messages, he showed everything. At first, the Guardia Civil didn't take it very seriously. Nonetheless, just in case, they went to the couple's home. There, Carmen changed her story. At first, she said yes, he went on a trip with friends, whom she didn't know. But then she said

he had actually abandoned her. After seven years, he left. Went away for a few days, came back, withdrew 12,000 from their accounts, took some cards and a checkbook, and then she never saw him again. Some sources say Carmen mentioned he had a mistress, that there was someone else he was in love with, and that he was in Punta Kana at the time. But others don't even mention that, they just say he left, disappeared, and wouldn't come back. Whatever the case, the Friends had a completely different version. What Carmen was saying didn't make sense to them. That's when the Guardia Civil dug deeper.

They checked the bank accounts and saw that only one of them had any activity. From that one account, 12,000 was withdrawn in different batches, batches of 600 to 900 euros, the maximum allowed. But that's not all. The money was withdrawn from ATMs in Castro Urdiales and surrounding areas. supposedly, Jesus Mari wasn't there, he was traveling far away, so he couldn't have been the one withdrawing the money. The police asked Carmen if she knew anything. She replied no, that she didn't have the card, knew nothing about it. It must have been him. The Guardia Civil began focusing on her. What she was saying made no sense. And in late April to early May 2019, Carmen asked her

friend Maria Carmen Mendoza to keep a small box at her house. A box that contained toys. She told her a bit of the story, that her partner had disappeared, fled, that everything was being investigated, and that very soon her house would be searched. She didn't mind, on the contrary, she wanted them to come, investigate, gather clues. But in that box, there were toys, and she was very embarrassed for anyone to see them. So, in confidence, she asked her to keep it. It would only be for a while, a couple of weeks, a month at most.

And Maria Carmen agreed. The case made no progress whatsoever. To be continued. So, in confidence, she asked her to keep it for her. It was going to be for a short time, just a couple of weeks, a month at most, and Mari Carmen agreed. The case didn't progress at all until September 3rd. of that same year. Marie Carmen Mendoza was fed up. Days passed, then weeks, then months.

She would call Carmen and ask about the box, when would she come for it, when would she pick it up, but Carmen kept delaying. She said she would come, that not to worry, and that she shouldn't open it. There came a point when she was just tired of it all. She didn't understand what was going on or why that thing was hidden in her house. So, on the night of September 30th, without hesitation, she decided to open it, and discovered that inside, there weren't any toys, but rather a skull. Terrified, she ran to her sister Anna Maria's house. She told her what she had seen, what was in her house, and the two of them returned to verify it. That was when they called the civil guard. Carmen's reaction at that moment was not surprise, she wasn't shocked.

Instead, she reacted angrily toward her friend, because she felt her friend should have called her. That if she found that, she shouldn't have called the police but her. Either way, the civil guard went looking for her immediately and arrested her. This Christmas on Sky, you can turn a silent night into stoppage time to lice. An old mince pie into a stunning try. It's stupendous, Rob Lancaster. and a winter chill into an alley-pally thrill.

Luke the new political! With over 50 Premier League games, exclusive Champions Cup and URC rugby, and all the darts, turn your Christmas into a sportsmus to remember with Sky Sports and Sports Extra. Merry Sportsmas. And now a look at the forecast.

We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come, and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At AirGrid, forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.I.E. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity. Experience the story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness

Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with Brett taken views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the gravity bar. My goodness, it's Christmas at the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at ginnestorehouse.com. Get the facts. Be drinkaware. Visit drinkaware.com. Something that triggered a huge controversy. All of Spain found out what had happened, and of course, rumors began to swirl. The following year, 2020, the pandemic arrived, and with it came lockdown. Carmen and Jesus Mari's house was searched. Every corner, every inch was inspected, but the man's body was never found. So, rumors spread. Several neighbors appeared on El Programma de Honorosa, saying that

back then, when her partner had disappeared, Carmen distributed food all over the place, especially croquettes and empanadas. She handed out food to neighbors, at the Casa de Andalusia, at the hair salon, she went around giving out food. When I recorded the video, I thought this part was understood without needing to clarify anything, but I think I need to point something out. Since the body never appeared and she allegedly gave out food at that time, people speculated that the empanadas and croquettes were made with the meat of Jesus Mari, and so panic spread. There were people from the area who said this really happened, that they knew someone who ate the empanadas, the croquettes, that they knew people who ate that, but others said it was a lie,

just an urban legend. In fact, the police confirmed it wasn't true, that it never happened, that it was all rumors. But Twitter was filled with memes, and as time passed, people didn't know what to believe. Putting the rumors aside, the investigation continued, and several key points were examined. The first was the forensic exam of the head found in the friend's house. On the bags wrapping it, seven fingerprints were found that belonged to Carmen Marino, so she had wrapped it herself. The cause of death was a heavy blow to the base of the skull, and the toxicological exam found diphonitramine. So the man had been sedated before dying, he was asleep, probably unconscious, and then his life was ended. But the worst part wasn't that, the worst part

was that the head had apparently been cooked so that the flesh would come off the bone. Some sources say it was boiled, others say it was burned. But either way, we know it was cooked. Secondly, the house was searched. And although it had been thoroughly cleaned, blood traces were found. So that was the crime scene. They also discovered that this woman had made strange purchases, she bought a hammer, electric saws, reinforced gloves. She bought all sorts of materials, but the saws were never found. It was also discovered that the living room sofa had a hidden compartment, and inside there was a large amount of money,

money believed to be what Carmen planned to use to flee. But that's not all. In this woman's purse, they found the card that Jesus Mari supposedly used to withdraw all his money. And during his absence, that card was used, used at the hair salon, on outings, in restaurants. During that time, Carmen spent that man's money. And the cherry on top is that, according to cell phone tower data, Jesus Mari had sent those messages from that same house. During all that time, she pretended to be him.

She bought prepaid SIM cards, continued sending messages, wrote to herself, faked conversations. And as time went on, more strange things were found. The body of Jesus Mari never appeared, but two key. testimonies did. The first was found in that very house, the couple's home. Police found a laptop. And before he disappeared, the following searches were made, if my partner dies, will I collect a pension? Can I inherit if my partner disappears, and after the disappearance, the following searches were made, how to unclog an electric saw? According to neighbors, they never heard

noises, no saws, no bangs, no screams. They never heard anything. But supposedly, that was the crime scene. And here's where another key witness appears, a woman whom Carmen had hired to clean. She had worked for her before, had cleaned her house. They knew each other, they trusted each other. In February, Carmen called her to help carry down bags of soil, supposedly she had changed the soil of the plants on the terrace and had filled four large bags. Her back hurt, she wasn't feeling well, so she asked her to please throw out the bags and deep clean the entire house. The woman agreed. She arrived at the house, grabbed the bags, and realized they were extremely heavy, each one. She loaded them into Jesus Mari's car, an out of her. And out of her,

that was parked right there. Some sources say she had to move it to the parking lot, that it was parked by the door, and she had to move it and then load the bags. And now a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come, and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland.

At air grid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid, so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.e. Oh, Amy, my little one. I ask myself a million questions every day. When will you give me your first smile?

How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSE's Mychild.I.E and in the free MyChile books, you'll find the answers you need from. doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other experts. MyChile.I.E. Expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health from the HSEE. Inflation pushes up building costs, so it's important to review your home insurance cover to make sure you have the right cover for your needs.

Underinsurance happens where there's a difference between the value of your cover and the cost of repairing damage or replacing contents. It's a risk you can avoid. Review your home insurance policy regularly. For more, visit Understandinginsurance.I.E. forward slash underinsurance, brought to you by Insurance Ireland. Other sources say she threw them straight into the dumpster, didn't use the car at all, just tossed them on the street. Either way, she carried down four bags. With that information, the government delegation ordered a search of the Castro Urdeale's landfill. But nothing was found.

For a long time they searched the site, and when nothing turned up, it was assumed that everything had been disposed of some other way. For bags weren't enough. So most likely, Carmen used Jesus Mari's car to take the remains elsewhere, to other towns. However, that information is still unknown today. The trial began at the end of 2022, and it was a complete circus. Maria del Carmen Marino denied all the accusations and constantly. constantly deflected blame. Regarding the head, she said someone left it at her door. First,

she claimed she didn't know it was there, that she thought it was sex toys. Then she said someone left it at her door and, since it was the only thing she had left of Jesus Mari, she kept it, it was her memory of him. However, she didn't know who killed him. She also said she wasn't the only one with access to Jesus Mari's laptop. She claimed his brother Andres used it too, and that her friend Mari Carmen used it, but both denied it flatly. Using the card, withdrawing money, hiding it in the couch, having blood in the house, sending the messages, she had no explanation for any of it. And the evidence was overwhelming. So the prosecution was clear on their theory. Their main hypothesis was this, this woman killed her partner

mainly for money. Jesus Maria Varanda's will was changed on August 21st, 18, six months before his disappearance. Some sources say he removed his children from the will and made Carmen the sole beneficiary. But according to the equipo de investigation documentary, that wasn't true. In fact, there were three beneficiaries, Jesus Mari's children in Carmen. The inheritance would be split among them, and Carmen's share would total 114,000. She searched online what would happen if her partner disappeared, and in that case, she wouldn't receive any money. So the plan, allegedly, was to end his life, dispose of the

body, and keep the head to later plant it somewhere far from the house. That way, his death would be confirmed, and she could inherit. The civil guard was closing in on her, searching her house. So the head couldn't stay there. She spoke to her friend, gave her a box, and told her there were toys inside. That way, it was well hidden, but she trusted her friend would never open the box. However, she did, and immediately called the civil guard. Some rumors say Jesus Mari was cheating on her, and that she, fed up, decided to end his life. Other rumors say she had a lover and wanted to run away with him, so the inheritance was very tempting. In any case, Carmen never confessed to the crime. So today,

we don't know exactly what happened. What we do know is the sentence she received. She was found guilty of homicide with the aggravating factor of kinship and was sentenced to 15 years in prison. Additionally, she was ordered to pay 18,000 euros to Jesus Mari's brother and 20,000 euros to each of his children. So now it's your turn. What do you think of the case? Do you think the sentence was fair? The end. This thing happened last year, but damn, it still messes with my head like it just happened yesterday. I've never actually sat down and told the whole story anywhere, not on Reddit, not to friends, not even to my family. But I've reached a point where I feel like if I don't get it off my chest, it's going to rot me from the inside out. So here it goes.

So, I'm a 29-year-old dude working at a medium-sized tech company in Seattle. The kind of place that gives you cold brew on tap, bean bags in the break room, and slack channels for everything from debugging code to trading crypto. I like my job, but I keep things low-key. I'm not the guy leading office karaoke or joining every after-work trivia night. I do my work, nod politely, crack the occasional joke with my small crew, and head home. That's it. Then comes Aaron. She joined the company about a year ago, a new hire straight out of... And now, a look at the forecast. We're seeing lots of wind, plenty of sunshine to come,

and a long-term outlook that's bright for Ireland. At Airgrid, our forecast is for a sustainable energy future. We're upgrading the electricity grid so every home, business and community can benefit. We're powering up Ireland. Learn more at airgrid.i. Oh, Amy, my little one. I ask myself a million questions every day.

When will you give me your first smile? How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSE's Mychild.I.E and in the free MyChaw books, you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other experts. Mychild.com. Expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health. from the HSE

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We're powering up Ireland Learn more at airgrid.com. somewhere fancy. Let's call her Aaron, not her real name, obviously. She was 26, super outgoing, that kind of confident where she could walk into a room and suddenly everyone wanted to be in her orbit. People liked her. Like, instantly. And to be fair, she was friendly. To everyone, including me. Not in any way that stood out, just general office politeness. We exchanged a couple of hellos in the hallway. She once commented on my sarcastic reply in a team meeting, laughed a little.

And that was about it. I had nothing against her, but I didn't really know her. We'd never had coffee together. Never worked late on a project together. Never chatted on Slack outside of tagging each other in group convoes. Just casual, professional interactions, if you could even call them that. Fast forward maybe two months later, and I start noticing a shift. Aaron went from warm and bubbly around everyone to cold and distant around me.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. I figured maybe she was stressed, maybe had stuff going on outside of work. Happens to all of us, right? But then the cold shoulder got sharper. She'd leave rooms when I entered. She'd avoid eye contact during meetings. it was weird. But again, I didn't push it. Not my business. And then, bam. Out of nowhere, I get an email from HR. Please come to room 402 at 3 p.m. for a meeting. No context.

Just a calendar invite and a sinking feeling in my gut. I thought maybe they needed input on some new policy thing, or maybe there was some stupid issue with my time sheet. I even joking. I even joking. about it to my teammate, like, guess I'm getting promoted or fired. Well, turns out it was way closer to the second one. I walk into that little HR room and there's two people sitting at the table with serious faces, the kind that suck all the air out of the room. They ask me to sit down and one of them goes, a formal complaint has been made against you regarding inappropriate behavior, specifically unwanted attention in stalking. My brain just went white noise. I felt like the floor dropped out from under me.

I could barely choke out the words, wait, what? They wouldn't tell me who filed the complaint at first, said it was confidential, part of procedure. But eventually, after I kept asking for specifics, what I supposedly did, who I supposedly did it to, they dropped the name, Aaron. I was stunned. Like, completely blindsided. Aaron? The person I barely knew.

The one I maybe exchanged five sentences with. She was accusing me of stalking her. They said she claimed I followed her to her car more than once. That I stared at her during meetings. That I made creepy comments about her clothes. I mean, what? None of that had ever happened. Not once.

I didn't even know what kind of car she drove. I couldn't even describe her outfit on any day other than probably office casual. I told H.R. This was all a mistake. A misunderstanding. That I've never followed anyone, never said anything creepy, and had barely even interacted with Aaron. They nodded like they were listening, but it didn't feel like it. They said I'd be placed on work-from-home pending investigation. I walked out of that building like I was in a fog. I sat in my car in the parking garage for a solid 30 minutes, just trying to process what the hell had just happened. My heart was pounding. My mouth was dry. I felt sick. That night I didn't sleep. I pulled up every

interaction I could remember. Every email. Every slack message. Every calendar invite. I was hunting for proof, something to show I wasn't crazy. But there was nothing. Nothing even remotely personal between us. The worst thing you could say about any of our exchanges was that they were boring. The investigation went on for about a week. HR interviewed people from our team, from other departments. I found out later that most of them said they never saw me do anything weird or inappropriate. But one guy, let's call him Greg, apparently told HR that I always seemed a little intense and that I kept to myself a lot. Like that's a crime now. Being introverted and focused.

Here's where it gets interesting. A colleague of mine, Dana, 33, tough as name. Oh, Amy, my little one. I ask myself a million questions every day. When will you give me your first smile? How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSEs MyChile.I.E and in the free MyChaw books,

you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dietitians and lots of other experts. MyChel.I.E. expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health, from the HSE. Nails and Sharp as a tack, reached out to me privately. She told me she'd heard about the complaint and thought something didn't sit right. Then she dropped the bombshell, at a company happy hour the week before the complaint was filed, she heard Aaron joking with some other co-workers, saying something like, I bet I could get my name, fired if I wanted to.

At the time, Dana thought it was just a messed up joke. Office gossip, drunk chatter, whatever. But now, it didn't feel like a joke at all. Dana said she'd be willing to tell H.R. what she heard. She even remembered Aaron laughing and saying, guys like him are easy. You just have to act a little scared and people believe you. When I passed that along to H.R., I wasn't hopeful. But to their credit, they followed up.

Dana repeated everything she told me. And that changed the tone of the whole thing. Suddenly HR wasn't treating me like a creep in a trench coat anymore. They started checking into things more seriously. They pulled building security footage. And guess what? There was zero footage of me following Aaron to her car. On several days she claimed I did, I wasn't even in the building when she left.

They checked meeting logs. Turns out, she said I made comments in meetings I didn't even attend. One of the alleged creepy remarks supposedly happened in a meeting that had been canceled. Another. That was a team huddle where she wasn't even present. The more they dug, the more her story unraveled. After a few more days, HR called me in again. They told me that the investigation had concluded and that there was no evidence of misconduct.

on my part. I was cleared. No black mark on my record. I could come back to the office if I wanted. And while that might sound like a happy ending, it really wasn't. Because even though I was officially in the clear, the damage was already done. People still looked at me differently. There were whispers. Awkward silences. Aaron wasn't fired. She was just moved to a different department, and no one ever really addressed what had happened. No apology from her. No statement from HR to clarify things. Nothing.

It's been nearly a year now. I've mostly gone back to working remote, even though I technically don't have to. I just don't feel comfortable in that office anymore. I don't trust the culture. I don't trust how quick people were to believe the worst about me, based on nothing. I've been second-guessing every word I say, every glance, every step I take in public or online. What scares me the most is how easily this could have gone in a different direction. If Dana hadn't come forward, if HR hadn't bothered to pull the footage, if Greg's stupid

comment had carried more weight, I might have been jobless. Blacklisted. Labelled as some predator for the rest of my life. All it took was one person deciding to lie. for whatever reason maybe she was bored maybe she got off on the power i don't know i don't care anymore i just needed to tell someone and maybe let other people out there know they're not alone this stuff happens it's real and it messes you up in ways you don't even see coming anyway that's my story the end i guess This just happened five days ago, and honestly, I'm still shaken up by it. Nothing's been resolved yet, and I can't stop thinking about what went down, which is why I'm dumping it all out here now. Maybe I just need to get it off my chest. So here's the deal, I'm a 35-year-old woman, and my husband is 33. We travel a lot, like, way more than the average couple.

It's something we both enjoy and bond over. Anyway, our most recent trip took us to Los Angeles, California. I know, not exactly the easiest city to navigate, especially when it comes to the social issues you'll see out in the open. Now, LA's reputation precedes it. Everyone hears about the homelessness, the drugs, the crime, all of it. But no matter how much you read or hear from others, seeing it up close. It's different. Way different.

It hits you harder when it's not through a screen. There were people camped out on sidewalks, pushing shopping carts filled with their entire lives, and some were even just sitting silently, like they'd already given up. It was heartbreaking. I couldn't stop looking around, taking it all in. But my husband? He had a very different reaction. He's always been the kind of guy who believes in tough love.

Like, he truly thinks anyone can pull themselves. up by the bootstraps if they just try hard enough. On one hand, I get it, personal responsibility and all that. But on the other hand, he crosses the line sometimes. Like, instead of just having opinions, he'll go off on rants where he says stuff that makes me cringe. It's like he forgets that these are actual human beings we're talking about. So we were walking through downtown L.A.

Yeah, I know, probably not the best idea. We passed by a lot of homeless folks, and I tried not to stare, even though part of me wanted to help. I mean, some of them looked like they hadn't eaten in days. But my husband kept walking like none of them existed. He didn't even blink. That is, until we came across this one woman. She was standing next to a small tent, holding a cardboard sign. Something about needing help to feed her kids.

She was asking passers-by for money, calmly. and quietly. People just kept ignoring her. We would have done the same, except my husband suddenly stopped. Just stopped walking, right there on the sidewalk. It caught me off guard so bad I had to circle back to him after a few steps. He stared at her for a moment, really stared, like he was trying to burn holes through her with his eyes. I felt a nod in my stomach right then. I didn't know what was about to happen, but I knew it wasn't going to be good. And I was right. He went off on her. Loud. Right there in public.

I can't remember every single word, but I'm pretty damn sure he said something like, shut your fucking mouth. Stop begging. Stop asking everyone around here for a handout and get a fucking job. I feel sorry for your kids, really. What kind of example are you setting for them? That it's okay to live like this. You're a parasite on the street. Then, this is the part one still can't believe happened, he reached into M.Y backpack, pulled out a couple of empty snack wrappers and an old plastic water bottle, and just dropped them right into her donation bucket like it was a damn trash can. Didn't say another word.

Just turned and walked off. The woman didn't react. Not a single word. She just picked up the bucket and went back into her tent without looking at either of us. I was stunned. Like, completely stunned. I stood there frozen for a moment, not sure if I should follow him or go apologize to the woman. I ended up chasing after him, but not without saying something.

I asked him, calmly at first, why he would do something so heartless. Like, how did that help anyone? What was the point? His response. He doubled down. Said that people like her. are what's wrong with this country. That there are jobs everywhere if people would just get off their asses and take them. That the reason cities like L.A. are falling apart is because nobody

wants to work anymore. I mean, look, I've heard him say this stuff before, but never with this kind of venom. I pressed him about the trash thing. Like, seriously, why put garbage in her bucket? That just seemed cruel for the sake of being cruel. But he told me that was the point. That maybe it would shock her into realizing how low she'd fallen. That seeing literal trash in the spot where she was hoping for kindness might make her want to turn her life around. He kept going on, talking about how handouts only make things worse, how society rewards laziness, how people are too soft nowadays. I just zoned out at that point. None of it felt real.

I kept looking at him, trying to reconcile the guy I married with the guy who just saw. screamed at a homeless mother and dumped trash into her donation cup. I didn't respond much. Just nodded and kept walking. I felt sick to my stomach. The rest of the day was quiet between us. We went back to the hotel, and I said I wasn't feeling well, which wasn't a lie. I didn't sleep that night. Now, I'm not writing this to ask whether my husband's right or wrong. Deep down, I already know the answer to that. I'm writing this because I don't recognize him anymore. I've seen flashes of his harsh opinions before, but this?

This was next level. It felt dangerous. We've been married for seven years. We met through friends, hit it off, got married after a year. I always thought we balanced each other out. He's the logical, firm one. I'm the compassionate, emotional one. It worked, for a while.

But now I'm wondering if I've just been ignoring red flags for years. He's never been violent. Not with me, not with anyone. But the way he spoke to that woman? The disgust in his voice. It made me wonder what else he's capable of when pushed. It was like watching a stranger where my husband's skin. The scariest part is he didn't feel bad afterward.

Not even a little. He was proud of himself. Thought he'd done. the world of favor. That maybe, just maybe, he'd changed one person's life for the better by humiliating them. I wanted to go back the next day to find the woman and apologize, maybe give her some money or food. But my husband refused. Said we weren't going to waste our time on someone who wouldn't change anyway. So we didn't go. I still regret it. I keep picturing her face, the way she didn't even flinch when he spoke. Like she'd heard it all before. Maybe she had. Maybe that's the saddest part of

all. I've been quiet around him since we got home. I told him I was tired from the trip, but the truth is, I'm rethinking everything. Not just what happened in L.A., but everything before that. Every little argument, every harsh comment he's made about people he thinks aren't beneath him. We've talked about having kids. How can I raise a child with someone who treats people like this? Who sees suffering and meets it with contempt? I don't have the answers. I wish I did. Right now, I'm stuck in this weird limbo. I don't hate him. I'm not ready to leave. But I also can't ignore what I saw. And I definitely can't forget it. So yeah, that's what happened. That's the story. Maybe it sounds petty to some people.

Maybe others think he's right. But to me, it felt like a breaking point. Not just for that woman, or for our trip, but maybe for us too. The end, all right, buckle up, because what I'm about to tell you sounds like a low-budget thriller, only it was my real life. This story is about my dad's psycho ex-girlfriend. And when I say psycho, I don't mean the jealous kind who just texts too much. I'm talking full-on stalking, showing up uninvited at 1 a.m., and pretending to be family kind of crazy.

Yeah, that kind. Let me start by saying, my dad. Man has the worst taste in women I've ever seen. I swear, the man must have some invisible beacon on him that just calls to every unstable woman within a hundred mile radius. I wish I was exaggerating. I'm not. Every single woman he's dated, except.

his current girlfriend, thank God, has been some level of emotionally, physically, or psychologically abusive. Sadly, that includes my own mom. But this story isn't about her. This one's about Mary. The last girlfriend before he finally got his act together. Mary was charming at first. Like, creepily good at pretending she was normal. They met at some Christmas party a mutual friend was throwing. Dad had just got gotten out of a three-year-long on-again-off-again circus of a relationship. He swore he was done with drama. Then Mary walks in looking like a Pinterest board version of innocence and heartbreak. She told him she had just gotten out of an abusive marriage herself, and they

clicked right away. For about three months, things seemed okay. But he noticed red flags early on. Like, she never invited him over to her place. Not once. Always. made up some excuse. Her dog was sick, her house was being painted, her roommate had COVID, you name it. My dad thought it was weird, but he's always given people the benefit of the doubt. Then one day, he gets a phone call from a guy. Says he's Mary's husband. Yeah, husband. At first, dad thinks it's her crazy ex trying to mess with her new life. That happens, right? Controlling exes, Yes he divorces. So he confronts Mary, and she bursts into tears and gives him this long, tragic story about

how her abusive husband refuses to sign the divorce papers. She insists they're separated and that he's just being vindictive. Something about it didn't sit right, so my dad starts poking around. He even talked to Mary's parents. And that's when the truth came crashing down like a wrecking ball, Mary wasn't separated. even close. As far as her family and friends knew, she was happily married. They didn't even know my dad existed.

He broke things off immediately, obviously. And that's when Mary's mask dropped. This woman went from zero to fatal attraction in less than 24 hours. She started calling his work. Like dozens of times a day. Leaving voicemails that swung wildly between begging him to take her back and threatening to ruin his life. She'd send hundreds of texts.

He blocked her, changed his number, she'd get the new one. He moved to another city. She'd show up. I don't know if she had some kind of GPS tracker on him or just the determination of a Terminator, but she kept finding him. Then she started involving me. Yeah, lucky me. She somehow got my number and started texting me too.

At first, it was just, checking in on your dad. Hope he's doing well, but then she shifted gears. When I got married and had my daughter, she lost her damn mind. She started sending gifts. Packages with baby clothes, stuffed animals, even things labeled from Grandma Mary. Excuse me? Lady, you are not anyone's grandma. I sent them back at first, then started donating them unopened. I never responded it to her messages. Not once. Then came the casseroles. One day, she showed up at my dad's place. Handed a lasagna over to his roommate, saying she'd noticed my dad was looking thinner, and she wanted to make sure he was eating. Luckily, the roommate threw it out. Dad had already

started the paperwork for a restraining order. That same night, she knocked on my apartment door. at 1.10 in the freaking morning. I had a gut feeling earlier that day and had sent my daughter to spend the night at my aunts. Thank God. When I didn't open, she left banana bread at the door. Yeah, nice try, Mary. That went straight to the trash. Next night, same thing.

She came back. I wasn't alone this time. My husband was working late, but my neighbor was home. She started banging on the door, screaming that she wanted to see her granddaughter, that we were family. I called the police, and while I was on the phone, my neighbor came out ready to go full WWE. He yelled that the cops were coming. She ran off into the park across the street. Cops didn't catch her that night.

But my dad's restraining order finally came through, and we moved. Different part of the state. New schools. New ever. everything. But every now and then, she still texts me. Asking how my dad is. What my daughter is doing? I never answer. But I save every message. Just in case I ever need my own restraining order one day. Now, that might be the end of one horror story, but if you think that's where it stops, oh boy, strap in. Let's rewind about 13 years. Back in high school, I dated this guy named

Norman. First love kind of thing. We were those cheesy kids with promise rings and whispered dreams about our future house and how many kids we'd have. I was 17. He was my world. Then I did what dumb teenagers do, I messed up. We went through a phase of breaking up, making up, repeat. And during one of those breaks, I got with someone else. That was the end of Norman and me. For good. Fast forward a few years, I'm grown, married, have a kid. One day, I randomly searched Norman on Facebook. We reconnect, exchange a few harmless messages. I apologized for how things ended.

He was cool about it. We weren't friends' friends, just friendly. Birthdays, likes on posts. That kind of thing. Then one Christmas, I found an old photo of us. cute little Polaroid from a camping trip I sent it to him in a message like uh-huh remember this

he didn't reply next thing I know I'm not on his friends list anymore whatever life happens then a few months later I get a message from a woman named Marissa Norman's girlfriend it was a full-on hate letter called me a bunch of names told me to stay

away, said I was pathetic for clinging to the past. She even bragged about her gold engagement ring, trying to one up the promise ring Norman had given me back in high school. Like, girl, really? I ignored her. Deleted my Facebook. Made a new one with just close friends and family. But somehow, I kept getting friend requests from fake profiles. I'd add one by mistake, and BAM, abuse in the inbox. Calling me names, telling me I'd die alone, that no one would ever love me. Eventually, I locked down all my social media. But she still found me. Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, she even found my number.

And the creepiest part. One time, I got a Snapchat request from someone pretending to be a mutual friend, but their profile pick was just a horror poem written in fancy cursive. I blocked everything. Life moved on. I started dating again, joined a dating app, and matched with a guy named Nate. He was average-looking, had a chill vibe, and we clicked pretty fast. He said he had an Android, so no FaceTime, but we'd talk on the phone.

It was a dude's voice. Nothing seemed off. A few weeks into texting, we planned to meet up at a local cafe. He asked a lot about my past. Like, a lot. especially about Norman. I didn't think much of it, some people are just nosy. I explained we dated as teens, broke up, and that I didn't hate the guy.

Day of the date, I show up, waiting at a little outside table. Nervous but excited. Then this woman walks up to me, all smug and smiling. It's Marissa. I couldn't even move. She sat down across from me like we were old friends. Then she dropped the bomb. She'd been Nate all along. She'd created the account. The voice on the phone. One of her guy friends. She said she'd been keeping tabs on me for six years. Ever since she and Norman got together. She saw that photo I sent him and lost it. Accused him of cheating, made him block me. Then she started following me online. Made fake accounts to monitor me. Walked by places I said I'd be.

Looked me up on LinkedIn. She knew where I worked. She said she needed to know that I wasn't trying to get back with Norman. And then, God, this part still makes my skin crawl, she told me she'd become obsessed with my daughter. She was convinced my kid looked like Norman. Thought I had secretly gotten pregnant and was hiding it from him. She told me not to even think about revealing the truth,

because she was going to be the one to give Norman a child. That was it. I stood up and walked away. Didn't say a word. Just got in my car, drove home, and cried. First thing I did was call my daughter's school. Let them know no one besides me or her dad was allowed to pick her up. Then I called my brother. He told me to call the cops. I did. But that's a whole other story. To be, continued. All right, buckle up, because this is the wildest ride of my life, and I'm telling you now, I couldn't make this stuff up even if I tried. So, I was dating this girl who, at first, seemed like the kind of person you could take home to mom. You know, she was hot, funny, charming when she wanted to be, but man, did that mask fall off quick? If I didn't let her borrow

my car whenever she felt like it, hand her cash like an ATM, or do whatever the hell she she demanded at the drop of a hat, she'd throw tantrums like a toddler hopped up on pixie sticks. We're talking full-blown meltdowns over the dumbest crap. And let's not even get into the bar fight where she smashed a beer mug over some dude's head like she was in a wrestling match. That was the first big red flag, but somehow, I still stuck around like a moron. The Rayall kicker came when she started using meth. Yep, meth.

And like it was no big deal, she'd be. brought that garbage into my house. I tried helping her, tried getting her into rehab or something, but she twisted it, made it out like I was the villain. Told me I was trying to change her. Uh, yeah, I was, because she was turning into a literal danger to herself and everyone around her. Eventually, I snapped. I called her mom and said, come get your daughter before I call the damn cops. I told her straight up, we were done. Finished. No more second chances. She didn't take that well.

And by that, I mean she went nuclear. She started by making a Craigslist ad under the escort section with some random chick's picture and listed MI number. Within hours, my phone was on fire. I got over 500 texts and calls from dudes trying to hook up. That insanity went on for a full week. While I was dealing with that chaos, I caught the security guard at my appointment. apartment complex snooping around my car with a flashlight. When I confronted him, he said someone reported my car as abandoned. Really? I live right there. I had to show him my license

and car title to stop him from towing my ride. Next day, same hell. My phone still buzzing non-stop. I dragged myself home after work, ready to decompress, and there's a knock at the door. I check the people, some random dude standing there. I ignore it, but then I look down for my balcony and this guy's still out front on his phone. I yell down, ask him what he wants, and he's like, his, crazy X, here. Turns out, she told this poor sap she lived here and set up a dinner date. Not just him either, three more guys showed up that night thinking they had dates. Then she starts texting me pictures of my patio and messages like,

looks breezy with your door open, and, hope your dog finds his way back home. I was working while this was happening, and I swear, my blood pressure hit dangerous levels. I got home and everything was fine, but just the thought that she could have broken in or messed with my dog was eating away at me. A few days later, another knock, this time, it's two cops. I opened the door and these dudes are looking at me like I kicked their dog. One of them says, are you, name? We're here about a report of sexual assault.

Can you tell us where you were between 2 and 5 p.m? I nearly crapped my pants. I told them I just got off work an hour ago, and asked who the hell accused me. Of course, they weren't at liberty to say. I was fuming. I told them to go check with my job, verify I was there till four, and then asked if they'd arrest whoever filed a false report. And get this, one of them looks me dead in the eye and says,

Not so sure it's false. Your car is still warm and you look guilty. What? Dude, my car is warm because I just got home. Sherlock over here thinks he cracked the case with a warm hood. They left after that, said they'd come back if my alibi didn't check out. They never did. I called the police station later, and guess what?

No report had ever been filed. No record of any officers being dispatched to my address. I was losing my damn mind. She could pull these insane stunts and there were zero consequences. Meanwhile, I'm still getting random texts and calls, fewer, but still. I thought maybe it was finally winding down. Then one day, I stopped at my mailbox and found a letter from the post office saying they were forwarding my mail to a new address. I hadn't moved.

I called immediately and told them it was a mistake. They said they'd fix it. But guess what? I didn't get any mail for two months. Not a single damn letter. Turns out, she forwarded my mail to her address. Yep, this psycho was now getting all my bills and account info. She used it to access my utilities and shut off my cable, gas, and electric.

I got hit with over $300 in reactivation fees. My apartment complex had to pay some of the balances, then turned around and build me. I had to jump through flaming hoops to get everything turned back on and locked down. I tried calling the police again and they were like, do you have a restraining order? I explained that I tried but she kept dodging service. Their response. Well, we can't help you. Of course not.

But they sure as hell showed up fast when she filed a fake report. Love the justice system, am I right? Then came the miracle, I found out she got arrested for the bar fight from months ago. Finally. She got three months in jail. That's it. Three. I've seen people get more for unpaid parking tickets.

But hey, three months of peace sounded like paradise. I checked her jail status online every few. few days, just to make sure she was still locked up. Then one day, I saw she'd been released, two days prior. I nearly screamed. Started checking my locks and windows twice a day. Weeks went by and nothing. Maybe she was done. Nope. Then I get a text from an unknown number. It's a pick of a positive pregnancy test. No message, just the pick. I figured it was her, but couldn't be sure. I replied, finally, whatever ties I had to you are gone. Enjoy ruining someone else's life. She replies, you obviously don't know who this is. Now I'm panicking. I had talked to a

couple of women post-breakup. What if it wasn't her? But the next few messages confirmed it. Another pick comes in, this time of a pregnant belly, face cropped out. Then a message, I guess we know who the fertile one is now, huh? That sealed it. It was her. Back when we were together, we tried for a kid but nothing happened, thank God. So I replied, congrats. Go raise your kid and leave me alone. More insults followed, but I ignored them. I figured, hey, this kid is someone else's problem now. If she's busy being a mom, maybe she'll stop tormenting me. Wrong again. A week later, I'm rushing to my car in the morning like usual. I'm not a morning person, so I time things down to the second.

I get to my car and see something stuck on it, three stupid-ass magnets with childish slogans like cheater and, woman-hater. I tried to peel them off fast, but she'd superglued them on. To this day, there are glue marks still on my car. And that, my friend, wasn't even the worst part. But I'll tell you what, the second those magnets showed up, I knew she was back. Back in full psycho mode, ready to make my life hell again. And who knows what she's planning next?

I don't know if I need to move states, change my name, or fake my own death. But one thing's for sure, dating her was the worst decision I've ever made. And I once bought sushi from a gas station at 2 a.m., so that's saying a lot. All I ever wanted was peace Some quiet A normal life Instead, I ended up in a twisted lifetime movie starring me and the most bats hit person to ever walk the earth

My advice If you see red flags, run Don't wait for the beer mug to the face or the meth in the medicine cabinet Just go Learn from my pain so you don't end up living through your own horror story because once the crazy starts it doesn't stop it just gets louder messier and way way more expensive the end sun and moon fragments of my light novel by claire mackenzie prologue those who remain in the mud excerpt from shadows of honor chapter two the mud reaches up to his ankles it is warm thick it slips and sucks like a toothless mouth oriliano can barely breathe from shadows of honor chapter two the mud reaches up to his ankles it is warm thick it slips and sucks like a toothless mouth oriliano can barely breathe from the stench, iron, shit, stale sweat, and smoke. The air is a mix of hot breath and dried blood.

The battlefield is a pit. There are no hills. No glory. Only open earth, open like a wound. The archers have already done their work. The enemy knights lie sprawled like broken dolls, with their armor stuck in the mud, useless, ridiculous. The screams do not come from the living who fight, but

from those who are trapped. Hands raised begging for mercy. Faces buried up to the nose. The helmets prevent them from turning their necks. They cannot see death coming. And there goes Oriliano. With the dagger in his hand, like the others. One by one. Don't think. Do it. One less. Damn it, he growls as he kneels beside the first. A night with his visor open, face red from effort, eyes bulging. Please. I have children. For the gods, no, Oriliano drives the dagger into the hollow of the neck, right where the metal doesn't cover.

A jet of blood soaks his face. The night trembles like a fish just pulled from the water. Then nothing. Next. Another night. This one does not scream. He looks at Orioliano with hatred. with contempt as if he does not deserve to kill him he breaks his teeth with the pommel first then he drives the blade beneath the helmet the skull sounds like wet bark splitting next another this one cries calls for his mother his leg is broken in three he cannot look at him he only moans orelliano hesitates

He wretches. The dagger slips from his hand, covered in mud and flesh. He knows that if he doesn't do it, someone else will. And if he lets him scream, others will hear. And they will shoot again. Forgive me, Orioliano whispers. But the other no longer hears. He is already halfway to nothingness.

The mud is full of bodies. Some still move. A horse screams with a spear through its chest. There is no one to help it. No one to end it. No one has time. No one wants to feel that something is still alive in this field of death. Orioliano falls to his knees.

He vomits on the armor of one he just killed. He cries. He cries with a dirty face, like a lost child. But he is not a child. He is a killer. And he can't even justify it. There is no victory, no reward, only more death. A comrade passes beside him.

You okay, Orioliano does not answer. He only looks at his hands. They don't seem human. They seem claws covered in dried blood and other men's skin. Sometimes, he murmurs, I think that when God made the mud, he didn't make it so flowers could grow, but to bury men who still breathe. the wind blows. It brings no relief. Only drags the smell of the dead. And the memory of every face he stabbed that morning. Rain, dull gray, beautiful field, gray. Excerpt from Shadows of Honor,

Chapter 3, The Wolf and the Child, the rain had stopped for the first time in days. The mud was still there, like a constant. But the sun fell warm on the ravaged fields, and the air smelled of smoke, and horses. Orioliano was without armor. Only linen shirt, stained boots, and a tired face. He walked along the edge of the camp with a lost gaze when he heard a laugh. Child's laugh. He turned, slowly, as if it cost him to recognize the sound.

A kid no older than eight winters played among the broken fences. He held a wooden stick as if it were a sword. He made noises with his mouth. Busing of imaginary swords, heroic shouts. He fought invisible enemies. His clothes were made of rags, but on his face there was something Orilliano hadn't seen in weeks, life. The boy noticed him.

He froze, as if caught in the act. Orioliano approached, kneeling with one knee in the mud. And who are you? He asked in a deep voice, but without harshness. I'm the captain of the Red Forest Squad, said the boy, chest puffed out. I defeated a hundred bandits this morning. Orioliano feigned astonishment. A hundred?

That's more than me in the whole war. The boy offered him a stick, as if it were a sacred sword. Won a fight, Mr. Knight. For a second, just a second, Orioliano hesitated. And then, he smiled. A clumsy smile, as if he struck. struggled to remember how to do it. He took the stick.

Got into stance. Prepare yourself, Red Forest Squad. You're going to face a real warrior of the North. The boy laughed out loud. He lunged at him, screaming like mad. The stick hit Orioliano with force. A dry smack. Orioliano pretended to stumble, exaggerated the movements, let the kid defeat him.

you shouted the boy, stabbing the stick into his belly. You surrendered. Damn! Orioliano fell on his back. You're stronger than any general. They both laughed. Laughed loud, without fear. For a moment, Orioliano forgot the faces in the mud.

Forgot the daggers, the screams, the dried blood on his fingers. The boy flopped down beside him. They looked at the sky. There were slow, lazy clouds. Were you a kid too, once? Ask the boy. Orioliano swallowed hard. Yes, though sometimes I forget.

Silence. Did you like playing nights? Yes, he said, closing his eyes. But then I grew up and forgot how to play. The boy looked at him seriously. Don't forget again, okay. Oriliano nodded. He didn't trust his voice. They stayed there a while longer. Without words. Two warriors. One with clean hands, the other full of ghosts. And for a moment, Orioliano felt human. Excerp from Shadows of Honor, Chapter 4, The Winter of the Innocence. Jarnsbruck, two days before the winter solstice, the sky seemed made of lead that morning. There was no bird song, nor. nor wind, nor sound of life.

Only the slow and persistent creaking of hooves on the frost. The dry leaves hung from the bare trees like wrinkled corpses. The smell was strange, burned wood, old urine, something denser, like freshly opened meat, still worn. The air had the edge of a forgotten knife under the snow. The military column advanced in silence. like an army, but like a handful of poorly fed beasts, wrapped in dirty layers, rusty armor, empty faces.

Jarnsbrook was at the bottom of the valley, wrapped in white fog, as if the world tried to protect it under a death shroud. It was a small village, no more than thirty houses, a cracked stone church, and a frozen fountain in the center, where children used to play. Orioliano knew this place. He had passed through there a few weeks earlier, on a quiet patrol. They had welcomed him with hot wine and stale bread, but sincere. It was there that he met Nile, an eight-year-old boy, with curly dark hair, ash-blue eyes,

and a laugh like bells in spring. They played with wooden swords. Nile said he wanted to be a knight, like Orilliano. He showed him once how to laugh without feeling guilty. Now they were coming to loot it. They say they hid spies from the south, murmured a sergeant as they walked. That they fed the deserters, lies. Or maybe not.

In war, truth was just another weapon. The commander didn't shout the order. He whispered it. And that made it worse. Everything that breathes, dies, they entered the village like wolves with human faces. There was no battle. There was no resistance. The doors of the houses were smashed with rifle butts.

Orioliano felt something break under his boot, it was a wooden bowl with still some curdled milk. Please, no, shouted a gray-haired woman. We didn't do anything, a spear pierced her before she could finish the sentence. Her body fell to her knees as if praying for the last time. The blood formed a scarlet stain on the snow. A soldier laughed. The houses were burning. Inside, the shadows twisted.

A girl ran out, barely dressed. She couldn't have been more than six years old. She tripped. A metal helmet crushed her before she could rise. Orioliano tried to scream, but his voice drowned in his throat. When they reached the center of the village, his heart stopped. Nile. He was there, trembling, with the wooden sword still in his hand,

uselessly pointing at three soldiers who laughed like thirsty dogs. Leave him alone, please, Orioliano whispered, as if his voice no longer worked. But his words were nothing. The first of the soldiers, a big guy with a tangled beard, knocked the boy down with one blow. The wood of the sword broke when it fell. The other two grabbed him by the arms. Nile cried. He didn't scream.

He only looked at Orioliano, with those ash-colored eyes. He didn't ask for help. He just, understood. As if he knew he was about to die. As if he had already accepted that heroes were lies. Orioliano didn't get there in time. The first one penetrated him with rage, like an animal. The boy screamed, his voice broken by pain, as if his throat cracked at the same time as

his soul. The second took turns while the first held the boy's head against the mutt. The third spat on him, laughing. Nile no longer screamed. He looked at the gray sky. The pain had abandoned him. His eyes stayed open, but empty. When they were done, they left him there, lying on his back, with torn clothes, bloodied.

Orioliano reached him Sikon's later. He knelt. Nile, he whispered. The boy's face was a mask of mud and blood. His right cheek was destroyed, one of his hands seemed dislocated. His chest didn't rise or fall. His lips were parted, as if he still tried to say his name. But the eyes, the eyes stayed fixed.

Gray. Frozen. They looked at him without seeing him. Something inside Orioliano died. He stood up without thinking. His sword was already in his hand, though he didn't remember drawing it. The first to fall was the big guy. A cut from the neck to the chest split him like an animal.

The second tried to lift his weapon, but Orioliano drove the blade through his mouth, making it exit through the nape of his neck. The third tried to flee, but Orioliano reached him, threw him to the ground, and crushed his skull against a stone until there was no face left. Only mush. The other soldiers saw him. One shouted, traitor, arrows whistled. one hit him in the left shoulder he fell to his knees another sword grazed him cutting his face from the temple to the cheek tearing flesh leaving a hot river of blood running down his eye he didn't stop he ran he ran between flames between mutilated bodies between children hanging from the branches of trees he ran while the smoke burned his throat while the tears mixed with the blood on his face he crossed

The forest, followed by shouts, by hooves, by dogs. One caught up to him. He faced him. Brutal fight. There was no honor. There was no technique. Only hate. They grabbed each other like dogs.

They bit, scratched. Finally, Orioliano knocked him down and held him by the neck. Why? He shouted, choking his former comrade in arms. He was a child, the soldier cried. I didn't want to. It was the order. It was the order, then die with it.

He squeezed until he felt the bone break under his fingers. He kept squeezing. Until the body convulsed one last time. When the silence returned, Orioliano collapsed onto the snow. He vomited. He screamed. He screamed like a lost child. Talia. Nile, he mounted the dead man's horse and rode. He didn't look back. He cried

until he couldn't anymore. His hands trembled. His face burned from the wound. The cold scratched at his soul. And in his head, over and over, the dead eyes of the boy who had taught him how to laugh. You ever have one of those nights where everything feels just a little too quiet? like too chill. That was March 12th, 2019 for me. It started off like any boring Tuesday, my parents were off enjoying a vacation in Florida or somewhere sunny, and my sister was out sleeping over at her girlfriend's place. So, I had the house to myself, which sounds awesome, right? Just me, my phone, and a fridge full of snacks. Perfect setup for a peaceful night. I was curled up in bed, endlessly scrolling through TikTok and texting my boyfriend,

let's call him Mike. He messaged me, hey, what are you doing? And I shot back, just chilling, complete with a yawning emoji. We were chatting back and forth, nothing deep, just relationship fluff, and eventually decided he'd come over since the house was empty. I was stoked. I jumped out of bed like I was on a trampoline and started brushing my hair, picking out something cute but casual,

and cleaning the living room just in case. About 30 minutes later, I heard a knock at the front door. Now, that was weird. Mike never used the front door. He always climbed in through my bedroom window like some lovesick Romeo. It was kind of our thing. But hey, maybe he decided to be civilized for once. I walked down the stairs, checked the people, and nobody was there.

That's when the unease crept in. I texted him, hey, where are you? He left me on Reed. No reply. My stomach twisted a bit, but I figured maybe he was messing with me. Then, knock knock. This time, from the back door. And now I was definitely on edge.

Before I could react, I got another text, but not from Mike. It was from his brother. Hey, just a heads up, Mike lost his phone earlier. earlier today. He said he's stuck studying for exams tonight, so he won't be around. And that was it. My heart plummeted into my socks. What the hell? Who had I been texting? Then another message pinged on my screen, from Mike's number, you look so adorable in your pajamas. I nearly threw my phone across the room. My blood ran cold. Someone was outside my house. watching me. I called Mike's number out of pure panic. That's when I heard the ringtone, upstairs.

In my bedroom. I sprinted down the hall and locked myself inside my parents' room. My dad always kept a gun in the closet. I grabbed it, hands shaking like crazy, asking myself, can I actually shoot someone? Footsteps echoed from the upstairs hallway. Slow. Deliberate. coming down the stairs. My voice cracked as I whispered to 911, explaining everything while trying not to breathe too loud. The dispatcher told me help was on the way. Then, the phone rang again. The number was mine.

The intruder was calling me. I forgot to silence my ringer. It echoed like a siren. And then came the laugh. A low, creepy giggle from just beyond the door. I cannot tell you what it does to your soul when someone laughs like that during a home invasion. I was frozen in fear. Paralyzed. Then, bang.

The door burst open and then stumbled a man with wild eyes and a knife raised high. I aimed the pistol with trembling arms and fired. My eyes were shut tight, but by some miracle, I hit his hand. The knife clattered to the floor. I opened my eyes and pointed the gun at his arm. his head. Don't move, I growled, trying to sound tougher than I felt. He froze. Maybe he thought I was a pro or something, but truth be told, it was blind luck. The cops arrived not long after, storming the house, and I screamed for them until they followed my voice to the

room. They tackled the guy and cuffed him. Once I saw his face, nothing. Didn't recognize him. A total stranger. Apparently, he had stolen Mike's phone earlier in the day. God knows how long he'd been watching me. My parents cut their vacation short, and my sister rushed home. We never found out the full story. But I'm alive. And that man?

He's exactly where he belongs, behind bars. Fast forward a year or so. I was living back at home while going to college. We had this old house out in the sticks of Ohio, surrounded by farmland and forests. Peaceful, but creepy. Our driveway was long, our neighbors were a football field away, and the silence out there at night could make your skin crawl. It was around 2.30 a.m. on a Saturday when I woke up to my little brother whispering my name.

Dude, he hissed, there are two guys at the front door, that got me moving fast. I rolled out of bed and peaked over the railing that overlooked the entryway. No one was there now, but I spotted my parents crouched in the shadows, staying out of view. I whispered down, what's going on? My dad answered, they were talking and knocking for a while. Then disappeared. Okay, that was officially messed up. I crept back into my room and grabbed my pistol. My brother and I moved carefully down the stairs. Dad explained they'd heard our dog barking like crazy, then saw two men at the door. We peaked out the side window, and there they were again.

Knocking. What kind of psycho knocks on a random door in the middle of nowhere after 2 a.m., especially with a dog going nuts? After a few tense minutes, the guys wandered off. We moved to the kitchen, where we could see the driveway. A black Cadillac was parked there, just sitting. Engine off. lights off. But nobody inside. That's when we heard it, the back door handle rattling. They were trying to get in. My mom gasped my dad's name, absolutely terrified. I aimed my gun and waited. My dad finally grabbed the phone and called 911. The men vanished again, only to come back and knock on the front door again. What the hell was their plan? Just when we were about to lose it,

flashing lights exploded in the yard, cops had arrived in full force. Multiple cruisers tore up the driveway. One of the guys ran, circling the house. Another was caught and tossed after refusing to comply. The second dude found hiding in my baby sister's playhouse. Turns out they were high, cocaine, according to the report. Never learned what they were charged with. But man, that night changed all of us.

Now, here's the one that still creeps me out to this day. When I was about nine, it was just me and my mom living in a cozy little house off a winding road. Our closest neighbor was a football field away. The nights were pitch black, dead silent. We didn't even have curtains, so our giant living room windows were like fish bowls at night. One Friday night, we were watching some movie with our dog curled up next to us. Then, knock, knock. We both froze.

My mom glanced at me, then got up and walked to the door while I stuck close behind her. She unlocked it, cracked it open, and nothing. No one was there. She shut it fast. Gave me some nonsense about maybe a deer bumping into the door. I didn't buy it, but I didn't argue. The next night. Another knock.

This time, she was scared. Like, visibly scared. That was the worst part, seeing your mom scared when you're a kid is like watching your world collapse. Again, no one at the door. But we knew someone had been there. Our living room lights were on. Anyone outside could see everything. And the phone.

Right in the middle of the room, by the window. My mom had to cross the whole space to call the cops. Police came. Did a quick walk around. Found nothing. Told us to call again if anything happened. Guess what? It happened three more nights in a row.

Finally, the police agreed to stake out the house. They hid near the road in an unmarked car. I stayed up that night, too nervous to sleep. We watched. Waited. And then he came. The man parked his car quietly, killed the light. and crept down the side road.

For two full hours, he stood just off our property, staring into our lit-up living room. Then he moved toward the door. That's when the cops tackled him. He had no connection to us. Lived several towns over. Just like watching my mom, I guess. Sick.

Last one. This one's short, but, yeah. I was maybe 17, still living. living at home. My room was in the basement. Late one night, I heard tapping on the little basement window. At first, I thought, cat, raccoon. But it got louder. More purposeful. Someone was tapping, trying to get my attention. I didn't open the curtain. Too scared. A minute later, footsteps. Someone was on the back porch. My mom woke up, looked out of the the second floor window and saw a man in the yard. He was sniffing the grass. No, seriously.

Sniffing. The grass. She opened the window and yelled, what are you doing? He looked up and said, Sorry, ma'am. I'm on bath salts. I thought your grass was salad. Want to come down here so I can hug you. My mom slammed the window and called 911. EMTs took him away. We never heard what happened after that, but man, I hope he figured out salad isn't grown in suburban backyards. People say horrors just in the movies. But sometimes, the scariest stuff is what happens in your own home. You never think it'll happen to you, until it does. And when it does, you don't forget. Ever. The end, I can still see her face. Lily, my baby girl, just sitting across from me at the kitchen table like everything was normal. But it wasn't. Not even close.

That moment is carved into my brain like some goddamn horror film that won't stop replaying. Two days ago, she sat there shaking, tears fighting their way out of her eyes. And Lily's not the kind to cry. She's always been a tough one, independent, stubborn as hell. But that night, she looked so small, so broken. And when she told me what happened at the party, something inside me snapped. She said it started off normal. Some welcome back party with new college friends. But the way her voice cracked when she talked about how it all went wrong,

it hit me harder than anything in my life ever has. She didn't say his name. Didn't need to. I saw it in her eyes. Someone took something from her, something that I can never give back. And now, I was going to find the bastard who did it. See, I ain't new to the dark side of the internet. Used to be a black hat hacker back in the day.

The real deal. Breaking firewalls, slipping through networks like a ghost, leaving chaos in my wake. I didn't have rules. No bosses. Just me, the screen. screen, and the thrill. Then Uncle Sam came knocking. They offered me a deal, use my skills for them, keep my ass out of prison. So now I work, legit, mostly. But those old skills, they never left me. They're part of me, like muscle memory. And tonight? They were my weapon. I was in my

office, lit only by the soft glow of my monitors. My fingers flew across the key, board, dancing through lines of code like an old lover. One screen showed my government job, the stuff that pays the bills. The other? That one was all mine. My real mission. Finding the piece of shit who hurt Lily. I couldn't stop hearing her voice, that hesitation, the pain. It haunted me. Every keystroke, every mouse click, was for her. Universities are dumb when it comes to cybersecurity. Students live their whole lives online and don't even think twice about what they post. Snapchats, Insta reels, Twitter threads, Discord chats, all of it out there, just waiting to be uncovered.

And I was the one doing the uncovering. I followed digital breadcrumbs through a maze of trash, pixelated lies, and digital fingerprints. Hours passed. maybe days sleep wasn't even in my vocabulary anymore then i found it a private group chat full of frat bros who thought they were untouchable sick bastards the lot of them sharing stories like war trophies and one name kept popping up kyle rivers smug entitled a walking pile of garbage the way he typed made my skin crawl bragging laughing laughing treating women like they were props in his sad little ego trip. And then I saw it. A message about a party. The party.

The one Lily went to. He even joked about slipping something in someone's drink. Like it was a damn joke. Like it was nothing. My heart nearly exploded in my chest. I gripped the armrests of my chair so hard I thought I'd snap them off. It was him. I didn't need a convent.

Confession, the bastard practically signed it. Kyle. Fucking. Rivers. Now I had a name. But that wasn't enough. I wanted to know everything. Where he lived, who he talked to, what he did every goddamn minute of the day.

So I cracked into his accounts. Easy. The dude used the same password for everything. Rookie mistake. I had his class schedule. his bank info, his Amazon orders. I knew he drank black coffee and used old spice. I knew he was seeing some blonde named Emma,

who had no idea what kind of man she was kissing. And I knew exactly where he lived. I thought about just going there, walking right up to his door and ending it. One shot. Boom. Over. But that's not who I am anymore.

I left that world behind. I'm not a thug. I'm not a murderer. I had to be smarter than that. Precise. Calculated. So I logged out of my government systems. This was personal now. I opened up an old machine, one I hadn't touched in years. It wasn't connected to anything official. Just my own private sandbox. A place where I did things I never told anyone about. A place I swore I'd never go back to. But for Lily? I'd burn the whole goddamn world down. I dove into the dark web, hunting through old contacts, whispers, and networks that would make the FBI sweat bullets. Looking for the kind of help you don't put in a resume. Meanwhile, Kyle was out there smiling for selfies, posting Jim Picks, acting like he owned the

world. That smug face. God, I wanted to wipe it clean. I started laying traps. Digital ones. I spoofed his IP. Sent out emails from his account. Leaked info to make it look like he was into some real sick shit. Not enough to get him arrested. Not yet. Just enough to ruin his perfect little image. I watched his social media implode in real time. Friends dropping him. Sponsors backing out. His girlfriend? Ghosted. Fast. But it still wasn't enough. I found his parents' address. His high school yearbook. His Reddit handle from when he was 15. All of it. Every piece of data I could dig up, I used it. Rewrote his online identity. Made it look like he was part of things you don't come back from. Dark

stuff. Got some of my old hacker crew to help me build a dossier. Sent it anonymously to his college. To some employers. To the cops. The walls were closing in on him. Then one night, I watched him post some cryptic message. Just a black screen with the words, I didn't mean to. No likes. No comments. Just silence. And it stayed up for hours. That night, I sat in the dark, a whiskey in hand, staring at his profile. I didn't feel proud.

Didn't feel like a hero. I just felt hollow. Empty. I thought of Lily again. Her laugh when she was little. The way she used to run to me when she got scared of thunder. And now. She couldn't sleep without locking every door twice

That bastard took more than just her safety He took her peace Her trust And I wasn't done The next phase was physical I started shadowing Kyle Didn't let him see me Just watched

Took photos Documented everything His routine was boring Jim Class Burrito Place Home Repeat

I wanted him to feel the eyes on him To know he wasn't safe To know someone was out there waiting I left him notes One on his car windshield Do you remember her face? One in his locker, she trusted you And one taped to his apartment door, you're not alone

It broke him I saw it. He started looking over his shoulder, twitching in class. Missed two midterms. The guy was unraveling. And still, I didn't stop. You might think I went too far. Maybe I did.

But tell me, what would you do if it was your daughter? Then came the final move. I compiled everything. All the chat logs, the screenshots, the files, the videos of him bragging, of the aftermath. I wrapped it up in a neat little package and sent it to the police. Anonymously. Of course. I don't know if they'll ever arrest him. Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing's for sure. Kyle Rivers will never sleep the same again. He'll never look at a crowd without wondering if someone's watching. He'll never smile without wondering when it all comes crashing down.

and as for me I sit back in my chair watching the world burn from my keyboard I know this isn't over not really nothing ever is but I'll be ready because justice doesn't come

with a badge sometimes it comes with code and caffeine and a father who refuses to let evil win I take one last look at Kyle's shattered profile then close the tab My heart is still racing, but my hands are steady. I whisper under my breath, to no one but the ghosts in my office. I'll smile in my mugshot.

Here I come, Kyle. To be continued. I knew damn well that what I was about to do might land me back in the kind of legal trouble I swore I'd left behind. But honestly, I didn't care. Not even a little bit. That smug bastard, Kyle Rivers, had posted. about going to some frat party the next night, and I knew deep down that meant another girl could

be in danger. Someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's everything. I couldn't let that happen again. Not after what he did to Lily. Not after watching my own daughter curl into herself like she was trying to disappear. No, I wasn't going to let some other father feel the helpless rage that's eaten me alive ever since. So I made my move.

Told work I had to take a week off for family reasons, vague enough to avoid questions. Told my family I had a client visit, contractor stuff, nothing special. My wife didn't even blink. She was knee-deep in her own work and barely looked up from her laptop. And Lily, well, she barely even noticed I was talking. She hasn't really been present since that night. Since she whispered to me what Kyle did. since her voice cracked like shattered glass and I had to pretend to be strong when all I wanted

to do was scream. That moment broke something in me. But this trip. This wasn't about being broken. This was about vengeance, sure, but more than that, it was justice. My kind of justice. Eye for an eye. Biblical shit. Kyle Rivers was going to pay in a currency he couldn't afford. The party was already in full swing when I pulled up to the frat house. Music thumping, lights flashing, bodies swaying and stumbling. I grabbed a six-pack of cheap beer to blend in and walked in like I belonged. Nobody even noticed me, too many drunk students bouncing off each other, shouting over the base. That was fine by me.

I wasn't here to chat or play beer pong. I was here to hunt. And there he was. Kyle. Laughing that fake-ass laugh, leaning way too close to a girl who looked young, naive, and way too trusting. I could see it in her eyes. She thought he was charming. Harmless. I knew better. My stomach twisted into knots, but I kept my face straight, moving through the crowd till I found a good vantage point. Time to document. I had my AR glasses on, the ones my wife used to mock. calling them geeky junk. Guess they weren't so useless now. I'd hacked them so the recording feature wouldn't flash or give off any hints. I had everything aimed at Kyle. I didn't even blink. Then it happened. Just like before. His hand, slick and casual, dropped something into her red solo cup. My grip tightened so hard on my beer I thought I might crush the damn bottle. Rage didn't even begin to

describe it. But I didn't move. I recorded. Frame by frame. My heart beat so loud I barely heard the music. I wanted to jump across the room, to ram my fist through his face, to choke the breath out of him until he begged. But I held back. This video. It was my ticket. Still, that wasn't enough. Not even close. I didn't just want to catch him red-handed once. I wanted to bury him I wanted him to wake up in a world where every door slammed shut in his face where every person saw him and knew exactly what he was and I had to get that girl out of there

but what was I going to do I'm not some action hero I'm a dude who spends most of his time behind a keyboard overweight aging nothing impressive I couldn't take on a room full of drunk frat guys So I had to think like me Think like a hacker I slipped outside and jogged to my car Booted up the laptop

Fingers flying, mind racing Got into the campus police network faster than I thought I would Years of tinkering and coding paid off I typed in an emergency alert, active shooter reported at the fraternity house Sent it A few minutes later, chaos broke out like a dam had snapped. Screams. Students sprinting in every direction. Doors slamming, bottles shattering. I watched it all unfold in my rearview mirror, the panic spreading like wildfire.

It should have felt satisfying. It didn't. Not yet. I went back to the hotel. My head was pounding, but I wasn't done. I plugged in and started scouring the fraternity network. Security cams. Door cams. Hidden cams. They were sloppy, tons of footage stored in the cloud. I dug through weeks of it, eyes burning, until I found it. Kyle.

Again and again. Spiking drinks. Guiding girls upstairs. And he wasn't alone. Another frat guy joined in sometimes. Different faces. Different girls. girls. All of them two wasted to know what was coming. I felt sick. I saw one girl laughing

before her knees buckled. Another being carried like a damn rag doll. My blood boiled. But I kept going. I took the clearest clips, trimmed them down, edited just enough to make sure the evidence was solid. Then I went hunting. Found names. Idies. Matched student record. matched victims. Track down social media accounts until I found the parents. And one by one, I sent the videos. Every last one. No filters. No censorship. Just the raw, ugly truth. I included a note, my daughter was one of their victims. Yours was two. It's time to make noise. By the time the last email was sent, I felt like my soul had been scraped clean. My hands were shaking. My mouth was dry. I'd done something massive, but it didn't feel like a

win. Not yet. Because Kyle was still out there. Breathing. Smiling. Probably planning his next move. But now. Now I had firepower. And maybe, just maybe. Just maybe. Maybe, I had backup. As Dawn crept in through the blinds, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. The adrenaline faded, and a bitter, almost hollow ache took its place. I knew this wasn't the end. Not by a long shot. I had stirred a hornet's nest, and the buzz was just beginning.

But one thing was clear. This stopped being just about Kyle a long time ago. This was about every entitled little prick who thought they could drug and assault girls like they were disposable. And this was about every parent who'd been robbed of peace. And me? I wasn't close to Dunn. What came next was chaos.

By noon, the videos had gone viral. Someone must have leaked them. Parents were blowing up social media. Campus police launched a full-blown investigation. The frat house was sealed off. Kyle disappeared. Just vanished. I wasn't surprised.

Cowards like him always run. But I wasn't letting him get far. I traced his phone, his emails, his Venmo activity. He bought a bus ticket under a fake name. Headed west. Probably to his uncle's cabin or some off-grid hideout. Didn't matter. I followed the trail.

Rented a car, packed supplies. I wasn't calling cops. This was personal. Two days later, I found the cabin. Middle of nowhere. Trees so thick they blocked the sun. I waited. Watched.

He came out around noon, cocky even in hiding. Phone in one hand, drink in the other. Alone. I walked right up. He didn't recognize me at first. Then he did. You, he said. What the hell are you?

My fist met his face before he finished. Years of desk work meant I wasn't exactly an athlete, but rage is one hell of a motivator. He hit the ground hard. I didn't stop. Not until he was coughing blood and crying like a child. I grabbed his collar, shoved my phone in his face. Look, I said. Look at what you did.

Every second. Every victim. This is who you are. He whimpered something about being sorry. Sorry doesn't cut it, I snapped. You took their dignity. Their safety. You shattered people.

Now it's your turn. I tied him to a chair. Left him with a flash drive full of footage and a note, confess or face worse. Then I walked away. I don't know what happened after. Don't care. All I know is, by the time I got home, Lily had smiled. Just a little.

And for now, that was enough. To be continued. It was 3.27 a.m. and I was still sitting in this awful hotel chair, hunched over my laptop like some sort of digital zombie. My inbox was a graveyard of unanswered emails, and I kept refreshing it over and over, like somehow that had changed anything. The room was dead silent except for the occasional pathetic. click of my mouse and the low hum of the air conditioner that clearly gave up trying hours ago.

My chest felt tight, my brain was fried, and I couldn't tell if I was sweating because of stress or just the ancient heater kicking in again. I had sent the footage. Now I was waiting. Did they watch it? Were they too shocked to respond? Or, God forbid, were they just going to sweep it under the rug and pretend none of it ever happened? By the time I glanced at the clock again, it was 6.33 a.m. My eyes felt like sandpaper, and I was barely clinging to consciousness. And then, ping. That sound. It echoed like a gunshot. First response. My stomach clenched up. I clicked it open like I was tearing off a bandage. It was from one of the moms. She was frantic. Her words were scattered, raw, almost incoherent.

You could practically feel her disbelief and pain bleeding through the screen. She didn't know her daughter had been one of Kyle's victims until she saw the footage. Her heartbreak twisted into fury as the email went on, and I realized she wasn't alone. Then the floodgates opened. Ping. Ping. Every few seconds, another name popped up in my inbox. More parents.

More reactions. Some were devastated, others boiling with rage. A few flat-out refused to believe what they were seeing. There were deniers, criers, screamers, and silent types. But one thing became clear real fast, this wasn't going to be a civil discussion. The group was splitting at the seams. Half wanted to rush to the police immediately. Others were hesitant, scared, or straight-up didn't trust the justice system.

I could feel the momentum starting to spin out of control, and if someone didn't take the wheel soon, we were going to crash and burn. So I jumped in. Five minutes, I wrote in a reply all email. That's all I'm asking. Let me talk tonight on a Zoom call. If you hate what I say, fine. We go to the cops.

But give me one shot. Just five minutes. The next two minutes waiting for a reply felt like. two years. Then, ding. Another. Then another. Slowly but surely, they agreed. That night, we all joined the call. The little Brady Bunch boxes popped up one by one. No one smiled. No one said hello. It was like staring into a dozen grief-stricken mirrors. The air was so thick you could feel it pressing down on your chest. Greg, a huge guy with a a shaved head and a linebacker voice, was the first to erupt. We have the damn proof.

Let's go bury that little prick. He wasn't alone. Other parents chimed in, shouting over each other. Then one dad brought up the whole vigilante justice thing and how prison wasn't exactly a vacation. That threw gas on the fire. It was turning into a screaming match. Stop. I yelled, my voice cracking from sleep deprivation and sheer desperation. The shouting halted like someone had cut the mic dozens of eyes focused on me. Please. Just let me say my piece. You gave me five minutes, right? That's all I need. They nodded, reluctantly. I took a breath. This isn't just about Kyle. He didn't act alone. This whole thing, the drugs, the parties, the look the other way culture at that school, it's a goddamn machine. I mapped it out. I tracked who he gets the roofies

from, which parties he targets, who helps him set things up. I know the supply line. I know the players. If we act smart, we can take down the whole disgusting network. Not just Kyle. All of them. They stared, stunned. I laid it all out. How I followed the money, watched the frat house, found the dealers. How we could bait Kyle, catch him in the act, and then blow everything wide open. Not just send the evidence to the cops, but to the media. Social media. The school. Their parents. Their jobs. No more hiding. Then Claire's dad leaned in. He was an ex-army guy with a face like granite. Or, he said, we hit them first. Pretend were the cops.

Scare the shit out of Kyle before he has time to think. I blinked. You mean, we fake a raid? Exactly. Catch him red-handed. Before he slips away. One dad laughed darkly. We're already halfway to breaking the law.

Might as well go full rogue. There was this moment of eerie calm where everyone kind of looked at each other and knew. This wasn't a maybe. This was happening. The next two weeks were chaos. We formed teams. Rotated shifts watching the frat house. Greg set up motion-triggered cams.

Claire's dad bought gear that looked way too legit for civilians. Some of the moms helped create fake social accounts to bait Kyle into picking another victim. And me? I tracked every message, every deal, every tiny slip-up. We traced the drug trail straight to a gang operating out of a warehouse district. It was dirtier than we imagined, we found girls who'd been paid off, parties that had been covered up, cops who probably looked the other way. I made diagrams that looked like something from a conspiracy movie.

Then came the night. Kyle posted about a lit party happening at the frat house. Code words, emojis, the usual sketchy shit. But we knew what he meant. He'd contacted his dealer just that morning. Ruffies, the usual order. Claire's dad went in early that day under the guise of being a repairman. He planted cameras in the kitchen, living room, and upstairs hallway.

Melanie's dad got his hands on some radio earpieces. It was ridiculous. We looked like extras in a Netflix thriller. We parked a few streets away in separate cars. radios on phones silent waiting I remember watching the sun go down and thinking

this is it no turning back as the party kicked into gear we saw him Kyle laughing drinking leading a clearly drugged girl upstairs

we moved Vicky's dad kicked in the front door while Claire's dad took the back Greg tackled Kyle before he even knew what was happening. We had it all on camera. The drugs. The girl. His face.

He begged. Cried. Screamed he was going to sue. Said we were crazy. We didn't touch him. We just stood there, recording, calling out every name, every crime. Then we walked away. Left the footage to do the real day.

By sunrise, the video was everywhere. YouTube, Twitter, Reddit. Within hours, the school issued a statement. The police opened an investigation. Kyle disappeared. No one knows where he went. But it didn't end there. The gang got exposed.

The frat was shut down. Lawsuit started rolling in. And those parents? They became a damn form. became a damn force of nature. Advocates. Fighters. Heroes. As for me, I finally slept. Not because justice was done, but because we did something no one else dared to do. We didn't just break the silence. We shattered it. To be continued. The night was damn near flawless. Everything we planned, every dry run, every hushed conversation, it all led to this. We weren't just a bunch of angry

parents anymore. We were something sharper, colder, more dangerous. We've been broken by grief, sharpened by rage, and now we were united by one singular purpose, to take Kyle down and expose everything rotten that had destroyed our families. I sat in a surveillance van, a laptop open on my knees and four screens up front cycling through every camera we'd planted in that house. We'd bugged the place top to bottom, hallways, bedrooms, even that nasty old basement where they stored the kegs. We had mics, infrared, backup batteries. This wasn't a vigilante fantasy. This was an operation. And we were all in. John, Claire's dad, came over the comms. Frat boys are showing up.

place is filling up no sign of kyle yet copy that i whispered back adrenaline already burning through me outside vicky and melanie's dads were blending in like seasoned undercover agents hoodies baseball caps some fake IDs just a couple of chill old dudes tailgating with the college crowd meanwhile i kept running the plan through my head like it was gospel we catch kyle in the act No assumptions, no slip-ups. Get him red-handed, take him down, and then we burn the whole operation to the ground. And then I saw something that stopped me cold. Steve. He was supposed to be covering the side alley, keeping an eye on the beer deliveries and shady backdoor entries. But there he was, on the screen, slinking away from his post. I tapped into the alley cam, zoomed in, and there it was. A meeting.

He was talking to someone in a hoodie. Not one of us. Not anyone we recognized. And then? The handoff. Cash. A plastic bag. My heart practically fell through the floor.

You gotta be kidding me, I whispered. Steve. That sneaky son of a bitch. He wasn't just helping. He was in on it. The drugs, the cover-ups, maybe even the distribution. Suddenly, all his sketchy questions during planning made sense.

He wasn't paranoid, he was calculating. I stared at the screen. Panic clawed at my throat. If Steve was compromised, if he knew we were close to cracking everything open, he could ruin it all. And worse, he could turn on us. I didn't have time to deal with this properly. Kyle had just shown up. I saw him saunter in like he owned the place, already scanning the room for his next victim.

Damn it. Steve slinked back to his post like nothing happened, like he hadn't just signed his own betrayal. I was torn. Called him out and risk blowing the entire operation, or keep quiet and pray he didn't pull anything. All clear on my end, Steve said over the radio. Too calm. Too smooth. I signaled the others to put.

pause. Just a minute. Just enough time to breathe, think, and decide if we were still safe. The weight of the decision nearly crushed me. We were ready to pounce, but this wasn't just about Kyle anymore. Now we had a threat from within. The girl Kyle chose tonight was already stumbling. Blonde, dazed, probably tipsy or maybe already drugged. I watched him lean over the kitchen counter, handsliding casually toward her drink. I saw it. A small pinch. Something dropped in. She didn't even notice. My fists clenched. My teeth ground together so hard I thought I'd break a molar. I had to choose. Expose Steve or stop Kyle. And in that moment, I made the only choice that mattered. Proceed with caution. Everyone hold position.

until I give the go, I said into the comms. Time ticked. Kyle was taking the girl upstairs, his hand firm on her lower back. She could barely walk. My stomach flipped. I watched the door shut behind them, felt bile rise in my throat. John, I whispered. You in place.

Ready whenever you are. I counted to ten. Then twenty. He was fumbling with her clothes. laughing. Bastard. Then, I saw it. He pulled out a condom. My blood turned to acid. Go. Within seconds, we blew the damn walls off. Greg and Vicky's dad slammed through the front door with two others, shouting like madmen. Students scattered like roaches under a floodlight. Upstairs, Kyle froze. Drop the condom like it burned his fingers.

The girl barely moved. The guys reached the room and burst in. Kyle tried to cover himself, tripping over his pants as he stuttered nonsense. This isn't what it looks like. I swear. Yeah, right. It was exactly what it looked like, and we had every second on tape. He was out front, playing innocent.

Smiling. Helping corral the crowd. Snake. I slipped out the side and made my way to his car. Quick, silent. I'd done recon like this before, old habits from a wilder past. I opened the door with a duplicate key we'd swiped during a meeting weeks ago. Inside, jackpot.

Two phones. His main and a burner. I cloned them both. Thirty seconds, tops. Data transferred. All calls. all messages. Anything from that point forward? Ours. As I slipped out, my phone buzzed. One new message. Get out. Now. No name. No clue who it was from.

But they knew. My spine went stiff. My blood ran cold. We weren't alone. Someone else had eyes on me. Someone watching this whole thing play out, and they just made contact. Not a parent. Not one of us. A player we didn't even know existed until right now. I ducked behind a dumpster, phone clutched in my hand, heart hammering in my chest. I stared at that message like it was a bullet with my name on it. Was it a warning?

A threat? Who the hell else was watching? I hit the group comms. We got a problem. Steve's compromised. And someone else is watching us. John responded first. What?

Who? No clue yet. But I'm pulling back. Get Kyle out. Lock him down. Inside, the guys were dragging Kyle out the front door. His shirt was half off, he looked terrified now. For once, good.

He was going to do. jail. He was going to answer for everything. But Steve? He was acting like he hadn't just tried to sink our entire mission. I met John by the van. You sure, he asked, his voice low. I saw the deal. I cloned his phones. I got proof. John didn't say anything for a moment. Then he nodded once, tight and furious. We'll deal with him. Later. I slid back into the van, eyes darting across the screens, looking for more signs that someone, anyone, was still watching. The mystery message haunted me. We had planned for everything.

But not this. Not the idea that someone else had eyes in the shadows. Kyle was gone. Hulled off in a black SUV we'd prepped for the extraction. His reign was over. The frat party was in ruins. and the girl she was safe confused but safe she'd wake up not remembering much but we'd take care of her make sure she got the help she needed and steve we had all the receipts he was going down whether it was with the cops or under john's fists didn't matter but the message lingered get out now someone knew what i did someone saw me

someone who wasn't supposed to be part of this and that meant only one thing this wasn't over not by a long shot to be continued the moment I saw that message get out now

my stomach dropped like a brick instant dread my heart started pounding so loud it drowned out the noise of the street I'd been meticulous careful. I wasn't new to this game, I knew how to cover my tracks, how to blend in, how to stay invisible. But someone had eyes on me. Someone had been watching all along. My fingers tightened

around the phone, the screen glowing like a beacon of betrayal. And that's when it hit me like a sledgehammer, Steve. That's snake. I should have seen it. I thought he was just a dumb pawn, a grieving father trying to keep his head above water like the rest of us. Maybe he was dealing some drugs on the side to get by. But no, this ran deeper. Way deeper. This wasn't survival. This was betrayal, treachery served ice cold by someone who once cried at our meetings.

I jammed the gear shift and raced back to the hotel. My brain was spiraling, connecting dots I hadn't seen before. something about Steve had always felt a little off like he was too polished for the mess we were all in why would a guy like that be caught sneaking into an alley mid-up stuffing cash into his coat it didn't add up so i did what i do best i started digging i cracked his burner first amateur encryption probably thought he was clever

one line of code and the whole thing opened up like a diary with no lock Emails, texts, call logs, it was all there. And it was vile. Steve had handed his daughter over. Like she was a sacrificial offering. His boss, the guy calling the shots in the shadows, wanted proof of loyalty. And Steve, ever the obedient soldier, gave it to him. His daughter.

For what? Money? Power. A seat at the table. I almost threw the phone across the room. My hands shook with rage. But I kept going. That's when Kyle's name popped up.

That smug little prick. I always knew something was off with him. But he wasn't the mastermind, just a spoiled monster being goaded by someone even worse. Oscar The puppet master behind the scenes. Kyle's best bud, and coincidentally, the son of Steve's cartel boss. How neat. The deeper I looked, the uglier it got.

This wasn't just a couple of scumbags doing messed up things. This was a whole network. Organized. Tactical. Ruthless. These sick bastards weren't just hurting girls, they were trafficking them. Disposing of evidence like candy wrappers. Using kids as bargaining chips.

I felt sick. I wasn't just knee-deep in filth, I was drowning in it. And now I had to wonder, did they know who I was? Did I just paint a target on my own back? Worse, on my family. Then I saw it. The email. One that sealed my fate before I even knew I was in danger.

It was from Steve, sent a few days before I shared the incriminating data with the parents. Short. Cold. Terrifying. He's digging. The hacker's a problem. Keep an eye on him. That's when I knew. I wasn't the hunter anymore. I was the prey. My heart felt like it stopped. I wasn't in control. I never had been. They'd been watching. Waiting. Letting me think I had the upper hand until they were ready to move. I called John right away. My voice cracked, but I forced it out.

John, they know. Steve's been feeding them intel. John's response was calm, but I heard the rage simmering underneath. No shit. Some assholes tailed me after I grabbed Kyle. Took everything I had to shake them. You sure it's Steve? Positive.

He's deep in it. His daughter, he gave her up. John didn't skip a beat. Meet me at the fallback. spot. Don't bring anything you don't want burned. I'm putting Kyle to sleep for a bit, Bastard won't talk without some motivation. I grabbed my bag, stuffed the essentials in, and bolted. I kept my head low, my steps light, but my eyes were wide open. The cartel didn't play games. If they were coming, it wouldn't be in twos. It would be a small army. Two blocks in,

I saw them. Blacked out SUVs. Clean, quiet, just lurking. Too casual to be a coincidence. I kept walking, pulse screaming. I didn't run. Not yet. I called John again. They're on me. At least two vehicles. Copy that. I've got a tail too. We split. Fallback point. Move fast. I killed the call and slammed the gas. The car fish-tailed out of the alley, tires squealing like a siren. I weaved through traffic, turned into every alley and side street I could find. But they stuck close. Professionals.

Hunters. It was a dance I'd done before, but never with stakes like these. After what felt like an eternity, I lost them. Or they let me think I did. Either way, I wasn't sticking around to find out. I ditched the car behind an old gas station, wiped it down, and headed on foot to the rendezvous. The cabin. Quiet.

Remote. Off every grid we could find. That was our ace. John was already there when I arrived. Standing outside, scanning the woods like a panther. Military to the bone. I gave him a nod. You good.

For now. Lost them. He motioned to the shack. Inside, Kyle was chained to a chair, unconscious. John had worked fast. Steve, he asked, his voice flat. I nodded. He's next.

He's going to get the full treatment. I kicked Kyle's leg for emphasis. That bastard has answers, but Steve's got the roadmap. John cracked his knuckles. It's not about justice anymore. Not with what they've done. This is war. John was already dialing.

Calling in some old squad favors. We'll have backup. The kind the cartel won't see coming. I smirked. Good. Because I plan on going scorched earth. This wasn't a game anymore. We weren't just trying to survive.

We were going to burn this whole thing to the ground. But first, Steve needed to look us in the eye and explain why he gave up his little girl. We spent the night prepping. Building traps. Setting up fail safes. This cabin wasn't just a safe house, it was going to be our war room. John cleaned his guns with the kind of focus that comes from years of battle. I tapped into secure lines, mapped out every cartel connection we could find, tracing dirty money and encrypted chatter. Then we went after Steve. John found him first, walking out of a corner store like it was just another day.

We didn't approach. We stalked. We watched. Made sure he was alone. Then we moved. He barely had time to scream before we had him bagged and in the back of the van. Back at the cabin, we threw him in the same room as Kyle. Two monsters, face to face.

One shaking. One silent. John leaned in. Talk, Steve Spath. You don't scare me, John just smiled. Good. It'll be more fun that way. What followed wasn't pretty.

It wasn't noble. But it was necessary. Steve broke eventually. He talked about the lieutenants, the supply lines, the drops, the names. And that's when we knew, we weren't just facing a cartel. We were facing a shadow government. Dirty cops, corrupted agents, compromised politicians. The whole system was cracked.

But we weren't going to run. We were going to fight. With every new piece of intel, our mission sharpened. This was no longer about revenge. It was about dismantling an empire. And we'd started the first chapter of a war they never saw coming. As dawn broke, the forest around. around the cabin glowed gold and silent. The world was still asleep. But we were wide awake,

wore drums pounding in our chests. We were no longer victims. No longer pawns. We were the reckoning. And Steve? Kyle. Every name on that list. They'd wish they never crossed us. To be continued. The cabin was still and cold in the early hours of the morning, the distant hum of crickets the only sound in the air. Outside, the trees stretched into the black sky, thick and unforgiving. I sat at the rough wooden table, the glow of my laptop casting sharp shadows across the room. My fingers moved with precision over the keys, finishing the final touches on the ransomware. This was no ordinary virus, it was a motherfucker of my own making, armed with post-quantum encryption I designed for DOD use as part of my day job along with a fail-safe that accelerates

file deletion if any tampering is detected. I was sure this would result in my death at some point in the future. I didn't give a fuck, sacrificing it all for Lily as part of being a dad. I smiled to myself, knowing that only a handful of people in the world, deep inside the NSA, could even hope to crack it. The darkness outside was pressing in, but inside, my mind was sharp. Every camera, every GPS tracker I had hacked into their system was now locked tight. The cartel's entire electronic network was in my hands, and soon, they'd be cut off from everything. Their messages, their surveillance, their bank accounts, gone, like a flick of a switch.

All I had to do was hit enter, and the clock would start ticking. I could almost feel the panic they'd experience when they realized just how deep I'd gone. The cabin door creaked open, and John stepped inside, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He was a hulking figure, his eyes cold and steady as always. Behind him, the wind swirled through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth. He gave me a sharp nod, his phone pressed to his ear as he muttered something to one of his military buddies. Families are at the base, he said, hanging up the phone. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder.

The generals got them locked down. We're in the clear for now. By the way, you do have some explaining to do to your wife. I nodded, my mind still half-focused on the ransomware. Fuck, she hates surprises and this is the king of surprises. At least everyone is safe. Once I launch this, their network's done. They'll have to go old school without digital communications, warnings, or backups, though,

and the best part is they won't even know what hit them. John's face didn't change, but his eyes gleamed with a cold. satisfaction. Perfect. We hit them tonight. The plan was already in place. John had pulled a lot of strings to get the families to safety. They were tucked away at Fort Cavassos, guarded by soldiers who owed John more than just favors. It wasn't easy to call in a favor like that, but John wasn't the kind of man who gave a damn about the difficulty. The general, a man John had helped promote years ago, had made sure everything was airtight. The cartel wouldn't get anywhere near them. A sudden buzzing pulled me out of my thoughts. My phone lit up, and for the first time in what

felt like days, I saw a text from Lily. Dad, can you call me? Her words were heavy with emotion, and for a moment, I hesitated. I hadn't expected her to reach out. Ever since she told me what had happened, Lily had retreated into herself, barely speaking to me, barely making eye contact. The girl who once lit up every room had disappeared, replaced by a shell of someone who couldn't shake off the darkness. But now, now she knew. She knew what I was doing. My chest tightened, and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time, hope. The last time I'd seen her, she was practically hollow, carrying the weight of what happened to her like an anchor. But tonight, when I called her to let her know what was going on, something shifted.

For the first time in weeks, she sounded, alive. You're doing this, for me, she asked, her voice shaking with emotion. Of course I am. I'd do anything for you, I replied, my throat tightening. She let out a shaky breath, and for a second, I thought she was going to break down. But instead, she whispered, thank you. I love you, Dad. Please be careful and come back to us.

The words hit me like a punch. I sat there for a moment, unable to find the words, but something inside me felt lighter. I swallowed hard, unable to reply. It didn't matter. She knew. And that was enough to keep me going. Holding back tears I shakily replied, I love you too, princess. I'll be back before you know it. I have to go now. I hung up knowing that was probably the most optimistic lie I've ever said and maybe the last time I'll speak to her. The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, casting an eerie glow through the forest. The shadows outside the cabin seemed to stretch and pulse, as if the night itself was waiting for something. John was by the door again, his hand on his sidearm, eyes scanning the perimeter.

We were almost ready to move. I've got my guys in place, John said, his voice cutting through the silence. They're set for the extraction. We hit Steve, and we hit him hard. The cartel won't know what's happening until it's too late. I stood and closed the laptop with a snap. Their network's cut. No one's coming to help them.

John's jaw tightened. Good. Let's see how they like being in the dark. He climbed into the SUV, the weight of what was about to happen heavy in the air. As we drove, the tension between us was thick, but there was no need. for words. John and I had been through enough to know what was at stake. This wasn't just about Steve or Kyle or the cartel anymore. This was about ending it. Tonight. The streets were quiet as we rolled into the suburbs where Steve's house stood, unassuming and bland, like every other

cookie cutter home on the block. But inside, the truth festered. Inside, Steve was a rat, offering up his own daughter to keep himself in the cartel's good graces. And we were going to make him answer for every sick choice he'd made. John's men were already in position when we pulled up. Providing overwatch, I monitored the diverted feeds as they moved like shadows, blending into the early morning light, weapons at the ready. It wasn't long before they heard the rustle of footsteps, the quiet click of safety switches being flipped. John and his team moved in sync, slipping around the side.

side of the house, taking positions near the back door. The plan was simple, breach, grabbed Steve, and get out before the cartel even knew what hit them. With a grie light to John, he kicked in the back door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood like a crack of thunder. Inside, the house was dark, but the team was wearing night vision goggles and didn't need light. They knew exactly where that cunt, Steve, was in the positions of three other tangos in the house with him. The three tangos were dead before they could react to the sound of the door being kicked in and everyone converged upon the prize. The first thing I saw in the body cam feed was his face. The fear in his eyes was immediate, raw.

He stumbled back, his hands up in surrender, but no one was interested in his cowardice. John's fist connected with his jaw before he could speak, sending him crashing to the floor. You bastard, John growled, grabbing him by the collar. You sacrificed your own daughter. Steve's eyes were wide, blood trickling from his lip, but he didn't speak. He couldn't. He knew there was nothing he could say that would save him now. John stepped forward, looming over Steve like a predator ready to strike.

You're going to tell us everything. And if you lie, even once, I'll make sure you regret it. Steve's lip quivered as John dragged him to his feet, pushing him toward the door. We didn't have much time. The cartel's men would be here soon, and we needed to be gone before they showed up. The team followed John out to the SUV, shoving Steve into the backseat as they climbed in. The drive back to the cabin was tense, every moment ticking down like a bomb waiting to explode. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see the cartels blacked-out SUVs pulling up behind us, but for now, we were in the clear.

When we arrived, John's men locked Steve in one of the back rooms of the cabin, securing him to a chair, his hand zipped tied behind his back. It was time for answers. I stepped forward, my eyes locked on Steve's as I spoke. Start talking. Now, his voice was shaky, his breath uneven. I, I didn't have a choice, they would have killed me. You had a choice, John cut in, his voice cold. You always have a choice, you sick fuck.

You could have protected your daughter. Instead, you threw her to the wolves. Why should we allow you to continue wasting the air we breathe? Steve shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. You don't understand. Oscar's father, he runs everything. He controls the drugs, the trafficking. Kyle was just following orders.

I felt a wave of disgust roll through. me. So this was bigger than I thought. The cartel wasn't just supplying drugs, they were using the frat boys as pawns in a trafficking ring. And Steve, the coward, had gone along with it to save his own skin. You're going to give us everything you have, I said, my voice low. Names, locations, contacts. And if you even think about holding back, I won't, Steve interrupted, his voice breaking. I'll tell you everything. John turned to me, his eyes hard. We need to move fast. The cartels already on high alert. We're going to hit them where it hurts. I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. Let's finish this. Hours later we had it all, every name, every location, and every vial operation. I felt like I needed a shower afterwards. John maintained his composure throughout the Inquisition, but at the end he could contain himself no more. He smiled at Steve and thanked him coldly before informing him that it was time to repent.

Without warning he grabbed Steve and hurls him and the chair he is tied to against the cabin wall. Then nonchalantly picks him up again by his right foot and arm and swings him against the wall again. John! Don't kill him. We don't want to be facing the death penalty here. I shouted trying to talk reason into him. Don't worry Mason, I am not going to kill him, but he'll beg for death when I'm done. For the next few minutes John continued to toss Steve about like a rag doll, it finally ended

when Steve passed out from the pain. He looked over at Kyle who watched the whole thing horrified and told him, he arranged to hurt my baby, but you actually hurt her. Even the devil will blush at what the fuck I'm going to do to you. With that off his chest, John stepped outside to make the final calls, arranging for his squad to execute the rest of the plan. Meanwhile, I gave Kyle some more sedatives so he'd shut the fuck up with the pleading. Now the only sounds remaining were the crickets and Steve's raspy breath as I sat down at my laptop,

pulling up every file, every connection Steve had handed over. It was time to dismantle the cartel's reign of terror over these girls from the inside out. All we cared about was our own backyard, once we were done with that we would hand everything over to the authorities to handle. Maybe even as part of an immunity deal, who knows, stranger things have happened. As the sun began to set, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. The storm was coming, and this time, we were ready. To be continued.

The cabin was dark, save for the faint glow of my laptop casting eerie shadows across the room. Outside, the wind had picked up, pushing the trees into a slow dance. John was pacing again, his combat boots thudding on the wooden floor like a ticking clock. Steve was still tied up in the back room, his mouth taped shut, blood caking the corners of his lips from John's earlier work. I didn't say anything when John beat the hell out of him. I had my own darkness to contend with. The air hung heavy with anticipation, the distant wind whistling through the trees like a warning. I was finishing up my final touches on the cartels network lockdown. I had them dead to rights. They were blind, deaf, and dumb, just the way

I liked it. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt the unease prickling the back of my neck. I knew damn well that people like Oscar's father didn't go down without a fight. The cartel wasn't going to sit idle. John could sense it too. We weren't the type to waltz into a situation without a backup plan. John paced near the window, scanning the dark treeline for movement, his every motion deliberate, purposeful. His old combat buddies, a group of seasoned warriors he trusted with his life, were waiting just outside the main zone, ready to strike at a moment's notice. They're ready to roll, John said, his voice as cold as steel. If we're walking into a trap, they'll hit hard from the rear. We're not taking any chances,

I nodded, my fingers still hovering over the keys of my laptop. Good. we don't get second chances with these bastards this ends tonight one way or another john leaned against the door-frame his eyes fixed on me and mason no one makes a move until we're sure we have the upper hand i don't want my men walking into something they can't get out of agreed i replied glancing at the feeds one last time we're in but this place is built like a fortress something feels off the truth was we both Both knew we weren't just dealing with the usual thugs anymore. The cartel had something darker, more sinister up its sleeve. I pulled up the final pieces of Intel from Steve, triple checking the coordinates. There were things Steve had shared that didn't quite fit, details that were too vague. John's team had cleared the perimeters of the cartel's hideout, but if there were hidden

rooms, underground tunnels, or secret entrances, we needed to be ready. John's combat buddies were already set, waiting in the shadows of the tree lean just beyond the warehouse where the cartel was holed up. The plan was simple. John's team would breach the building from the front, drawing the cartel's attention, while his combat buddies stayed back and observed, ready to move in if things went sideways. We'd anticipated something bigger, a hidden play we weren't seeing. I didn't like surprises, and John sure as hell didn't either.

You think we're being watched. I asked, my eyes scanning the flickering feeds one more time. I don't think. I know. John's voice was low, steady. I felt it since we started. But that's why my men are holding back. Let them think we're walking into their trap.

They won't expect us to have backup. I nodded, my gut tightening with every second that passed. We're not playing defense tonight. We finish this. We rolled into the outskirts of the... of town under the cover of darkness. The SUV's engine hummed quietly as we pulled up a few hundred feet from the cartel stronghold, a repurposed warehouse that sat like a looming shadow on the horizon.

The warehouse was an old relic, rusting and crumbling on the outside, but I knew what lay inside was anything but old or fragile. I could feel the tension in my body ratchet up another notch, the adrenaline buzzing just under my skin. John's men were already in position, eyes on the prize, weapons drawn but silent, waiting for our signal. Through the feed, I could see every angle of the warehouse, guards patrolling lazily, thinking no one could touch them, unaware of how deep in the dark they were.

But John and I both knew that confidence could turn into overconfidence real quick. We had to be smarter. We couldn't afford to make a single mistake. We stepped out of the SUV, crouching low and blending into the shadows as we approached the perimeter. John's earpiece buzzed quietly, his voice barely a whisper. Hold position. Wait for the breach. The cartel didn't know it yet, but tonight was the night their empire started to crumble.

I stayed low, ducking behind a rusted dumpster near the entrance, laptop open on my lap, scanning every feed, looking for any sign of trouble. My heart pounded as I hacked deeper into the cartel system, making sure every exit route, every alarm, every digital safety net they had in place was cut. All feeds are clear, I whispered into my mic, you're good to go, copy that, John replied, giving the signal. His team moved like shadows, slipping through the cracked side door of the warehouse with military precision. Inside, the night vision cameras flickered to life on my screen.

The guards were taken out in seconds, a clean, silent sweep. But something still didn't feel right. The layout of the warehouse wasn't matching up with the blueprints. There were more rooms, hidden sections that weren't on any map we'd seen. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as John's team descended deeper into the building. They're hiding something, I whispered, my fingers flying across the keys as I scanned for any sign of a trap. John's voice crackled through the earpiece. We found a staircase.

Looks like it leads to some sort of underground level. What the fuck is this? Underground levels. Of course. My stomach twisted. This was the part we hadn't anticipated. I quickly cross-referenced the file Steve had given us with the new data I was pulling from the building's internal systems. John, this wasn't on any of the plans. I'm not seeing any feeds down there.

It's a black zone. John paused. We've come this far. We're going in. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched the feed from the warehouse go dark. John's men were moving into the unknown, and I was blind. For the first time since this operation began, I couldn't see what was happening. John, be careful.

This feels like a setup. I know, John's voice came through the earpiece, but it was done. distant, distracted. We've got eyes on something, it's bad, Mason. Real bad, I swallowed hard, my mind racing. What is it? Before John could answer, the comms went silent. I bolted from my position, running toward the warehouse with my heart in my throat. If John's team was compromised, we were all in danger. I raced through the broken entrance, darting between piles of rusted debris, making my way down to the underground level. My mind was a blur, thoughts of Lily flashing through my head with every step I took.

I couldn't afford to lose John, not now. Not when we were this close. The air down in the underground levels was thick and stale, the dim lights flickering weakly as I made my way deeper into the belly of the beast. The sound of my footsteps echoed off the cold, concrete walls, and I could feel the weight of every moment pressing down on me. I reached the end of the hallway, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I spotted John's men gathered near a massive steel door. They were silent, their faces grim as they stared into the room beyond.

And then I saw it. The room was lined with metal cages, the kind you'd expect to see in some third-world black sight. Women, young girls, huddled together, their eyes wide with terror. They were barely conscious, their bodies slumped against the bars of their cages. It was worse than anything I had imagined. But that wasn't the worst part. At the center of the room, standing over John's men like a specter, was a figure I hadn't anticipated. Oscar's father, the cartel's lieutenant.

His cold eyes gleamed with triumph, and beside him, Oscar stood, his arms crossed, a smug grin plastered across his face. We knew you'd come, Oscar's father said, his voice smooth, dangerous. You've made quite the mess of things, Mason. But you should have known better. You can't hide from us. John's men stood frozen, their weapons trained on the cartel lieutenant, but something held them back. This was bigger than just a raid.

This was personal, and we'd walked straight into it. The trap had been set. And we were caught. To be continued. The air in the underground chamber was suffocating. Oscar's father stood tall, his cold eyes fixed on me, and beside him, Oscar smirked like a smug devil. My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of the moment pressing down hard.

John's forward team, lying on the ground, looked overpowered, disarmed, and restrained. This was the trap, and we had walked straight into it. But I wasn't blind to the possibility of this kind of betrayal. wasn't either. The rest of John's men, his old combat buddies, were still outside, positioned on standby, waiting for the order to storm in. They had the skills, and they knew how to strike when the timing was right. I felt the weight of it all crushing down on me, every single decision, every risk I'd taken. This was bigger than just getting Kyle, bigger than bringing down a few frat boys. This was an entire network of trafficking, drugs, and violence.

And now, it felt like we'd walked right into the belly of the beast, only to find the jaws already closing in around us. Oscar's father, the cartel lieutenant, took another step forward, his smirk growing wider. You should have known you'd never make it out of this alive, Mason. This isn't some little vendetta you can solve with a laptop and a few guns. This is my world, he gestured to the caged girls with an air of casual cruelty. All this? It's just the tip of the iceberg.

You think you've done something by shutting down our network. Please. We've got other ways, ways you haven't even imagined. I felt John tense next to me, his hand on his weapon, but we both knew the situation wasn't in our favor. We were outnumbered. Outgunned. If John's backup was going to strike, they needed to do it now. I glanced at him, my voice barely a whisper.

Any word from your guys? John's jaw clenched. Nothing yet. They're supposed to be on standby. I nodded, my mind racing. It was all coming down to this moment, and I could feel the odds slipping out of our favor with every passing second. My laptop was still running, and while I'd effectively cut off their communications, the cartel had more tricks up its sleeve than I'd accounted for. They'd anticipated the digital blackout. But I still had one more move left. Oscar's father chuckled, stepping closer. I'm going to enjoy watching you fall apart, Mason. First, we'll kill you. Then we'll find your family. You really thought you could outsmart us. This is what happens when amateurs get involved in a professional's game. I felt my pulse quicken, the blood roaring in my ears. He thought he had me. He thought he'd beaten me. But this bastard didn't know me. You're wrong, I said, my voice low and even. You don't know who the fuck you're dealing with. Oscar's father tilted his head, that smirk never leaving his face. Oh, enlighten me, then. What's your next brilliant move? I clicked the send key on my phone.

The lights in the underground chamber flickered, then died. The entire building plunged into darkness, save for the dim glow of the emergency lights lining the floor. The effect was immediate. The cartel's men started shouting, their voices rising in panic as they fumbled in the sudden dark. Oscar and his father stood frozen for a moment, clearly not expecting this. At that moment, the world exploded into chaos.

The door to the underground chamber burst open, and John's men poured in like a wave of shadows. Gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks of, of suppressed shots cutting through the air as the cartels' guards were picked off one by one. The lieutenant's smug grin vanished, replaced by shock as John's combat buddies swarmed the room, overpowering the cartel's forces in seconds. Oscar and his father scrambled to retreat, but John was already on him with a ferocity I'd never seen before. He moved with precision, taking out two of the remaining guards with quick, brutal strikes. In a matter of minutes the

chaotic carnage suddenly became a cacophony of defeated groans and zipping of zip ties. The fight had been brutal, fast, and decisive. Oscar's smug face was pressed to the cold concrete floor, his confidence shattered. His father knelt beside him, hands bound, still seething with rage. But something about Oscar hadn't changed, he was still convinced that his money, his influence, could get him out of this. What he didn't realize was that John saw Oscar was. there and participated in his daughter's sexual assault along with Kyle. Jail would be a miracle

for him. John caught Oscar by the collar, slamming him into the concrete wall with a force that made the entire room shake. You don't get to walk away from this, John growled, his voice low and deadly. You and your father, you're going to answer for everything. Oscar, blood dripping from his nose, let out a weak laugh, his eyes glinting with arrogant defiance. We'll just pay our way out, like every other time, he sneered. You really think this is the first time we've been caught. Money talks, my friend. You can't touch us. John's expression didn't change, but the fury in his eyes darkened. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. Pay your way out of this. With a swift, brutal motion, John snapped Oscar's neck. The crack echoed through the chamber,

and Oscar's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless. The smirk wiped clean from his face forever. Oscar's father, witnessing his son's execution, led out a guttural roar, his anger exploding into action. He surged to his feet, charging at John with blind rage, but before he could get close, one of John's men fired a clean, single headshot. The bullet tore through the man's skull, dropping him to the ground instantly, his blood splattering across the cold stone floor.

John looked down at their lifeless bodies, his breathing heavy but controlled. Hell it is then, he muttered under his breath. He kicked Oscar's limp body with disgust before turning his cold gaze to the mess they'd made. Enjoy it, motherfuckas. I stood amidst the chaos, my heart racing, trying to process what had just happened. John's men were sweeping the room, securing the cartel members, ensuring no one got back up.

My attention had shifted to the women we had just freed, their haunted eyes reflecting the horror they'd endured. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only a small victory, that the war wasn't over yet. But for now, we had done something. We had saved them. The girls were huddled in the corner, shaken but alive. They were free.

I walked over to one of John's men, who was busy securing the rest of the men with zip ties. What's the situation outside? I asked. All clear, the man replied, his voice steady. We've neutralized the rest of the cartel's men. No reinforcements coming, I nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. The job wasn't over, but at least, for now, we were safe.

John walked up beside me, wiping the blood from his knuckles. Good work, Mason. We couldn't have done this without you, I shook my head. We couldn't have done it without each other. There was a long silence as we stood there, watching as the cartels' leaders were dragged away, their empire crumbling beneath them. I should have felt satisfaction, maybe even triumph. But all I felt was exhaustion.

The weight of everything we'd been through was finally catching up to me. John glanced at me, his expression softer now. What's next for you? didn't answer right away. My thoughts were with Lily, with the family I'd risked everything for. I'm going home, I said finally, my voice quiet. It's time to be with my daughter. John nodded, understanding in his eyes. You did good tonight, Mason. You did right by her. I didn't respond. I just nodded, feeling the exhaustion pulling at me. There was still so much to do. reports to file evidence to hand over to the authorities, and a reckoning for everyone involved.

But for now, all I wanted was to see Lily's face. To tell her that it was over, but there was still one more loose end, fucking Kyle. The drive back to the cabin was quiet. John's team had secured the area, ensuring no one was left behind. The sun was starting to rise, casting a soft glow over the landscape. It was surreal, seeing the world so peaceful after the chaos we just survived. But I knew better. Peace was fragile.

And it was up to people like John and me to keep it intact. When we arrived, Kyle was tied up in the corner of the room, unconscious but still breathing, his one smug face now swollen from the beating John had given him earlier. John crouched down beside him, checking his pulse, then looked up at me. His eyes, dark and full of purpose, told me everything I needed to know. Kyle was going to pay too. Without a word, John grabbed one of Kyle's legs and twisted, a sickening crack echoing through the room as the bone snapped like a twig.

Kyle screamed, his eyes snapping open in agony. John didn't stop. He moved to the other leg, methodically destroying Kyle's knees, his spine. By the time John stood back up, Kyle was. a sobbing, crippled mess, his lower body completely useless. He'll live, John said coldly, wiping the blood from his hands. But he won't walk or fuck ever again. Even if he pays his way out, he will still pay for the rest of his life.

Fuck him. I stood there, watching the broken heap that Kyle had become. He deserved every bit of it, and more. As the sun rose over the distant treeline, John's men began gathering the cartel members and the freed girls. The air was lighter now, but only slightly. We had won the battle, but the war wasn't over. And as we emerged from the underground hell, I saw them, FBI agents, waiting for us. Shit, I muttered, glancing at John. John's expression didn't change. He had seen this coming. Of course, the FBI had been watching the cartel too. There was no way

they wouldn't have caught wind of an operation this big. The agents moved and quickly, guns drawn but no longer needed. John's men stood down, raising their hands in compliance as the agents swarmed us. John Harlow, one of the agents said, stepping forward with a grim look on his face. Mason Connor You're both under arrest. I could feel the weight of the moment crashing down on me. We had one. We had taken down the cartel. But now, we were about to pay the price. The agent continued, you and your men have been interfering with an active federal investigation.

Normally, this would mean serious prison time, but, you've done us a favor by taking these guys down. I glanced at John, who remained silent, his jaw clenched. Did you watch them rape my little girl and do nothing about it? Did you enjoy watching? Fucking Pussies The agent's eyes softened slightly. I empathize, and know we can make a deal where you avoid any and all charges. I exhaled, feeling the tension ease just a fraction.

What kind of deal? The agent crossed his arms. You work with us. Give us the rest of the cartel's operations, every name, every location, and we'll consider dropping the charges. You'd be free men, but under our watch. I looked at John, who raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. The choice was clear. Go to prison or continue the fight, this time, with the FBI. John finally spoke.

And if we say no, the agent's lips thinned into a smile. Then you rot in a federal prison for the rest of your lives. But you're smart enough to know that's not the best option. I clenched my fists, the reality of the situation sinking in. We'd fought so hard to get to this point, but we were still trapped, just like everyone else. But this, this was an out. A chance to keep going. John met my gaze, his eyes searching mine for an answer.

I nodded. We'll take the deal, John said, his voice steady. But on our terms, the agent nodded. You'll have them. You've earned that much. The sun was high in the sky by the time the FBI had wrapped up. The cartels' leaders were dead, their empire crumbling, but the work wasn't done. As I stood there, watching the FBI haul the remaining prisoners into armored trucks, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

John walked up beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets. Looks like we're working for the feds now. Yeah, I said, my voice distant. But at least we're still in the game, he chuckled, a low, humorless sound. That we are, I looked out at the horizon, wondering what was next. We had taken down one monster, but I knew there were others out there, lurking in the shadows. The FBI deal had given us a way out, but it had also pulled us deeper into a world I wasn't sure we could ever escape. Think we'll ever get a chance to breathe?

I asked. John shook his head. No. But we're good at this. And as long as there are bastards like Oscar and his father out there, we'll keep doing what we do. I nodded, the weight of the moment settling in. We had one today, but the fight was far from over. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

For now, we had a new mission. And this time, we weren't playing by anyone else's rules. The end. Daniel put his nondescript white Chevy work van in park then fell back into the captain's chair. His right hand went across his body then reached down to fish for the seatbelt buckle, found it then pushed the button. The reaffirming click told him he was safe now. His heart was still racing, but at least now he was able to catch his breath, so his hand now went to the side pocket of his cargo shorts and fished out his pack of full-flavor pall malls.

He only smoked five cigarettes a day, but tonight he was going to allow himself a sixth one. He both needed and deserved an extra one. Just ten minutes prior a big 18-wheeler had come within milliseconds from turning this day into the worst, and possibly last day of his life. The driver decided to run that particular red light on that particular road at that particular moment, missing Daniel's van by inches. Catastrophe was just a literal hair length away. His hand found the box of cigarettes.

He pulled it out of the pocket and laid them in his lap, then leaned forward a bit and reached under the seat until he found the plastic travel bottle of vodka. He pulled it out and laid it beside his smokes. Normally he only drank it mixed, but right now he needed to feel the warmth of the liquid immediately. So he uncapped it and put the precious bottle of nectar to his lips and took a good long pull. The liquor and the heat of the southern Georgia summer night conspired with each other, almost causing the shot to come back up and out. But, he choked it down like a big boy. The sweat no longer trickled down his back, but rather seemed to flow in small rivers to the crack

of his ass. It reminded him that he had to get some free on for his air conditioning before he ended up passing out at the wheel one day. He stared at the bare-bulbed porch light which was swarmed with bugs of every size. If it could fly, it was probably flying around that hundred-wet bulb. The swarming bugs meant the toads were all around the front porch as well. From where he sat he could see at least three of them on the front door steps, waiting for something to screw up and fly close enough for the amphibian to nail it with a quick flick of the tongue. They would all be fat and happy by the time the sun came up and they would have to hop back their little burrows to call it a day. Daniel was fascinated by the toads when he

was younger, having lived in this house all his life. He would lay down on his stomach and watch the toads hunt and ambush their prey without the slightest hint of remorse or mercy. Most people thought the lowly toads were a bunch of cute little playful animals. They acted like if they could shrink down to that size then they would be friends with the animals, go on happy adventures together. Daniel knew better. His dad had told him if toads were big enough to eat people then mankind would be extinct. They were voracious predators. His dad had taught him a lot about the various animals that lived on their 30 acres of woods. They sat at the pond together fishing and talking about everything under the sun, camped out in separate

tents sometimes, and would sometimes just wander about in the woods turning over everything they could to see what was underneath. He missed his dad sometimes. The only problem with thinking about his dad was that it always brought him back to the last time he saw him. That Christmas morning when young Daniel had woke up, leaped out of bed and ran downstairs to see if Santa had read his list this year. That year, though, when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, looked up to see his dad hanging there, the rope tied to the upstairs stairposts. He stood there affixed to the sight. How different he looked with that huge purple tongue hanging out of his mouth. Reminded him of a toad. His mom came out of their room, already

dressed like she had been up for a while. She walked right by his father's corpse like it was just a regular day. Get your ass in that kitchen and get your cereal out. Don't keep you Keep staring at that loser. Fucking weakling, she barked at him as she descended to the bottom of the stairs. He could tell she had been in the bottle already by her speech. When his mom was drinking her voice became deeper, more raspy sounding. Like a completely different person. There would never be another Christmas tree or Christmas in that house again.

In fact, there was very little happiness at all within those walls ever again. He fucking loved the toads. He pulled a butt out of the box, put it to his lips, then he read, reached into his right front pocket and retrieved his zippo. The lighter that once belonged to his dad flared to life with a snap of his fingers, the sound of the tobacco igniting filled the front of the van in the silence of the Georgia night. Taking a deep long leisurely pull from the cigarette he could finally feel his nerves settling down.

He leaned over to open his glove compartment and fished a bottle of pills from within. He opened the bottle and then uncapped the vodka once more, nab the percassette in his fingers and put it in his mouth. He then washed it down with a slug of the liquor. Daniel put the pill bottle back and retrieved a flashlight from the glove box. He flipped it on and the sudden beam of light blinded him for a second. It's a goddamn miracle I grew up sane and normal, he said out loud to no one in particular as the beam of light illuminated the corpse of Rebecca.

She was still right where he put her. Your mind forever, a cautionary tale of the Internet's dark corners. So yeah, this whole mess started back in 2003. I was 15, still figuring out life, and living in this tiny town where everyone knew everyone's business. You know the type, gossip spreads faster than wildfire, and privacy is basically a myth. I was painfully shy, not good with crowds or talking to people face-to-face, so the Internet? That was my escape hatch. Back then, AM, AOL Instant Messenger, was where the cool, awkward, and lonely kids hung out.

I used to stay up late, clicking around in chat rooms and adding people from my town, hoping to stumble into conversations that didn't suck. It was during one of those midnight message marathons that I met Sarah. Sarah said she was 17, had short brown hair, and called herself a bit of a nerd. We clicked instantly. Same taste in movies, music, dumb internet jokes, you name it. It was easy talking to her. Like, too easy.

But one thing always bugged me, I'd never seen her around school. When I asked about that, she told me she went to a private Christian school across town. Made sense, I guess. I didn't think much more of it. After a couple weeks of chatting non-stop, we leveled up, phone calls. I gave her my landline number, because, you know, cell phones weren't really a thing for most teens yet, and we started talking nearly every night. Then came the invitation.

Wanna hang out sometime, she asked one night. I was like, sure. No hesitation. We planned to chill at her place, maybe watch a movie, just hang. She gave me her address, and when the day came, I hopped on my bike and rode across town. The address led to this small, kind of run-down apartment complex. Immediately, I was confused. She'd talked about living with her parents,

and this place didn't scream, family of three. Still, I walked up, knocked, and the door opened. And, uh, yeah. It wasn't the girl I'd seen in the photos. The woman standing there had to be in her late 20s, maybe even her early 30s. Still calling herself Sarah. Still pretending to be 17. My stomach dropped.

Every red flag in existence went off in my head. But instead of turning around and bolting, I followed her inside. Because, well, I was young, dumb, and didn't want to be rude. I sat stiffly on her couch while she talked, smiling like everything was normal. Are your parents home? I asked, already knowing the answer. Nope. Just me, she said, practically purring.

She popped in a pirated DVD of Finding Nemo, which was still in theaters at the time. My brother got this for me. He works in distribution or something. She laughed like that made it totally fine. She poured me a glass of wine, wine, not soda, or water like a normal teen would offer, and I noked out of that real quick. Didn't take a sip. Instead, I made a dumb joke about water and tried to keep things from getting weirder.

Spoiler alert, they got weirder. She slid over, real close. I was already uncomfortable, so I moved to the floor, pretending like that was just my thing. She followed. Then she straddled me from behind and whispered, you're so tense. Just relax. I'm really good at making people feel good. I practically levitated off the floor.

I leaned forward, out of her reach, and said something like, thanks, but I'm good. I told her I should probably head out. She didn't like that. you can stay the night she said patting the bed i've never had a guy in my bed before i made some excuse scrambled for the door and got the hell out of there shaken but free at least for the moment she wouldn't let go over the next few days she bombarded me with messages i miss you babe when can i see you again i'm sorry if i freaked you out eventually i responded mostly because i was fifteen and didn't fully grasp just how messed up this situation was. I asked why she lied. Why she pretended to be a teenager when she was clearly not. She told me she had trouble connecting with people her own age. That teens just got her more. That she was lonely. And for some reason, I felt bad. Like, pity bad. I agreed to meet again, thinking maybe I could just talk things out,

be honest, and it face-to-face. Bad idea. This time when I showed up, her parents were there. Yeah. Actual grown adults. Her mom and dad greeted me like I was their daughter's prom date. Well, there he is, her dad said, beaming. We've heard so much about you. Sarah never shuts up about how sweet you are, her mom added. I was dying inside. Sarah grabbed my hand, late. her fingers through mine, and gave me a weird smile that made my spine freeze. I needed to leave. Fast. Her parents were loading stuff into their SUV, so I offered to help, anything to get out. I carried a box downstairs, shoved it into the trunk, and told Sarah I had to head home. As I got on my bike, she kissed my cheek and whispered,

You're mine, forever. I never answered another message from her after that. A new nightmare, sister's story. Fast forward to 2010. I was older, but this story wasn't about me, it was about my little sister. She just turned 13 and got a brand new Sony laptop for her birthday. And, of course, first thing she did was log into Chat Avenue, her go-to-site for making friends. She was on there constantly. So much that they made her a moderator. Yeah. That into it. She loved the attention. The clout The power of the Bannamer There was one user she talked to all the time

Cody 240 Cody said he was 15, lived in Manchester We assumed Manchester, England Turned out later he meant Manchester, New Hampshire That should have been clue number one Anyway, Cody was obsessed with my sister Like, unhealthy levels of obsessed He waited for her to get home from school

They chatted late into the night. Sometimes they'd webcam, and he'd wave if I appeared in the background, but he never showed his face. Always wore hoodies, always hiding his head. Said he was too ugly, Red Flag City. Sometimes he was sweet. But if she took too long to log in, or if we went on vacation, he'd freak out. Spread rumors.

Acuse her of cheating, of sending him picks she never sent, of being a slut. It devastated her. But every time, he came crawling back with a sob story, and she'd forgive him. Eventually, she'd had enough. March 2011, after nearly a year of this emotional roller coaster, she told the other mods to ban him on site. That was supposed to be the end.

But it wasn't, summer rolled around. One day during summer school, the lunch monitor came to get me. Your dad's here, she said. Weird. My dad worked nights. He should have been sleeping. I went to the waiting room. Empty. Then I saw a silhouette outside the glass windows. Just standing there. Watching. For two whole minutes. I called out, Dad, that's when the door opened. This guy. Not my dad. Not even close. He was probably late 40s, greasy hair, unshaven, wearing a smile that looked straight out of a dental horror ad. He didn't say a word. Just placed a folded note next to me, and left. Volted over the hedge like it was nothing, then ran, ran, toward my sister's school.

I picked up the note, tried to make sense of the shaky handwriting. Stuff like, if I don't find you, at least you'll know how much I care. We belong together. I came all this way for you. I can't live without you. You can save me. You're the one, I nearly passed out. The receptionist asked if I was okay.

I lied. Then I left and ran. Jumped on my bike. The roads were terrible, potholes, gravel, countryside chaos, but I didn't care. I had one goal, find my sister. I wiped out halfway there, but adrenaline kept me going. I ditched the bike and sprinted the rest of the way. Face to face, outside her school gates, I saw him.

Same dude. Standing there, arms crossed, waiting. Something glinted in his jacket pocket, looked like a butter knife, but still. A knife. I ducked my head, crossed the street calmly. He didn't notice me. He was on his phone. pacing impatiently.

Where was my sister? Then I remembered, Tuesdays, her last two periods were at the church next door. I bolted. I caught her as she was leaving with friends and gave her the note. She read it, and her face turned white. She grabbed my hand, and we started running. Why are we running? I asked, panicked.

She didn't answer. Just pulled harder. He was already in. our house. When we got home, we woke up our dad and told him everything. He read the note, and his face turned to stone. This paper, this is from her school planner, he said. That planner? She'd left it on the shelf in our hallway. He'd been inside our house. The cops came. We gave them everything. I described the guy in as much detail as I could. Two weeks passed. Nothing.

Two more weeks. Still nothing. Eventually, the police figured out he was from Manchester, New Hampshire. But he was gone. No trail. No leads. No closure. After that, my sister never went back to Chat Avenue.

Not because she didn't want to, but because the other mods warned her that Cody had returned. Still making new accounts. Still promising he'd come back for her. Still claiming she was the love of his life. We never saw him again. But we never forgot him either. Moral of the story. The internet isn't always what it seems.

And some people... They never let go. The end. About four years ago, I got this wild message from a long-time friend on Deviant Heart. It was one of those messages that just made your heart drop the moment you read it. She told me I had to check out this profile immediately. So I did. And wow, it was disturbing.

Like, deeply disturbing. Let's call this user, Clowns Be Clowning, just to give them a name. This account. It was basically a shrine to me. And I don't mean that in a flattered, wow someone likes my art kind of way. I mean it in the full-blown obsession kind of way. This user somehow knew things about my life that I had never publicly shared. I mean, sure, I post journals here and there, like most people on deviant art or other

sites, but nothing too personal. This person had stuff that you could only know if you were either very close to me or had been following me intensely across multiple platforms. The journal on their profile was where things started getting seriously dark. I remember reading through entry after entry, each one filled with more creepy, unsettling comments than the last. They had collected what must have been hundreds of photos of me. I honestly don't know where they got them. I'm pretty private online. My Facebook is locked down tight, only friends can see my personal pictures. But somehow, they had them. Each picture came

with a caption. And not the good kind. We're talking horror movie material. Stuff like, I'm always watching you, and I want to wear your stuff. skin. I'm not kidding. That was one of the actual captions. He also posted links to my writing, my music, my projects. He encouraged others to follow the light of his perfect angel. Me. It wasn't just an obsession, it was like a cult. He was trying to convince people that I was this divine being or something, worthy of worship. By the time I finished scrolling through everything, I felt physically ill. My chest was tight, my hands were shaking.

I told my mom immediately. She didn't even hesitate, suggested we file a police report right then and there. So we went down to the station, sat through the process, gave them everything. And you know what? They basically told us it wasn't their problem. That we needed to talk to the admins on deviant heart and have them handle it. So I messaged one of the site admins. didn't expect much, to be honest, because anyone who's ever tried contacting Deviantart

support knows it can take a while to get a response. But this time, they got back to me the very next day. That's how messed up this guy's profile was. The admin straight up told me that as soon as they saw the account, they deleted it. Not just removed the profile, no, they went all out. Band the IP address, searched for alt accounts, scrubbed every trace of this person from the site. They said they were going to forward everything to the police. I told them I'd already tried that route. The admin said they'd still do it on their end too, just to be safe. To this day, I still don't know who that person was. I have theories. A couple of names float around in my head sometimes. But nothing solid. I hope I never find out. Or worse, see that kind of page again.

Honestly, I've wanted to share this story for a while, but it's not easy. First, I had a bunch of tech issues, lost files, broken laptop, internet being stupid, you name it. But the real reason I held off for so long. Fear. That kind of paralyzing fear that makes your stomach drop just thinking about it. But it's late at night now, and something about this hour gives me the courage to finally get this off my chest. So let's rewind a bit. I grew up in a pretty strict household, especially when it came to anything involving the internet. My parents weren't just cautious, they were paranoid. Like, you can't even use club penguin level paranoid. Because, you know, chatting with strangers. When I was 12, I got my first laptop.

It felt like the keys glowed with possibility. And the very first thing I did. I started trying to meet people online. Nothing crazy, I wasn't going on shady chat rooms or anything. I still had my parents' voices in my head. But I wasn't hiding either. I ended up making a deviant heart account. Yeah, yeah, I know.

Cringe. I wasn't some art god or anything, I could barely draw hands. But I liked it. It gave me something to do. Even though I wasn't uploading a ton, one day I got a private message. It was from this guy, we'll call him J. Joker. His profile picture was literally a creepy Joker smile, which, in hindsight, should have been a red flag. He messaged me to thank me for commenting on one of his pieces.

Said he appreciated the support. We started chatting. He was into some of the same video games and animations I liked. It felt harmless. He came across as just a bit lonely but very friendly. We talked for a week or two before things started getting, weird. We both shared a kind of cynical view of the world. So our conversations often dipped into dark humor and commentary.

But one day, he casually dropped a line like, The world would be better off without me. It caught me off guard. I sent him a sad emoji and told him that wasn't true, that I liked talking to him. He didn't say much else, so I figured maybe he just had a bad day. But that wasn't it. It got worse. He started saying stuff like that more often.

Then came full-blown rants about how much he hated himself, how he wanted to end it all. Graphic stuff. Descriptions of methods. Times Places. I would spend hours trying to talk him down. Every night. Trying to convince someone not to take their life through a keyboard screen is one of the most helpless feelings in the world. But it got darker. His messages changed tone. He wasn't just sad, he was obsessed. He'd send walls of text about how much I meant to him. How no one had ever cared for him like I

had. How he couldn't live without me. How I was his only reason for existing. That if he lost me, he would die. Then one day my laptop broke. Nothing major, but I was offline for a couple of days. When I finally logged back into Deviantart, there were dozens of messages waiting. At first, they were just kind of panicked. Then they became desperate. The last one had a link. I clicked it. And what I saw will never leave me. It was a photo. His arm. Covered in deep, deep cuts. Blood everywhere. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I messaged him immediately, terrified that I was too late. He answered almost right away. Said something like, I thought I lost you. I couldn't take the pain. Don't ever leave me like that again. I was stunned.

Just kind of sat there, staring at the screen. From then on, everything just spiraled. Every message was either a declaration of his undying love or a detailed plan of how he wanted to hurt himself. Or me. Sometimes both. I stopped sleeping. I couldn't eat. I was terrified every time I opened that website.

What if this was the time he went through with it? What if my silence killed someone? The final straw came about a year in. Joker sent me a message that changed everything. He said he'd figured it out. That I was the only good person left on this disgusting planet. And that he'd finally found happiness, in death. But not just his.

Ours. Together. He described in horrifying detail how he wanted to kill me. Carve my heart out. Hold it to his chest. and then lie down next to my body as he bled out beside me. I was done. I couldn't take it anymore.

I deleted my account that night and never looked back. For years after that, I avoided online friendships. Hell, even to this day, I hesitate before replying to anyone I don't know. There's always that little voice in the back of my head asking, What if this is another joker? That wasn't the end of the weird online stuff either. When I was 15, still trying to crawl my way through a chaotic home life, I got into drawing. My mom had told me about her affair and expected me to just be cool about it.

My dad was broken. My house was filled with silence, tension, and occasional yelling. Drawing became my escape. My therapy. One day, I stumbled upon deviant heart again. I was older now, smarter. I thought I'd be safer I started posting my work

it felt good some people even left nice comments one or two messaged me to say they liked my art it meant the world to me that's how it always starts right but that story I'll finish it another day because this

this is just the beginning to be continued when I think back to that dark point in my life, it's still hard to believe how one little website completely changed everything, both for better and worse. I was 15, depressed, and feeling like I had no one in my corner. My home life was imploding, my mom had just confided in me about her affair, something a child should never be burdened with, and I had started a new school where I didn't know a single soul. It was rough. Art became my lifeline. Drawing gave me something to look forward to every day.

I could pour all the sadness, anger, and confusion into it. That's when I stumbled across a place called DeviantArt. At first, DeviantArt was a literal sanctuary. Here was a corner of the internet where weird, creative people like me actually belonged. I posted my drawings constantly, even when they weren't very good. I got feedback. Encouragement. Complements.

Actual friends. There were a few people I met there whom I still talk to even now, ten years later. They helped lift me out of that emotional black hole. But this isn't a feel-good friendship story. No, this is about someone I wish I had never met. Someone who still haunts my memories. One evening while browsing the front page of the site, I came across a poem. Now, it wasn't just any poem.

It was this bizarre, ranty, aggressive piece full of anti-Christian, themes, twisted metaphors, and grotesque visuals. It should have turned me off, but instead, it fascinated me. I was an angsty teen, okay, angry, depressed, and ready to consume any form of art that reflected my inner turmoil. So I clicked on the writer's profile. His name was Tom. And wow, this man had a whole empire of content, hundreds of poems, essays, and short stories. But he wasn't just a writer, he was a visual artist, too. His artwork was weird, surreal, often gross, and borderline inappropriate. Some of his creatures had sexual overtones, but I dismissed it as dark humor.

Back then, I didn't know the warning signs. I ended up sending him a private message. Just a simple note saying I enjoyed his writing. He responded almost instantly. And thus began a whirlwind of conversations. that would shape my life for the next few months. We transitioned quickly from deviant-art messages to instant messenger chats. He was 30.

I was 15. I knew it was a bit weird, but he was so friendly and understanding. For the first time in ages, I felt seen. I'd come straight home from school and lock myself in my room just to talk to him for hours. He became my confidant. I told him things I didn't even tell my best friend. friends. Tom, in turn, would write poems about me. Sweet ones. Positive ones. They made me feel special in a way that I'd never felt before. It was flattering, comforting, addictive. About three weeks

into our chats, he asked for my phone number. I hesitated, of course. I was painfully shy and hated phone calls. But he gave me his number and insisted he just wanted to hear my voice. voice. I felt pressured. I didn't want to lose his friendship, so I called. My heart was pounding when he picked up. His voice surprised me, it sounded young. Teenaged, even. That eased my nerves a bit. We talked for a while, though the call was awkward. He didn't say much. I rambled about school and art while he mostly listened. When we hung up, he messaged me saying how happy he was to hear my voice. I was relieved I hadn't disappointed him. But things shifted after that. He started asking for more calls. During one of them, I noticed something strange. He was breathing heavily on the line. I was mid-sentence when he suddenly hung up. I messaged him in confusion. His reply. He said I wasn't being sexy enough. I felt humiliated. I apologized. I apologized.

That was my instinct, blame myself. That's when everything went off the rails. Tom started steering all our conversations in a sexual direction. I told him I was a virgin, and he seemed thrilled. His attention became intense. Obsessive. He wanted me to talk in a certain way, say certain things, and eventually I gave in. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt like I had to.

If I didn't, I'd lose the only person who was giving me attention, praise, and affection. My self-worth was already in shreds. I didn't know what else to do. I began sending him pictures of myself in my underwear. I cringe now thinking about it, but I was just a kid trying to feel loved. I didn't realize how dangerous and predatory he was. He'd write poems on his deviant heart account about deflowering a young girl. He claimed they were fiction, but I knew they were about me.

It made me feel nauseous and flattered at the same time. That's how messed up my head was. My 16th birthday was coming up. Tom became obsessed with the idea of seeing me before I turned 16. He lived in Florida. I was nowhere near there. But he searched for hotels near my house and eventually bought a plane ticket. The plan was simple, I'd skip school.

and we'd spend the day together. He might have been planning to stay longer, but I honestly can't remember. Then one day, everything unraveled. I came home from school and found my mom sitting in the living room with a serious look on her face. She told me she knew about Tom. My stomach dropped. She'd read our messages. She told me I didn't have to be afraid anymore. I broke down. I cried. I confessed everything. The shame was overwhelming. But she held me and said, he's not coming.

I promise, she emailed Tom, and he freaked out. He called me screaming, telling me he'd spent $500 on that ticket. I never answered his calls again. He bombarded me with all caps emails, furious and unhinged. He posted disturbing poetry about betrayal and heartbreak. I was devastated. I felt like the worst person in the world. On the day he was supposed to arrive, my mom gave the apartment security his photo.

I didn't stay home, I stayed with a friend in a completely different city. I was scared he'd show up. But he never did. Days turned into weeks, and Tom disappeared from deviant heart. No updates. No posts. No poems. Nothing. Eventually, life started to feel normal again. I stopped looking over my shoulder.

Then, while on a family trip to Canada for a music festival, my phone rang. It was Tom. I tried answering, but the call wouldn't go through due to roaming restrictions. I texted him once we crossed the border back into the States. I told him I'd been in Canada, that I missed him, that I hoped he was okay. That's when he dropped the border. bomb. He told me that the day he was supposed to come visit me, he got drunk and stabbed himself. Multiple times. His stomach. His legs. His hand. He claimed he had a moment of regret and called his mom, who in turn called the police. He said he spent time in a psychiatric hospital and that the self-inflicted injuries were so bad he had to amputate his leg. He also lost two

fingers. He told me it was all my fault. I was stunned. I wanted to believe he was lying. I wanted it to be some manipulation tactic. But then he uploaded photos to deviant art, images of himself post injury. He was clearly missing a leg. The fingers, gone. I'd seen enough photos of him to know it was real. I couldn't believe it. I felt sick, confused, heartbroken. But I also began to understand something crucial. None of this was my fault. I was a child. I was lonely, vulnerable, and looking for validation.

Tom was a grown man, a predator, and deeply disturbed. I later found out through some of his newer poetry that he was schizophrenic and clearly harbored predatory fantasies about young girls. Eventually, Deviantart banned him permanently. He vanished for my life. Years passed. I was in college when curiosity got the better of me. I googled his name.

I found a profile of his on another site. In the photo, he was next to a young woman. He had his hand over her mouth, almost like a joke. But it sent chills down my spine. He found someone else. I still think about him sometimes. Not because I miss him, but because the whole experience left a scar that will probably never fully fade. The internet can be a magical place, it connected me with lifelong friends,

helped me grow as an artist, and gave me a community when I had none. But it also showed me that monsters don't always hide under the bed. Sometimes, they have user profiles and poems and pretty pictures. There's always a reason to be careful. There's always a reason to be afraid. And there's always a reason to speak up, even when your voice shakes. The end. So, let's kick this off with something we all kind of know. Oxygen is life. I mean, come on, every breath you take is your body whispering, thanks, nature. It's the one thing literally every living thing on earth needs to survive. Fish, frogs, fungi, you name it, it breathes, or does something close enough.

Now imagine, just for a moment, that oxygen, the very stuff we need to stay alive, started to kill us. Not poison gas, not smoke, but oxygen itself. Sounds like something out of a sci-fi flick, right? Well, hold that thought, because we're about to dig into a wild metaphor that flips our understanding of survival on its head. Picture a small village tucked away in the middle of nowhere. Peaceful, charming, cows grazing, kids playing, neighbors waving to each other like it's some kind of toothpaste commercial. Life is good. Then, as always, things start getting weird, but not in a, the cows are walking backwards,

kind of way. People begin coughing. Nothing crazy at first. A little wheezing here, some shortness of breath there. No one panics. Just allergies, maybe the factory set up down the road puffing out some junk into the air. NBD, right? wrong. What started off as mild symptoms turned into something no one saw coming. The coughs got

deeper. The breathing more strained. The villagers started dropping like flies. Everyone thought they had time to figure it out, but the sickness moved faster than gossip in a high school hallway. Before they knew it, it was too late. The whole village, gone. Wiped clean off the map. Their biggest mistake Ignoring the symptoms What looked minor turned major real quick Now here's where things take a turn You might be thinking, well dang, that's terrifying Hope that doesn't happen in real life

But what if it already is? Not with literal oxygen, but with something just as vital to our society, education. Yeah, that's right. Education Hold up, before you roll your eyes and zone, out, hear me out. Education is supposed to be the purest form of empowerment. It's our mental oxygen, the thing we rely on to grow, learn, connect, and build better lives. It's the golden ticket to solving global problems, ending poverty, advancing tech, curing diseases. But here's

the twist, what if this oxygen is turning toxic? What if the very thing meant to save us is slowly suffocating us. Let's stretch the metaphor. Education, like oxygen, is everywhere, especially in modern times. We've got schools on every corner, free classes online, degrees, diplomas, workshops, YouTube tutorials on how to build a rocket with a soda can. Information is so abundant, it's overwhelming. But despite all this access, something's off. Look around. You feel it. too, don't you? Something's broken. The system is producing people who are smart on paper, but not in real life. Folks who can pass a test but can't pass a moral checkpoint. People who

know the capital of Mongolia but can't treat another human being with decency. The values that should come bundled with education, empathy, humility, honesty, seem to have been kicked out of the syllabus. We've created a world where education is no longer about becoming better people. It's about beating the system. And that's where the oxygen starts to poison us. You see, this toxic education isn't killing us like some sudden plague. It's slow. It's sneaky. It starts with a little arrogance here, a bit of selfishness there. Corrupt systems. Greedy motives. Crumbling morals. It seeps into politics, business, relationships. The whole structure begins to rot, and no one sees it because, just like the villagers,

we're ignoring the symptoms. They seem minor. They always do, until they don't. So what are the modern symptoms of this poisoned education? Let's name a few, people becoming experts at manipulation instead of kindness. A system that teaches you how to make money but not how to live meaningfully. High achievers who lack any emotional intelligence. more diplomas fewer values success measured by income not impact crime that gets more intelligent

and more horrifying rampant narcissism fueled by social validation it's a slow motion apocalypse and it's happening right in front of us let's rewind a bit why does this happen because we forgot what education was meant to be it's supposed to be a tool for growth for connection for lift shifting each other up. But now, it's a currency. A ladder. A race. Something to flex on Instagram with a framed certificate. The actual goal, the inner transformation, is lost. So what's the cost? Well, let's look around, a rising generation glued to screens, more anxious than ever. Politicians with degrees who lie through their teeth. CEOs with MBAs who couldn't care less about ethics. Kids learning how to ace tests, but not how to be decent

human beings. Families falling apart because we were never taught how to actually communicate. This poisoned version of it, it's dangerous. Because unlike ignorance, which is loud and obvious, poisoned education is sneaky. It looks like success. It wears a suit. It has a title. But inside, it's rotten. And worse, it spreads. Toxic mindsets raise toxic children. Toxic leaders ruin nations. Toxic innovation can destroy the planet. And let's not even get started on how this affects nature. Humans, powered by the wrong kind of education, become destroyers. Deforestation, pollution, exploitation, these aren't caused by uneducated people. They're caused by people. They're caused by people. with too much of the wrong kind of knowledge and none of the right kind of wisdom.

So what do we do about it? First off, we need to start recognizing the symptoms for what they are, warning signs. We need to stop brushing off arrogance as confidence. Stop calling selfish ambition, drive. Stop applauding cruelty disguised as honesty. We need to call out the BS and start demanding something better, from our systems, from our leaders, and most importantly, from ourselves. It starts with us. It always does. If you're a parent, teach your kid that kindness matters more than class rank. If you're a teacher, sneak empathy into your lessons, even if the curriculum doesn't require it. If you're a student, ask questions no textbook can answer. And if you're just a human trying to figure life out, like the rest of us, remember this, education.

education doesn't stop at graduation. You're learning every day, with every choice, every conversation, every mistake. So maybe it's time we replant the forest. The trees have been dying slowly for years. The system is dry, the roots are rotting, and the air is thin. We've got a choice, keep pretending it's fine until we collapse, or start planting new seeds now. That means reforming the education system to include emotional intelligence, ethics, environmental responsibility, critical thinking, and compassion. That means rewarding curiosity, not conformity. That means treating education not as a product to consume, but as a journey to become. It's on us. Because if we don't fix this, the whole village burns. And I'm not just talking metaphorically.

Look at the state of the world, division, war, injustice, climate collapse. The village is already on fire. We've got the hoses. We've got the seeds. We just need to start using them. So next time someone tells you that education is the key to success, ask them, what kind of success are we talking about? Because if it's the kind that leads to the slow death of our humanity, then I'd rather stay in the village and plant some new trees. Let's build a world where knowledge breathes life, not poison.

Where oxygen heals instead of hurts. Where education doesn't just fill our heads, but fuels our hearts. Because the real tragedy isn't dying from ignorance. It's dying from knowing better, and doing nothing. The end. Last week, my sister shared a chilling story with me about a small group of predators who were lurking on an entertainment forum frequented by kids. She had only recently stumbled upon this group last month.

Her daughter had been a member of this forum for several years but had never reported any strange interactions with adults. While the presence of adult members on the site wasn't unheard of, their primary goal seemed to be targeting kids aged 16 or younger. My niece, who is currently in that age range, had gradually lost interest in the forum's main topics over the years. However, she had built many friendships there and liked connecting with her online friends regularly. The dangers lurking on the site were brought to her attention through a Reddit post. The post detailed how two different men on the forum had approached a child, seeking to meet them for inappropriate reasons. One of them had been grooming the 12-year-old, starting with friendly chats about shared interests in music and animation. The other man was much more blatant, even going as far as to send illicit photos.

When the mother discovered the man's actions, she reported him to the police. Both men, however, disappeared or changed their usernames, making it impossible for the authorities to track them down despite their efforts. In the comment section of that post, another parent shared a similar incident where a man had proposed taking inappropriate photographs of their child. These accounts left my sister and me horrified. While I was relieved not to have kids, the situation hit too close to home. After a deep discussion about internet safety, my sister encouraged her daughter to talk to her friends about whether any adults had approached them online, either in this forum or elsewhere. What she uncovered

shocked us both. At least six of her friends, both male and female, had been propositioned for various inappropriate services. Two of them personally knew someone who had been assaulted by an adult they met online. What was even more alarming was that three of her friends had experienced this type of behavior multiple times on that specific forum. My sister was terrified and began seeing danger everywhere. She even considered banning or heavily restricting her daughter's activity on the forum. However, I convinced her that such a move might drive a wedge between her and her daughter. After all, her daughter mainly used the forum to chat with friends, banning her wouldn't protect her from the broader dangers of the

Internet. Instead, she needed to trust her daughter to make good decisions. My niece was growing up, and I reassured my sister that she had raised her well enough to handle such challenges. At least, I hoped I was right. When I'm not helping my sister navigate these concerns, I sometimes explore the dark corners of the Internet out of sheer curiosity. The Deep Web, in particular, has always intrigued me. Despite the many wild tales about it, I found it to be relatively mundane for the most part. Stories of hit men, red rooms, and secret societies abound, but the reality is often far less thrilling.

Most of these sites are well-documented or honeypots set up by law enforcement to catch criminals or naive thrill-seekers. The bulk of activity on the Deep Web these days revolves around whistleblower sharing sensitive information and criminals trafficking in illicit materials. While the anonymity of the platform enables some important whistleblowing activities, it also allows reprehensible behavior to flourish. I fully support the idea of whistleblowers having a safe space to share vital information, but the darker aspects of the Deep Web are another matter entirely.

One of my earlier experiences on the Deep Web serves as a stark reminder of its dangers. Like many, I was initially drawn in by the stories and eager to see how much truth they held. However, what I found was underwhelming. The most exciting site I stumbled upon was a forum for sharing adult content and gore videos with strict rules against anything illegal. On my third or fourth visit to that site, I received a private message from someone claiming to be a moderator. He said he had noticed I had been visiting but not sharing anything, which wasn't against

the rules but was strongly discouraged. He asked if I had anything to contribute. At first, I was hesitant, but I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to. to myself. After some thought, I sent a few nonsensitive photos I had on hand. It was a decision I would regret deeply. The moderator sent me a download link in return. Initially, the files seemed harmless, albeit unsettling. But as I continued, the content grew darker. One video, in particular, left me shaken. It began innocently enough but quickly escalated to graphic violence involving an animal. I couldn't stomach it. As a lifelong animal lover,

I was horrified, and I spent the next hour alternating between crying and seething with rage. In a fit of anger, I sent the moderator a scathing message, threatening to report him to the authorities. Looking back, I realized how naive I was. My threat was hollow, the authorities wouldn't care, and I had no evidence linking him to anything. A month later, I returned to the forum, only to find another message from the moderator waiting for me. What he wrote chilled me to the bone. He claimed he had hidden illegal files on my computer through the downloads I had accessed. He even said the files contained enough incriminating material to land me in jail for years. Panicked, I searched my hard drive and found an unfamiliar, massive file buried in one of the

directories. I didn't dare open it to confirm his claims. Whether or not it was true, I wasn't willing to take the risk. After hours of futile attempts to remove the file, I resorted to drastic measures. A hammer and a few minutes of effort rendered my laptop useless, and I vowed never to make such a mistake again. Since that day, I only explore the Deep Web on disposable devices and never download anything. This experience taught me an important lesson about trust and caution online. The Deep Web is a haven for those with something to hide, and you can never be sure who, or what, you're dealing with. When I moved into my new apartment, the basement was the last thing on my mind. It was old but clean, and I figured I'd never have to go down there

much. Just storage, really. But then the noises started. At first, it was just a faint tapping, like someone knocking on wood, around midnight. I'd dismiss it as plumbing or old pipe settling. One night, I decided to investigate. I grabbed a flashlight and headed downstairs. The basement smelled damp with a faint moldy odor. It was empty except for a few boxes left by the previous tenant. As I reached the bottom step, the tapping stopped. I shone the light around. Nothing. Then I heard it again. But this time, it wasn't tapping, it was a whisper. Soft, barely audible, but definitely a voice. I strained to listen. Help me, I froze. No way. I wanted to leave.

Fast. Then I heard footsteps. Slow, dragging footsteps moving toward me from the far end of the basement. I swung the flashlight beam wildly. Nothing. I ran upstairs, locked the door behind me, and didn't sleep. The next day, I asked the landlord about the basement. He said it was just storage, nothing unusual.

No history of problems. but I wasn't convinced. That night, the whispering came again. Help me, over and over. I grabbed my phone and recorded it. The next morning, I played the recording for a friend. He said it sounded like someone trapped, or in distress. I decided to check the basement again, but this time with company.

We went down with two flashlights. We explored every corner, but found nothing. Then, as we passed an old water heater, the whisper came again. Help me, we turned and saw a small, rusted hatch I hadn't noticed before. It was hidden behind a loose panel. The landlord never mentioned it. We pried it open. Inside was a crawl space, dark and cramped.

We shone our lights inside but couldn't see much. Then I noticed something written faintly on the wall, trapped, no idea who wrote it. We called the landlord immediately. He looked nervous. After some prodding, he admitted the basement was used years ago for storage, but a tenant disappeared mysteriously, never found. We called the police. They searched the crawl space and basement thoroughly but found nothing. The whispering stopped after that night.

I moved out a month later. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still hear that soft voice. Help me, we humans feel a strong attraction to the inexplicable, toward everything that fills us with dread simply because we do not understand it. That's why we love ghost stories, why we want to believe there is something beyond death, why we want to think that eternity could be within our grasp. Beyond their powerful symbolism and the many legends that surround them, many cemeteries around the world have become major tourist attractions. A clear example of this is Greyfriars Cemetery, which we discussed in previous videos. In fact, we not only covered its history,

but in this particular case, we also took action by visiting it in person and commenting on what it conveyed to us directly. However, Greyfriars is only the tip of the iceberg, as there are many cemeteries that, like this one, hide chilling stories and intense paranormal activity. So now, let's touch on some of my favorites. This is one of those stories that give us goosebumps, as soon as we hear them. Everyone who lives in the northern part of Burslem Cemetery knows the legend surrounding one of its graves, Molly Lees. A grave that, despite the passing years,

is still remembered and feared as on the very first day. But let's learn a little about her. Molly was born in 1685 in a cottage on the outskirts of Burslem, now one of the towns in Stokon-Trent, Staffordshire. Little is known about her youth. Some sources claim she was married, had no children, and decided to live alone on the outskirts of the city after being widowed. But others say literally that due to her ugliness and strong character,

no man ever dared to ask for her hand in marriage. Whatever the case, what really matters in this story is that Molly Lee was a tough woman who didn't need a man to survive. In fact, when she became an adult, she made a living by selling milk from her herd of cows to travelers and passers-by. She was a strong-willed woman with her own opinions, and in those times, someone like that posed a danger to society. Many sources emphasized that Molly was an eccentric person who had a blackbird as a pet, an uncaged bird that flew freely around the city and would perch on her shoulder, silently observing everything, whenever she came down to Burslem to sell her dairy products. Today, a woman like her would be considered a role model. However, in those days, elderly women, especially,

especially those who lived alone, were automatically labeled as witches. And Molly Lee's case was no different. The person who first announced her was the local parish priest, Reverend Spencer. He claimed that Molly sent her blackbird to carry out her curses and that he had proof. He asserted that every time the bird perched on the sign of the Turkshead pub, the beer inside would turn bitter. What proof did he present? That he was a regular customer of the establishment and that, basically, he couldn't lie, because his word was the word of God. From that moment on,

total chaos gripped Burslem. Suddenly, everyone claimed to have been victims of Molly's spells. A woman blamed her for her infertility. A child claimed to have seen her flying through the skies on a broomstick. And just when things couldn't get worse, Reverend Spencer poured more fuel on the fire by saying that ever since he made his accusation public, he had begun suffering from rheumatism and severe stomach pains. So one night, the Reverend, accompanied by some neighbors, decided to pay a visit to the terrible witch. What they saw chilled their blood. All those present claimed that, looking through the window into the house, they saw Molly sitting in the middle of the flames of the large fireplace, with the blackbird perched on her

arm. In 1745, after months of being insulted, booed, and spat at in the streets, and watching her business slowly fall into ruin, all those accusations were finally brought to court. But the God Reverend Spencer spoke so much about didn't allow Molly to set foot in a cell, he took her long before they could condemn her to the stake. Molly Lee died in early 1746 and was given a Christian burial in Burslem Cemetery. And this story could have ended here, it could have ended just where many regretful people brought flowers to her grave, begging her forgiveness and taking back all the harsh words they once said to her. But Reverend Spencer wouldn't allow it. He was convinced his accusations were

true, that Molly was a true witch, and therefore didn't deserve a proper burial. So one night, he entered Burslem Cemetery with clergymen from Stoke, Wollstoneton, and Newcastle underlime. He exhumed her body. Not satisfied with desecrating the grave of an innocent woman, he opened the casket, placed the still-living Blackbird, her once loyal companion, inside, then closed it again. He and the other clergyman dug a new grave for her, intending for everyone who entered the cemetery to see it and realize that woman didn't deserve a proper burial. They buried her new grave in the opposite direction of all the others, from north to south, as a final insult to the poor woman. That's when the curse awakened. People began saying that after that terrible

night, Molly's ghost began to roam the streets. When the sun set, the neighbors locked themselves in their homes, claiming that Molly's ghost would rise from the grave and knock on the doors of all those who had once unjustly accused her. The woman asked for help, begged for mercy, pleaded to be let in, but no one ever dared to listen. No one ever let her in. It said that after several weeks of fear, the town ended up asking the church for an exorcism of Molly's grave. But the church denied that the paranormal infestation was real, until finally, a group of clergymen agreed to perform the exorcism of the witch of Berslum's grave. The ritual was carried out on October 31st, 1747, and was declared a success, or at least that's the official story. What few people know is that several participants in the ritual died during the attempt.

And since it was performed on Halloween night, the night when spirits come to life, each October 3rd. 31st, the portal is said to reopen, and Molly's ghost can be summoned again. Local children claim that if on that night someone jumps three times around her grave while chanting the following mantra, Molly Lee, Molly Lee, chase him, round the apple tree. Molly's spirit will rise and chase you, dragging you with her straight to the depths of hell. Will you dare to summon her? An inscription reads at the entrance of one of the underground galleries in the city of Paris. Stop, This is the Empire of the Dead. According to numerous testimonies, once you cross this threshold, you enter a world where death comes alive and takes hold of your very being.

Before we begin sharing some of the stories surrounding this place, let's understand its origins. In Roman times, the dead in Paris were buried along roads outside the city. But this changed with the spread of Christianity, which brought new burial practices, interring the dead in consecrated ground and nearby churches. The next shift came in the 12th century. As the city expanded, it became clear there were too many cemeteries and no more room for additional burials. So, ordinary people had to bury their loved ones in mass graves, while the wealthy could still choose their burial sites. The dead gradually accumulated underground through the aforementioned mass inhumations.

To be continued. The dead gradually accumulated underground using the already mentioned mass burials until, in the 11th century, the church gave way to the opening of a central cemetery. They believed this could solve the problem of burials, however, it only worsened the situation. Each time a section of the cemetery filled up, it was covered, and another was made. There was barely any space between coffins, and the decomposition of the corpses accelerated, with substances seeping through the ground and reaching the water that flowed into the wells from which the citizens of Paris drank. It wasn't until the 17th century that they finally decided to condemn all the parish

cemeteries and find a definitive solution. But this time, the chosen place was completely different, the tunnels of the old limestone quarries. The burials there began in 1786. The tunnels were filled with crosses, burns, and typical necropolis objects from the cemeteries that had been closed to date. During its first years, the Paris catacombs were nothing more than a mass massive deposit of bones. However, in 1810, they were renovated and turned into a visible burial site like a mausoleum. The human remains were reorganized and arranged in such a way that they appeared to form part of a dramatic and chilling decoration. But the most terrifying aspect of these catacombs today is not their appearance, it's the fact that there is

no reliable map of them, only brief charts. It's also known that the place has hidden spots, rooms, and secret passages that haven't been explored in over 1,000 years, all filled with human remains, the remains of people forgotten by history. More than 230 kilometers of endless tunnel subject to cold, humidity, and, of course, darkness, a darkness the Parisians have feared since time immemorial, and with good reason. In 2008, a video camera was recovered from a man who, in the 1990s, ventured alone into the catacombs, got lost, and died there in the middle of the darkness. No one accompanied him on his adventure, no one knew he was there, or at least that's what investigators thought when they analyzed the first seconds of the footage from

that camera. But as the minutes passed, they realized this man was trying to flee from something or someone. While escaping, he decided to turn on his camera to leave proof of what was happening to him. Unfortunately, since it was over 25 years old and on cassette, the audio was lost, and some fragments were damaged and have been impossible to recover. Still, I will now show you some parts. In June of this same year, the press echoed a shocking piece of news. Two teenagers, aged 16 and 17, were pulled out and scathed, though showing signs of hypothermia, from the depths of the Paris catacombs and had to receive immediate medical attention. However, the shocking part of this news is not that the teenagers got lost, were rescued, and everything

turned out fine, it's that they had been missing for three days, lost among tunnels and thousands of skulls at 15 degrees Celsius, three days during which no one searched for them because no one knew they had entered the catacombs. Eventually, someone realized and called the police, launching a rescue operation that lasted four hours. The investigation considered several hypotheses. The first was that the teenagers were part of a tourist group and, while visiting the permitted area, decided to venture on their own into the forbidden zone. The second was that they were curious explorers who had entered the catacombs through secret entrances. This shouldn't surprise us, as over the years, thousands of people have done the

same to explore on their own or to hold illegal parties. These practices became very popular in the 70s, and these same enthusiasts conditioned some mortuary rooms to turn them into gathering places. Because of this, accidents, cases of leptospirosis, and even testimonies related to the paranormal skyrocketed. Many, both curious explorers and tourists, claim that once inside, you feel the gaze of dozens of people fixed on you, that you can hear whispers and murmurs coming from everywhere, and, above all, the icy breath of someone on your neck, a breath that follows you until you finally exit the catacombs and the sunlight shelters you. Returning again to the rescue of the teenagers, it's worth saying that to this day,

they have still not said why they were there, what they were doing, or how they got lost. They claim to remember absolutely nothing of those three days. But what do you think about all this? Do you believe they truly remember nothing, or do they prefer to keep their experience a secret? This cemetery is located in the Chicago metropolitan area, United States, specifically near Midlothian and Oak Forest, Illinois, in the Rubio Woods Forest Preserve. Legend says that the cemetery owes its name to the fact that initially only men were buried there, but the truth is that the name came from the arrival of a German family that settled in the area in 1820. Be that as it may, this is not a cemetery like the ones previously mentioned. It has been abandoned since 1989, the year when the last burial took place there, that of Robert Shields, who was cremated and buried in his family plot.

Since its founding in 1844, a series of inexplicable events have occurred here, eventually scaring away anyone who once wished to be buried in such an idyllic place. For 126 years, it was all rumors, diffuse testimonies from people who claimed to have seen shadows walking among the gravestones, felt inexplicable. and heard murmurs coming from inside the graves, until one night in 1970, those ghost stories were confirmed. Two Cook County police officers, while patrolling near the cemetery pond, saw a large horse emerge from the waters, pulling a plow guided by the ghost of an old man. That eerie and nebulous figure crossed in front of their vehicle and disappeared into the darkness. Once it crossed the road, the officers couldn't believe what they had seen. In fact, they refused to believe it had been real. However, when they recovered from the shock, they were obliged to report

it to headquarters, thus starting a legend that would spread worldwide. Thanks to the officer's testimony, many people came forward to tell what they had experienced regarding the pond. And it wasn't few who had seen that same scene repeat in a loop from midnight until the sun rose over the trees. This experience is directly related to a local legend telling that in 1870, a farmer in the area, while plowing the field, suffered a terrible accident. His horse, for no apparent reason, got spooked, and the man, caught by surprise, got tangled in the rains and was dragged by the animal into the murky waters of that pond, where he drowned under the weight of the plow and the horse. Unfortunately, the waters of the pond are not the only

ones hiding secrets, so do the surrounding roads. On multiple occasions, the police have received reports from people claiming to have seen phantom cars traveling west on the Midlothian turnpike. Many people have reported seeing the taillights of another vehicle ahead, which suddenly activated its brake lights as if intending to stop or pull off the road. So far, the story seems perfectly normal. However, when the driver behind speeds up to pass the vehicle, they realize that where the lights are, there is nothing, no car, only darkness. Other people have claimed to see phantom cars in their rearview mirrors and nebulous figures walking along the roadside, as if these were portals to past lives, lives that repeat in a loop

once the sunlight is gone. No less common is the legend of the cemetery's entrance path. Many people from there have claimed to see in the distance a large farmhouse, an old wooden house with a white facade, two stories, a swing in the yard, and the light of a room on. No one has ever managed to set foot on its porch because, as you approach, it moves further and further away until it finally disappears before your eyes. The most well-known specter of the cemetery goes by many names, including the Bachelor's Grove Virgin, the White Lady, and Mrs. Rogers. The legend says that this ghost is that of a woman who was buried alongside her baby because

both died during childbirth, and since then, the spirit rises from the grave and wanders the cemetery with that baby in her arms. It's also said that her favorite place to spend the night is the fallen tree on one side of the old cemetery. In 2006, Ken Warfield, a well-known psychic from Chicago, accompanied by a Chicago Tribune reporter, appeared at this cemetery. Shortly after arriving, Ken heard the cries of a small child, and upon approaching, the child told him he was crying because he had lost his lucky coin. According to the Chicago Tribune reporter, Ken left the cemetery and went directly to the pond, put his hand into the mud, and pulled out a $1942 half-dollar coin, the coin that supposedly belonged to that

ghost child. But now it's your turn, would you dare spend a night in one of these cemeteries? If so, which one would you choose? The end. I sat in our family garden with my brother, discussing the series of child disappearances that had terrorized the county. Rumors swirled around the case, but the most unsettling implicated both a reclusive church monk from the chapel across the street and a school nurse. Lost in our speculative musings, spinning threads of horror and imagination, our conversation was abruptly interrupted by our father, who announced that prospective buyers had arrived to see the house. I went out to greet them about ten minutes later. The visitors were a man and a woman in their mid-thirties, accompanied by a remarkably

composed seven-year-old girl. Yet, what caught my eye was the woman, she cradled a small child tightly wrapped in a heavy cloth, as if determined to conceal him. Their peculiar air, even evoking an almost theatrical nod to the classic detective duo of Watson and his partner, did little to distract me from my duty. I began the tour on the ground floor, showcasing the warm kitchen, the inviting living room, and several guest rooms. Soon after, my mother called me to lead the buyers to the second floor. As we climbed the creaking stairs, I overheard the man and woman exchanging hushed words.

In a fleeting moment, the little girl, calm beyond her years, uttered the word shovel, while pointing to a toy that belonged to my younger brother. She remarked to her father that it wasn't nearly as good for digging as her larger shovel, but he cut her off sharply, his tone laced with a palpable urgency as though he feared she might reveal too much. My mother quickly intervened, steering the conversation back to the house, after all, my parents were insistent on selling, or even abandoning, the house despite its charm. After some tense negotiations, the buyers refused to pay the asking price, citing that the grave of the house is too small to justify such an expense.

Their visit ended as abruptly as it had begun. As they left, I noticed from the car porch that the man and woman appeared visibly unsettled. At one point, the woman's grip slackened, and the cloth covering the small child slipped, revealing his face for just a moment. There, emblazoned on his forehead, was a deep, raw gash, a vivid red mark meticulously arranged. changed in the form of an inverted, curved cross. An inexplicable shock surged through me, as if an unseen force had struck. That evening at dinner, I recounted what I had witnessed. My family met my words with laughter and dismissive scoffs, save for my older brother,

who seemed gravely disturbed. In a hushed tone, he revealed that he had read the police statements regarding the missing children case. According to the report, a child's limp body had been discovered by the river in a neighboring village that very morning, bearing mysterious symbols and scars whose origins remained unexplained. His revelation left us all stunned, though our father curtly commanded, enough. Finish your meal and return to your rooms. I spent the night tormented by the image of that scarred face, overwhelmed by regret. Had I been as diligent as my brother in keeping up with the

news, I might have alerted the authorities immediately, or even documented the strange couple and their child to launch my own investigation. Days later, while passing by the long abandoned house down the street, I noticed an unexpected flurry of activity. The property, deserted for over five years, was suddenly alive with workers' unloading furniture and repair crews busily restoring its neglected structure. Oddly, the previous owners had fled in haste not long after their purchase, and throughout those five years, three imposing statues had stood Sentinel in the backyard, fixed firmly into the earth.

I had yet to see the new owners, but a flicker of excitement stirred within me at the thought that perhaps they might have a daughter my age, or even a son. When I returned home, I found my mother preparing her famed county dish, a unique pumpkin and squash soup that, despite its unusual blend, was undeniably delicious. Later, the radio crackled to life with an official announcement, new developments in the missing children case. It reported that authorities had identified the murdered child, whose body bore that distinctive mark, through DNA testing, confirming his identity as Jack Wilson. At that moment, my mother inquired, isn't he the son of the living monk's nephew?

I nodded silently in affirmation. The day slipped by quickly. As I prepared to leave for school on my bicycle, I passed the newly renovated house once more and caught a glimpse of something all too familiar, the same little girl who had accompanied those dubious figures. To be continued. My girlfriend talks in her sleep.

Last night, she said, where are the bodies? If I'm being honest, I ignored the warning signs. I mean, wouldn't you? Sharon was perfect, or at least she seemed perfect at the time. She's beautiful in that classic way that makes people stop and stare. Smart, too. She has a dry sense of humor that could cut glass, and she knows exactly how to use it. We've been dating for eight months.

And yeah, maybe it was a little fast, but everything just clicked. From our first date, I knew I wanted her in my life. She was the whole package, someone I could actually see myself building a future with. Looking back, there were little things I should have paid more attention to. It all started on our fourth date. We were sitting on her couch, drinking wine, when she brought it up. I should probably warn you about something, she said, swirling her glass. I raised an eyebrow, already half in love with her.

Oh. What's that? I'm not the easiest person to sleep next to, she said. I laughed, thinking she was joking. Don't worry, I've shared a bed with snores. I can handle it. She shook her head, a small smile on her lips. It's not just that. I talk in my sleep. Sometimes I move. Or, well, I've even hit people before. Hit people, eh, sounds like an occupational hazard, I joked. She gave me a look, half serious, half amused. I'm just saying, it's happened before. If you decide to stay, you've been warned. At the time, I didn't think much of it. It sounded, even kind of cute.

But looking back, should have taken her more seriously. The first time I stayed at her place, I half expected her to punch me in her sleep, just so I could tease her about it the next day. But mostly, that first night was quiet. She shifted a bit, murmured. what sounded like gibberish. No, not the red one. Don't let it fall, I barely noticed. Over the next few weeks, her sleep quirk started to show more. One night I woke up to her hand smacking me square in the chest. What the hell? I muttered, dazed and confused. Sharon was still asleep, her arm limp across the bed. The next morning, I brought it up at breakfast. So, you hit me last night. She nearly choked on her coffee, eyes wide with a touch of

mock horror. I did, yeah. Solid shot. Guess you were dreaming you were in a fight or something. She smiled, shaking her head. Maybe I was dreaming about Aaron. Aaron was her ex-husband. She didn't talk about him much, but from what I could gather, their divorce had been messy. The way she said his name, half joking, half bitter, made me wonder if there was more to the story. Still, I laughed it off. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal. But the warnings kept coming, in subtle ways I didn't recognize for what they were. A few weeks after I started staying over, Sharon brought it up again. One night as we were getting into bed, I wasn't kidding about the sleep stuff, you know, she said. I know, I replied, pulling the covers over us.

Honestly, it's not that bad. Kind of adorable, her smile faltered for a second. Just, don't freak out if I say something weird, okay, I squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her. Sharon, it's really not a big deal. I think you're perfect. Nothing you say in your sleep is going to change that. She smiled again. But this time, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

At the time, I thought it was nothing. Now, I wish I'd taken that moment more seriously. The first few weeks at Karen's house were fairly normal. Sure, she moved a lot in her sleep, tossing, turning, even murmuring. But I thought it was just part of her quirky charm. Then her sleep talk started to change, dramatically. At first, it was things like, put that down, or go get the cat. I'd laugh about it the next day.

But one night, about a month later, I woke up to something different. It's under the oak tree, Sharon murmured, her voice low and steady. I blinked, groggy and confused. Sharon, she didn't respond. Her body was still, breathing slowly. I sat up and leaned in. What's under the oak tree, nothing. She didn't say anything else.

Just turned over and snuggled deeper into the blanket. The next morning at breakfast, I brought it up. You said something weird last night while you were asleep, I told her. Sharon raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee. Oh yeah. What did I say? It was strange. You said, it's under the oak tree.

She tilted her head like she was trying to decide if I was joking. Huh. That's odd. Maybe it was about a treehouse or something. Do you remember what you were dreaming about? She shook her head. No. My dreams are incredibly random.

You know how it is. I nodded, but her response didn't sit right with me. There was something about the way she brushed it off, too casual, like she was steering the conversation away. A week later, I woke up to find her walking around the bed, as if she were measuring the room. Sharon? I whispered, rubbing my eyes. She didn't respond.

I reached for the nightstand lamp, but the second I touched it. Don't, she said sharply. My hand froze. Don't what, she didn't reply. Just stood there for a moment, then climbed back into bed, moving stiffly, almost robotically. The next morning, I kept it to myself. I wanted to ask her about what she'd said, but something told me not to. Things got worse after that.

One night, she sat up in bed and started murmuring again. Two miles off the highway, she said, in a calm, steady voice. It works better when the ground is wet, I didn't even try to wake her that time. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise. When she finally turned over and went silent, I got up and went to the kitchen. My hands were shaking as I poured a glass of water. What the hell was happening? The breaking point came a few nights later.

I woke up to find Sharon sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me. I told him it wouldn't work, she whispered. I slowly sat up. Sharon, she didn't turn around. Her head tilted slightly, like she was listening to someone I couldn't see. He said he'd take care of it, but he didn't. Now it's my problem, Sharon, who are you talking to? I asked.

She didn't respond. Instead, she stood up and walked out of the room. I didn't follow. I just sat there, frozen, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway. When I woke up the next morning, she was already in the kitchen, humming as she flipped pancakes. She looked up and smiled when she saw me. Morning, she said cheerfully.

I forced a smile, but my stomach twisted. I couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said in her sleep. The night I realized something was really wrong started like any other. Sharon fell asleep quickly, curled on her side while I stayed up scrolling through my phone. Everything seemed normal, until I heard her voice. At first, I thought she was talking to me. I held her nose closed, she said. I froze.

Her voice was low, cold, almost monotone. It didn't take long. She struggled a bit, but then she stopped. I turned toward her. Sharon was still lying on her side. breathing slowly. Sharon? I whispered. No response. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. I dragged her down the embankment. The soil was soft, perfect for digging. What the hell? I muttered. The next morning, I confronted her. You talked in your sleep again last night. Sharon looked up

from her coffee with a playful expression. Really? What did I say this time? Hope it wasn't anything. embarrassing, you said something about suffocating someone. And digging a grave, she frowned. That's weird. Maybe a bad dream from one of those crime shows I watch. You know, like Netflix stuff, she laughed, but it didn't feel genuine. You don't remember what you were dreaming about. I pressed.

Sharon shook her head. Nope. Honestly, Chris, I never remember any of my dreams. I nodded, but I didn't believe her. A few days later, I woke again to her voice. Max, she said. Her tone was calm, distant. I sat up in bed, goosebumps rising on my arms.

He's behind the old barn, she continued. The one with the blue door, the name sounded familiar. A young man named Max had gone missing years ago during a camping trip. His case had never been solved. I didn't bring it up the next morning. I didn't know how. But I couldn't get the name, or her words, out of my head. I googled Max's name for my phone.

His disappearance happened in the next county over. There was no mention of a barn or a blue door in the reports, but the other details she mentioned matched the area where he was last seen. A few days later, I got up the nerve to suggest something to Sharon. She was smiling when I approached. Have you ever thought about doing a sleep study? I asked carefully. Her smile faded.

Why would I? I don't know. You've said some really strange things in your sleep. Maybe it's stress or something. I'm fine, she said, shaking her head. You're overthinking everything. What about recording it? I said, just so you can hear it yourself, her expression darkened immediately.

No. Absolutely no. not. That's a huge invasion of privacy. I wasn't trying to. If you ever record me without my permission, Chris, we're done. I mean it, our eyes met. I nodded and we moved on with the day. But inside, my world was crumbling. That night, after she fell asleep, I couldn't help myself. I slipped my phone under a pillow on her side of the bed and hit record. The next morning, while she was in the shower, I played back the audio file. At first, it was just static.

Then, around 2 a.m., her voice came through, clear as day. Nina was screaming too loud, Sharon murmured. Had to go quick. No room for mistakes, I froze. To be continued. Then, around 2 a.m., her voice appeared, clear as day. Nina was screaming too much, Sharon murmured. Quick, I had to go quickly.

There was no room for mistakes. I froze. Nina, I knew her too. A teenage girl with that name had disappeared five years ago, and her case was still open. No. It couldn't be. I thought, this isn't possible. I couldn't ignore it any longer.

I had to know if what she was saying was true. That afternoon, I drove to one of the places sharing. had described, a barn with a blue door. It wasn't far, about 20 minutes outside of town. I found it easily. The building was old and weathered, its faded door barely hanging on. Behind the barn was a small grove of trees. The ground beneath them looked disturbed, like someone had recently dug there. I told myself to leave, but I couldn't. I grabbed a nearby branch and began to scrape at the earth. I didn't have to dig far. The strong, unmistakable smell hit me first. Then I saw it, a torn piece of fabric, dirt-stained, clinging to

what I could only describe as remains. Sharon hadn't been dreaming. I couldn't stop. And every morning, while she showered or made coffee, I'd review what she said. It was always the same. She kept crying. So I had to do it fast. It wasn't clean, she said. She's in the quarry now. The water keeps her hidden. The names changed, but the pattern didn't. Each night, Sharon would whisper something chilling, something specific. Beneath the roots. No one ever checks beneath the roots. Every morning, I woke up more terrified than the last. The audio files podcast. The audio files up, each one a piece of a horrifying puzzle. I couldn't deny it anymore. They weren't dreams. They were confessions. You've been quiet lately, she said one morning, sliding a plate

of scrambled eggs across the table. I'm just tired, I muttered, avoiding her gaze. You're always tired these days, she said, tilting her head. Is something bothering you? I lied. No, she studied me for a moment, her gaze sharp and unwavering. Then she smiled. Okay, after that, I felt like she was watching me more closely, waiting for me to slip up. One night, she caught me. I thought she was asleep. I was sitting on the couch with my headphones plugged into my phone, listening to the latest recording. I said I'd take care of it, Sharon whispered in the recording. But he didn't listen. I had to clean up his mess. The sound of her voice made my skin crawl.

What are you doing, Chris? I jumped, ripping the headphones from my ears. Sharon was standing in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest. Nothing, I said quickly, locking my phone and shoving it in my pocket. Her eyes narrowed. You were listening to something. I, no, I stammered. Just scrolling through Instagram, she didn't move.

Her expression didn't change. she just stood there staring let me see your phone she said finally what i asked laughing nervously i said give me your phone chris why because i think you're lying to me i stood up trying to keep my voice calm Sharon, this is ridiculous, is it? She said, stepping closer. You've been acting strange for weeks. Avoiding me. Locking your phone. What are you hiding? Nothing, I replied. Why would you think I, then let me see it, she said, cutting me off? No, the word came out louder than I intended. Karen's voice turned cold, flat. You recorded me, didn't you? A wave of terror rush. through me. I don't know what you're talking about. She stepped forward again. You recorded me while I was sleeping. Admit it, Sharon, I, give me the phone, Chris. No, she lunged at me, her fingers

reaching for my pocket. I backed away, trying to push her off, but she didn't let go. Give it to me, she screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment. I broke free from her grip and ran to the door. I didn't stop running until I reached my car. My hands were shaking so badly it took me three tries to get the key into the ignition. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced back at the building. Sharon was standing at the window, watching me. I never went back for my things. Not even for my phone. The next day, I logged into my cloud account from a public library computer. The recordings were gone. Sharon must have found a way to delete them. I sat there staring at the empty folder. All the evidence, every piece of proof, was gone. I didn't go to the

police. I couldn't. What was I going to say? That my girlfriend confessed to dozens of murders in her sleep. That I found a body exactly where she said it would be. They'd laugh me out of the station, or worse, think I was involved. And without the recordings, I had nothing but my word. So I did the only thing I could think of, I ran. I drove straight to the nearest town, checked into a cheap motel, and spent the rest of the night staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do.

The next morning, I bought a new phone with cash. Nothing fancy, just a basic model that could make calls and access my cloud account. not that it mattered. The recordings were gone. Every file I had backed up had been wiped. She'd found a way to erase them. For weeks, I stayed in that motel, keeping a low profile and jumping at every sound outside my door. I knew Sharon was out there, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. I avoided social media, too afraid she'd use it to track me down. The only thing I kept up with was the news. Every morning, I'd scroll through local crime reports, praying not to see her name, or worse, news of another body. At first, there was nothing. No missing persons. No murders.

For a moment, I let myself believe maybe I had scared her enough to make her stop. Then the killing started again. At first, it was small things. A man found strangled in his home. A woman's body pulled from a lake, both in neighboring counties. The circumstances eerily matched the stories Sharon whispered in her sleep. I told myself it was just a coincidence. It had to be.

But then it got closer. A teenage girl disappeared from my hometown. Her bicycle was found abandoned by the roadside, just a mile from where I grew up. A week later, her body was found in a shallow grave beneath a grove of trees. I couldn't breathe when I saw the report. The location matched Karen's description exactly. Beneath the roots, that's the trick. No one checks beneath the roots.

It was her. It had to be. The breaking point came when the news reported another victim, my cousin Riley. Riley and I weren't close anymore, but we'd grown up together. She was the kind of person who lit up every room she walked into, always smiling, always laughing. When I saw her name on the news, it felt like the ground collapsed beneath me. The reporter said she was found near the same woods where the teenager had been discovered. They didn't give details, but I already knew what they weren't saying.

I knew it was Sharon. For days, I couldn't eat or sleep. All I could think about was Riley, how I could have stopped this. If I'd done something earlier, gone to the police, told someone, anyone, what Sharon had said. But I didn't. I ran like a coward. And now Riley's dead. The guilt is suffocating.

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but running from Sharon has to be the worst. I thought leaving would save me. I thought it would keep her from knowing what I knew. But the truth is, it didn't save Riley. It didn't save anyone. I can't keep this to myself anymore. I don't care if no one believes me, or if they think I'm crue. Even if it puts a target on my back, I have to tell someone.

I have to do something. For days, I've been here trying to find the right words. Words that might make someone believe me. Words that might stop her. But the truth is, I don't think it matters anymore. Riley is dead, and it's my fault. I can't stop seeing her face in the news. I can't stop hearing my mom's shaky voice on the phone telling me what happened.

telling me what happened. I could have done something. I could have stopped Sharon. But I didn't. My hands are shaking. My head hurts. My chest is tight. But I have to get this out. Someone needs to know. Her name is Sharon. She's smart. Beautiful. Perfect on the outside. And she's a killer. She confessed it all, Max, Nina, everyone. She described how she did it. Where she buried them. I thought they were just dreams at first. God, I wanted to believe they were just dreams.

But I found one. I dug where she said to dig, and there it was. I tried to run. Thought if I stayed quiet, she'd let me go. But the murders never stopped. I guess I want someone to know the truth before she finds me. Because she will. It's only a matter.

of time. There's a sound. I freeze, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. I hear glass breaking. Slow, steady footsteps coming from the kitchen. A wave of nausea hits me. I grabbed the gun from my nightstand, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. Oh God! She's here. I don't know if I'll make it out of this. If I disappear, you'll know why. If someone find signs this, please, don't let her get away with it. Sometimes, the people we think we know can hide parts of themselves we'd never imagine. This story teaches us that even if we feel a deep love and trust towards someone, it's always worth listening to our gut and paying attention to the signs. Human instinct is strong. And while ignoring it may seem easier, sometimes

it can protect us from situations we never want to face. What would you do if you were in the protagonist's shoes. The end. I, the haunting arrival, in the heart of a forgotten countryside, where fog clings to ancient oaks and the moon casts eerie glimmers on crumbling stone, lies Blackwood Manor, a place shrouded in mystery and whispered tragedies. For centuries, villagers spoke in hushed tones of the manor's cursed legacy, woven from loss, secrets, and the haunting echoes of the past. On a bitter autumn evening, young historian Eleanor Ashford arrived at Blackwood Manor, determined to unravel its enigmas. Known for her relentless curiosity and a keen eye for detail,

Eleanor had spent years studying local folklore and obscure manuscripts. Her latest quest led her to this isolated estate, rumored to be the epicenter of a series of unexplained disappearances and whispered curses. Two, entering the manor. The manor loomed before her like a relic of a bygone era. Its imposing silhouette, crowned with broken gargoyles and ivy-clad walls, exuded a sense of melancholy in foreboding. As Eleanor pushed open the heavy oak door,

a chill wind greeted her, as if the very soul of the mansion recognized her presence. Inside, the grand foyer was a labyrinth of shadow and light. Dust motes danced in the beams of her lantern, and portraits of long-departed ancestors lined the walls with eyes that seemed to follow her every step. In the heart of the manner, she discovered a forgotten library filled with brittle tomes and manuscripts. Three, the enigmatic journal. Among the dusty relics, one leather-bound journal caught her attention, a journal belonging to a mysterious figure known only as Lord Alistair Blackwood.

Eleanor began deciphering the cryptic entries, each page peeling back layers of tragedy. Lord Blackwood had once been a man of passion and ambition, but a series of heart-wrenching events had driven him to the brink of madness. The journal recounted his desperate attempts to resurrect a lost love, a woman whose life had been snuffed out by a cruel twist of fate. In his grief, he had dabbled in forbidden rituals, seeking solace in the promise of reunion, even if it meant summoning forces beyond mortal control. Four, whispers of a tragic past, as Eleanor delved deeper into the narrative, a pattern emerged.

The journal hinted at a fateful night when an ethereal presence was unleashed within the manor's walls. Residents of the estate, caught in the grip of despair and isolation, began to vanish without a trace. Ghostly apparitions and spectral figures soon became the talk of the nearby village, amplifying the manor's reputation as a nexus of supernatural sorrow. One entry detailed a particularly harrowing event. During a tempestuous storm, Lord Blackwood had hosted a grand masquerade ball in a desperate bid to ward off the encroaching darkness. Guests arrived in elegant costumes and mysterious masks, their laughter masking underlying tension.

Yet, as midnight approached, an unearthly wales silenced the revelers. In that moment of collective terror, the lights flickered, and a dense fog crept into the grand hall. When the storm subsided, several guests had vanished. leaving behind only echoes of despair and a lingering sense of doom. V. The emergence of the supernatural, compelled by the raw emotions embedded in the journal, Eleanor began to sense a presence watching her from the shadows. At first, it was a fleeting glimpse, a figure in a tattered gown drifting past a doorway,

or a soft murmur carried on the wind. But as the night deepened, these occurrences grew more frequent and intense. In the silent corridors of the manner, she could almost hear the anguished cries of lost souls. determined to uncover the truth, Eleanor followed a series of subtle clues left by Lord Blackwood. She discovered hidden passages and secret rooms, each revealing fragments of the manor's tragic history. Six, secrets in the hidden chamber. In one concealed chamber, Eleanor found a collection of faded letters and photographs chronicling

the forbidden love between Lord Blackwood and his muse, Isabella. Their correspondence overflowed with promises of eternal devotion, yet fate had other plans. Isabella's sudden and mysterious death had plunged Lord Blackwood into an abyss of guilt and sorrow, fueling his desperate experiments to cheat death itself. The relics of their love told a story of passion, loss, and the relentless pursuit of a reunion beyond mortal bounds. 7. The Mirror of Tormented Souls. In the quiet hours before dawn, Eleanor encountered the manor's most chilling secret. Behind a concealed door, she found a room dedicated to dark rituals. Its walls were adorned with archaic symbols, and added, its center stood an ornate mirror, its surface marred by time yet strangely captivating. As she approached, the mirror rippled with a life of its own, reflecting not her image

but a montage of tortured visages and spectral memories. In that moment, Eleanor felt an overwhelming surge of despair, a convergence of every lost soul, every shattered promise, and every whispered secret that had haunted Blackwood Manor for generations. Eight, a journey into the depths of history, realizing that the tragedy was not merely the result of a doomed romance or a singular act of madness, Eleanor understood it was the cumulative agony of lives intertwined by fate and misfortune. The spirits of those who once roamed the manner were bound to it, unable to find peace until their stories were told. Determined to give

voice to the forgotten, Eleanor vowed to document every detail of her journey. As the first rays of dawn filtered through the dusty windows, she sat at an ancient desk in the library and began to write, creating an account that would stand as a testament to love, loss, and the unyielding search for redemption. Nine, the dawn of Revelation, even as she penned her final thoughts, the manner whispered its last secret, a promise that its legacy would endure long after her departure. The echo of a long-lost lullaby, carried on the morning breeze, hinted at a future shrouded in both hope and sorrow. In that ethereal melody, Eleanor sensed the eternal cycle of tragedy and renewal, a reminder that every ending is but a prelude to a new beginning.

Her encounter with Blackwood Manor had granted her a profound insight, true horror lay not in spectral apparitions or cursed relics, but in the haunting realization that history is written by those brave enough to confront its darkest corners. X. Epilogue, The Enduring Legacy, Blackwood Manor had given Eleanor a gift, a glimpse into the depths of human vulnerability and resilience. Her account was destined to immortalize the whispered secrets and forgotten tragedies of the manner, ensuring that the lost souls might finally find solace in the light of remembrance. I, the haunting arrival, in the heart of a forgotten countryside, where fog clings to ancient

oaks and the moon casts eerie glimmers on crumbling stone, lies Blackwood Manor, a place shrouded in mystery and whispered tragedies. For centuries, villagers spoke in hushed tones of the manor's cursed legacy, woven from loss, secrets, and the haunting echoes of the past. On a bitter autumn evening, young historian Eleanor Ashford arrived at Blackwood Manor, determined to unravel its enigmas. Known for her relentless curiosity and a keen eye for detail, had spent years studying local folklore and obscure manuscripts. Her latest quest led her to this isolated estate, rumored to be the epicenter of a series of unexplained disappearances and whispered curses. Two, entering the manor. The manor loomed before her like a relic of a

bygone era. Its imposing silhouette, crowned with broken gargoyles and ivy-clad walls, exuded a sense of melancholy in foreboding. As Eleanor pushed open the heavy oak door, a chill wind greeted her, as if the very soul of the mansion recognized her presence. Inside, the grand foyer was a labyrinth of shadow and light. Dust motes danced in the beams of her lantern, and portraits of long-departed ancestors lined the walls with eyes that seemed to follow her every step. In the heart of the manner, she discovered a forgotten library filled with brittle tomes and manuscripts.

Three, the enigmatic journal. Among the dusty relics, one leather-bound journal caught her attention, a journal belonging to a mysterious figure known only as Lord Alistair Blackwood. Eleanor began deciphering the cryptic entries, each page peeling back layers of tragedy. Lord Blackwood had once been a man of passion and ambition, but a series of heart-wrenching events had driven him to the brink of madness. The journal recounted his desperate attempts to resurrect a lost love, a woman whose life had been snuffed out by a cruel twist of fate. In his grief, he had dabbled in forbidden rituals, seeking solace in the promise of reunion,

even if it meant summoning forces beyond mortal control. Four, whispers of a tragic past, as Eleanor delved deeper into the narrative, a pattern emerged. The journal hinted at a fateful night when an ethereal presence was unleashed within the manor's walls. Residents of the estate, caught in the grip of despair and isolation, began to vanish without a trace. Ghostly apparitions and spectral figures soon became the talk of the nearby village, amplifying the manor's reputation as a nexus of supernatural sorrow. One entry detailed a particularly harrowing event. During a tempestuous storm, Lord Blackwood had hosted a grand masquerade ball in a desperate bid

to ward off the encroaching darkness. Guests arrived in elegant costumes and mysterious masks, their laughter masking underlying tension. Yet, as midnight approached, an unearthly wales silenced the revelers. In that moment of collective terror, the lights flickered, and a dense fog crept into the grand hall. When the storm subsided, several guests had vanished. leaving behind only echoes of despair and a lingering sense of doom. V. the emergence of the supernatural, compelled by the raw emotions embedded in the journal,

Eleanor began to sense a presence watching her from the shadows. At first it was a fleeting glimpse, a figure in a tattered gown drifting past a doorway, or a soft murmur carried on the wind. But as the night deepened, these occurrences grew more frequent and intense. In the silent corridors of the manner, she could almost hear the anguished cries of lost souls. determined to uncover the truth, Eleanor followed a series of subtle clues left by Lord Blackwood. She discovered hidden passages and secret rooms, each revealing fragments of the manor's tragic history. Six, secrets in the hidden chamber. In one concealed chamber, Eleanor found a collection of fated

letters and photographs chronicling the forbidden love between Lord Blackwood and his muse, Isabella. Their correspondence overflowed with promises of eternal devotion, yet fate had other plans. Isabella's sudden and mysterious death had plunged Lord Blackwood into an abyss of guilt and sorrow, fueling his desperate experiments to cheat death itself. The relics of their love told a story of passion, loss, and the relentless pursuit of a reunion beyond mortal bounds. 7. The Mirror of Tormented Souls. In the quiet hours before dawn, Eleanor encountered the manor's most chilling secret. Behind a concealed door, she found a room dedicated to dark rituals. Its walls were adorned with archaic symbols, and at its center stood an ornate mirror,

its surface marred by time yet strangely captivating. As she approached, the mirror rippled with a life of its own, reflecting not her image but a montage of tortured visages and spectral memories. In that moment, Eleanor felt an overwhelming surge of despair, a convergence of every lost soul, every shattered promise, and every whispered secret that had haunted Blackwood Manor for generations. Eight, a journey into the depths of history, realizing that the tragic was not merely the result of a doomed romance or a singular act of madness, Eleanor understood

it was the cumulative agony of lives intertwined by fate and misfortune. The spirits of those who once roamed the manor were bound to it, unable to find peace until their stories were told. Determined to give voice to the forgotten, Eleanor vowed to document every detail of her journey. As the first rays of dawn filtered through the dusty windows, she sat at an ancient desk in the library and began to write, creating an account that would stand as a testament to love, loss, and the unyielding search for redemption. Nine, the dawn of Revelation, even as she penned her final thoughts, the manner whispered its last secret, a promise that its legacy would endure long after her departure.

The echo of a long-lost lullaby, carried on the morning breeze, hinted at a future shrouded in both hope and sorrow. In that ethereal melody, Eleanor sensed the eternal cycle of tragedy and renewal, a reminder that every ending is but a prelude to a new beginning. Her encounter with Blackwood Manor had granted her a profound insight, true horror lay not in spectral apparitions or cursed relics, but in the haunting realization that history is written by those brave enough to confront its darkest corners. X. Epilogue, The Enduring Legacy, Blackwood Manor had given Eleanor a gift, a glimpse into the depths of human vulnerability and resilience. Her account was destined to immortalize

the whispered secrets and forgotten tragedies of the Manor, ensuring that the lost souls might finally find solace in the light of remembrance. Whispers of the night, Jenna and Mark's love story began like a fairy tale. Endless days spent in laughter, deep conversations under the stars, and passionate embraces that made time stand still. They moved in together,

their little apartment filled with the promise of a future. But one fateful night, everything they had built began to crumble. It was a chilly October evening, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The couple was in the midst of a heated argument, Jenna was tired of Mark's persistent late nights at the bar, while Mark felt suffocated by Jenna's need for constant attention. Voices soared, hurtful words were exchanged, and in a fit of anger, Mark stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Left alone in the silence of the room, Jenna sat on the couch, tears streaming down her face.

The shadows danced across the walls, mocking her loneliness. Just as she began to gather herself, a soft knock echoed through the apartment. Go away, she shouted, her heart racing with fear and pain. But the voice that followed sent a chill down her spine, it was Mark's voice, pleading. Baby, let me in. I'm sorry. Can we work this out? Her heart ached at the sound, craving reconciliation.

Leave me alone, she cried. Please, just let me in, the voice persisted, filled with desperation. Against her better judgment, fueled by emotion, she rose and opened the door. What greeted her was not her beloved but a tall figure clad in dark clothing, a chilling mask obscuring his face, a glint of steel catching the dim light. Her breath hitched, but before she could scream, he lunged forward, plunging a knife into her abdomen. Each stab was swift, ruthless, and precise. The world around her faded into darkness as pain coursed through her body like fire. Jenna collapsed to the floor, the life

draining from her eyes. The masked man pulled away, leaving her gasping for breath, blood pooling around her. He crouched down beside her, his gloved hands tracing the outline of her stomach before placing a note on her body, scrawling with a sinister ease, you should have never left her alone. A few hours later, Mark returned home, hoping to apologize and mend the rift between them.

As he opened the door, a wave of unease washed over him. Then he saw it, Jenna's lifeless body, butchered into pieces on the floor. A scream tore from his throat, echoed by the darkness surrounding him. He ran out,

heart pounding, desperation fueling his need for help. As he dialed 911, he glanced toward the woods and caught a glimpse of movement, a figure stood among the trees, a bloodstained mask gleaming in the moonlight, waving at him. Terror filled his veins as he shouted for the police to come. The officers quickly descended on the area, weapons drawn, scanning for the threat. In the chaos, someone shouted, put the knife down. Mark's panic grew, he heard gun. Gunshots ripped through the air, followed by yells of the officers. Suddenly, the killer bolted into the shadows, leaving a chaos of bodies in his wake.

With his heart in his throat, Mark sprinted toward the safety of the woods, the haunting screams and sirens ringing in his ears. Within the trees, he grabbed a random passerby. We need to get out of here, he yelled, pulling the stranger into hiding behind an old oak. Gunshots rang behind them, then silent. Hope flickered briefly, they believed they were safe. The stranger wanted to investigate, inching closer to the chaos, whispering, let me see. But fear coursed through Mark.

No. Stay here, he begged. However, that plea fell on deaf ears as the stranger crept forward, only to be met with the killer, who had emerged from the darkness, knife in hand, piercing through the stranger's back. Mark's heart shattered. Screams filled the air, and he turned to run, but the killer's gaze was upon him, fueled by the thrill of the hunt. Then, Mark heard the distant cries of officers calling out, their words of warning barely

reaching him. As he dove deeper into the woods, he stumbled upon a scene of horror, bodies strewn across the ground, officers lifeless, their faces frozen in terror. Stricken with fear, Mark could barely process what he saw when the chilling sound of footsteps approached him. Running faster than ever, he knew he had to escape. Just when he thought he had lost the killer, the creature came at him with renewed vigor. Mark darted into a clearing, a police station in the distance, but it appeared abandoned. Clarity dawned as he raced inside, his breath hitching in his throat in horror. Every officer lay dead, their bodies mangled,

a note placed on the wall, you can't get away. We're just starting to have fun. A scream echoed from an adjacent room, fueled by a desperation that struck deep into Mark's soul, help me. Please. But he couldn't bear to confront another thing sleeping in those shadows. In a moment of wild panic, he dashed outside. On the road, he frantically waved down a car, hurling himself in front of it. It skidded to a halt, but kind stranger, terrified but willing to assist, yelled, get in. Driven by adrenaline, they sped through the night, but fate had other plans, a figure emerged

from the tree lean, there stood the killer, waving his severed hand as if to mock them. Drive! Drive! Mark screamed, the stranger flooring the gas pedal as they raced away. Hours passed before they finally found themselves in a remote town, their hearts racing with relief amidst the dawn. Exhausted, they made their way to the local police station, recaped. counting the horrific tail. But before they could feel safe, a call crackled through the radio.

Murders reported just ten miles away. As they arrived at the grim scene, their heart sank at the side of another body, dismembered, another note attached. If you give up those two boys, everything will go away. Nausea twisted in Mark's gut, hopelessness seeped into his bones. Yet, the police tried to calm them, assuring them they would be safe. But hours passed, and the killer seemingly taunted them at every turn. When police finally cornered him down, shots rang once again, and they thought it was over. Lifting the mask from the killer's face, relief rushed through the officers. But that relief turned to horror when the figure awoke, gasping for breath as he reached for a knife

hidden beneath his body. Chaos erupted. Everyone has to die. He screamed, striking outwards with a rushed fervor. The police attempted to subdue him, but he was a whirlwind of bloodlust, cutting down officers left and right. Mark watched, paralyzed in fear, as the killer approached him, a glint of madness in his eyes. Then, in a haunting response to liberty, the killer spun around, knife raised high, and with one arcing swipe, Mark felt the edge sliced through flesh.

Falling to the ground, blood pooling around him, Mark was left questioning what had happened to their normal life, a tragedy woven into nightmares, and within that darkness, he and Jenna, once inseparable, were now lost forever. And so the cycle of horror continued. There is a darkness blacker than anything seen by man. So violent, so cruel, so pernicious. Hiding beyond forsaken halls, in the depths of empty long-forgotten rooms, it rests its awful form. Occasionally, unleashing its deadly plagues upon this world in a torturous storm. One day, this darkness decided to latch itself onto me. For no apparent reason, I am just an average Joe.

I have a steady job with a decent income, a warm home, and a loving wife. My life is as mundane as it gets. Why this evil decided to target me evades my mind. Perhaps it is a result of my closeness and fondness of that wretched husk of a town. For years I have been traveling to and exploring the decrepit skeleton of what remains of this forgotten hellhole ignored by God and spat upon by his right-hand man, the cruel archangel Sammel. The silence of this ghastly, forgotten remand of human civilization helped me calm my turbulent mind. A ghost town named Rathsburg. Whenever the vortex of thought had gotten too much to handle, I would take a short trip to this personal treasure island of mine.

A place of complete solitude in the middle of the barren nothing. My very own Miklegaard. The great city I always wished to end up in to escape the noise, to escape the pain, to escape everything. For the longest time I could do just that, but then one day, I found out the secret to its silence. The reason this old town had been abandoned or rather emptied of its inhabitants. Something devoured them. A thing not of this world it would seem. A gelatinous shining, calling disgusting mass of of lights and plasma that sought to hypnotize its prey and then devour it. Integrating it into itself in an unholy union of soullessness and never-ending gluttony. I've barely managed to escape

the vile thing. Something inside my anxious mind managed to break free from its spell and allow me to run for my life. Countless others weren't seemingly as lucky. I haven't set foot near Raithsburg in a while now, not wanting to be devoured by that abominable star child. Clearly, I assume it's an alien life form. Not going to my Micklegard meant having to deal with the endless array of voices screaming and shouting inside my skull. Proverbial, of course, I don't hear actual voices. It's just flowery language.

As part of a way to deal with what was once a maddeningly restless mind, I took up writing. Poetry and short prose of whatever comes to mind. I never did anything with those. I just wrote them to get the thoughts out. of my system. Alina, though, would always manage to find diamonds in my verbal piles of rust and put them into various drawings and pictures, or even shirts she sells. My wife is a truly brilliant artist. I haven't written in a while, simply because my mind is no longer twisting and turning like two suns locked in a fatal gravitational dance. Now it's focused on a different

kind of anxiety. A constant state of fearing for your life after experiencing prolonged torture. I'm still constantly stressed and restless, but for an entirely different reason. I guess I should start from the beginning. About a year ago, I finally broke in at the urging of Alina, who knows me better than anyone else, drove again to Rathsburg. I just needed that fix of the ghastly calm of this dead paradise of mine. Dreading another encounter with the cat devouring monstrosity, I opted to drive around the town first. around the caves of the town, making sure there was nothing there. This time around, I went

during the daytime. That's the first time I noticed something really strange about the town. It's like it was on another plane of existence, separate from the rest of its environment. Birds flew around the town only up to a certain point. I must have been looking for some 40-odd minutes at birds fly up to a certain point in the sky before turning back, almost instinctively. They never flew above the town itself, never. I knew nothing lived in Rathsburg. That much wasn't new to me. It took me a while to notice that there was almost a sort of barrier around the skeletal remains of what must have been a living center before.

I locked my gaze onto the, Welcome to Rathsburg, sign before driving around the ten pathetic houses of the town, and then around the church. I encircled the house of prayer a few times. The memories of my previous visit here replayed themselves in my mind. The cross at the top of the roof seems to have been bent out of shape a little. Maybe someone dared venture into this gateway to hell while I wasn't brave enough. The ghastly silence of the place finally broke through to me. It felt like a chilly breeze softly caressing my entire being, making its way through my skin, down my musculature, and further down into my guts. gently wrapping itself around my heart and lungs, enabling me to breathe freely for the first time

in a long time. I became entranced by the beautiful calm and lost track of time. Simply sitting there and breathing deep breaths, a thick fog of majestic nothingness blanketed my mind. I simply sat there and thought of nothing. Just like that, purely nothing. Until sunset finally came and I found myself sitting in my car under the strangely colored sky of Rathsburg. That's when I headed home. When I got home and saw Alina, it's like I fell in love with her for the first time all over again. Not that our relationship has had any issues, it's just that clearing the system of all the stress must have done something to me. The silence must have fixed something inside this body of mine. I felt like an entirely new man. That

evening was beautiful, one of my best. The night that followed was terrible, however. A reoccurring nightmare tormented me again and again. I found myself walking in a purely white endless hall, accompanied by the sounds of a crying woman. I was following the noise. The longer I walked, the louder the crying got. After a while, I came across a kneeling woman. She must have been not much younger than me. I approached her as her wallowing became nearly unbearable, drowning out everything else to the point

of nearly blinding me with the sound of her crying. Touching her black dress, the crying stopped abruptly, she turned to me, revealing herself to be stained with blood. Her eyes were lifeless and cold like there was no soul behind those orbs of flesh. Two black holes sat in her sockets. They weren't entirely black or missing. They were normal brown eyes, but they seemed so devoid of emotion, of light, of humanity. It felt wrong. It felt even worse when her scowl turned into a smile. She started laughing like a maniac and then something pushed through her face. Her eyes just pocked and their contents coated my face.

I felt myself waking up, but the feeling of something sticky on my face definitely felt real. I ran my hand across my face, but it was dry. There was nothing there. Uncharacteristically for myself, I just rolled over and fell back asleep. Once out, I once again found myself in the same dream. Same crying, same white hall, same blinding noise, same woman. The abrupt end of crying turned to laughter, burst. Wake up, something over my face.

Nothing over my face. Fall asleep again, repeat. Each time, the dream lasted a little longer, providing a nauseating detail in terms of what happened to the woman. By the time I had a dream before actually waking up, I could see what was the fate of this woman in all of its disgusting detail. Yes, I was having a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream of a dream in a dream. She laughed, something burst through her, that something was a blood-stained tree. Tree branches simply tore through her body slowly, tearing her apart from the inside with a very sickening sound of tearing flesh and cracking bones.

She wouldn't die, though. Her laughter persisted as the fear ate away at my body. It wouldn't let me wake until I could see the bloody branches of the tree taking over the entire space. On each branch hung a faceless person impaled. They all screamed and laughed in sync, at a maddening volume. Their blood spilled all over me as they flailed carelessly against the branches that shot themselves through their bodies. It all felt so real, I could feel the warmth of the body. the blood sliding down my skin. Throughout the entire process, I felt myself getting physically

sick and fearful, to the point where my heartbeat became even louder than the demonic noises of the tree. I felt like my body was about to explode, and then I woke up. For a moment or two, I could barely see. Everything spun and a terrible feeling bounced against the walls of my skull. I felt like someone was watching me. Alina was still fast asleep, it was early in the morning, and I felt like absolute shit. Thankfully, the nightmare was over and didn't reoccur to me again. Everything was all right for a while until a few days later when I came home. Alina recited a poem to me, one she found on my work desk.

Once more reminded of the mind-numbing monotony, a monumental expression of nothingness in the face of cold reality, promises of substance and meaning wrapped inside a luminescent, cacophony containing the unadulterated void, a contempt for the, progression of the ravenous entropy, slowly creeping inside, the realization of absolute banality, false promises of meaning that do not exist are masquerade, as the perfection of sincerely brutal minimality, hang a self to the self, an honest form of sacrifice, hang a self for the sake of self, an elated offering, hang the self of myself, on the branches of the tree, of forbidden knowledge, to be reshaped, into obscurity and newly arise, I'm longing for the

feeling when emotions die, when the torment of being can only be molded into an agonized scream, following the loss of everything I once held dearest, accepting that existence is merely a hollow dream, defiance in order to hold on to the self-perpetuating lie, of luminescence existing inside the dying cosmos, amounts to nothing when faced with the senseless, apathy of the absurd, my skin almost began crawling as she recited that. As she finished, she kissed me and told me it was brilliant. I looked at her like I had seen a ghost. I hadn't written that, is all I could muster. Strange. It's definitely your handwriting, see, she said while showing me the note. It was indeed my handwriting. The whole situation got a lot stranger. Thought started swirling

all over again. I... I don't know, maybe I did and forgot about it. No idea, hon, I said, trying to make sense of the mysterious piece of paper that randomly appeared on my desk. I genuinely had no recollection of writing that one, nor does my wife write poetry. Not that I know of. Oh well, it's still lovely. Your memory issue is a bit concerning, but your head is all over the place, anyway. She almost sang to me. Ah yeah, I'm fine, I said, I lied.

At the time I didn't know I was lying, but that's how the madness stars usually. Something goes wrong, a tiny bit of the routine puzzle gets misplaced and the constant worrying about nothing returns. It's a vicious cycle and nothing seems to make it go away. Nothing but the death-like silence of that one place, my mecca. That's how it began that time, with the strange poem that had written itself. My wife found it, read it to me, and I was genuinely curious at first where did it come from? Curiosity soon became compulsive of thought, gaining more and more traction inside my mind until it became a big fish in a small pond. A mental megalodon eating away at my psychic mazes. It's not like I had any answers to the

question at hand. I had no fucking clue where the poem had come from. Now I do. I wrote it. Probably in my sleep at the behest of her. Anyhow, the worrying left me exhausted, restless, and vulnerable to more nocturnal terrors. The days following my wife reciting me the poem, I couldn't sleep. My inability to make my brain shut up and my experience of very vivid, very life-like snuff on repeat in my dreams were tearing me apart. My brain placed itself between a rock and a hard place. One night, I had a dream. I was inside a tiny black room with a single yellow lamp hanging from the ceiling. Before me, I saw four people tied up to crosses. In front of them stood a hooded figure with some sort of knife in hand.

I knew what was coming, but the sense of danger was all too real. Yet again, I could feel my body tense up, and my breathing grew shallow and quick. I knew I was safe, but it's like the dreams forced themselves upon me. Forcing me to watch an execution in public, unable to avert my gaze under the threat of a similar fate. The hooded figure made a crude cut in the abdomen of one figure who thrashed and struggled against their binds, screaming like a wild animal about to be slaughtered. The screams bounced right off my eardrums. I tried looking away, but my gaze reshifted itself onto the horrendous act before me.

The hooded figure then kneeled and bit at the wound of its poor victim. The bite forced the bound person to shriek and bellow in tones I didn't know was possible for a human. It then proceeded to suck out a reddish tub-like organ straight out of the poor soul's body. The action caused a disgusting slurping sound that forced my stomach to twist and turn in knots. The four people were screaming like madman at this point. The noise, it felt so unbearably real and close I just wanted this nightmare to end. It only got worse from there on.

The hooded figure stood up, the tub-like organ, these intestines still stick in its mouth, and repeated the exact same actions on the other three. making violent and crude cuts in their abdomens before sucking out a portion of their intestines while keeping a hold of the digestive systems of its previous victims between its jaws. That god-awful wet slurping sound drilled itself into my brain. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run, and I wanted this hell to burn out and fade away from my sight. The hooded figure turned to me and my heart sank, my stomach rolled around itself like a roller coaster,

and I felt knives pierce my skin. It was that same woman for my tree dream. Same face, four different intestines sticking out of her mouth like a bloody spider web. That's when I woke up and threw up right by my bed. I cleaned that quickly before my wife could wake up. God, that awful dream. It felt so real. The fact that this was the same fucking woman.

This, of course, sent me spiraling down further. The stress persisted, the restlessness grew fiercer, and the nightmares kept reoccurring. I don't want to go into detail about the things that have plagued my mind. It's too much to even reminisce about. At one point, I stopped trying to sleep. I just let my exhaustion do its thing. If I passed out, then I passed out. Obviously, Alina wasn't too happy about my condition or my lack of will to even talk about it.

Eventually, she broke me. out of my silence, and I told her about the crazy nightmares. I told her about the bitch reappearing in my dreams and tormenting me to the best of her ability. Alina surmised it must have been a coincidental first dream where my mind made up some figure and later my anxiety made her a reoccurring theme. I didn't have any better explanation for the mental haunting I was going through, thus I went with it.

We both knew there was no actual way out for me from this stress-ridden purgatory. It was only a matter of time until I'd fixated on something else, or just straight up become desensitized to the succubus in my dreams and just forget about her altogether. That said, the madness only grew worse and drove deeper into the pit. I ended up sick and taking time off from work because of how sleep deprived, borderline manic I had become. My body was too weak to do anything significant and even so, I was too jittery to stay asleep. I started seeing things like shadows crawling around the house whenever there were none.

A static noise was hammering itself into my ears, and I nearly snapped at home. Found myself one second before throwing a vase into the TV. I stopped myself then and stormed out to my car. I knew where I had to go. Then I drove like a maniac to the only place where I could find some semblance of solace. Rathsburg. I was a raging ball of pure agony and anger when I drove there, but the second I arrived in this place, it all went away. The moment I felt that cold eerie silence, it's like it washed all the pain, all the anguish, all the noise away. I was on cloud nine again. Everything seemed to turn so mellow and pleasant. The deafening absence of sound felt so welcome and warm. My entire body started feeling heavy.

My head became light and my vision turned blurry. I remember little from that point on. Everything kind of faded into the darkness. I passed out. The soothing silence of Rathsburg had pulled a fast one on me again. This time, it didn't end up with me waking up on the roof of the church. I woke up where I collapsed, sore but well rested. My awakening was rude and strange once again.

This hell of a town refuses. to let me have my peace. I woke up to the sound of frantic knocking and scratching underneath me. It started small and insignificant. Like a sound within a dream. At first, I ignored it, but it kept growing louder and more persistent, and then I realized I was actually slowly waking up. That day, there were no dreams. I was completely out, so this was clearly noticeable. When I finally woke up, I noticed how the sky was colored that same odd tint of bluish purple. The nightly shade made it seem as if the town was older and more dilapidated than it had actually been. The cross on the top of the church seems to have been bent even more. I was about to get up

to my feet when the clawing sound coming from beneath me worked its way into my ears. I thought it must have been my imagination and got up slowly, but the noise emanated from the ground again. Almost instinctually, I got curious again, pressing my ear against the ground. For a couple of seconds, there was nothing, merely silence, death-like silence. Then clawing sound, it got stronger, replaced by the sound of something pounding from beneath. Violent vibration on the ground. Then the clawing resumed. I shivered when I heard a quiet scream echoing underneath me.

Looking up and around, I was alone, very alone. Then I pressed my ear against the ground again and I heard that same screaming again. It became frantic, desperate. My hands started moving on their own, digging, clawing at the ground. My throat was screaming without a command for my brain. I was urging something, or someone, to hang on as my hands tossed and turned the dirt beneath me. I dug until my hands turned bloody, but I had finally. hit something solid. Something that wasn't a rock. I dug some more until I could see it. A hand

awkwardly twisted into a strange angle. The digits were twisted and broken in odd directions, similar to how my mind started spinning. I was trying to come up with an explanation for my morbid discovery, but none came up. The screened had become louder, almost deafening in contrast to the icy silence of the ghastly town. Something inside of me snapped, and I started digging around the semi-mummumified arm like a madman. The longer I dug, the louder the screaming became. Long minutes after my discovery, I saw a leg bent at an odd angle. Soon enough, I could make out words among the wild screams.

Whomever this had been, they were still alive. Somehow. I thought at that time that it might have been a recently buried person, as in the hours preceding my arrival in Rathsburg. After what felt like an hour of endless digging, I could finally see a face. To my horror, it too was in the wrong placement. Disgustingly wrong. I could make out the skin of the neck folding backward.

Something completely twisted the spinal column out of place. I looked at the molested soil below me, attempting my best to ignore the grotesque positioning of the head and the manic screaming coming out of the mouth of this semi-mummified man. I started attempting to reassure him that everything will be fine. I doubt he listened. Since he never stopped screaming like a wounded animal. If I'm being entirely honest, I didn't believe everything would be fine for him. I doubted he was going to survive much longer after I had found him.

His neck was broken and rotated backward. His back was staring at me. The longer I stared, the more it became apparent something broke his body and decimated it in a very deliberate and brutal fashion. Once I dug enough of this man out, I could no longer hide my disgust. My stomach twisted around itself and the stench of death laced with the smell of moist soil drove me past the point of no return. I turned away and vomited.

My mind was racing, my heart was beating like a demon drum in the halls of Leviathan, and my digestive system was attempting to escape through my mouth. The dying undead bastard wouldn't stop shrieking, and my patience ran out. I grabbed him by the head and yelled at him back. Something must have awoken in him as he shook his awkwardly folded body, attempting to escape my grasp. I screamed at him to shut the fuck up, and he went dead silent. For a moment, I was at peace again.

His body became still, his chest collided with the ground, and his eyes focused on mine. For a single moment, I thought I could calm him down. The next thing I know, he nearly pressed his back to my body and a sharp pain was emanating from my jaw. Teeth clasped themselves around my lower lip. The taste of pus definitely helped snap me out of my disbelief. I punched the revenant, and he collapsed to the ground. Spitting and cursing under my breath, I could hear him hollering his madness once more.

This time the sounds were fading as everything around me started spinning and my eyes became heavy. The darkness quickly enveloped me. When I came to, I wasn't in my body. My clothes were odd, and my hands didn't seem like mine. They were too old and too rough to be mine. I found myself standing, peeking through some sort of old wooden door. Beyond the door, there was a hall in which sat a ground of people enjoying a feast. For men and a woman. My heart sank when I realized who this woman was. She was the woman that haunted my dreams My body shook as I assumed that I must have been dreaming again

Viewing the world through the eyes of somebody else I tried pinching myself, but that yielded no results whatsoever As much as I hate to admit it, I already knew how this one was going to end The astral succubus wanted to make me suffer another bout of mental torture My thoughts didn't really matter at those moments though, because the body I was stuck and was focused on listening to the conversation inside the dining hall. His ear pressed carefully against the door as to not move it or make a noise. It's so nice to have dinner together again, don't you think so, kid, one man spoke,

his voice gruff and heavy. Indeed, it is, old man, the woman responded. Judging from what I could gauge, none of the men were particularly old. Maybe she was younger than she appeared, even though she seemed. like a fully grown adult. The other three men began laughing. Say, Elizabeth, why do you keep referring to Otho as an old man? The gruff-sounding man was probably named Otho. Because he's an old man, his beard is graying obviously, the woman remarked. He's also a giant, but we don't call him a giant, another one quipped. Well, he is a giant, but he's an old giant, love,

the woman retorted. Hey Fritz, Wad Chah made this meat out of, it's pretty good, the fourth voice questioned another one. The man who referred to the woman as Elizabeth then responded, from the pale man, oh. Ha! Who knew that thing would taste this good? Did Cha kill it this time? No. Elizabeth wants this freak alive for some reason.

Some odd fascination she has with this child breaker. That's why I keep chopping up. up parts of it, without killing it. This creature seems to regrow whatever I take from it as long as the head stays in place, anyway, our little girl is finally becoming a woman. Took interest in a thing that looks at her like a dog in heat. Just a shame it isn't even human fahaha. Otho jokingly remarked before causing the whole room to laugh. Hey, it would be a shame to kill such a destructive animal. It's pretty intelligent too. Oh, yeah, it turns the kids it hunts into toys. One man started laughing. This animal is even worse than us. We just kill them.

To turn them into toys and kids on top of everything, this entire conversation was making me sick to my bones. The body I was in was of a similar opinion as I felt myself shivering and my balance was fading. Oh, don't act like you're above harming anything, Heinrich. We've all seen what you did back home. Well, yeah, but I didn't turn any children or adults into objects. I just dismember them and maybe feed on their insights. I was having trouble breathing. This entire conversation, topped with a cannibalistic dinner setting, was becoming too much for me. I just wanted this nightmare to end. Anyway, does anyone have any idea what that thing is? Elizabeth, I can't say for sure, but it was human at one point, and it's much older than we are.

I didn't really get the chance to see what's inside its mind as it is filled with all sorts of violent and sexual memories or thoughts. I don't even know. It's definitely not in its right mind anymore. Whatever it may be, the woman spoke. Man-beast sex slave that won't die easily, here to fulfill every fantasy you might have. Otho blurted out, causing the whole room to explode into a burst of violent laughter. The man in whose body I was stuck in couldn't handle the situation anymore, and so he left the scene. His eyes closed and then I found myself in another scenery. It was daytime, people were leaving the church. The scenery seemed somewhat familiar, almost like Rathsburg but still different. We stood in the shade of one building

facing the church. The woman was walking out of the church and the man called out to her. His body started shaking violently as she approached him. I could feel his heartbeat rising and his hair standing across his body. He pulled something out from underneath his cloak and his grip on the cold object seemed very unsteady and weak. The woman was right in front of us when he wrapped his arms around her, stabbing her with an old knife. My mind was going hysteric from the scenery that unfolded in front of me. The man was losing his mind and kept repeatedly stabbing her in the abdomen. Each attempt seemed more and more frantic. He definitely hit a body. I felt the resistance of flesh. There was an impact, I heard it. It was all real. She never

registered a thing. Merely letting out a long, almost vocalized breath before smiling that God-awful smile she had haunted me with before. I was losing it. This had to end. I wanted out, knowing what was about to come. Fearful of the horrors she was about to unleash. I was screaming inside the man's head, bashing in his mental walls with my fists. My tantrum yielded no results, as they forced me to watch the terror unfolding before my eyes. One of her companions emerged from within the wall, taking the form of a living shadow about to strike down her assailant. A mere gesture of her hand stopped her companion. The shadowy figure bore his fangs as she wrapped her arms around our shared shoulders, telling my host she'll forgive him because

she's fond of holy men. Just this once. Then she walked off like nothing had happened and we collapsed to the floor, trembling in absolute terror. The man closed his eyes, and when he opened them once more. We were at a marketplace. The woman stood across from us and a large crowd of onlookers was standing all around us. A butcher stood right behind the woman who seemed mostly amused. The man whose body I invaded was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was accusing the woman of being a witch, a whore of the devil, and other medieval curses. Something in the air was changing, though. There was electricity building up.

I could feel it. Something awful was about to commence, and indeed it did. I stabbed her, was all the man managed to let out of his mouth before the butcher's blade went straight through her and into his side. The feeling of metal cutting through me felt so real. The realization of the man losing his footing accompanied it. We fell even further onto the knife. I was screaming in pure agony inside of his head.

It felt all too fucking real for a dream. The crowd suddenly became dead silent. I could see the jovial emotions in their eyes fading away, being replaced by murderous rage slowly, but evidently. The air became sultry with electricity. Everyone was dead silent, until one child broke the silence, slowly chanting. Neath the shadow of Mount Sinai, I watch as the killers sworn, at the feet of Milton's tomb, they bow before a ghastly form,

of a serpent born from a barren womb, while the heavens grievously cry, unholy ghost, born of a lie, condemned to death, reborn in fire, O black seraph, unlike my path, thou art eternal, undying, intoxicated, I stand by your stench of death. Soon enough, more and more children started chanting all over us. I could hear their voices growing louder, more menacing. They were dull and monotone, yet full of conviction, like a sermon. The air became stifling with each breath becoming more and more toxic to inhale. The woman's laughter rang in my ears as she grabbed the man before kissing him. I could feel her lips against mine.

They were real, too real. They were real lips, but they were cold, beyond cold. Like touching a dead body. The feeling of the lips of a woman who wasn't my wife felt wrong. I wanted to get away, but I couldn't. My body was hurting all over already. That was just the beginning, though. The woman grabbed the man's head, and with a quick motion, she snapped his neck.

A terrible pain exploded through my neck, assured of my impending death. I was screaming and thrashing and pleading and begging for the torment to end. I wanted to wake up. The road to hell was long for me. As we fell to the ground and everything seemed to go to shit, more pain came. So much pain, unimaginable amounts of pain. I just laid there and took every last raindrop from the storm of agony and torture they forced me to endure. The townsfolk descended upon us like a pack of hungry wolves tearing into us like a fresh kill.

Merciless and unrelenting. If hell is real, then this is it. Every uncharted part of my body was beaten, bruised, broken, molested, and punished. No piece of skin was left untouched, no bone was left unbroken. Not a single cell was left unharmed. They left no bodily crevice unassaulted. Everything was stabbed, poked, prodded, cut, and dug into in an orgy of violence and gore. The whole time, these demonic children kept chanting, almost mockingly.

Been bored in silence, my dear old succubus, defile the universe as you rape the sun. Beyond countless eons, come forth from the abyss. To bring the fall of all gods and man, archangels blow your trumpets to hail her return. Santa seed falls torn apart between black holes. Lord of the hosts mourns while the heaven ceaselessly burn. Thus, ends the calm before the unending storm, ahead of endless torment, forcing creation to deform. Here the cosmos scream the name of the ghost, signaling all hosts. is yet again lost, I couldn't do anything other than praying in pray I did. I prayed for the first

time in years, and God seems to have not heard me because he never answered. He never delivered me either. Instead, at some point, the pain stopped feeling so bad. In fact, I started feeling really pleasant, a warm, wet pleasant feeling building up on the inside. And the voice, a sweet, sweet voice, was singing to me. Reassuring me that my downward ascend into the ninth circle is almost complete. Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Before I knew it, I became enamored with the agony. Just as I felt at home in all the Hellspawn torment, I was drowning in, it disappeared. It was all gone. Completely gone, erased. I woke up again in Rathsburg. The revenant was still there, screaming and hollering like a tortured dog.

His ungodly screaming was drilling into my brain. The visions burned in my eyes, the execution of the heretic I had found, cursed into immortality spent as a broken pile of human mess for transgressing against her. Execution by decimation and premortal embalment. I felt like I knew who she was, what she was, but I couldn't get it out of my mouth. For some reason, I couldn't get the right words out. As I was struggling to form my thoughts, a hand grasped my shoulder. Looking behind me, I saw her unmatched beauty shining, and hell followed right behind her.

She cast a shadow so vast it turned the universe beautifully dark. At that moment, I could finally find the right words to describe her. Goddess! She smiled a gentle smile as she heard me utter that word. lovingly deep into my eyes, she asked if the heretic had hurt me. His awful screaming was driving me insane, and I couldn't even speak right, so I simply nodded. She hugged me tightly. I could feel her love filling me up. I felt as if I was about to ascend straight into heaven. Her death-like skin felt so warm and welcoming. Unlike anything, I've ever felt

before. This was the most alive I had ever felt. She relinquished her hold on me, reassuring me everything will be just fine. Urging me to look at the heretic, she pulled me towards her, resting my head on her lap. I watched as a dark vortex appeared on the ground behind the screaming revenant. Two hands blacker than the darkest of nights appeared out of the vortex and pulled one of his legs into it. The vortex closed right as gravity pulled his leg through it. A disgusting sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing echoed tour through the silence of Rathsburg. The heretic cried like a sheep in the slaughterhouse attempting to escape the jaws of death. I kept on looking at the specifically prolonged dismantlement of the semi-living

screaming carcass. My goddess caressed my head as we both watched vortex after vortex, appearing to chop away a part of the perpetually suffering hermit. He attempted to crawl away using his head and torso, to no avail. A vortex opened right under him, before closing right as skin passed through it into the realm below. The explosion of gore and guts tainting the soil of this ghost town was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. An eruption of crimson liquid took the shape of a giant rose beneath the infidel and his guts flew about like detached petals. After what seemed an eternity in heaven, his body was reduced to nothing but a mere head. A head that my ghastly goddess has offered to me as a sign of our union that took place

in the dead center of the town of the ghost. I have since introduced my wife to my goddess and while she was reluctant to accept her at first. It took a while, but she has finally come around. Her pleasureed screams of hellbound agony stemming from her initiation into our mystery are now serenading me from our bedroom as I write another hymn to our ghastly mistress. whose eerie form watches me compose melodies in her honor, approvingly from the darkest corner of my house. Let me walk into their cities, where saints' blood, has covered every last trace, of remnants of living creation, where the still living corpses, drift in crimson mud, of death they dream, their mouths are open, but the pain won't let them scream, take me back to that beautiful place,

Ian's past and yet you remain the same, cast your pernicious shadow over the sun, crucify the masses and feed them to the flame. My dear enemy, don't you spare no one, hell will follow, where you stand, burn the universe with your ghastly halo, driving creation mad, unhallowed ghost, let me walk into their cities, where saints' blood, has covered every last trace, of remnants of living creation, as God mourns, with agony stigmatized across his face, that which he has lost, blackened spirit, that which rose from a life's cremation, desolate, disembowel and decapitate, The serpent will mourn, that which you've killed, and he loved the most. My name is Sebastian, I am 39 years old.

I have been with my wife, Flora, for 16 years. 16 absolutely magical years. We met right after college, both first-year teachers at Eagle High School. I was in the math department and she was in the English department, total clichés I know. A bunch of us early career teachers used to go out almost every Friday night. Those were good times I wouldn't mind reliving. Both floor, that's what I call her, and I made great friends with some of our co-workers, including a best friend for each of us.

Lewis was the best man in our wedding, and Joanna was her maid of honor. We rigged it so that she would get the bouquet and him to guard her at our wedding reception, but they never did date. It was natural between us from the start, there was some serious chemistry. She was so attractive. I was smitten from the word go. She told me she was two, but I didn't know. I've always been a bit oblivious.

It took the entire first semester for me to finally get it together and ask her out. Her response, you had one more week than I was asking you out in front of everyone, almost two years to the day after that we got married on a beach in Puerto Rico. It was a small wedding, just family, and our best friends. We came back and had an amazing party with all of our teacher friends. Life seemed to move fast from there. Flora was pregnant just after our one-year anniversary. Then we had another two years later, and another two years after that, and then for good measure

one more two years after that. We were pretty good at this planning thing. Our kids have turned out great, each so different yet the same. It's weird saying that but it's true. Rachel is our oldest at 13, our only boy Wyatt is 11, Julia turns nine in two days, and Hannah is seven. They just all seem to excel at everything they do. Rachel and Wyatt are so athletic, Julia is creative, and Hannah is

is just the funniest sweetest little girl on the planet. Our family vacations, mostly camping trips, won't be the same anymore. Our sixteen years together have been just the best time of my life. She was always so involved and extroverted. I became more of a home buddy over time. She coached the cheer team forever. I still went out some with her, but she kept busy with school events, coaching, and the kids' activities.

I swear I married Superwoman. Though despite our differences we never let that spark die. We had date nights, an active bedroom, and never went to bed or woke up without kisses. My favorite thing was holding her hand. I can't believe this is all over. That we will never be Harbour Party of Six again. That's kind of why I am writing all this. I wanted to have a good moment, recall a few past memories.

Try to remember that I was happy. Two days ago Flora died. Brain aneurysm. was on the treadmill at the gym when suddenly she went down. That was it, she was gone, taken from us in a flash. The kids are being stronger than they ever should have to. Kids are so resilient. I'm doing my best to keep it together in front of them. Our parents are helping, but are grieving too. Everyone loved Flora. Lewis and Joanna have been over a lot checking on us. I just cannot believe this has happened. How do I go on? I know I have to for my children.

I just can't picture my life without her. I do not exaggerate when I say this is the worst pain imaginable. Hopefully it lessens with time. I'm crying myself to sleep each night because I try to keep the breakdowns and sadness to a minimum so as to not trigger my children. They really need me now and I have to be the strong one and support them. I just need to get through the funeral, then we can start rebuilding our life. Anyway, that's it, no need for advice. I just need to pour this out. Get it off my chest, tell someone how I'm feeling,

even if it's just strangers on the other side of the internet. Part 2. Sebastian 39M lost my wife, Flora, 39F, a few days ago, her funeral was yesterday and I did not attend. My family has been slamming me with calls ever since. I was going through my wife's things. looking for mementos and getting on her phone to get pictures. This was two days before the funeral. When I got into her purse I found something I didn't expect.

There was a second cell phone. It was Pascoat protected, but we had been together for 16 years, I could figure that out. This woman has been cheating on me since our first date. The most painful of it all is it appears her in Lewis, my best friend, have been having an affair for a number of years. I don't even know how long it has been going. I'm sure there is a lot I don't know at this point. She has had this phone for three and a half years. A lot of it was on Telegram, and some of those messages dated back to 2016.

I have screenshot, saved, downloaded, just dozens and dozens of messages, picks, videos, files, just everything. I can't believe what I saw. I am so betrayed, that's why I didn't attend the funeral. After I got into the phone, I couldn't handle much. I took my kids to my parents' house, and just told me. them I needed some alone time to think and process. They understood and were fine with that. I stayed up almost all night reading telegram messages. There wasn't just Lewis, she had active conversations with two other men as well, and archived conversations with seven others.

The thing is there could be any number of conversations that have been deleted over the years. When I no-showed getting ready for the funeral I started getting calls. I texted only my dad back and said, I am not going to hurt myself, so you do not have to work. but I am not coming today. The funeral came and went. I just couldn't do it. I could not stand there and say or hear how great of a woman she was. She wasn't, she was a liar and cheater. When I know showed I started getting a lot of phone calls. My dad even stopped by my house. I left the door locked, and played like I wasn't home. He didn't try to come in or anything and eventually left. It was a few hours after that I got a text from Lewis, hey bud, I didn't

see you at the funeral. Just checking on you, we can grab a beer and just chill if you need to let off some steam. I finally responded to a text, how about you go fuck yourself, you traitorous cunt? Don't ever contact me again. He did not message me back and I assume he knows the cat is out of the bag. I just don't know how I'm going to overcome this. You think you know someone, you think they love you, you think you've built a life. Then you find it was all bullshit, and you can't even take your anger out on them. Part 3. I decided to go full nuclear. Fuck her, fuck her reputation, fuck Lewis, fuck Joanna, fuck everybody. They all treated me like I was a joke. All these years lying to my face, betraying me in every way. At the time of my last posting I had only gone

through the telegram messages. That second phone of hers had email accounts dating back to before we were dating. It had texts between her and Joanna. It had Reddit accounts I didn't know about. This bitch has been facilitating her cheating since day one. I still remember the time Flora said she was going to lunch with Joanna only for Joanna to show up at the house to drop something off. Sneaky bitch can think on her feet because she totally sold me on her lies. Faking that she forgot they were meeting and needed to, hustle, over to the cafe. How could I be so fucking naive?

I figured out through all this that, Lewis and Flora began having sex days before I asked her out, and never stopped. They have been having an affair for 16 years, right under my nose. He has dated others, gotten married, and divorced in that time. We've hung out countless times. We're each other's best man. She has been with at least a dozen other men during that span, I'm sure more than that. Every fucking teaching conference she ever went to, it looks like she hooked up with someone or brought someone with her.

The videos are literally disgusting. She has picks, vids, sexting saved all over this device. She had a video, of some fucking asshole, finishing all over her engagement ring while she's wearing it. It's dated three days after I proposed. The most painful part, there are messages between her and Lewis, that imply he may be the father of Rachel. I took my kids to get DNA tests finally last week.

I wasn't going to, but the worry got to me. I have to know. I don't know what I will do if they are just side effects of her infidelity. They aren't happy with me anyway, neither is my family. They don't think I should have gone nuclear. What good does it do now, they said. Fuck that. Everyone should know what kind of woman she really was.

I'm not protecting her image, listening to people say how wonderful of a person she was. She wasn't, she was just a conniving whore. I posted everywhere. I put together hundreds of texts, message, picks, censored, voice recording, everything I could into one big file. I posted it on all of socials, and all of Flores. I tagged everyone I could. Lewis and Joanna for sure, even highlighted parts for everyone.

A few other co-workers and friends who fucked her as well. Didn't want anyone to feel left out. Family, friends, I even tagged the school page. That has me on, administrative leave, for the time being. It also appears there's quite an investigation going on now. are on the horizon as it looks like school grounds may have been used at times. I don't give a fuck what happens to that place. I'm leaving. I already made up my mind.

I'm not staying in Eagle. I'm going to go far, far from here. At least I got the bitch's life insurance money. Once I get the DNA results back, I'm out. Nobody gets it, nobody. I, Sebastian 40M, found out last year after she died that my wife Flora had been cheating on me for our entire relationship. She wasn't just having an affair with one other guy, she wasn't cheating because of all the problems in our marriage, there weren't any. She was cheating because she could. She was a cake eater. She roped me in, got me to fall for her. I was the good dad, the reliable, safe, supportive guy she could come home to every day. Over the years she worked me over to treating her like a queen. For that

I got to find out that she used every opportunity possible to fuck other guys. They got all the crazy stuff, stuff she never wanted to do with me. We had an active sex life, but it was all love-making. Even if I asked, she always said she preferred to feel, close to me, how someone can do all that she did, I will never understand. She is the most awful, disgusting, deceitful person I have ever met. I feel no remorse about showing the world exactly who she was. My only wish is that she was still alive to face it. Although I probably wouldn't even know still if she hadn't died. That's what hurts too. I don't get to confront her. I don't get to make her face her lies. Yes, I did blow up the lives of a lot of the people. Notably my ex-best friend Lewis.

But it just feels so unfinished. She has ruined so many lives. Three people were fired from the school. I don't even know how many divorces and separations are happening. I know two friends of mine are now in divorce proceedings. Just the ultimate selfish bitch. What she has done to me, Hannah, and her kids, though, is by far the worst. I got all the DNA tests back shortly after my last posting. Only Hannah is my child. Rachel and Julia have the same father, Lewis. I was also able to find the evidence that he did know this. It kind of explains why he always seemed so much more supportive and interested in them than Wyatt or Hannah. Thanks to ancestry testing kits, we also figured out that Wyatt is the son of an assistant principal that worked at our school

for two years before moving on to a different district. I made sure to post all the messages between him and Flora, along with the test results to his Facebook and his wife's Facebook. This is what has everyone up my ass at the moment. I honestly don't know what they all want from me. Rachel, Wyatt and Julia are not my kids, they are just these constant reminders that my wife was a deranged sociopath. I have moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico with Hannah. I did not bring the other three with me, I care about their well-being, and hold them at no fault, but I do not love them anymore. They should have been raised by their own fathers. My parents have decided to take them in. Because of this I have gone no contact with my family. I only

deal with them in regards to the legal matters at hand. I had immediately cut off my dead wife's side of the family the first time they brought up the concept of forgiveness. I will never forgive. Currently I am in the legal process of disowning Flores' three children. My parents did accept guardianship of them immediately, and I have been paying child support. However, since I have clear evidence of who the biological fathers are I have filed to end my child support of the three children. My lawyer thinks I have a very good chance of pulling this off. I am also searching for legal grounds in which to file suit against these two men in an effort to recoup some of the financial burden I have been under for the last 14 years.

Since moving to Santa Fe, I have changed careers. I am now working as a loan officer, which not surprisingly pays quite a bit better than being a teacher. I have a small one-bedroom apartment and the child support wipes out a lot of my funds every month. I am pushing to get my case resolved quickly so that I can begin to rebuild my life. Hannah has taken the transition hard. She is only eight years old and doesn't fully understand why we moved or why she can't see Flora's children. To her they are her brother and sisters, but I have been trying to explain. to her that they are not, and never were. They were simply by products of her mother's

lies. We are adjusting. I would like to put her into therapy, but that won't be possible until I clear up these legal matters. I am only 40 years old now. I can still find someone to grow old with, I can still have more children of my own. It may take some time, but I'm not giving up on my life. I have a lot of good times ahead of me. My name is Sebastian, 60M, I have been with my wonderful wife, Olga 57F, for the last 19 years. Technically we are not married, I refuse to ever get married again, but we do refer to each other as husband and wife. We have two sons together, Kurt, 18M, and Lee, 15M. For the most part the last 20 years of my life have been pretty good. I have a very committed and loving

relationship with Olga. We met when I was at my lowest. My first wife had died suddenly, and in the aftermath of her passing I learned that she was a pathological cheater. She had cheated with many people in my life, and three of her children were fathered by other men. However, she led me to believe that they were my children. As it turned out, only our youngest child Hannah was my biological child. Hannah lived with me until she was 18 years old and moved out when she went to college. She had some troubles during her adolescent years, which was to be expected after the damage that her mother caused her. She rebounded, though, and we have had a pretty solid relationship.

Most of the friction we did have centered around the feelings she had for her half-siblings, and grandparents. It took a long time to get her to understand. The last 10 to 12 years or so though have been good, and largely devoid of any mention of the past. When I met Olga, it was like everything turned around. I won a number of legal battles that allowed me to move on from my past. These two events have been the catalyst that has allowed me to live to the fullest for the last 20 years. My family and I have visited every continent, except Antarctica. We love to travel and experience the world.

My sons and I have a bond that I have always cherished. It began before they were even born. My wife, knowing the trauma of my past marriage, had them both paternity tested in utero just to ease my mind. There is no chance they are someone else's. Hannah has been a good big sister to them. This leads me to my biggest issue in many years. Hannah and I have built a good relationship, after the rough patch I mentioned above. When she graduated high school, she went to New Mexico Saint University in Los Cruces.

She did very well and graduated after four years. She found a job there and has lived in Las Cruces since then. She still came home during breaks in college and for the whole summer. Since graduating, I get to see her about four times a year. I make one trip down a year and she comes home on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Memorial weekend. I'm saying all this to show that we do have a great relationship, and were able to overcome all the chaos caused by her mother. The issue is, she apparently reconnected with her half-siblings about four years ago.

I had no idea. I also can't understand how she can do this, knowing how much distress this would cause me. As it turns out, she also reconnected with my father. He is the only grandparent she has that is still alive. From what I understand he is still doing fairly well for a man of 83 years. I could maybe get past this. Liva, don't ask, don't tell, situation between her and them. Yet, the other half of this is unacceptable.

Two and half years ago Hannah met her fiancé Tony. They don't work together, but the places they work at are next to each other. I like Tony a lot, he treats Hannah well and is an upstanding young man. Their wedding is set for one month from now. I have minimally contributed to her wedding. Tony's family comes from some wealth, not world-changing, but they are doing very well. With that being the case, and him being the one that really wants a large wedding, his family is huge, he has six siblings, and something like 25 first cousins, they are

largely footing the bill. As the father of the bride, I am obviously on task to walk her down the aisle, give a speech, and have a daddy-slash-daughter dance. Hannah, however, just informed me that she has invited Rachel, Wyatt, Julia, and my father to the wedding. I am 100% against this and have made this known to her. I do not want any contact with these people. That especially goes for my father who chose my cheating whore ex-wife's children over me. The other three I hold no ill-will towards, it was their mother's doing, but at the same time I have no desire to see them. It's just too painful. I think what is also causing me some level of uneasiness is that my son seemed to think I should put the past behind me. I will never forgive, I will

never forget. They think I should just be there for Hannah on this one day. My wife is largely supportive of me and has told me that I do not have to attend if I do not wish to. That I have made my feelings clear to Hannah, and that it is now in her hands to make a decision. She will not attend if I choose not to. This is dredging up all sorts of negative emotions I haven't had to deal with in a long time. I hate the idea of missing my daughter's wedding, but I cannot in good conscience be around those associated with the worst period of my life. I just think I need help in figuring out how best to get Hannah to see the error in this. How do I get her to understand once again?

Even after being dead for 20 years, that fucking cunt finds a way to fuck my life. About two weeks ago now my daughter Hannah had her wedding. In the weeks leading up I made it abundantly clear that I was not comfortable having her half siblings or my father attend. It all came to a head with a big argument between Hannah and I ten days before the wedding. She called me selfish and weak. I pushed back and she just opened this floodgate, telling me how awful I was for cutting her off from her entire life.

That she was eight years old and had just lost her mother when her father suddenly went on a personal mission to destroy every positive memory anyone had of her. That she justified all my actions, and tried to understand my point of view, but deep down always resented me for taking her away from her entire family, her home, everything. I couldn't believe this onslaught, after everything I had done to get her to understand. Her mother was a despicable human, anyone who would side with her was equally as disgusting. The only thing that saved Hannah was that she was also half me. Apparently that wasn't enough and now she was choosing others over me as well.

I told her I wouldn't be attending her wedding at all. Hannah hung up the phone at that point and we haven't spoken since. As painful as that was, the greater betrayal came at the hands of my own sons. They still attended the wedding. My wife and I stayed behind, but they said they were going to support. support their sister. They even took my place. Kurt walked Hannah down the aisle. Lee gave a speech. I know this because Kurt sent me the wedding video diary yesterday. I wasn't going to watch it, but curiosity got the best of me. He only sent it to me to twist the knife. I was

so angry after they spurred me and when I told them they were cut off. I told Kurt he was to move out. I couldn't get rid of Lee but told him he was dead to me now. He had the next 2.5 years to prep because the day he turned 18 he would be leaving two. That's when Olga, who had been supportive up until that moment intervened. She told me I wasn't kicking them out, and that I would be leaving before her son's wood. We got into a huge argument and I left the house. I have been staying in a rental unit I own for the past 10 days. Today, I received a buyout offer on our home. Olga is leaving me, she says she has been understanding of my pain for 20 years. That she always believed I was a good man who had something terrible done to me. She said she knows she was

wrong. Yes, what happened to me was terrible, but I am not a good man. That seeing it firsthand, how easily I can throw people away, has forever changed her opinion of me. Well, fuck her. They just don't get it. They will never get it. None of them. That fucking whore didn't just cheat. She humiliated me, she fucked my friends, my co-workers, she tricked me into raising her bastard children. There is nothing worse than that. Everything about her is vile, everything that came from her, everyone she tainted. I'll accept that buyout, I'll sell my two rentals. I'll start over again. I'm moving on, I've been able to retire for a few years now and that's just what I will do, then I'm heading for somewhere far from all these traitors. I can't believe

she is still doing this to me. She's dead, I destroyed her name, cut off everyone who defended her, dumped her ashes, moved far from our tainted home. And yet here I am, all alone, with everyone turning their backs on me. Flora, you sick bitch, I guess you got the last laugh after all. Part 1. My name is Sebastian, I am 39 years old. I have been with my wife, Flora, for 16 years. 16 absolutely magical years. We met right after college, both first-year teachers at Eagle High School.

I was in the math department and she was in the English department, total cliches I know. A bunch of us early career teachers used to go out almost every Friday night. Those were good times I wouldn't mind reliving. Both floor, that's what I call her, and I made great friends with some of our coworkers, including a best friend for each of us. Lewis was the best man in our wedding, and Joanna was her maid of honor. We rigged it so that she would get the bouquet and him the garter at our wedding reception, but they never did date. It was natural between us from the start, there was some serious chemistry. She was so attractive. I was smitten from the word go. She told me she was two, but I didn't know it. I've always been a bit

oblivious. It took the entire first semester for me to finally get it together and ask her out. Her response, you had one more week than I was asking you out in front of everyone, almost two years to the day after that we got married on a beach in Puerto Rico. It was a small wedding, just family, and our best friends. We came back and had an amazing party with all of our teacher friends. Life seemed to move fast from there. Floor was pregnant just after our one-year anniversary. Then we had another two years later, and another two years after that, and then, for good measure, one more two years after that. We were pretty good at this planning thing. Our kids have turned out great, each so different yet the same. It's weird

saying that, but it's true. Rachel is our oldest at 13, our only boy Wyatt is 11, Julia turns nine in two days, and Hannah is seven. They just all seem to excel at everything they do. Rachel and Wyatt are so athletic, Julia is creative, and Hannah is just the funniest sweetest little girl on the planet. Our family vacations, mostly camping trips, won't be the same anymore. Our 16 years together have been just the best time of my life. She was always so involved and extroverted.

I became more of a homebody over time. She coached the cheer team forever. I still went out some with her, but she kept busy with school events, coaching, and the kids' activities. I swear I married Superwoman. Though despite our differences, we never let that spark die. We had date nights, an active bedroom, and never went to bed or woke up without kisses. My favorite thing was holding her hand. I can't believe this is all over.

That we will never be Harbour Party of Six again. That's kind of why I am writing all this. I wanted to have a good moment, recall a few past memories. Try to remember that I was happy. Two days ago Flora died. Brain aneurysm. Just was on the treadmill at the gym when suddenly she went down. That was it, she was gone, taken from us in a flash.

The kids are being stronger than they ever should have to. Kids are so resilient. I'm doing my best to keep it together in front of them. Our parents are helping, but are grieving too. Everyone loved Flora. Lewis and Joanna have been over a lot checking on us. I just cannot believe this has happened. How do I go on?

I know I have to for my children. I just can't picture my life without her. I do not exaggerate when I say this is the worst pain imaginable. Hopefully it lessens with time. I'm crying myself to sleep each night because I try to keep the breakdowns and sadness to a minimum so as to not trigger my children. They really need me now and I have to be the story. strong one and support them. I just need to get through the funeral, then we can start

rebuilding our life. Anyway, that's it, no need for advice. I just need to pour this out. Get it off my chest, tell someone how I'm feeling, even if it's just strangers on the other side of the internet. Part 2. Sebastian 39M lost my wife, Flora 39F, a few days ago, her funeral was yesterday and I did not attend. My family has been slamming me with calls ever since. I was going through my wife's things, looking for mementos, and getting on her phone to get pictures. This was two days before the funeral. When I got into her purse I found something I didn't expect. There was a second cell phone. It was pascode protected, but we had been together for 16 years, I could figure that out. This woman has been cheating on me since our

first date. The most painful of it all is it appears her in Lewis, my best friend, have been having an affair for a number of years. I don't even know how long it has been going. I'm sure there is a lot I don't know at this point. She has had this phone for three and a half years. A lot of it was on Telegram, and some of those messages dated back to 2016. I have screenshot, saved, downloaded, just dozens and dozens of messages, picks, videos, files, just everything. I can't believe what I saw. I am so betrayed, that's why I didn't attend the funeral. After I got into phone I couldn't handle much. I took my kids to my parents' house, and just told them I needed some alone time to think and process. They understood and were fine with that.

I stayed up almost all night reading telegram messages. There wasn't just Lewis, she had active conversations with two other men as well, and archived conversations with seven others. The thing is there could be any number of conversations that have been deleted over the years. When I know showed getting ready for the funeral I started getting calls. I texted only my dad back and said, I am fine, I am not going to hurt myself, so you do not have to worry, but I am not coming today. The funeral came and went. I just couldn't do it. I could not stand there and say or hear how great of a woman she was. She wasn't, she was a liar and cheater. When I know showed I started getting a lot of phone calls. My dad even stopped by my

house. I left the door locked, and played like I wasn't home. He didn't try to come in or anything and eventually left. It was a few hours after that I got a text from Lewis, Hey, bud, I didn't see you at the funeral. Just checking on you, we can grab a beer and just chill if you need to let off some steam. I finally responded to a text, how about you go fuck yourself, you traitorous cunt. Don't ever contact me again.

He did not message me back and I assume he knows the cat is out of the bag. I just don't know how I'm going to overcome this. You think you know someone, you think they love you, you think you've built a life. Then you find it was all bullshit, and you can't even take your anger out on them. Part 3. I decided to go full nuclear. Fuck her, fuck her reputation, fuck Lewis, fuck Joanna, fuck everybody. They all treated me like I was a joke. All these years lying to my face, betraying me in every way.

At the time of my last posting I had only gone through the telegram messages. That second phone of hers had email accounts dating back to before we were dating. It had texts between her and Joanna. It had Reddit accounts I didn't know about. This bitch has been facilitating her cheating since day one. I still remember the time Flora said she was going to lunch with Joanna only for Joanna to show up at the house to drop something off. Sneaky bitch can think on her feet because she totally sold me on her lies.

Faking that she forgot they were meeting and needed to hustle over to the cafe. How could I be so fucking naive? I figured out through all this that, Lewis and Flora began having sex days before I asked her out and never stop. They have been having an affair for 16 years, right under my nose. He has dated others, gotten married, and divorced in that time. We've hung out countless times. We're each other's best man. She has been with at least a dozen other men during that span, I'm sure more than that.

Every fucking teaching conference she ever went to, it looks like she hooked up with someone or brought someone with her. The videos are literally disgusting. She has picks, vids, sexting saved all over this device. She had a video, of some fucking asshole, finishing all over her engagement ring while she's wearing it. It's dated three days after I proposed. The most painful part, there are messages between her and Lewis, that imply he may be the

father of Rachel. I took my kids to get DNA tests finally last week. I wasn't going to, but the worry got to me. I have to know. I don't know what I will do if they are just side effects of her infidelity. They aren't happy with me anyway, neither is my family. They don't think I should have gone nuclear. What good does it do now, they said.

Fuck that. Everyone should know what kind of woman she really was. I'm not protecting her image, listening to people say how wonderful of a person she was. She wasn't, she was just a conniving whore. I posted everywhere. I put together hundreds of texts, message, picks, censored, voice recording, everything I could into one big file. I posted it on all of socials, and all of Flores.

I tagged everyone I could. Lewis and Joanna for sure, even highlighted parts for everyone. A few other co-workers and friends who fucked her as well. Didn't want anyone to feel left out. Family, friends, I even tagged the school page. That has me on, administrative leave, for the time being. It also appears there's quite an investigation going on now. are on the horizon as it looks like school grounds may have been used at times.

I don't give a fuck what happens to that place. I'm leaving. I already made up my mind. I'm not staying in Eagle. I'm going to go far, far from here. At least I got the bitch's life insurance money. Once I get the DNA results back, I'm out. Part 4. Nobody gets it, nobody.

I, Sebastian 40M, found out last year after she died that my wife Flora had been cheating on me for our entire relationship. She wasn't just having an affair with one other guy, she wasn't cheating because of all the problems in our marriage, there weren't any. She was cheating because she could. She was a cake eater. She roped me in, got me to fall for her.

I was the good dad, the reliable safe, supportive guy she could come home to every day. Over the years she worked me over to treating her like a queen. For that I got to find out that she used every opportunity possible to fuck other guys. They got all the crazy stuff, stuff she never wanted to do with me. We had an active sex life, but it was all love-making. Even if I asked, she always said she preferred to feel, close to me, how someone can do all that she did, I will never understand. She is the most awful, disgusting, deceitful person I have ever met.

I feel no remorse about showing the world exactly who she was. My only wish is that she was still alive to face it. Although I probably wouldn't even know still if she hadn't died. That's what hurts too. I don't get to confront her. I don't get to make her face her lies. Yes, I did blow up the lives of a lot of the people. Notably my ex-best friend Louis.

But it just feels so unfinished. She has ruined so many lives. Three people were fired from the school. I don't even know how many divorces and separations are happening. I know two friends of mine are now in divorce proceedings. Just the ultimate selfish bitch. What she has done to me, Hannah, and her kids, though, is by far the worst. I got all the DNA tests back shortly after my last posting.

Only Hannah is my child. Rachel and Julia have the same father, Lewis. I was also able to find the evidence that he did know this. It kind of explains why he always seemed so much more supportive and interested in them than Wyatt or Hannah. Thanks to ancestry testing kits, we also figured out that Wyatt is the son of an assistant principal that worked at our school for two years before moving on to a different district. I made sure to post all the messages between him and Flora, along with the test results to his

Facebook and his wife's Facebook. This is what has everyone up my ass at the moment. I honestly don't know what they all want from me. Rachel, Wyatt, and Julia are not my kids, they are just these constant reminders that my dead wife was a deranged sociopath. I have moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico with Hannah. I did not bring the other three with me, I care about their well-being, and hold them at no fault, but I do not love them anymore. They should have been raised by their own fathers. My parents have decided to take them in. Because of this I have gone no contact with my family. I only deal with them in regards to the legal matters at hand.

I had immediately cut off my dead wife's side of the family the first time they brought up the concept of forgiveness. I will never forgive. Currently I am in the legal process of disowning floor as three children. My parents did accept guardianship of them and immediately and I have been paying child support. However, since I have clear evidence of who the biological fathers are I have filed to end my child support of the three children. My lawyer thinks I have a very good chance of pulling this off. I am also searching for legal grounds in which to file suit against these two men in an effort to recoup some of the financial burden I have been under for the last 14 years. Since moving to Santa Fe, I have changed careers. I am now working as a loan

officer, which not surprisingly pays quite a bit better than being a teacher. I have a small one-bedroom apartment and the child support wipes out a lot of my funds every month. I am pushing to get my case resolved quickly so that I can begin to rebuild my life. Hannah has taken the transition hard. She is only eight years old and doesn't fully understand why we moved or why she can't see Flora's children. To her they are her brother and sisters, but I have been trying to explain to her that they are not, and never were. They were simply by products of her mother's lies. We are adjusting. I would like to put her into therapy, but that won't be possible until I clear up these legal matters. I am only 40 years old now. I can still find someone

to grow old with, I can still have more children of my own. It may take some time, but I'm not giving up on my life. I have a lot of good times ahead of me. Part 5. My name is Sebastian, 60M, I have been with my wonderful wife, Olga 57F, for the last 19 years. technically we are not married, I refuse to ever get married again, but we do refer to each other as husband and wife. We have two sons together, Kurt, 18M, and Lee, 15M. For the most part the last 20 years of my life have been pretty good. I have a very committed and loving relationship with Olga. We met when I was at my lowest. My first wife had died suddenly, and in the aftermath of her passing I learned that she was a pathological cheater. She had cheated with many people in my life,

three of her children were fathered by other men. However, she led me to believe that they were my children. As it turned out, only our youngest child Hannah was my biological child. Hannah lived with me until she was 18 years old and moved out when she went to college. She had some troubles during her adolescent years, which was to be expected after the damage that her mother caused her. She rebounded, though, and we have had a pretty solid relationship. Most of the friction we did have centered around the feelings she had for her half-siblings, and grandparents. It took a long time to get her to understand. The last 10 to 12 years or so though have been good, and largely devoid of any mention of the past. When I met Olga, it was like

everything turned around. I won a number of legal battles that allowed me to move on from my past. These two events have been the catalyst that has allowed me to live to the fullest for the last 20 years. My family and I have visited every continent, except Antarctica. We love to travel and experienced the world. My sons and I have a bond that I have always cherished. It began before they were even born. My wife, knowing the trauma of my past marriage, had them both paternity tested in utero just to ease my mind. There is no chance they are someone else's. Hannah has been a good big sister to them. This leads me to my biggest issue in many years. Hannah and I have built a good relationship, after the rough patch I mentioned above. When she graduated

at high school she went to New Mexico St. University in Los Cruces. She did very well and graduated after four years. She found a job there and has lived in Las Cruces since then. She still came home during breaks in college and for the whole summer. Since graduating, I get to see her about four times a year. I make one trip down a year and she comes home on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Memorial weekend. I'm saying all this to show that we do have a great relationship, and were able to overcome all the chaos caused by her mother. The issue is, she apparently reconnected with her half-siblings about four years ago. I had no idea. I also can't understand how she can do this, knowing how much distress this would cause me. As it turns out, she also reconnected with my father. He is the

only grandparent she has that is still alive. From what I understand he is still doing fairly well for a man of 83 years. I could maybe get past this. Liva, don't ask, don't tell, situation between her and them. Yet, the other half of this is unacceptable. Two and half years ago Hannah met her fiancé Tony. They don't work together, but the places they work at are next to each other. I like Tony a lot, he treats Hannah well and is an upstanding young man. Their wedding is set for one month from now. I have minimally contributed to her wedding. Tony's family comes from some wealth, not world-changing, but they are doing very well. With that being the case, and him being the one that really wants a large wedding, his family is huge, he has six siblings, and something

like 25 first cousins, they are largely footing the bill. As the father of the bride, I am obviously on task to walk her down the aisle, give a speech, and have a daddy-slash-daughter dance. Hannah, however, just informed me that she has invited Rachel, Wyatt, Julia, and my father to the wedding. I am 100% against this and have made this known to her. I do not want any contact with these people. That especially goes for my father who chose my cheating whore ex-wife's children over me. The other three I hold no ill will towards, it was their mother's doing, but at the same time I have no desire to see them. It's just too painful. I think what is also causing me some level of uneasiness is that my son seemed to think I should put the past

behind me. I will never forgive, I will never forget. They think I should just be there for Hannah on this one day. My wife is largely supportive of me and has told me that I do not have to attend if I do not wish to. That I have made my feelings clear to Hannah, and that it is now in her hands to make a decision. She will not attend if I choose not to. This is dredging up all sorts of negative emotions I haven't had to deal with in a long time. I hate the idea of missing my daughter's wedding, but I cannot in good conscience be around those associated with the worst period of my life.

I just think I need help in figuring out how best to get Hannah to see the error in this. How do I get her to understand once again? Part 6, even after being dead for 20 years, that fucking cunt finds a way to fuck my life. About two weeks ago now my daughter Hannah had her wedding. In the weeks leading up I made it abundantly clear that I was not comfortable having her half siblings or my father attend. It all came to a head with a big argument between Hannah and I ten days before the wedding. She called me selfish and weak.

I pushed back and she just opened this floodgate. me how awful I was for cutting her off from her entire life. That she was eight years old and had just lost her mother when her father suddenly went on a personal mission to destroy every positive memory anyone had of her. That she justified all my actions, and tried to understand my point of view, but deep down always resented me for taking her away from her entire family, her home, everything. I couldn't believe this onslaught, after everything I had done to get her to understand. Her mother was a despicable human, anyone who would side with her was equally as disgusting.

The only thing that saved Hannah was that she was also half me. Apparently that wasn't enough and now she was choosing others over me as well. I told her I wouldn't be attending her wedding at all. Hannah hung up the phone at that point and we haven't spoken since. As painful as that was, the greater betrayal came at the hands of my own sons. They still attended the wedding. My wife and I stayed behind, but they said they were going to support their sister. They even took my place.

Kurt walked Hannah down the aisle. Lee gave a speech. I know this because Kurt sent me the wedding video diary yesterday. I wasn't going to watch it, but curiosity got the best of me. He only sent it to me to twist the knife. I was so angry after they spurred me and when I told them they were cut off. I told Kurt he was to move out. I couldn't get rid of Lee but told him he was dead to me now.

He had the next 2.5 years to prep because the day he turned 18 he would be leaving too. That's when Olga, who had been supportive up until that, moment intervened. She told me I wasn't kicking them out, and that I would be leaving before her son's wood. We got into a huge argument and I left the house. I have been staying in a rental unit I own for the past ten days. Today, I received a buyout offer on our home. Olga is leaving me, she says she has been understanding of my pain for twenty years. That she always believed I was a good man who had something terrible done to me. She said she knows she was wrong, yes what happened to me was terrible, but I am not a good

good man. That seeing it firsthand, how easily I can throw people away, has forever changed her opinion of me. Well, fuck her. They just don't get it. They will never get it. None of them. That fucking whore didn't just cheat. She humiliated me, she fucked my friends, my co-workers, she tricked me into raising her bastard children. There is nothing worse than that. Everything about her is vile, everything that came from her, everyone she tainted. I'll accept that buyout, I'll sell my two rentals. I'll start over again. I'm moving on. I've been able to retire for a few years now and that's just what I will do, then I'm heading for somewhere far from all these traitors. I can't believe she is still doing this to me. She's dead, I destroyed her name,

cut off everyone who defended her, dumped her ashes, moved far from our tainted home. And yet here I am, all alone, with everyone turning their backs on me. Flora, you sick bitch, I guess you got the last laugh after all. Christa planned to return home had to pick up finish eating go, the practices but something happened that prevented. May the girl go back to, home, we start. On November 11, 2008, Krista, he got up early from his cat and, he went to class took notes spoke with, classmates with teachers, and then full took the bus and returned to house once there he played with his cat and, he put study he took books placed them, in his room in the dining room in the kitchen, and more or less at five in the afternoon, he remembered that he had not eaten so it was.

To the kitchen he opened the fridge. First he found and warmed him in the, stove at 5.30 called the bell of, your house and on the other side of the door, was his friend Ricky Gelbauer according to, this Christa man was so happy, as always was cheerful animated with, strength and told him a couple of problems, that he had at that time he told him that, a week before he broke with her boyfriend and that he made his bags and went with. His parents the rent had uploaded A, little and she couldn't pay that yet. So I was very happy with if a brat, of waitress and intended to sell her car. In very short, another would have more money. Work and to move would use the bus. A rick was done by a world but

Krista was very happy gossip. They commented on some things and then, they hugged and said goodbye at 6.30. Kressa had practices in the greenhouse, of Hunter Park but unfortunately not. His father appeared an hour later. He called her but immediately jumped the mailbox tried to contact her during. The next four days sent him. messages called her but lived so far and, I had so much work that I couldn't see it. Thus he contacted to his friends for, to call the bell and see what. The girls go through the door. They contact the home maid and the three. Together they enter the apartment is there. When they meet a house, frozen in time lights on, books in the room in the dining room in the, cook a plate of food that has not been, tested and a very nervous cat and very, sad immediately denounces the

Disappearance of Crowleys but the days and years and never again. No one knows about her again. Music. Christ Robin L. Z. was born on May 2nd, 1974 in Michigan of Parents Just. We have information but what ho. We know that the girl was always. An exceptional person was responsible, organized very smiling and above all very, confident has an incredible capacity to make friends and everyone. I wanted madness from good little. Love the plants and always dreamed of. Have your your own greenhouse had, many plants, many flowers, many, vines and came to consider, study about them Krista studied in, St. Clair High School and after, graduated signed up for botany in, Sinclair County Community College after. This studied horticulture at University, Michigan State and not happy with, that intended to run for a program, postgraduate at University of Cornell. As I said before this girl, characterized by being very organized and very responsible in the morning, studied and in the afternoon I worked in, stores and restaurants in any sight they had for her. He studied work saved him, time to everything and with the

passage of time. This girl managed to become independent from, Maid went rent at number 1100, from Eureka Street at Lansing, Michigan. Once installed he adopted a cat that was, I was going to become his best friend Mote and, according to some blogs more than a cat for, She was a child and always said, that man would like to be with her. I had to accept that cat was his, number one priority at the beginning of 2008. When Christ was 34 he met A, type seven years older than her called, Bradley Cornoa and quickly fell in love. From him this man whom everyone called, Brad had completely crazy Krista. For his bones he treated her very well, bought flowers but the family. Of the girl did not accept it they saw that there. Subject was not clean wheat hid something. That has a dark, hour and also, they were convinced that among them, they did not fit Krista had studies, superiors was responsible had, ambitions dreams, but Brat only, had basic studies this sounds very, very classist bad, but according to the family. Kista Brat had no ambitions, no, I had aspirations I didn't want to do anything. With his life he has a work day, complete but apart from

that it does not have, interest for nothing to work for going to, house to return to work there was nothing. More there in Christ on the contrary had. Great Dreams Botanical Study. Horticulture wanted to continue forming. Tenna a greenhouse however nobody, he was able to get Brat out of his head, and every D.E that passed were more and more. United soon after the. Christa de Cristo rose to the rent end. Brad asked him to live together he had a, work of more hours and earned more money, with which with two salaries the thing would go. Much better so the girl ended, accepting the boy makes his bags, mute with her and the first weeks. Everything was luxurious perfect coexistence. Passion unleashed but with the passage of. Days things were twisting.

Krista began to see that Brat was not, clean wheat and that his family had. Reason knew that Brat was hiding him, something but I didn't know what it was and then, discovered that someone used their phone to pay $500 in Porlo Somberry. It could only be Brat so he did the suitcases and put it with legs in the street. I didn't want excuses, I didn't want arguments. I wanted this man out of his. Life on November 11th, 2008 had passed. A week since Krista broke with, Bradden felt stronger than ever.

He was alone with his cat hat. Part time work friends. I felt full of life but they're just just. Since they broke the brat every day, I was calling it was sending her. Flower and Christ messages told, Everyone who was already fed up was not going to. Going back to him didn't want to know anything and, I was convinced that it deserved something.

better on the 11th he got up early. He picked up the house to the cat gave him, eat and then took the bus and left. Classes took notes spoke with the, classmates with teachers and then, he took the bus and returned home once. At home he decided to study for a while. The books, the notebooks left them in the dining room in your room in the kitchen and, the five recalled that he had not eaten for, who opened the fridge took food and the, he did the stoves but at 5.30, he received a small interruption and is. That his friend Rick's Digglebauer called the. Puerto spoke a while commented on the, play what was happening gossip, and, then they said goodbye at 6.30 Krista. I had to go to Hunter's greenhouse. Park this greenhouse was

alone, half a mile of his house but the minutes. They passed and a girl did not appear was a, plant's lover and never da. A single practice jumped could be missing, a class to a talk at a conference, but a practice was unthinkable so, some people decided to call it, but his phone seemed off a time later at 7.30, though. Christa's father called her on the phone. She has a surprise for her and is that. Very brief we're going to release the movie. Madagascar 2 and Krista was very fan. Stuffed posters and his father wanted. Invite her to the cinema go to the premiere together. Eat popcorn but the phone. Krista is off for four days. He tried to contact her. Messages called her and at some point, though. This man was full of voice mail box. He lived and worked in Sinclair to almost two.

Hours by car from the city of Lansing, so go and return if not really. Nothing had happened does not have any sense with which he decided to contact. With two friends from her daughter Murray Stewart, Jones and Julie Jordan these girls were, practically its neighbors, and they immediately called the bell. They hit the door looked at the windows, but there was no Krista. Trace grabbed the phone and called, to his home-aid and this man did not know either. Nothing met them opened the door and the three together discovered that the apartment was frozen, in, time lights on books in the dining room in the room in the kitchen but of Krista L. Z there was neither a trace nor a, note and I a message was as if the girl would have come out to return,

immediately but that return never. Produced seemed that someone who was, studying had gone a moment, thinking about quickly returning Julie Jordan, Krista friend immediately put, a complaint at the closest police station, and the police got to work. They registered the house from Cabo to a tail butt. The door found nothing suspicious. The entrance had not been forced, though, windows were not broken and there was no struggle signs anywhere or signs of struggle or blood or evidence. A theft and another very interesting thing is, that the Krista car is parked, just at the door that does not have, no meaning and therefore the first Krista hypothesis was, studying

and more or less at five remembered, who had not eaten took the food, though. He did and before in-car tooth his friend Rick knocked on the door, he from 5.30 to six later, They fired and the girl came back, at home and just when someone did. More contacted her a friend A, family and acquaintance, and she opened the door and left with this person to, take a small walk that is, he extended eternally Krista planned to return. Home had to pick up finish, study eating practices but, something happened that prevented the girl from. I went home with this hypothesis in, mind the police begin, interrogations talked to parents

with, friends with neighbors and four, supposed with his ex, but, unfortunately at least at first not, find nothing when they ask Brad Corny his. Elia disappearance of Krista is safe, that since they broke up nothing more, of her who did not see that they did not speak, that did not exchange messages and the police discard it quickly but the girl's father tells a story, completely different that it was, harassing that he called her sent her, messages that went to his house that, I asked family friends and what was it very heavy and very insistent so that Krista came back with him the father of the girl asks agents to look for phone call record Krista that look at the registration and

check if I did the truth and indeed the last is right person with whom Krista spoke for telephone was Brad Kornua and did it minutes after saying goodbye to your friend Rick spoke with Brad for some minutes and then hung the call with this information the police call Brat. For another interrogation and once in, police station does not know what to say said that the, call did not have the slightest importance and that for that reason, though, deleted from his mind that they said four, nonsense that we're not going to return that everything, it was fine and then hung up without further ado. When asked if he saw him that day, Brad replied that not supposedly the subject gives a solid load but when, police investigate a little more,

His story has fissures the night of 11. November Brat was supposedly, in X place but according to the records, police this was not entirely true, since a patrol found his car, standing with emergency lights in there, us 127 highway guns south of, launched the patrol has behind him, agents go to the window, of the driver and ask if he needs, helps what the subject responds that no, that a crane is already coming, worry that nothing serious is happening, and ask the agents to move forward. This story could be a simple anecdote but one of the agents of, police pointed the registration and the point exact in which they found that data vehicle that will later be

important the months pass and someone decides to investigate the exact point in the that Brad's car was found. Nua that point was located next to, a completely desert field and four incredible that may seem there they found. Krista belongings ELZ your card, identification your credit card end, your completely shattered mobile until here we have two points that smell very bad to start brad says he didn't know no glass of did not talk to her that she did not send her messages but phone registration the girl says the opposite the he was harassing he sent him messages and the day of her disappearance spoke with her maid brad was the last person who spoke with krista and then we have to instead in which he stopped his car for an alleged breakdown months later they found things about the girl throughout from the years the case passed to different in and in true moment to one of them came up with, and asked the exact location of. Kista and Brad phones the day. The girl disappeared and turned out that the, subject once again the day had lied. Of the disappearance was supposedly, in another city I had work had, commitments

but it really was, near the brat girl was in Lansing, with which he could perfectly, kidnap and kill her hear the police. I was sure they had the case end, therefore they created the following hypothesis. Krista, I could assume it called her. Messages harassed friends to, relatives and on November 11th he called her, and he was with her Krista didn't want to come back, so left the house upside down, thinking that in five minutes I would return there, left the light on the cats the cat, the food and then went out and, he went for a walk with Brad Kornua.

They were going to be five minutes ten maximum and, then Krista would return home but, unfortunately something went very bad and it is. that Brat see that they were not going to return. He angered and lost control in some moment he killed Krista and then decide of the body and went to the road U.S. 17 and threw in the middle of the field identification and phone card of Krista but what I did not count is one that the police would find it there. What would the patrol stop? They would ask what happened and with what. Then they would point their registration. Unfortunately there is a big problem in the case and is that without body there is no Crime in 2015 the TR program. Crime Daily decided to dedicate a little documentary to this case and

it was directly to the mother's house of Brat Dona Olson once there they made a pair of questions to women and her. Although he was quite collaborative, he did not risk saying anything compromising about this story at some point the interviewer asked directly if he believed that Brat had something to do with this case and Dona responded, I sincerely do not know I hope for God, no, but I don't really know in. Half of the interview appear Brat and, his new wife and the atmosphere becomes, very tense Brad is very defensive and, when asked about Krista releases what, next why don't you investigate your, moral stupid do not want the truth. They make a good pair of shoes she adds to crack, drug addict and alcoholic killed eight, babies these words outraged,

a lot of loved ones from Krista, since for them it was all a lie was, an organized responsible girl had. Studies was working. Time I studied had aspirations. Dreams took care of his cat was good, good neighbor and say all this. She makes no chista sense end. Brad left very little time and lived, together during three months insinuating that. Porto eight times that it was alcoholic, drug addict and all that does not have any, meaning and the reason for the rupture was not. For her but by Brat because this subjected things and because also, I had something very dark Kisan didn't trust. According to his loved ones, he was a, completely clean girl in. Words of this man looked, deep resentment towards Christa Lee's,

and everything seemed to be confirmed with the. Next data and that is that the, interviewer asked directly, what did the police think, that he had something to do with the? Christ's disappearance to what Brad. The following responded to people believe what, that, once the years pass and arrives 2020, moments when Brad Corny appears, in all media because it has finally, been accused of the murder of Crowe-Low's. TR crime daily years ago made public

that this man had a history, very serious background, but until the, last year many people do not have, no idea of that since the media does not. They covered their official crimes. They date back to when this man had, 18 years at that age decided to get out of, Fiesta get drunk and end the night,

sinking through the window of a apartment located in Mason for the, napped tip to a woman who lived, alone for that crime the year. 1986 was condemned to comply between 10 and 15 years in prison was released in the year 2000 but as soon as he stepped on the street. The police record say that or sexually to a minor who was a relative, his and that because of this he returned to. Prison eight more years was put to freedom.

2007 and supposedly during the following months did not commit any, crime more and at the beginning of 2008 began to get out with Cristolos during your relationship the disappearance of the girl and the subsequent years supposedly history is clean did not get into. Pellies did not attack anyone killed. No one but in 2017 he was accused again of a disgusting crime and that is that the party decided a girl of 15 years sent him by the mobile photos of its intimate parts even a biosol starring himself some. Pages say that apart from all this offered money in exchange for having relationships with him and for all this. Obviously he was arrested and returned to. Prison that when he does again, very controversial statements and it is that half of the trial released

the following. These photos that in fact do not exist, they used to incriminate me before the eyes of the jury Mr. Bill Crino and his. Detectives are the ones trying processes, arm for homicide and that's what it is about. All this of an alleged homicide, while in prison complying, Condem in December 2020 Justice, formally accused him of the murder of. Cal, we don't know if there are more tests. Witness evidence we know nothing about. That but we know that in 2021 it is going to carry out the trial against this. Unfortunately the problem is that we still do not have the body of the victim and without body

is very complicated. Condemned so now is your turn. What do you think of the case and you think that finally? Let's go the truth. To fully understand this case, we need to travel back to the 19th century. It was a time when thousands of German immigrants arrived in Pennsylvania, escaping religious fanaticism in their homeland. Pennsylvania, at the time, was remarkably open-minded.

They welcomed all sorts of beliefs, religions, and even magical practices, as long as they weren't illegal. This created a safe haven for countless immigrants, a melting pot of cultures and traditions. The German settlers brought with them their old-world customs, beliefs, and superstitions. These were soon mingled with those of the New World, creating entirely new practices and traditions. Each family, each person, had their own interpretation of religion, the Bible, and magical customs. But despite their differences, they all shared one thing in common, a deep-rooted belief in magic. Everyone had their own remedies, superstitions, and magical recipes.

Some were for health, like homemade soups and ointments for headaches or stomachaches. were for social and economic troubles, amulets to wear around the neck, rules like not walking under ladders, or covering mirrors after someone passed away. These were ingrained traditions, especially in rural areas. At the more structured end of the spectrum of these magical beliefs was something called powwowing. This wasn't your average spellcasting, it was a form of faith healing. People believed it was a gift from God, meant to cure illnesses or solve problems.

Practitioners of this craft were called powwows. They were seen as healers, individuals who could help simply by touching you or reciting special prayers. Here's the thing about pow-wowing, it wasn't just a talent anyone could develop. The knowledge was passed down from generation to generation, written in notebooks or journals filled with spells, recipes, and rituals. And there were rules. First, this gift was considered divine.

It was meant to help others, not for personal gain. Second, the knowledge wasn't passed directly between men or women. Instead, fathers taught daughters and mothers taught sons. It was an unbreakable tradition. But as with any practice, there were rumors of people using magic for evil. Stories spread about witches who cast curses and caused harm, though most of this was probably folklore. Despite the accusations and the fear surrounding them, most powwowers claim to be good, insisting

they only healed and never harmed. fear is a powerful thing. People were terrified. A bad harvest, a failed romance, or a sudden illness was often blamed on curses. This paranoia and fear of the unknown played a huge role in what was about to unfold. By the mid-19th century, many of these spells and rituals were being written down in books, and one of the most famous was the long-lost friend, published in 1819. For powwowers, this book was essential, it was the ultimate guide, containing all the wisdom and magical recipes they needed. Without it, you weren't considered a legitimate powwower. And that's where our story really begins. Enter John Blymire, born in 1895 in York County,

Pennsylvania, John Blymire came from a family of powwowers. For three generations, his family had practiced this craft, and there were high hopes for John to carry on the tradition as the fourth generation. But things didn't exactly go as planned. As a child, John seemed to have a natural gift. By the age of seven, he was already learning spells, recipes, and remedies. He was outgoing and eager to learn. But as he grew older, his life took a downward spiral. John had fragile health and was often sick. He struggled in school, not just academically, his IQ was far below average. He was socially awkward, couldn't make friends, and even farming didn't seem to suit him. Worst of all, his magical abilities weren't developing as expected.

His family didn't know what to do with him. John, however, believed his struggles weren't his fault. He convinced himself he was cursed, that his powers were being blocked by some dark force. This obsession consumed him. Then one day, something extraordinary happened, or at least, John thought it was extraordinary. While working at a cigar factory, he and some co-workers were attacked by a rabid dog. The dog was foaming at the mouth and growling aggressively, but John managed to calm it. He extended his hand, muttered a prayer, and, miraculously, the dog stopped and seemed

to recover. Witnesses were convinced John had real powers, and John believed it too. But his joy was short-lived. When he got home, he fell seriously ill, better than for weeks. He became convinced at another powwower had cursed him out of jealousy. John's paranoia grew worse. He couldn't eat or sleep, and he became obsessed with breaking the supposed curse. He tried performing spells on himself, but nothing worked.

According to tradition, he needed to know who had cursed him to lift it. And then, one night, he had a dream. In his dream, an owl perched on his windowsill at midnight and hooted seven times. John took this as a sign and concluded the curse had been placed on him by his great-grandfather Jacob, a powerful powwow who had been the seventh son of a seventh son. Unfortunately, since Jacob was dead, John couldn't fight the curse directly. His only option was to flee, from his family, from his home, from Jacob's grave. John moved away and tried to start over.

For a while, things improved. He got married to a woman named Lily, and they had two children. But tragedy struck when both children died young. These losses sent John spiraling again. He became convinced his wife was involved in the curses against him, and the paranoia took over his life. Desperate for answers, John visited a local powwower named Lennhart. After paying for a session, Lennhart confirmed John's fears, he was indeed cursed, and the culprit was someone close to him, maybe a friend or family member.

John immediately assumed it was Lily. Their marriage became unbearable, filled with arguments and distrust. Lily, fearing for her safety, sought legal help. John was ordered to undergo psychiatric evaluation. Doctors found he had obsessive tendencies and was highly gullible. His low IQ made him easy to manipulate, and he had a habit of blowing small problems out. a proportion. He was recommended for psychiatric treatment, but John refused. He was convinced he wasn't the problem, it was everyone else. Everyone was jealous of him, trying to steal his powers,

plotting against him. His marriage ended, and Lily filed for divorce. After the divorce, John's life took an even darker turn. In 1928, he returned to the cigar factory, where he met two other men who also believed they were cursed, John Curry, a 14-year-old boy with an abusive stepfather, and Milton Hess, a struggling farmer whose once thriving farm had fallen into ruin. The three bonded over their shared belief in curses. They became a trio, meeting daily to discuss their problems and reinforce each other's paranoia. Eventually, they became convinced they were all cursed by the same person, a powerful powwower named Nelson Remayer. The target, Nelson Remayer. Nelson Rimeyer was a respected powwower in the community.

He came from a long line of healers and was known for his generosity and kindness. Nelson lived in a modest home where he conducted his healing practices and consultations. John Blymire, however, saw Nelson as a dangerous and evil man. Encouraged by his friends, John sought out a witch for advice. The witch, Nelly Noll, known as the River Witch of Marietta, performed a ritual to help John identify his supposed cursecaster. In the ritual, John claimed to see Nelson's face. The witch instructed John on how to break the curse, he needed to steal a lock of Nelson's hair and his copy of the long-lost friend,

then bury them six feet underground. This, she said, would free him and his friends from the curse. Fueled by this plan, the three men set out to confront Nelson. Confronting Nelson Remayer, on November 27, 1928, John Blymire, Milton Hess, and John Curry set out to visit Nelson Remayer. Their original plan was simple, obtain a lock of Nelson's hair, steal his long-lost friend book, and quietly leave. They believed this would break the curse.

Nelson lived in a secluded house in York County, known as Riemair's Hollow. When the trio arrived, Nelson greeted them warmly. He was polite and welcoming, unaware of their intentions. The men entered his home, pretending they were just visiting to talk about powwowing. Nelson entertained them, and the evening passed without incident. Despite their plan, the three men hesitated to act. Nelson didn't seem like the evil sorcerer they had imagined. He was calm and kind, not at all the villain they had built up in their minds.

As the hours ticked by, the trio grew more uneasy. They spent the night at Nelson's house, waiting for the right moment to carry out their mission. But by morning, they had lost their nerve and left empty-handed. John Blymire, however, was not ready to give up. His obsession with breaking the curse consumed him. He convinced Milton and John Curry to return to Nelson's house the following night to finish what they had started. The attack, the second visit to Nelson's house was far less cordial.

This time, the trio was determined to follow through with their plan, no matter the cost. When they arrived, Nelson was again welcoming, but the men quickly turned on him. They confronted Nelson, accusing him of placing curses on them. Nelson, confused and likely alarmed, denied the accusations. But the men weren't satisfied. What happened next was nothing short of brutal. The trio attacked Nelson, beating him severely. In the chaos, they demanded he hand over his long-lost friend book and a lock of his hair.

Nelson fought back, but he was outnumbered. At some point during the attack, things escalated far beyond what any of them had likely intended. Nelson was fatally beaten. His body lay motionless on the floor. Realizing what they had done, the three men panicked. They hadn't planned to kill Nelson, they only had to kill Nelson. wanted to lift the curse. But now, they had a dead man in front of them. In a desperate attempt to cover up their crime, they decided to set the house on fire, hoping to destroy the

evidence. They doused Nelson's body in parts of the house with kerosene and lit the fire. But their plan backfired. The fire didn't spread as they had hoped. Nelson's house was built with thick timber that resisted the flames. Instead of burning to the ground, only part of the house was damaged. The trio fled, leaving behind a gruesome scene. The investigation, when Nelson's body was discovered, the community was horrified. News of the murder spread quickly, and the strange circumstances surrounding it captivated the public. It didn't take long for authorities to track down John Blymire, Milton Hess, and John Curry. Their behavior in the days following the murder had raised suspicions, and the police were able to piece together their involvement.

During questioning, all three men confessed to the crime. They revealed their belief that Nelson had cursed them and admitted their plan to lift the curse by stealing his book and hair. The trial that followed was sensational. Reporters flocked to York County to cover the bizarre story of magic, curses, and murder. The public was both fascinated and appalled. The defense tried to argue that John Blymire was mentally unstable, pointing to his obsessive belief in curses and his gullibility. They claimed he genuinely believed he was under a curse and that his actions were driven by this delusion. The prosecution, however, painted a different picture.

They argued that the murder was premeditated and that the trio had acted out of greed and superstition, not self-defense or necessity. The verdict. In the end, all three men were found guilty of murder. John Blymeyer received a life sentence, while Milton Hess and John Curry were sentenced to shorter prison terms due to their younger ages and perceived lesser roles in the crime. The trial left a lasting impression on the community. It exposed the darker side of rural superstitions and the devastating consequences of paranoia and fear. The legacy, the murder of Nelson Remayer became one of Pennsylvania's most infamous cases, a chilling tale of how belief in curses and magic spiraled into violence. Remayer's house, now known as Reemeyer's Hollow, still stands to this day.

It has become a local legend, with some claiming it is haunted by Nelson's spirit. Visitors to the site often report strange occurrences, from unexplained noises to eerie sensations. For many, the story serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of superstition and the consequences of letting fear control our actions. But for others, it's a reminder of the complex and sometimes unsettling history of powwowing and the role it played in rural Pennsylvania life. A Latvian man, Igvars Collins, has received an official apology from the Metropolitan Police following an incident where he was wrongfully arrested last year.

The 20-year-old, who is a trainee police officer from Tallinn, Estonia, had been in London visiting friends when he found himself embroiled in an incident outside White City tube station. Initially hailed as a hero for his brave actions, Collins's involvement quickly became the center of controversy when he was mistaken for a criminal and arrested, an event that would lead to a significant legal battle and eventual compensation. Collins was caught up in a violent mugging when he witnessed a frail elderly Indian woman being accosted by two individuals. These men, clad in balaclava's, had forcefully stolen her handbag and were attempting to flee the scene on a motorbike. Without hesitation, Collins, despite being a foreigner in a city far from home, sprang into action. He approached one of the muggers, tackled him, and managed to overpower him. In the process, he dislocated the Mugger's jaw, before successfully restraining him, keeping the thief's hands behind his

back, ensuring he couldn't flee. Collins's brave intervention likely prevented the elderly woman from facing further harm, and yet, the situation took a bizarre and tragic turn. While Collins was undoubtedly trying to do the right thing, the chaos of the moment led to confusion among the bystanders who had gathered. Witnesses to the scene, who likely didn't have all the facts, wrongly assumed that Collins was not. not the hero of the situation, but the aggressor. Some even believed that he had launched a racially motivated attack. This misinterpretation of events led to Collins being wrongly accused of being the perpetrator rather than the savior. To make matters worse, when Collins

attempted to clarify the situation, things got even more complicated. He ordered the onlookers to stay back and informed them that he was, in fact, a police officer. According to the bystanders, he repeatedly said, I am a police officer, we wait for backup. Despite his statements, the growing crowd did not seem to trust his words, and the situation spiraled out of control. When metropolitan police officers arrived at the scene, they immediately arrested columns, not understanding the full context of the situation. He was charged with several serious offenses, including grievous bodily harm, GBH, resisting arrest, and impersonating a police officer. His quick thinking and courageous actions were, in the eyes of the law, interpreted as something much more sinister.

As Collins's case moved through the court system, his lawyer argued that his statements were misunderstood. His defense contended that Collins had not been impersonating an officer but was simply trying to diffuse a tense situation while waiting for real police backup. His actions were not fraudulent, rather, he was making every effort to handle the situation in a calm and controlled manner. According to his lawyer, Collins was trying to reassure the crowd and bring order to the confusion, and his words were misconstrued. In the court case that followed, several bystanders, including the victim of the mugging, provided witness statements that helped clarify the misunderstanding. These accounts played a critical role in Collins's acquittal of the charges related to resisting arrest and impersonating a police officer. However, despite being acquitted

on those charges, the court found that Collins's actions in restraining the mugger had been disproportionate to the situation. While his intentions were commendable, the level of force he used was deemed excessive, resulting in a conviction for GBAH. For this offense, Collins was given a suspended sentence, meaning that he would not serve jail time but would be under the threat of imprisonment if he committed any future offenses. Although his legal battle was far from over, Collins soon found himself involved in a civil case against the Metropolitan Police. His lawyer argued that his client had suffered both physically and emotionally as a result of the wrongful arrest, which had been captured on video and posted online.

The footage, which showed Collins being detained by officers, had caused significant reputational damage. The experience, his lawyer claimed, had left Collins dealing with ongoing physical injuries, as well as emotional trauma that had negatively impacted his life. Collins's case took a dramatic turn when the High Court ruled in his favor. The court recognized that his arrest had been unjustified and that the charges against him had been wrongly applied. The judge also acknowledged that Collins had sustained injuries during the arrest, including damage to his torso, right arm, and shoulder. Additionally, his reputation had suffered considerably, and his career prospects had been harmed by the

events surrounding the incident. As a result, Collins was awarded a total of 45,000 pounds in compensation. This amount included 6,400 pounds to cover his legal fees, 36,600 pounds for the emotional, physical, and reputational harm he had endured, and 2,000 pounds for the health costs related to the injuries he had sustained. The court also granted Collins a written apology from the Metropolitan Police, acknowledging that the arrest was an error in assuring him that the officers involved had been appropriately disciplined and retrained. The apology from the Metropolitan Police marked the end of a long and difficult chapter

for Collins. While the compensation was a financial relief, it could not undo the damage that had been done to his reputation or the trauma he had experienced as a result of the arrest. Still, the legal victory was an important step in restoring his name and holding the authorities accountable for their mistakes. For Collins, the entire ordeal had been a reminder of how quickly things can spiral out of control, even when someone is trying to do the right thing. His actions, though motivated by a desire to help, were misinterpreted, and this led to him being punished rather than praised. The incident was a harsh lesson in the complexities of law

enforcement and public perception, as well as the dangers of jumping to conclusions in chaotic situations. In the months following the trial, Collins continued to live in Australia at his aunt's house, trying to move on from the ordeal and focus on his future. Despite the challenges he faced, he remained determined to continue his studies and rebuild his life. The case had been a defining moment for him, not only because of the legal and emotional hurdles he had overcome but also because it had forced him to reconsider his role in law enforcement and the responsibilities that come with wearing a uniform. While the apology and compensation were a form of justice, Collins's experience raised important questions about the way law enforcement

handles situations involving foreign nationals and the potential for misunderstandings in high stress environments. It also highlighted the dangers of taking the law into one's own hands, even with the best intentions. Collins'es' actions, though well-meaning, had ultimately led to significant consequences, and the case served as a cautionary tale for others who might find themselves in similar situations. Despite the fallout, Collins remained optimistic about his future. He was still dedicated to his career in law enforcement and wanted to use the lessons he had learned to help others in the future.

While the experience had been traumatic, it had also given him a new sense of resilience, and determination. He knew that he could face challenges head on and that no matter how difficult the road ahead, he had the strength to overcome whatever came his way. As for the Metropolitan Police, the apology and retraining program for the officers involved was an important step toward ensuring that something like this would not happen again. While it was clear that mistakes had been made, the steps taken to address those mistakes were a positive sign of accountability and a recognition of the need for better training and understanding of how to handle complex situations involving individuals from different backgrounds. In the end,

Collins S. Story was one of both tragedy and triumph. It was a story of a young man who had tried to do the right thing but found himself caught in a web of misunderstandings and legal challenges. Yet, through perseverance and a commitment to justice, he had emerged victorious, with his reputation restored and his sense of purpose stronger than ever. His journey was a testament to the power of resilience and the importance of standing up for what is right, even in the face of adversity. An hour later, she returns alone to that building, saying she is desperately looking for Lelia, that she can't find her anywhere, that she knows nothing about her.

But then Matilda Elena Fuentes, the doorman's wife, tells her that the last time they saw her was leaving with her from that same building. And then she gives a very strange excuse and leaves, saying that Lelia felt very unwell halfway and decided to return home until she felt better. Let's begin, Yamorano was a charming woman. She always wore her best outfits, knew what to say and when to say it, and she associated with the most influential people. On top of all this, it was said that you could entrust her with your soul, as she was so kind

she wouldn't hurt a fly. Unfortunately, the image people had of her turned out to be wrong. Maria de Las Mercedes Bernardina Bala Aponte de Marano, better known as Ja Marano, was born on May 20th, 1930, in Corrientes, Argentina, into a well-known military family. She was always, as I've already mentioned, a charming, brilliant woman, and her charisma made her stand out far above the average. She came from high society and always mingled with the most important people. At some point, she married a prestigious lawyer named Antonio Marano, and with him, she had her only son, Martine Marano. However, from this point on, we must dig deeper into Ya's story. In truth, this woman was not as perfect as everyone thought.

Ya Marano hardly took care of her only son. In fact, he stated on several occasions that it was a nanny. who raised him. I'm her biological son, but I don't feel like her son. To me, she's someone close, but not a mother. A housemaid did some of the mother's role. Martin Marano, she was also addicted to shopping. She spent all her money on designer clothes and dozens of jewels. Because of this, any money she might have had disappeared, and debts took its place. To top it all off, Ya was a compulsive liar. She was incapable of admitting she was broke and told everyone she had a lot of money, that she knew influential people, invented friends and stories, anything rather than

faced the harsh reality. Her problems reached a point where it was impossible to lie to her husband anymore. She had so many lovers that it was impossible to keep them hidden. I acted very differently from what she did. I remember she used to have breakfast with male friends and told me not to tell dad. I thought the world was like that, but then I realized that we were the Adams family. Martine Marano, with all this, the Marano marriage ended in divorce. Thanks to this, Yah received a pension, but she spent so much daily that it didn't last. Unfortunately, the debts piled up quickly. That's when she decided to hatch the perfect plan, investments. When someone invests money, they know that if it goes well, they might even

double it. That's where she found the perfect business, because she didn't plan to invest her money, but rather other peoples. Yamorano was a great manipulator and knew exactly what to say to convince anyone. Through her charm, she convinced those around her to give her money so she could invest it. The first to trust her was her cousin, Carmen Zulema del Giorgio de Venturini, better known as Mima. This woman had recently been widowed, and her late husband had left her a large inheritance. That made her the perfect victim. Mima and Ye had always had a great relationship, Mima would gift her plants, and Ya in return would prepare teas and sweet cookies that she baked herself. During one of their meetings, Ya proposed an investment. She didn't ask for much,

just a small amount to try her luck. And magically, the amount was doubled. Later, she asked if Mima wanted to invest more. That's when Mima gave her 20 million pesos. That amount was insane, so to ensure everything was legal, Yamorano, on March 27, 1979, gave her a promissory note assuring she would get her money back, even doubled. The first investment had gone great, so Mima only had to wait for the second to do just as well. Meanwhile, word spread, and the story of the great investment reached two more women, Nilda de Lina. Gamba, Ya's neighbor, and Elita Formasano de Yala, a friend of hers. Of course, both women wanted to invest with her. From that point, they became friends and business partners, going out together,

shopping, taking walks, going to the movies. They became practically inseparable. It was something out of a Hollywood movie. But like all idyllic stories, this one comes to an end, and a very tragic one. On Friday, February 9, Ninth, 1979, Nilda Gamba went to dine at Yamorano's home. She was supposed to receive her investment return that day. But Ja said she didn't have the money yet. She was her friend, so she trusted her completely and extended the deadline. They enjoyed dinner and spent time together until 1 a.m. After that, Nilda gathered her things and went home. The next morning, she woke up feeling terrible, nausea, dizziness, sharp stomach pains. She rushed to the nearest hospital, where a doctor

diagnosed her with food poisoning. But that night, her symptoms worsened, she fell into a coma and died on February 11. Yaw, wanting to avoid suspicion, started looking for a doctor to sign the death certificate, without seeing the body, and confirmed the cause of death. The first doctor she went to, Dr. Torner, refused without seeing the body, as that would be illegal. So she found another doctor, and for a small fee, he wrote, non-traumatic cardiac arrest. Days after Nilda's death, Ye had to return money to another friend, this time Liliya Alita for Misano de Yala. On this occasion, Yeah went to the woman's house.

While having tea and cookies, she said she didn't have the money yet and asked for more time. Lelia trusted her and agreed. Together, they planned a trip to Mar del Plata for the 19th of that same month. Unfortunately, strange things began to happen that day. That morning, Ya picked up Lelia, went to her house, grabbed her suitcases, and they both went downstairs. Carlos Alberto Zamora saw them leave the building together. An hour later, Yarr returned alone, saying she was desperately looking for Lelia, couldn't

find her anywhere, and had no idea what had happened. Matilda Elena Fuentes, the doorman's wife, told her they saw her leave with Lelia. Ya gave a strange excuse, that Liliah felt unwell halfway and decided to return home. Matilda asked if she wanted to go upstairs to ring Lelia's doorbell, but Yah refused, saying she didn't want to bother her and would come back later. That evening, Yah returned, but not alone. She brought other women, supposedly to take Lelia to the movies. But she wasn't answering the phone or the doorbell, so the women left without her. Everyone decided to give her some space.

Time passed, and Lelia gave no signs of life. On February 22, 1979, or repugnant, putrid odor emerged from Lillia's apartment. Neighbors called the police. When they entered, they found her body sitting in front of the TV, next to a plate of fish and some The Cause of Death Non-traumatic myocardial infarction On March 24th of that same year, it was Mima's turn. She began to feel very sick, nausea, dizziness, stomach pain.

She left her house and tried to get to the hospital. Unfortunately, she collapsed from dizziness and fell down the stairs. The fall was so loud the neighbors came out to see what happened, and found her unconscious. They called an ambulance. Meanwhile, Yaw spoke to the building's doorman and asked for the spare key to Mima's apartment, saying she needed her notebook with all her contacts, family, friends, etc. Who better than her to go get it? The doorman handed her the keys.

But she didn't come back with a notebook, she returned with a jar of cookies and a handful of papers. Mima died, and Yah asked the doctor if an autopsy was necessary. He said no, it was clearly a heart attack. Days passed. While Mima's daughters cleaned her apartment, they realized the promissory notes from Yaw were gone. They asked the doorman if anyone else had entered. That's when they discovered Ya had gone in and taken the notes, and the cookies she had once gifted her dearest friend.

From there, the daughters discovered that two other women had died under similar circumstances, and Yah was linked to all three. They pressured doctors to perform an autopsy on their mother, and found cyanide in her body. Cyanide that Ya had placed in the cookies and tea. The bodies of the other victims were exhumed, and all of them had cyanide. So on April 27th of that same year, Yamorana was arrested and charged with defrauding and poisoning three women. You might think prison would be tough, but the truth is, other inmates treated her like a queen. Everyone adored her and thought she was a great person.

On June 15th, 1982, due to health issues, Judge Unhell Mercado acquitted her, and she was set free. But thanks to the family's pressure, she was re-imprisoned on June 28, 1985, and sentenced to 25 years for her crimes. It said that when she was freed on November 20, 1995, she gifted a box of chocolates to the judges who released her. But no one knows if they ate them, or threw them away. I was convicted of three poisonings. In two cases, forensic reports showed there was no trace of poisoning, the cyanide levels were consistent with 12 normal bodies tested. The third case is different, they found a huge amount of poison in my poor cousin.

When I got to the building, the doorman said she'd fallen down the stairs. A doctor was treating her with mouth to mouth. This was ignored at trial, someone who does CPR on a person who took cyanide risks death or severe burns. Imagine, a cyanide pill the size of an aspirin can kill a strong man in seconds. My cousin had the equivalent of 20 pills, without any internal injuries. How did it get into her body? Her final years were spent in a nursing home, estranged from her son, who could no longer see her as a mother. Martin Marano wrote a book about her with shocking claims. Claims ya herself called defamatory. However, on the program boss did the to do, Martine said, I went to see her so she would turn herself in. She tried to kill me when I was a kid. She gave me a poison cake when I was 10. When I brought it to my mouth, she snatched it away and told me the tea bag had cyanide in it. There were more deaths for which she was never charged. Some say there were seven.

Until her death in 2014, incredibly, Ya was still beloved. Public opinion was divided between those who saw her as a charming murderer and those who believed she was innocent. She was so popular that she appeared on numerous TV shows, where people joked about her poisoned cookies. But now it's your turn. What do you think of this case? Do you think Yah was guilty of everything? The end. All right, here goes. settle in because what I'm about to tell you is probably the most messed up thing I've ever experienced in my years working night shifts at the hospital

I've had my share of weird nights drunks throwing punches hallucinating patients people swallowing things they really shouldn't but this one this one sticks to my brain like mold on a wet sponge so it's about two in the morning that witching hour where all the craziness comes out we'd already had a night of BS some dude panicked because of a mosquito bite and swore he had dengue. I was just sipping on my cold ass coffee when we got the call, incoming ambulance with a female patient, mid-50s, non-responsive, obese. All right, no biggie, we've seen it all before, right? Wrong. They will this woman in, and immediately it's like every sense in my body hit the emergency break. The smell. Dear God. I'm not exaggerating when I say it punitive. us in the face before she even crossed the threshold.

You ever leave wet laundry in the machine too long. Multiply that by a hundred, and mix an infection in death. She's wrapped in what looks like every bath towel, bed sheet, and rag they owned. Sweat pouring down her face, eyes glazed over, barely moaning. Her husband waddles in behind the stretcher, looking like he hadn't had a full meal or a shower in years. Dude legit says she was walking just fine earlier. Must have slipped. I looked at my coworker, trying not to raise an eyebrow. Bro. Be real. This woman could barely be lifted, let alone walk. She was huge. And I don't mean to be rude, but this was life-threatening level

obesity. Her legs were like tree trunks, her belly was layered, and her arms looked like they hadn't moved freely in years. Anyway, we get her into a bed. She's non-verbal at this point. We start with vitals, labs, the works. Then in comes the daughter. Early 20s, same frame, same energy. She marches up like she's ready to fight us all.

She's fine, she insists. We just want to take her to our usual hospital. We've got a taxi coming. A taxi. To take someone in this condition, who couldn't sit upright, let alone fit through a cab door. She was septic. You didn't have to be a doctor to see it. I told her, as gently as I could, ma'am, your mother's really sick. She's not stable enough to be moved anywhere by taxi. She rolled her eyes like we were just being

dramatic. Meanwhile, we're running labs, and the results start coming in. And they were absolutely horrifying. Her white blood cell count was through the roof, 32,000. That's like DefCon 1 in terms of infection. Her CRP-280, that's your body practically lighting itself on fire from inflammation. Her lactate levels were screaming, sepsis. Her kidneys were giving out. Her blood sugar was almost 400. It was like every system in her body had given up at the same time. At this point, we know we've got to stabilize her and transfer her to ICU. But first, we had to clean her up. And when I say, clean, I mean perform an archaeological dig. It took four of us just to roll her. We started peeling off those nasty towels. They were soaked.

Some smelled like they'd never seen soap. The husband admitted later that they thought putting hot wet towels on her body was cleaning. No actual washing. No rinsing. Just steamed bacteria wrapped up like a burrito. And then we saw it. Her skin had folds within folds, and buried deep inside were these patches of fungal growth. Not just irritation. Actual fungus. White, spongy, fuzzy patches. Mushrooms. Freakin' mushrooms, man. We'd only ever seen anything close in textbooks. One of the nurses gagged so hard she had to run out. I'm talking full dry heaves.

We tried to stay professional, but holy hell. We were wiping her down with antiseptic gauze, trying to clean under the folds gently. That's when the screaming started. It wasn't like she was just in pain, it was something else entirely. She let out this low, rumbling growl that turned into her. a scream. Not a scream you hear from a human. It was deep, guttural, almost like an animal, or worse, something demonic. Her eyes rolled back. She thrashed, twisted her neck, and yelled, don't touch me, I swear to God, I froze. I've worked on psychiatric wards. I've been

screamed it by drug addicts. But this? This was different. One of the nurses whispered, Jesus Christ, and we all had chills. It felt like something was speaking through her. Eventually, we sedated her enough to finish what we could. The ambulance from the main hospital showed up, and we gave them the whole run down. They didn't even ask questions, they just loaded her up and got out of there. That poor driver looked like he regretted his career choices. A few days later, we heard she didn't make it.

Septic shock took her out in the ICU. It messed me up more than I expected. She didn't have to die like that. This wasn't some poor elderly person who lived alone. She had family. A husband. A daughter. People who should have helped.

But they were so deep in denial or ignorance, they let her rot. And that's the part that stuck with me. Her daughter, standing there, still saying, she was fine yesterday. her mom hadn't been dying by inches for months. Like fumble colonies growing in skin folds was normal. I can't lie, I still think about her sometimes. Not just the horror of it, but the tragedy. The layers of human failure wrapped around that woman, from bad hygiene to medical neglect

to systemic issues that made her family think what they were doing was okay. If you're reading this and still with me, I'll end with this, bathe. on your people. Don't wait until the ambulance is the only option. And for the love of all that's holy, don't think hot towels are a replacement for soap. The smell stayed in my nose for days. I threw my scrubs out. The memory, though, still sharp as hell. And somewhere out there, the daughter probably still thinks we overreacted. But you weren't there. You didn't hear that voice. You didn't smell what we smelled. You didn't see the mushrooms. So yeah, worst night ever. Stay clean, stay aware. And maybe, burn your towels every now and then.

The end. The mystery of the Ice Valley woman is one of the most eerie and unsolved cases of all time. Known cryptically as The Woman of Idol or The Woman of the Ice Valley, her name is derived from the place where she was found on November 29, 1970, in the remote region of Istillan, which means Ice Valley, in Norway. Initially, this was only meant to be a temporary nickname while authorities investigated her identity, but it has stuck, as despite international efforts from police, journalists, amateur detectives, and even the topic of a popular podcast, the woman of idol remains one of Norway's greatest mysteries. Who was she? Was she murdered, and if so, by whom? On the morning of November 29, 1970,

hikers in the Istellan Valley, near Bergen in Norway, stumbled upon a harrowing sight. The body of a woman was found lying across some rocks, her face burned beyond recognition. Her clothing was largely destroyed, with burns covering her forehead. Items such as jewelry, a watch, and a broken umbrella were scattered around her body, arranged in what some have described as a ritualistic pattern. The police investigated the scene but found nothing to identify the woman. In fact, it seemed as though there had been deliberate efforts to remove all. all tags and identifying markers from her clothing and belongings.

Despite the severe injuries, the police concluded that the woman was around 5 feet 4.5 inches tall, aged between 25 and 40. She was believed to have brown eyes, a small round face, and small ears. She was found with long, dark brown hair tied in a ponytail. The autopsy later revealed that she had been burned alive, and it was determined that she had ingested a large number of sleeping pills. While authorities initially suspected it might have been a complete. some believed that her death could have been the result of foul play, and as the investigation

progressed, things only got stranger. There was a breakthrough when two suitcases were found at the lost luggage department of the Bergen train station, which appeared to belong to the woman. Her fingerprint was discovered on a pair of glasses found inside one of the bags. However, even though the bags contained clothes, wigs, cosmetics, and other items that could have been valuable clues, these items had all been stripped of any labels. In one of the suitcases, a coated note was found. When the code was cracked, it turned out to be a list of places where the woman had stayed. As the police dug deeper, it seemed that the woman of Idol might have been involved in some sort of espionage. Further investigation revealed that the woman had stayed at

several Norwegian hotels under various fake identities and passports. She frequently requested room changes and spoke English with an accent, occasionally using German phrases. People who had met her often described her as having a cosmopolitan and affluent air. One which reported seeing a woman walking through the valley, being chased by two men, though neither seemed properly dressed for the harsh conditions. The most widely accepted theory is that the woman of the Ice Valley was a spy, particularly when viewed within the context of the Cold War. Her strange death, a variety of aliases, disguises, and hotel stays all pointed to someone living in plain sight while trying to stay hidden. Many believe she might have been an Israeli spy,

as the Mossad was known to be active in Norway during the 1970s. this theory became less likely after her DNA profile was released, which indicated that she was likely of European descent. Other theories suggest that she could have been working for a left-wing radical group or that her death was linked to a government cover-up or organized crime. However, despite all the speculation, no one theory has gained enough credibility to explain the mystery conclusively. Even decades later, the woman of idle continues to captivate people's imaginations. With advances in technology, the case was reopened in 2016, leading to new discoveries.

Analysis of isotopes in her teeth suggested that she was born between 1926 and 1934 and had undergone dental work in South America or Central or Southern Europe. This led some to speculate that she was in her 40s rather than her 30s. Despite modern technology, the case remains unsolved, and the police have not given up hope of uncovering the truth. Today, the woman of idols remains lie in an unmarked grave, with her coffin made of zinc to prevent decomposition. However, the mystery remains alive, with the possibility of cross-referencing her DNA against

global databases. The authorities still hold out hope that the case may one day be solved. In my opinion, one of the eriest and most unsettling unsolved mysteries is the case of the murders at the Hinterkhafiq farm. In the midst of a quiet night, a family in rural Germany was brutally murdered, and their farmhouse became the sight of strange occurrences leading up to the crime. It was a cold and calm night in the small town of Hinterkathik, Germany, in 1922 when the Gruber family, Andreas, his wife Cassia, their daughter Victoria, her two children, and

a maid, were all asleep in their farmhouse when an unknown intruder entered their home and ended the lives of all those who lived there. What makes this case even more unusual is that the family had been hearing strange noises and finding mysterious footprints that led to the murders, which led some to believe the farm was haunted. It wasn't until four days after the crime that the bodies were discovered by neighbors to have become suspicious of the silence coming from the farmhouse. Upon entering the home, they found the lifeless bodies of the entire Gruber family and their

maid, arranged on the floor in a horrific scene. They had all been beaten with a blunt object, and the killer had taken their time with each victim, even with the youngest child. In the weeks leading up to the murders, the Gruber family had reported strange occurrences on their farm. They had heard footsteps in the attic but found nothing when they investigated. They also found mysterious footprints in the snow leading to their house but could never figure out their origin.

They reported missing objects and strange noises like knocks on the walls. Despite these unsettling events, the family continued with their daily routines, not giving much importance to the odd occurrences. The investigation into the Hinterkhafic murders was one of the most extensive of its time, but authorities found no motive for the killings or any clues as to who the murderer might be. The investigation took a strange turn when police discovered that the killer had remained on the farm for several days after the murders. The killer had eaten the family's food and tended to the livestock.

Evidence of the killer's stay was found, including cigarette butts and footprints that led in and out of the house. Several theories have been proposed about who might have committed the Hinterkafik murders. One theory is that the killer was a relative of the Gruber family, as Andreas Gruber was known to have had disputes with family members over land and property. theory is that the suspect was an ex-lover of Victoria, who had returned to the farm and committed the murders out of jealousy. However, the theory that has gained the most attention is that the farm was haunted. The strange occurrences leading up to the murders and the apparent stay of the

killer on the farm have led many to believe it was the work of a ghost-seeking revenge against the family for disturbing the peace. The Hinterkathic murders remain one of the strangest and most unsettling unsolved mysteries to this day. As a point of curiosity, the farm where the events occurred has since been demolished, and a memorial stands in its place, commemorating the tragic events that took place there. Another haunting mystery involves the five of Yuba. In February 1978, five young men with disabilities disappeared in a California forest while on their way home from a basketball game. Although the bodies of four of them were found months later, the case still puzzles investigators today. On February 24, 1978, five men from

Yuba City, California, Jack Medruga, Jack Huerta, Jack Warro, Gary Matthias, and a fifth unnamed individual, made plans to attend a college basketball game in Chico, California. These men, who had mild developmental disabilities or psychiatric conditions, were affectionately referred to as, the boys, by their families. However, they would soon become known nationwide as the five of Yuba County. Surveillance footage from a convenience store showed the group buying snacks and drinks after the basketball game, likely the last time anyone saw them alive. After a multi-day search, the police located Jack Medruga's car stuck in a snowbank on a remote road in the Plumas National Forest, far from the route the men should have been taking between

Chico and Yuba City. However, there was no sign of the men. It wasn't until the snow melted several months later that their fate was uncovered. In June of 1978, the bodies of four of the five men were discovered in the forest, scattered across a 20-mile radius from the car. The remains of one of the men, Gary Matthias, were never found, and to this day, no one knows what happened to these young men or why they were in the forest in the first place. These men were between 24 and 32 years old and lived with their families but were independent enough to take short trips. Medruga had a friend, Remitigo, with whom he would often bring along when traveling. All the men enjoyed playing basketball together at a local rehabilitation center.

The case of the five of Yuba County has intrigued and baffled both authorities and the public for decades. It all started in 1978 when five men, Jack Madruga, Gary Matthias, Bill Sterling, Ted Weyer, and Jack Hewitt disappeared without a trace after attending a basketball game. They had been part of a team that trained together at a vocational rehabilitation center in Yuba City. These were men with intellectual disabilities, but they were very much determined to prove their skills in basketball. On February 25th, the team was set to participate in a Special Olympics tournament in Sacramento, where the winners would receive an all-expenses-paid trip to Los Angeles. The stakes were high, and the excitement was palpable.

However, things took an unexpected turn the night before the tournament. On February 24, the group had attended another basketball game, this time to watch a college team play. After the game, they stopped at a convenience store and bought snacks and chocolate milk for the long ride home. A witness saw them heading back to Yuba City, but they never made it home. The next morning, concerned parents reported their children missing. These were not the types of young men to stay out all night or skip out on a big event like the Special Olympics. Immediately, a search began. Law enforcement and volunteers combed the area looking for any sign of the missing men.

Days passed with no leads until, on February 27, a U.S. Forest Service ranger stumbled upon the men's car stuck in the snowbank in Plumas National Forest. forest, nearly 80 miles from their intended route. The car was locked and abandoned, but there was no sign of the five men. Strangely, the keys were missing, and there was no indication that the men had made any attempts to free the vehicle, despite the fact that they were capable adults. Authorities quickly launched a search in the surrounding area, but a powerful snowstorm forced them to suspend operations. It wasn't until later, when an unexpected lead came in, that the case took a bizarre turn. A man named Chance, who had been stranded in the same area due to his own snowbank mishap, claimed he had seen the five men, along with a woman

and a baby, walking from the car. According to Chance, the group had stopped, and one of the men had even asked him for help. But when he asked if they needed assistance, the group fell silent and disappeared into the night. Chance later said he saw flashes of light again, but no one ever came to his aid. When he was finally able to walk downhill in search of help, he found Madruga's car in the spot where he had seen the group earlier. The story chance told was odd, and it added to the confusion surrounding the case.

Some speculated that the sighting had been a hallucination, brought on by his exhaustion and pain from his heart attack. Others wondered if the group had indeed been with a woman and child, and whether that added to the mystery of their disappearance. The theory involving the woman and baby was never corroborated, and despite several investigations into the matter, no evidence of a woman or child was found in the area. Spring came, and on June 4, 1978, two motorcyclists, exploring the trails in the Plumas National Forest, stumbled across an old Forest Service trailer.

They were curious, so they opened the door to find a shocking sight. The body of one of the missing men, Jack Hewitt, was found inside the trailer. His feet were severely frostbitten, and he appeared to have been there for months. His beard had grown long, indicating that he had likely been alive for at least two or three months after disappearing. Interestingly, although the trailer had been forcibly entered, the food supplies inside, enough to feed five men for over a year, had not been touched. There was also no evidence that the heating system had been used, even though it could have kept the trailer warm. It seemed as though Jack had just spent months waiting to die. The next day, investigators found the

remains of Jack Madruga in the forest, miles away from the trailer. His body had been consumed by animals, making it difficult to discern whether he had ever made it to the trailer. Nearby, they found the remains of Ted Weyer, but the body was fragmented and scattered. They also found part of Gary Matthias' shoe, but the rest of his body was never located. As the search continued, questions arose, how did the men get to the trailer? Why did they abandon their car? And, most importantly, where was Gary Matthias? Despite extensive searches and investigations, Matthias' body was never found.

His sneakers were discovered inside the trailer, which indicated that he had been there at some point, but there was no other trace of him. The discovery of the men's bodies was baffling. How did they end up so far from the road? Why didn't they use the food and other supplies available to them? Authorities had no answers, and the case remained unsolved. The mystery of the five of Yuba County remains one of the most puzzling disappearances in modern history. Over the years, numerous theories have been proposed, but none have provided concrete answers. Some people believe that the men were victims of foul play, while others think that they became disoriented in the wilderness and succumbed to the harsh conditions. The fact that the case has never

been definitively solved leaves more questions than answers. One thing that is clear is that the families of the missing men have never given up hope. They continue to search for answers, and the case is still open. Over 40 years after the disappearance, the five of Yuba County continue to haunt the minds of investigators, armchair detectives, and anyone who comes across their tragic story. The Beaumont Children case is another case that has captivated public interest for decades. On January 26, 1966, three siblings, Jane, Arna, and Grant Beaumont, disappeared from Glenald Beach near Adelaide, South Australia. The children had been seen buying snacks from a local kiosk and had planned to spend the day at the beach. Grant had promised

his mother that they would return before 2 p.m., but they never did. When the children didn't return home, their mother, Nancy, reported them missing, which led to an extensive search involving police, volunteers, and even military personnel. Despite the massive effort, no trace of the Beaumont children was ever found, and their disappearance remains one of the most high-profile missing persons cases in Australia. Over the years, numerous theories have emerged about what might have happened to the children. One of the first suspects was a man named Bevan, who was later convicted of the murder of another child. Bevan reportedly had a collection of photographs of children, one of which resembled Jane. However, no conclusive evidence linked him

to the disappearance of the Beaumont children. Another theory suggested that the children may have been abducted by a couple who could not have children of their own. This theory gained traction when witnesses claimed to have seen a couple with three children in their car around the time of the Beaumont children's disappearance. The vehicle they were seen and matched the description of a car mentioned by the children's parents. In 2007, a man named Percy was questioned in connection with the case. Percy had a history of child sexual abuse, and he was linked to several crimes, including the abduction of a girl in Victoria. However, Percy never faced charges related to the Beaumont case. He died in prison in 2013, taking any potential

secrets about the Beaumont children case with him. Despite the passage of time, the case remains unsolved, and the mystery of what happened to Jane, Arna, and Grant Beaumont still haunts Australia. The children would now be in their 60s, but their disappearance remains an unsolved puzzle that has continued to torment their families and the nation for decades. The case of Brandon Swanson is another one that continues to baffle investigators. Brandon Swanson disappeared in the early hours of May 14, 2008, after having a minor car accident. He called his parents to ask for help, but his phone call ended abruptly with a chilling sound. His parents then began a frantic search but found no sign of him. Despite a thorough investigation, Swanson's

whereabouts remain unknown. Swanson had been traveling home from a gathering with friends when his car got stuck in a ditch near Minneton, Minnesota. He called his parents for help and told them that he was walking toward what he thought were the lights of a nearby town. However, as the phone call continued, his parents could hear him walking and then suddenly screaming. The call ended, and Swanson was never heard from again. Over the next few hours, his parents searched the area, but they found no sign of him. His car was still stuck in the ditch, but there were no signs of struggle or foul play. Police conducted searches using dogs and helicopters, but they came up empty. Some believe that Swanson may have fallen into a nearby

river and been swept away by the current, but no body was ever recovered. To this day, the disappearance of Brandon Swanson remains a mystery. Despite extensive searches, no physical evidence has ever been found, and his family is still left with questions. What happened to Brandon on that fateful night? Why did he suddenly disappear without a trace? The case is still open, but with each passing year, it becomes increasingly unlikely that the truth will ever come to light. The mystery of Brandon Swanson is one that continues to haunt those who knew him and anyone who has followed his case. These three cases, the five of Yuba County, the Beaumont Children, and Brandon Swanson, are all examples of disappearances that have left families and investigators alike searching for answers.

They all share one common trait, a lack of closure. The families of the missing persons continue to search for answers, hoping that one day the truth will be revealed. Until then, these unsolved mysteries will remain part of the shadowy world of unexplained disappearances. I worked as a babysitter during my college years, mostly to earn some extra cash without having to stick to a fixed schedule. My primary gig involved looking after a four-year-old boy from this one family a couple of times a week. The parents often had work-related events in the evenings, and that's where I stepped in. The boy was a quiet kid, which honestly, I appreciated. He wasn't hard to watch over.

He mostly kept himself occupied with toys or the TV, and he seemed to like me. This particular evening was the sixth time I babysat him. I arrived at the house just before the parents were about to leave. They explained that they'd be back around 11 p.m. and reminded me to make sure the kid was in bed by 9. The first few hours went by like usual, we watched TV together, and I whipped up a small frozen pizza for him. After eating, he told me he needed to use the bathroom and disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back, he asked me about some noises he had heard coming from the basement.

I was confused at first and turned off the TV to listen. Sure enough, the moment the house fell silent, I could faintly hear something moving down there. It was a soft, dragging noise, not loud enough to immediately alarm me but eerie enough to my stomach knot up. Seeing the boy's scared expression, I reassured him that we'd check it out together. By the time we reached the basement door, the dragging sound had stopped. I'd never actually been down there before since it was unfinished and had no real reason to go. Still, I was cautious.

I opened the door and turned on the staircase light. As I descended the steps, I flipped on the light at the bottom, which lit up the entire space. The basement was a pretty big area, mostly filled with storage boxes. I walked around, peeking behind some of the boxes. There was nothing unusual, no sign of movement. Satisfied that there wasn't anything to worry about, I headed back upstairs. The boy was waiting on the couch, his eyes wide as saucers. I told him everything was fine and gave him a big hug to comfort him.

Within a few minutes, we had both forgotten about the whole thing. 9 p.m., I started getting him ready for bed. As we were heading upstairs, we heard another noise from the basement. This time, it was much louder. My heart skipped a beat, and I froze for a second. Then, from upstairs, I heard the sound of a bedroom door creaking open, followed by the boy screaming my name. I told him to stay put and not come down under any circumstances. Terrified, I walked toward the basement door. My phone was in my hand, ready to call 911 if needed. I opened the door as quietly as I could.

The dragging sound was now closer, seemingly near the bottom of the stairs. Flicking on the lights, I immediately slammed the door shut. There, crouched at the base of the stairs, was a man wearing almost no clothes, rummaging through one of the storage boxes. I bolted upstairs, grabbed the boy, and dashed out of the house. Once outside, I called 911 while standing across the street, keeping my eyes on the house. I also called the parents to let them know what had happened. The police arrived soon after, and I explained everything.

They searched the basement and found clear signs that someone had been living there, trash stuffed into boxes, makeshift bedding, and personal belongings. However, the man himself was gone. When the parents got home, they thanked me for handling the situation. The police filed their report and secured the house before leaving. It took me several days to shake the feeling of paranoia that followed. I stayed in touch with the family for a couple of weeks, but no updates about the man ever came. Eventually, we lost contact because I decided I didn't want to babysit anymore.

The scariest part. The guy was never caught. To this day, I wonder if he's living in someone else's basement, unnoticed. Another chilling experience happened while I was babysitting my best friend's daughter, Sarah, who had just turned seven. My friend lived in a gorgeous house in Washington, surrounded by trees and mountains. The closest neighbors were miles away, and I always enjoyed the tranquility whenever I stayed there. One weekend, my friend asked if I could watch Sarah for a few days while she went on a business trip.

I happily agreed. A couple of weeks later, I arrived at their house. We had lunch together, chatted for a bit, and then my friend finished packing and left for her flight. Sarah and I spent the afternoon talking about her school and friends. Later, we went out to grab some dinner and dessert. By the time we got back, it was around 8 p.m. We decided to watch a movie before bedtime. I settled on the couch, scrolling through a list of movies, when Sarah suddenly asked, Who's that? She was pointing toward the front door.

Before I could answer, there was a knock. I wasn't expecting anyone, and given how isolated the house was, it felt unsettling. Nervously, I walked to the door and opened it. Standing on the porch was a tall man. He looked surprised to see me and he looked surprised to see me, and he was a little bit. and leaned slightly to peer through the crack of the door. Sorry, he said, I just wanted to make sure someone was home. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

The whole interaction felt off, and a chill ran down my spine. I locked the door and went to the back door to secure it as well. When Sarah asked who it was, I told her it was just a neighbor. I didn't want to scare her. We returned to the couch and started the movie. Although we enjoyed it, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling the man had left behind. After the movie, I got Sarah ready for bed and tucked her in. Then, I went back downstairs to relax.

It was a little past 10 p.m., and I wasn't sleepy yet, so I turned on the TV. A while later, I began hearing faint creaking noises coming from the back of the house. I muted the TV and listened closely. The sound was coming from the porch. I turned on the porch light but saw nothing. The woods beyond the house were pitch black. After a few tense moments, I convinced myself it was just the house settling or an animal passing through.

Still feeling uneasy, I decided to lie down on the couch. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, it was the middle of the night. The TV was still on, and everything else was eerily silent. That's when I heard it again, the same creaking noise, but this time it was unmistakably footsteps. They were slow and deliberate, coming from the side of the house near the living room window. I froze, every hair on my body standing on end. The footsteps stopped right outside the window. Summoning all my courage, I crept to the curtain and peaked outside.

Nothing. The yard was empty, and the woods beyond were still. I tried to convince myself I was just jumpy from being alone in such an isolated place. I grabbed a glass of water and headed upstairs to bed. The next morning, while having breakfast, Sarah asked me why I was walking around outside the house last night. My stomach dropped. What did you see? I asked her. She said she had heard someone walking for almost an hour right after she went to bed. My blood ran cold. I told her to stay inside while I checked around the house. Grabbing a small knife for protection, I went outside.

The grass around the house was thick, so there were no clear footprints, but I did notice scratches on the walls near some of the windows and doors. It was unsettling. As I made my way back to the front door, I spotted the same man from the previous night walking down the street. He was far from any other house, which meant he'd walked miles to get here. Back inside, I told Sarah we were going to spend the day out. We went to the mall and stayed out until 6 p.m. Later, my friend called to check in. I mentioned the man, describing his appearance.

She recognized him immediately. Apparently, he'd shown up at her house a few weeks prior, asking if he could spend the night because of car trouble. She had refused, finding his request strange. We agreed that if anything else happened, I'd call the police right away. That night, as the sun set, I heard a soft tapping on one of the windows. My heart raced as I tried to stay calm for Sarah's sake. But then, a loud scratching sound came from the wall outside. Grabbing Sarah, I bolted to the garage, where we got into the car and sped off.

As we left, Sarah said she saw someone running into the woods behind the house. We drove to a hotel and called the police. Officers met us there, they say mirrors reflect the truth. I never knew how true that was until the day I saw her message. It had been a year since I lost my sister, Lily. She died suddenly, without explanation, and since that day, everything changed. I moved into her old apartment, desperate to feel close over, hoping to find some peace. But instead, I found something else.

At first, it was little things. I told myself it was my imagination, keys moving, strange noises at night, lights flickering. It was an old apartment, maybe I was just paranoid. But then, I started seeing things. One night, as I walked past the mirror in the hallway, I saw her. Just for a second, her face. Lily. I froze, spinning around to see, no one.

I laughed it off, chalking it up to my grief. But deep down, something didn't feel right. The next morning, something happened that I couldn't ignore. I stepped into the bathroom, the mirror fogged up from the shower. As I wiped it down, a message began to appear. Slowly, clearly. Help me, I stood there, staring at those words, my heart pounding in my chest. It wasn't a prank.

It wasn't my imagination. I wiped the mirror again, but the message stayed. Help me. What did it mean? Was it her? Was my sister trying to reach out to me? Lily's death never made sense to me. There were so many unanswered questions.

No clear cause. No goodbyes. Just, gone. The doctor said it was sudden, but I knew my sister. She was scared of something before she died, but I didn't listen. Now, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was trying to tell me something from the other side. Desperate for answers, I started digging through Lily's things.

I searched through old messages and found one she sent just days before her death. It was vague, but it shook me. Something's wrong. I don't feel safe here. How could I have missed that? She was trying to warn me, and I didn't listen. That night, I sat in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, waiting for another sign. I don't know what I was expecting, but something told me that I needed to keep looking.

And then, I saw her again. Her reflection appeared in the mirror, just behind mine. But this time, she wasn't just standing there. She raised her hand, pointing toward the corner of the room. I turned, following her gesture, and saw the floorboard. One of the planks was lifted, just slightly. My heart raised as I knelt down and pried it open. Inside, hidden beneath the floorboards, I found something I never expected.

Lily's Journal. I flipped through the pages, my hands shaking. The writing was frantic, scattered, as if she'd been in a panic. described the strange things that had been happening before her death, the footsteps at night, the cold drafts, and the feeling of being watched. The last entry was the worst. If anything happens to me, it wasn't an accident. She knew. Lily knew something was wrong, but no one listened. Not even me. As I sat there, clutching her journal, I heard a creak from behind me. The apartment seemed to close in on me, the air growing colder. I looked up at the mirror one last time,

and there she was, Lily, her reflection clear and terrified. But she wasn't just watching me this time. She mouthed something. Silent, but unmistakable. Get out, I didn't wait. I grabbed the journal and ran, slamming the door behind me. I don't know what was in that apartment, but I knew it wasn't just grief or imagination. Something was haunting me, haunting her, and it was still there.

Lily tried to warn me. Now, I have to warn you. What would you do if you found a message from a loved one in the mirror? Would you stay or run? Let me know in the comments below. And don't forget to like, subscribe, and hit the bell for more stories that reveal the unknown. When I was 14 years old, something happened to me that I've kept to myself all these years. I didn't talk to anyone about it.

Not my friends, not my parents, not even the person I was dating. I'm 20 now, almost finished with my double major in Psychological. and anthropology, and lately, those memories have clawed their way back into my thoughts. They pop up when I'm trying to fall asleep, they show up in my dreams, and sometimes they even sneak into my day when I least expect it. In psychology, we're taught that talking through traumatic events can help. Maybe putting this story into words will give me some kind of relief. So, here goes. I grew up in a small town nestled in the high desert of Southern California, right below the Sierra Nevada's. It's about 30 minutes west of Mojave.

This place wasn't what you'd call a thriving city. At the time, the biggest store in town was a Kmart, one of the last still hanging on. We had four stoplights total. That should paint a clear enough picture. Now, the part of town where this story takes place is even more remote, about 13 miles from the banks, restaurants, and stores. It's a quiet little community, mostly retirees. And in the middle of summer, the heat could get brutal, upper 90s to 100 plus degrees. Back then, I had a nightly habit of walking my dog, an energetic Australian Shepherd. To avoid the worst of the heat, I'd wait until just before dark.

I'd grab my phone, a small pocket knife just in case, some headphones, and my pup, and we'd set off. There are a lot of horse owners and cattle ranchers around, so the area has these long, narrow trails between big fence pastures. I usually walked one particular horse trail, about two miles long. It was lined on both sides by the large backyards of ranch homes. My usual route ended at the local equestrian center, kind of a communal park where horseback riders could hang out. This night was like any other at first. The trail was sandy, the sky was darkening, and my dog trotted beside me. I figured I was about 15 minutes from the equestrian center, so I shot my mom a quick text,

I'll be at the equestrian center in about 15 minutes. Can you meet me there? I'm too tired to walk back. She replied right away, sure. I'll leave in 10 minutes. Perfect. I kept walking. At this point, I was right near where the horse trail connects.

to the forest trail, kind of a T-junction. I could either go straight to the equestrian center or turn left into the forest. As I got closer to the intersection, my dog suddenly stopped. She was tense, her ears perked up, and her eyes locked onto something in the forest. She wouldn't budge. I figured she might have seen a bobcat or a boar, those weren't unusual around there. I tugged gently on her collar, trying to keep moving. Eventually, after some coaxing, she started walking again, but she kept looking back. By now, it was almost completely dark. The only light came from the moon, and even that wasn't helping much.

I turned on my phone's flashlight. It didn't do much, but it was better than nothing. As we stepped into the equestrian center, that's when I saw him. He was tall, at least six feet, standing maybe ten or fifteen feet down the forest trail. His back was to me, and he wasn't moving at all. His head tilted toward the sky, arms at his sides, palms facing forward. He wore something that looked like hospital scrubs, light blue and very thin. And he was barefoot.

What creeped me out the most wasn't just his appearance, it was the way he was standing. It wasn't just still, it was wrong. Unnatural. As I moved a little closer, I noticed he seemed to be trembling. or vibrating, or maybe even convulsing slightly, but he was standing perfectly upright. It was like he wasn't in control of what his body was doing, yet he didn't fall. It was bizarre. Unsure of what to do, I called out, hello.

Excuse me? Nothing. He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Is everything all right? I asked, louder this time. As soon as I said that, he stopped shaking. But he still didn't turn around.

He just froze completely. The silence was deafening. For a split second, I wondered if I was imagining all of it. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. I looked down at my dog. She was growling, softly, but definitely growling. Her ears were pinned back, and she looked freaked out. That's when I knew this was a little.

real. I wasn't imagining anything. When I looked back up, the man had moved. He was now standing just a few feet from the edge of the trail, closer to me, almost directly in my path. And I hadn't heard a single footstep. Not a crunch, not a rustle. Nothing. His body was still facing away. Still in that weird stance. Still looking up. I didn't wait around. I slowly backed away, walking around him, trying not to make a sound. Once I felt I was far enough, I ran. I sprinted through the equestrian center. When I reached the first arena, I stopped and looked back.

And there he was. He was standing at the edge of the forest trail, right where I'd been a few moments ago. This time, he was facing me. He was too far for me to see his face clearly, but the way he just stood there, lit only by the pale moonlight, it was enough to paralyze me with fear. Just a dark figure, watching me. I didn't stop running until I saw someone. It was my neighbor Penny, riding her temperamental horse Jolene. She noticed I was out of breath and wide-eyed, but I brushed it off. Told her I'd been out for a long run. I didn't want to

start a small-town rumor mill. Right then, my mom pulled up. Great timing. The moment I got into the car, I broke down. I told her everything, through tears, through gasps, through panic. She didn't know what to say. But she did suggest I report it to the police. An hour later, an officer came to our house. He listened to my story, scribbled notes, and promised to check out the area. The next day, he called to follow up.

Said he didn't find anyone. But he did find some partial barefoot prints in the dirt. Still, he laughed it off. Said maybe someone was just out for a walk without shoes. Suggested I was probably tired, or maybe just freaked myself out. He even asked if I'd been drinking or smoking. I hadn't. I was totally sober.

But no one took it seriously. Nothing ever came of the report. For the next two years, I went to you. to therapy weekly. I had night terrors for months. I stopped going on solo walks. Even now, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, feeling like someone is standing over my bed. I never found out who, or what, that man was. And maybe I don't want to know. That wasn't the last strange thing that happened to me, though. Fast forward to summer 2019. My partner and I, both in our early 20s, decided to take a road trip up to Vancouver, Canada.

We were both into camping and had done a spring break trip earlier in the year, but this time we wanted something bigger. Something different. Canada seemed wild and new. My partner had never even left the U.S., so it was kind of a big deal. We planned a six-day road trip with stops in various states and airbooms along the way. Our final destination. Goldenears Provincial Park, just outside Vancouver. We had a spot reserved near Alouette Lake.

We packed a massive tent, a cooler filled with fruits and veggies, we were trying to eat clean, and even brought a little cutting board and knife for snack prep on the go. To be continued. I brought a cutting board and a kitchen knife with us for the road trip. We figured we'd want to chop up snacks along the way, and it was honestly one of the better decisions we made. The trip started in sunny California, our red Ford Fiesta packed to the brim with all our camping gear, snacks, water, and way too many playlists. We took turns driving, trading off every few hours to keep each other fresh and alert. Our first stops were Oregon and

Washington. We didn't spend too long in each place, just enough time to enjoy a bit of nature, breathe in the clean air, and have one too many drinks at a random bar we found in a small Washington town. The real magic, though, didn't happen until we crossed the border into Canada. Vancouver was absolutely incredible. The vibe, the people, the scenery, all of it was unreal. But it was when we got to Alouette Lake that it really started to feel like something out of a dream. Imagine this, the calm stillness of a lake surrounded by towering green pines, the air of the air crisp and cool, the water so clear it reflected the clouds like glass. We kicked off our shoes and walked barefoot across the cold, rocky shore, dipping our toes in the icy water.

It shocked our systems, but in a good way, it made us feel alive. We hiked for a while and came across a hidden waterfall. It felt like stumbling into a painting. There was another couple there, taking turns photographing each other, and we ended up doing the same. Everything was peaceful, quiet, almost too perfect. The campsite we picked was empty except for that one couple. We said hello, exchanged smiles, and went our separate ways. That night, we went to bed early. We were tired from the hike and the drive.

The sky had turned a deep navy blue, stars beginning to peek through, the last sliver of daylight fading. Everything was still. I woke up to a rustling noise just outside our hands. tent. At first, I didn't think anything of it. It was pitch black, and I figured it was just a raccoon or maybe a deer. My partner was asleep next to me, lightly snoring, completely oblivious. But the noise didn't stop. It got closer, like something was creeping toward us, step by step. That's when the fear started to set in. I sat up and grabbed my phone, the light blinding me for a second before I quickly shut it off.

In those few seconds, I saw something, a figure. A person. They were right outside our tent. Not moving. Just standing there. I froze. My heart started pounding. I couldn't think straight.

I reached over and started shaking my partner awake. Hey, there's somebody outside, I whispered. She woke up groggy and confused. Ha! What? But then we both heard the footsteps walking away from our tent. Then we heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine turning on. I poked my head out of the tent.

Sure enough, there was a vehicle parked just outside our campsite, one that hadn't been there before. It slowly backed up, turned around, and drove off without turning on its headlights until it rounded the corner and disappeared. looked like a truck. I was shaking. My partner still didn't quite grasp the seriousness of it, but I was wide awake, mind racing. I wanted to leave immediately, but the park locked its gates until six or seven in the morning. It was only 1 a.m. We were stuck. So we packed up the bare essentials and moved to the car, deciding to sleep in the Ford Fiesta until morning. She

She fell asleep fast, mumbling something about how it was probably a park ranger. I didn't buy it. No ranger creeps around in the dark with their headlights off. That wasn't normal. I sat there in the passenger seat, knife in hand, completely alert. Two hours went by. The car was locked, but I still felt vulnerable. I kept replaying the moment I saw that person outside our tent over and over again in my head.

What were they doing? Why didn't they say anything? Around 3 a.m., just as I was starting to drift off, I heard it again, a vehicle approaching. This time, I noticed immediately that the lights were off. My heart dropped. It was the same truck. It slowly pulled up to our campsite again. Same spot. Engine humming quietly. Then it shut off. I grabbed the kitchen knife, gripping it tight. My eyes were fixed on the passenger side window. A light flashed suddenly from the side of the truck, directly into my face. I didn't move. Couldn't breathe. The truck just sat there, idling, headlights still off. After what felt like an eternity, the engine turned back on. The truck pulled away slowly, turning around and driving off again. This time, the headlights stayed on as it rounded the

corner and disappeared from view. I woke my partner up. They came back, I said. Whoever was outside came back in that truck. We need to get out of here. Now, we didn't pack properly. Just shoved everything into the car. We sat in silence until the gates opened at 6 a.m., then drove straight home. We didn't stop once. We talked the whole drive, trying to make sense of it all, we never could. Six months later, a friend of mine posted the story on Reddit. He got most of the details right, but I always wanted to tell it in my own words. There's something different about living through it and writing it yourself. But that wasn't the only creepy experience I've had in the outdoors. A few years ago, one summer afternoon, I decided to take

my two kids out for the day. They were three and five at the time, and my wife needed a break. had heard about a hiking trail with a steep elevation game. I wasn't planning to hike it that day, I just wanted to check it out for the future. We did some fun stuff earlier in the day, and on our way home, I figured we'd stop by the trailhead. It was in a remote area, sure, but not totally isolated. The nearest town was only about 15 minutes away. When we got there, I realized pretty quickly that the trail was too rough for the kids. So we just played a around near the entrance for a bit, then started heading back to the truck. The trailhead was about half a mile from the parking area. As we walked back, I noticed someone standing next to my

truck. As we got closer, I saw it was a man peering into the driver's side window. Then he dropped to the ground and started looking underneath the truck. After that, he climbed into the truck bed. At this point, I was seriously on edge. I didn't want to scare the kids, so I didn't say anything yet. I hoped the man would notice us approaching and leave. But he didn't. I told my kids to stop walking. Now, unlike a lot of people in these stories, I was armed.

This was Utah, and I always carried a pistol, especially in remote areas. Hey! Get away from my truck! I shouted. Get the hell out of here. The guy didn't move. Just p. his head out from the bed. I told my kids to cover their ears and stay back. Then I fired a warning

shot into the dirt near the truck. That got his attention. He jumped out, crouched behind the truck for a moment, then took off down the road. When we reached the truck, I saw that all four tires had been slashed. The fuel tank in the bed had also been punctured, leaking gasoline everywhere. One spark could have turned the whole truck into a fireball. We had no way out. I watched the man walking away. At first, he seemed to be leaving, but then he turned and started coming back toward us. I grabbed my phone and called 911.

I was ready to defend myself and my kids if it came to that, but thankfully, the police got there quickly. When they arrived, sirens blaring, the man took off into the woods. The cops chased him but didn't catch him that night. Two years later, they arrested a guy named Jason Pog in connection with multiple crimes in the area. Turns out he had been living in a nearby ghost town. If you Google him, you'll see he still has run-ins with the law. I was furious about the truck, sure. But at the end of the day, I was just grateful my kids were okay.

I have no idea what he had planned, but with the beds soaked in gas, it couldn't have been anything good. Stories like this remind you that there really is always something to be afraid of, even in the most peaceful places. And that's the end. But those memories, they never really leave you. They stay in your bones. You always remember what it felt like to see that shadow outside your tent, or that man standing by your truck. It's like they live in the back of your mind, reminding you to stay alert, stay ready, and never take safety for granted. The end. My mom's Russian, and my stepdad is Ukrainian. Sounds like a weird mix, right?

It was. My mom had me when she was really young, like barely out of her teens, and she never quite managed to shake her addictions. Alcohol, pills, whatever made her forget for a while, she was on it. Growing up, I kind of floated between being ignored and being a burden. My stepdad, well, at first, he was decent. Actually, more than decent. He used to bring me little candies from the corner store and tuck me in at night when mom passed out on the couch. But things changed, fast. When my half-sister was born, I was about nine, and it was like someone had flipped a switch in him. He went from treating me like a kid he cared about to barely looking at me at all. I was suddenly this ghost wandering around the flat, invisible and totally not.

wanted. Then came the trip. My uncle, this upbeat, tan guy who always smelled like coconut oil and cologne, invited us to Bali. Yeah, that Bali, tropical paradise, warm rain, incense in the air, yoga people everywhere. I remember he called it a magical place. Said the rain there didn't make you cold, it made you feel alive. I remember laughing at that at the time. Now it makes my stomach turn. Anyway, it was December, school was out, and mom jumped at the chance to get away. She thought maybe it would be her, clean start. Her version of rehab came with beaches and cocktails, apparently. We didn't pack much, just enough for two weeks, and I was honestly excited. It was the first time I was leaving England, and everything felt like an adventure.

The long, horrible flight, the weird airplane food, my legs cramping from my legs cramping from sitting for hours, it all felt worth it when we landed. Bolly was, beautiful. It really was. The rain was warm, like my uncle said. The air was fresh, almost floral. You'd walk down the street and smell incense burning on every corner. Temples everywhere.

Like, not big churches but tiny sacred spots with flower petals, rice, fruit, and those little woven trays. people would stop and light candles like it was just part of life. It felt peaceful. Too peaceful. Maybe that's why we let our guard down. Now, I don't remember who my mom met, some Russian lady, maybe someone she knew from back in the day, I'm not sure. But this woman had a daughter who was maybe three years older than me.

I guess mom thought I'd be happy to hang with someone closer to my age. They invited us over for dinner in Ubad, this artsy little village that's basically the spiritual heart of Bali. It was supposed to be fun. On the drive there, I noticed things started looking different. Like, less colorful, more isolated. The houses were spaced out, the streetlights faded out until there were almost none. I remember thinking how quiet everything got. And then, as we were pulling up to this house, I looked out the window and saw a group of

men sitting on crates, playing cards under a flickering light. Their clothes were traditional, not something I saw every day. Most of them didn't even glance at us. But one guy did. He locked eyes with me. Just stared. Not in a curious way, no, this stare felt, wrong. It went too long. I looked away, felt my stomach turn. Even at nine, even with no clue what real danger looked like, I knew something was off. I didn't realize it at the time, but I think that was when he chose me. The house was kind of stunning in that natural, open-air way. It backed into a jungle, with rice paddies stretching out like green mirrors. The kind of place you'd see on a postcard. The doors were glass and bamboo. No real locks, no alarms. Everything felt, exposed. But to the locals,

that was normal. Trust in heat, I guess. Definitely not like home. Eventually, I got tired, and someone guided me to a spare bedroom. My mom and stepdad stayed in a separate little cabin just outside. I remember the room had glass walls with curtains, and I was wearing this loose white nightshirt. Just that and underwear. I was told the door was unlocked for airflow. Didn't think much of it. That night changed everything. At first, I thought I was dreaming. I woke up to someone whispering in my ear. That wasn't unusual for me, I had sleep paralysis sometimes. But this felt different. Too real. Then I noticed something else. The lights were on. Why would the lights be on if it was still dark outside? I could see the night through the cracks in the curtain. And,

I wasn't covered. No blanket, nothing. Worse, I realized I wasn't wearing my underwear anymore. I tried to convince myself maybe it was my fault. Maybe I kicked them off in my sleep. But deep down, I knew something was wrong. And then I turned my head and saw him. There was a man lying next to me.

Panic. Full body panic. My breath stopped. my mind started screaming who was he what was he doing in here why me he whispered again come with me be quiet don't scream he was fat middle-aged dressed in all black slicked back hair his eyes i'll never forget those eyes they were full of something dark and disgusting i didn't have the vocabulary for it then Now I know He was a predator

A monster A pedophile When I hesitated He pulled out a knife A big one No cartoon knife Real Sharp

Deadly He grabbed my arm and yanked me up His grip left bruises I didn't even cry I think part of me still believe this had to be a dream A nightmare. Any second, I'd wake up, right? He dragged me past the guest cabin.

I screamed for my mom. Just once. Loud. Desperate. He clamped his hand over my mouth and hissed in my ear that he'd stab me in the throat if I did it again. I screamed again anyway. Still, no one came. Later, I learned they'd left.

My baby sister got fussed. and they drove back to the hotel. I didn't know that. I thought they were dead. And with that thought, something in me snapped. I stopped fighting. He dragged me through the brush. Barefoot, bleeding, I was stumbling while he stomped through in heavy boots.

He pulled me into the jungle, deep into it. Everything was loud. Bugs, frogs, birds. I tried to scream again, but no one. again, but no one would have heard me. It was just noise. Wild, natural, deafening noise. At some point, I tried to fight. I thought of my sister. I thought if he ever found her. I couldn't let that happen. I kicked, flailed, tried to remember the stuff they teach you in school, kick a guy in the balls, bite him, scratch. But I was too small. He threw me down, hard.

I heard something crack. My ribs, I think. I tried grabbing the knife. Failed. The night swallowed me up. He carried me the rest of the way. To a place I now call the shack. This little wooden hell in the middle of nowhere.

No power. No people. Just rot and darkness. He kept me there for weeks. Not hours. Not a night. weeks. Every day, he left scraps of food. Every night, he came back. Did whatever he wanted. I stopped counting the days. I stopped crying. I stopped being a kid. I started being nothing. A thing he owned. A thing he broke. I gave up. I hated God. I hated my mom. I hated my dad. I hated the world. I hated me. But weirdly, that hate gave me something. Fire. Strength.

Rage. One day, I snapped again, but in the right direction. I waited till he left. I dragged myself out of the shack, broken and limping. Crawled through mud and thorns. I wasn't trying to save myself for me. I was doing it out of spite. He wasn't going to win. I wasn't going to die in his damn jungle dungeon. And then, like something out of a movie, a farmer found me. A man with a scythe, yeah, a literal scythe, towered over me. I thought he was going to finish what the other guy started.

I screamed. I tried to crawl away. But he stopped. He put the scythe down. Spoke soft words I barely understood. Good. His eyes didn't look like the man's from before. They looked kind. He carried me to the village. It was close to where I'd been taken. I didn't recognize anything at first. Then I looked in the mirror. I lost it. My face. My body. Everything was ruined. Teeth missing, hair gone in patches, bruises everywhere. I didn't even look human. I needed surgeries, bone repairs, skin grafts, it all blurred together. The next year and a half was hospitals and therapists and long nights staring at the ceiling,

not able to sleep without a light on. The man who did it, he was caught. But not because of me, because he killed another girl. Fourteen years old. She wasn't as lucky. Turns out he'd done this before. A lot. But I was the only one who made it out alive. The only one who could testify. They got DNA from my body. It was enough. He's locked up now. Forever, I hope. But that doesn't mean I got my peace. This story doesn't end with a happy, and now I'm better. I'm still healing. I still flinch when people walk too close. I still wake up some nights gasping, thinking, I'm back in that shack.

But I talk. I write. I survive. That's how I fight back now. This story might not have a fairy tale ending, but at least it's mine. And I'm still here to tell it. The media had a field day when my story hit. British Girl escapes Jungle Predator.

That's what the headlines called me. Reporters showed up at the hospital like vultures. They weren't interested in me, they wanted a survivor they could turn into a juicy headline a nine-year-old girl alone in the jungle kidnapped abused and somehow still alive it was their dream story my nightmare i didn't talk not at first the therapists tried everything dolls drawing pictures of safe people i stayed silent what could i even say That I'd screamed for help and no one came.

That part of me still thought it was my fault. That I had dreams where he came back, smiling, like none of it ever ended. They gave me a notebook. I didn't want to write, but something about the blank pages felt less threatening than people's eyes. So I started scribbling. At first it was just fragments. A word. A picture.

Then sentences. Then full pages. that notebook became my voice my mom came back of course in tears screaming at the doctors blaming everyone the police the hosts the village everyone but herself i saw her once from across the hallway her eyes looked swollen she tried to run to me but i backed away i couldn't let her touch me not after what she let happen not after she left me behind i never really forgave her we moved back to England but nothing was the same people whispered in school some pitted me others just stared a few called me a liar one girl said i made it all up to get attention i punched her in the mouth

got suspended didn't care I was done playing victim as I got older I learned how to blend in how to smile when someone mentioned Bali how to talk about that trip

like it was just some family drama I learned how to lie well enough that people stopped asking but inside I was burning I had rage I didn't know what to do with at 16 I started training in kickboxing At first, it was just to feel strong again. Then it became a way to not fall apart.

Every punch, every kick, it was like I was taking back a piece of myself. I didn't care about belts or tournaments. I just wanted control. Therapy helped, slowly. I went through four therapists before I found one that didn't talk to me like I was glass. She didn't ask me about the jungle. She didn't ask me to draw pictures. She just let me talk about what came after.

About the numbness, the anger, the nightmares. The way I couldn't let anyone hug me, not even my little sister. She helped me forgive myself for surviving. I don't believe in that everything happens for a reason, crap. Some things are just evil. Some people are monsters. some of us get caught in their path. But I do believe in fighting back, even if it's years later, even if it's just by staying

alive when they wanted you gone. I still carry the scars. Physical ones, yeah, faded marks on my ribs, a jagged one on my thigh. But it's the invisible ones that scream the loudest. Some nights, I still sleep with the light on. Some mornings, I look in the mirror and don't recognize myself. But I'm here. And I've got a voice now.

I talk to other survivors. I write. I share when I can. Sometimes anonymously, sometimes not. I don't need to be famous. I just want someone out there to read my story and think, I'm not alone, because I thought I was. For a long, long time. Sometimes, I go back to that notebook, the first one they gave me.

It's falling apart now, pages yellowing at the edges. But there's one sentence on the last page, scribbled in shaky little handwriting. One day, I'll tell the whole story. And he'll never silence me again. That day is today. And this? To be continued. You ever wake up in the middle of the night drenched and sweat in your heart pounding

like it's trying to punch its way out of your chest. That still happens to me. It's been over a decade, twelve long years to be a exact, and no matter how hard I try to move on, I can't shake what happened. What nearly happened? I wasn't just a survivor, I was almost one of the ones they found dead, another name on the news for people to gasp over and forget two days later. Everyone's moved on.

Forgotten those girls. Forgotten their names, their faces, how scared they must have been. But I haven't. I can't. I remember it all. I remember too much. And the worst part? I understand exactly what they must have felt in those final moments.

Every terrifying second of it. Because I came so close. The whole ordeal wrecked my family. The trial, the media storm, the whispers from people pretending to care, yeah, it cracked everything in half. We couldn't afford to stay in England after all that, so we packed up and moved to Bali for a while. It was supposed to be a fresh start, but it felt more like a desperate escape.

My stepdad left not long after. Guess he couldn't handle it. And my mom, she didn't leave, but she might as well have. She started hating me for ruining everything, for being a troubled child. She never said it outright at first, but I saw it in her eyes. She blamed me. Over the years, she turned cold, cruel even. Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was her way of coping. But she got worse, like, emotionally venomous. After four years in Bali, we returned to the UK. Didn't even last a month before social services stepped in and I was shipped off to foster care. My own mother told them she didn't want me anymore. Said I, dirted the bloodline. Real nice, huh? The abuse I went through post-kidnapping wasn't even all physical.

It was mental, spiritual. The kind that makes you question if you should have just died back then, you know. But I kept pushing. I don't know why. Maybe to prove them wrong. Maybe because there was still some flicker of life inside me that refused to go out. Fast forward to now, I'm in a much better place. I still talk to my little sister.

She's the only one from that part of my life who truly loved me, I think. We check in often I help her with college stuff Send her money Try to be the older sibling I never really had myself I even graduated Criminology degree I know ironic

Right A girl who barely escaped death And now wants to hunt monsters It's not about revenge Really, it's about making sense of it all About making sure no other kid goes through what I did But trust me, it wasn't some clean, inspirational journey to get here. I spent my teens bouncing in and out of hospitals and therapy and juvenile courtrooms.

I got into trouble. Ran with some rough crowds. I was angry, broken, scared. But I met a few amazing people during that mess. Real ones who stuck around, who listened instead of judged. Without them, I probably wouldn't have made it. To anyone out there who's survived something traumatic, you might feel like you're weird or broken. You're not.

You just lived through hell, and no one walks out of hell without scars. That's just how it works. And hey, they say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That might not always be true, but it makes you, different. Sharper. Wiser. Tougher in the ways that count. So stay safe.

Lock your doors. Keep your kids close. And if you're still curious about everything that happened to me, there's a write-up online somewhere. Someone wrote about it years ago. I don't really read it anymore, it brings back too much, but it's out there. Anyway, let me take you back to where it all started. I was just seven at the time. Weird kid, honestly.

Didn't like dolls or board games. I liked dirt and shadows and wandering around the thick forest behind our house. My guardian, let's just call him John, trusted me a little too much. He let me roam free, even at night. We lived in this quirky little cottage with my room up in the attic. It was small but cozy, and the best part. This big round window that looked right over the woods. I'd sit there for hours watching the sky turn orange, then pink, then deep blue as

night swallowed everything. If I opened the window wide enough, I could climb out onto the kitchen roof, slide down the shed, and hit the ground running. I did it often. Too often. Yeah, yeah, I know, I was seven and sneaking out into the woods at night. But I wasn't scared. I was fearless back then. Had a little emergency flip phone and everything. I thought I was invincible. Then came the night that changed it all. I was just about to head out like usual. I'd climbed out, perched on the kitchen roof, when I spotted this strange flash near the tree line. At first, I thought it was just a wind-chime-catching light. We had a few hanging around. I ignored it and kept going. But then I heard it. Laughter. Soft. Faint. Like the sound of someone trying to stifle it but failing. I

froze. Held my breath. The trees stood silent. I called out, hello. Dumb, I know. And that's when I heard her voice. Hello, little girl. I see you, chills. Instantly. Her voice was raspy, old. And then came another flash of light. I scrambled back up onto the roof, ready to run inside, but something made me stop. Curiosity, I guess. Instead of hiding, I grabbed my flashlight and shone it across the yard. And that's when I saw her. Standing still at the edge of the forest, staring right at me. Old, thin, sickly pale, wearing a white nightgown and swaying like she was listening to music in her head. And she was, sort of. She began whistling this eerie, slow version of, the man who sold the world. That tune still messes me up when I hear it, like it's cursed or

something. In her hand was a camera. I swear. I saw the glint of the lens as she raised it. Flash. I ducked and crawled back into my room, slammed the window, and locked it. But even after that, I could still see the light flashing from outside. She stayed for a while. Watching. After that night, I was a little more careful. Didn't stop sneaking out completely, but I became sharper, more alert. She never came back, but the memory of her stayed. Then there was the Mississippi trip.

When I was ten, my dad bought a bunch of land down south, big fields, dense woods, a lake, even built a cabin up on a hill. Place was miles from any paved road. Secluded as hell. I loved it at first. first. One crisp autumn morning, my folks and sister went to town for ice cream and errands. I stayed behind to fish and listened to the football game on the radio. Just me, my fishing pole, and my dog, bully, a loyal Aredale Terrier who never left my side. We took the darker trail to

the lake, vampire trail, we called it. Always shady and quiet, even in daylight. I was on the dock, lines in the water, game on the radio, when that feeling hit me again. The feeling of being watched. Bulley felt it, too. His growl rumbled low. He was staring across the lake toward the brighter trail. That's when I saw it, a figure, barely visible, standing behind a tree. Big, human.

And watching us. It didn't move at first. Just stood there. I tried to bring it. rush it off, told myself I was imagining things. But then it shifted. Slowly. From one tree to the next. Always toward us. I didn't panic. Not at first. I kept fishing like I didn't notice. But the fear started boiling under my skin. Bulley was stiff beside me, hackles raised. I finally packed up, walked back to the trail casually, then booked it.

Ran harder than I've ever run in my life. Bully ran ahead, stopping every so often to make sure I was still behind him, then running on. Watching my back the whole way. We made it to the cabin. I slammed the door, locked everything, and grabbed my dad's shotgun. I sat there for hours, watching the trees, waiting. Nothing happened. But I knew, someone had been out there.

someone who had no reason to be that deep in the woods. From then on, I never felt safe there again. Bulley passed away years later, old and peaceful. He was the best dog I ever had. And sometimes I wish I could go back to that cabin now, as a trained adult with nothing to fear, just to face down whoever was out there. But that kid I was. He learned too early that monsters aren't just in fairy tales.

And me? I'm still here, still fighting, still remembering, but never forgetting. The End. Part 1. Hello, my name is Samson Blackwell. I am writing this to tell you a story. A story about the past week of my life. First, allow me to begin by telling you a little more about myself. I am a Washington State Patrol officer.

I have been on the force for about three years now. A week ago, I was dispatched to a small town in the first. north of Okanagan County to assist in a missing person search. Initially, I was informed that it was nothing alarming, just a local disappearance that needed my assistance, and that one trooper was all that was needed. Okanagan County, for those that don't know, has a fairly small population, but is also the largest county by area, in the state. The small lumber village of Oak Falls is near the northern border of the county, along the Canada-USA border. As I haplessly drove toward my destination, I had no idea of what awaited me,

I had only ever been a part of one missing person's search before. It was fairly early into my career with the state police, and we had been sent to aid in the search for a missing hiker. The hiker had gone missing in Rockport State Park. He was found by local volunteers about 18 hours after he was reported missing. He was in good health, and had merely gotten lost due to his overconfidence in himself and in his knowledge of the area. Therefore, I was fairly inexperienced in missing person's searches,

and almost clueless in investigations of the same nature. However, as we are strapped for manpower, I was sent out as the available officer. Probably because I was one of the more expendable officers, as I had little work and wasn't particularly important to the patrol. All that I had been told was that someone was missing, and that I was to assist in the search and keep my superiors updated on the situation. So that is what I did, I hit the road for Oak Falls. Oh, how I wish I hadn't.

Part 2. Welcome back. I'm Samson Blackwell, and I will be continuing my story about my past week at Oak Falls. After about three hours of driving, I finally reached the outskirts of Oak Falls. The sign at the edge of town read, Welcome to Oak Falls, Population, 952. As I passed the signpost and continued further into town, I was finally confronted with signs of human habitation. At first it was just one house, then several more, until finally some semblance of civilization became apparent. As I pulled up toward what I could only assume was that Town Square, I began to search around for the police station, or even the town hall. After parking my vehicle, I quickly exited and made a beeline for the nearest pedestrian

that I could spot. She was an older woman, maybe about 65, with graying blonde hair, and dark, green eyes. She was dressed in rather loose-fitting blue jeans, a plaid wool shirt, and a beige, corduroy trucker jacket. As I approached, she paused, stopping at the sound of my calling to her. When I reached her side, I stopped to catch my breath, then she spoke. to me. What is it that you want, young sir, she asked.

I quickly answered, sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but do you happen to know the way to the sheriff's station? It's over there officer, she responded, the grey building on the left. She pointed at a small, single-story structure just across from where I had parked my cruiser. But, why is there no sign? I asked. No need, everyone knows that's the sheriffs, she replied, that's been the station for the past 50 years. Thank you, ma'am, I said, as I turned my back on the woman and headed for the

station. Goodbye officer, she called as I hurriedly paced away. As I made my way to the front door of the station building, I couldn't help but noticed the older, somewhat dilapidated state of the structure. It appeared as if it had been here for several decades, which matched the lady's story, but it also seemed as if it had never been repainted since its original construction. Suddenly, as my foot fell on the front step of the building, the door burst open. A man, fairly small, about five feet seven inches, red-haired and probably weighing around 150 pounds, emerged from the doorway. He was holding a black cowboy hat in one hand, and a navy blue jacket in the other.

Whoa! I shouted, as we nearly collided, watch out. Sorry there, he responded in a tense manner, I wasn't looking where I was going. Wait, who are you anyway, he asked. I'm patrolman Blackwell, I answered. Your sheriff called the State Patrol for assistance, so here I am. Oh, that's right, he said, the sheriff's not here right now. As a matter of fact, I'm headed over to meet him now.

Want to come along? Sure, I responded, let's go. On the way, the sheriff's deputy, whose name turned out to be Mark, filled me in on the details of the search. As it turned out, the missing person was a young girl by the name of Alicia Brand. According to the deputy, she was eight years old, and had gone missing yesterday. She was reported missing last evening, but the call to the state patrol was only put in that morning. According to Mark, Alicia had arrived home from school at around 3.30 p.m. yesterday afternoon.

Shortly thereafter, she was seen by a neighbor heading into the woods surrounding the nearby properties. Alicia's mother, Mrs. Brand, arrived home at about 4.15 p.m., after finishing her shift at the town's only bank, where she worked as a clerk. Mrs. Brand initially assumed that Alicia was merely playing in the home, or in the backyard. However, at approximately 4.40 p.m., as Mr. Brand was arriving home from work, Mrs. Brand attempted to locate Alicia, albeit to no avail. Mrs. Brand then quickly told Mr. Brand, who proceeded to begin searching through the surrounding nearby woods and thicket. Then, Mrs. Brand hurriedly visited several of the immediate neighbors,

to ask if they had either seen Alicia, or if she was at their house. After neither Mrs. Brand nor Mr. Brand could locate Alicia, they decided to call the sheriff. The call was placed at 5.05 p.m. The sheriff and his deputies, including Mark, arrived at the Brands residence at around 5.35 p.m. The authorities began a small search around the property, as well as questioning of the brands and their neighbors. The initial search turned up nothing except for Alicia's stuffed frog, which was found about 80 yards into the forest, north of the Brand's residence. The search and questioning concluded around 8 p.m., because of the encroaching darkness of the evening. This morning, the officers, along with local volunteers, began a

larger search effort focusing along the forest surrounding Alicia's house, as well as an attempt to find a trail leading away from where her stuffed frog was found. According to Mark, the search so far, had been unsuccessful, but he said that everyone still believed that Alicia would be found alive and well. Finally, we reached our destination, pulling into the brand driveway. Along the road, numerous vehicles were parked, both law enforcement and civilian. I hurriedly exited the car, breaking into a quick pace, as I followed Mark Fords who I assumed was the sheriff. The sheriff was a tall man, in contrast to Mark, standing at about six feet four inches. He appeared to be in his 50s, his hair was a deep black, although he seemed to be

balding. His eyes were a piercing blue, and he would have weighed about 210 pounds. As I reached him, he turned from the folding plastic table he was facing, on which was piled multiple maps and computer printouts, and glanced in our direction. Hello, he greeted me, my name is Sheriff Scott. Part 3. Welcome back. I'm Samson Blackwell, and I will be continuing my story about my past week at Oak Falls. After the introductions with Sheriff Scott, we began to pour over the maps of the area. We also discussed the current situation of the search effort, and he updated me as much as possible. As he spoke, I jotted down the details on my notepad, for future reference in my

reports back to HQ. He told me that so far the searchers had covered a radius of around two miles from the Brand's residence. He informed me that as of now, no trail had been discovered leading away from where Alicia's stuffed frog was found. I asked if you would like me to join the search now, or to wait for after he reorganized the search parties. Actually, said the sheriff, I prefer if you helped with the questioning of the brands and their neighbors. Well, sir, I responded, I had been instructed by my superiors to participate in the active search. You will soon enough, he countered, but first I need your help with this. Okay.

Sure, fine, I answered. As I trudged back towards the Brand's house, I heard a quick pitter-patter behind me. I turned to see Mark running up towards me, he waved to me and said, Sheriff wants me to go with you. I'll introduce you to the parents, he said. All right, I responded. We reached the entrance of the residence, and Mark gave a light, but authoritative knock on the door. As we stood there, I took in the outside appearance of the home.

It was small, and made of wooden slat siding. The bottom of it had a dirty, lattice enclosure around the crawl space underneath the structure. The paint on the sides of the house was old and chipped, revealing the bear, weathered lumber beneath. The deteriorating paint was a light blue, or at least it used to be. Now, stained and worn, it appeared almost a slate color. The door suddenly opened to reveal a middle-aged woman standing in the opening. She moved to the side to allow us to enter, quietly greeting us with a, hello.

As I entered, I brushed my shoes on the mat inside of the doorway, and then followed Mark to the living room. Any news officers, asked the woman, who I assumed was Mrs. Brands. Nothing yet, replied Mark. However, I wanted to introduce you to patrolman Blackwell, Mark continued, he has a few questions for you and your husband. Oh, well, hello Mr. Blackwell, said Mrs. Brands. Hello, I responded, and please, Samson is fine.

I suppose under better circumstances I would say nice to meet you, Mrs. Brands replied. What questions do you have? Well, just some general ones regarding your actions following your daughter's disappearance, I said. Although, I wonder where your husband is, I continued, I was hoping to speak with him as well. He's out searching for Alice, she answered. she answered. He probably won't be back for some time. All right then, I suppose I'll start with you then, I said. After several tense minutes of questioning, I had gathered all the information that I had needed

for the time being. After some quick, tense farewells, Mark and I left the Brand's residence. As the two of us ambled towards a neighboring house, I pondered the unfolding situation. It definitely wasn't anything that I was accustomed to, however I was beginning to become earnestly interested in. I was starting to view this as not just an unfortunate order for my superiors, but as a real case, my first. I was sombered by the emotion displayed by the missing girl's mother. Finally, we reached the neighbor's abode, the house appeared in better shape than the brands, however it still looked like relatively old construction. As we reached the front door, it slowly opened before us. Hello, a manly voice greeted us, come on in. I saw you coming over

through the window, the man said. As we entered, I began to make out the speaker. He was an older man, probably late 60s, he was taller than Mark, but shorter than me. His long, gray, straight hair reached his shoulders, and his skin was a surprisingly tanned brown. His tan was particularly unusual for a person from around here, as it seemed as though this town never saw the sun. At least, based on the other individual's skin tones. I'm Officer Blackwell, I said, but feel free to call me Samson. Sure, he replied. Are you here about Alicia?

Yes, I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Go ahead, he said, but first, where are my manners? My name is Bob, Bob Mathers. All right, Mr. Mathers, let's begin. We talked for about 15 minutes before his wife arrived home. She had been out shopping in town. When she came inside the kitchen, I immediately recognized her. She was the woman who had given me directions to the sheriff's station.

Mark and I greeted her, she also recognized me from earlier, and told her husband about our previous encounter. Then, I asked that she joined our conversation, and proceeded to question her on the events of the previous day. After a total of just a little over half an hour, I had finished questioning both Mr. and Mrs. Mathers. Mark and I said our goodbyes, and then left the house. Over the next two hours, we covered the ten homes in the remote neighborhood. I learned that most of the neighbors evidently knew the young Alicia, but most hadn't known of her disappearance until Mrs. Brands had arrived on their doorstep, yesterday evening. I also learned that a certain Mrs. Rifton had been the individual that had reported

seeing Alicia wander into the forest. She lived one house down, and across the street from the Brands. She was as helpful as she could be, which, as with most of the neighbors, was fairly useless. All I had learned was that Alicia was a kind, quiet child, who enjoyed drawing, riding her small, purple bicycle, and, oddly enough, collecting leaves. She had never, according to everyone's memory, run off before, or willingly disappeared into the woods. Having finished the questioning, I walked back to the search command station that was set up near the Brand's residence. I wanted to ask Sheriff Scott if I could finally join the search, and get to be a real help. As I sauntered up to the plastic, folding table,

upon which the many maps, printouts, and organizational necessities for a search were resting, I heard it. Through a handheld radio, resting on the table, I heard those words which I shall not soon forget. We found her. She's, we found Alicia, come in, all teams, come in. I had just returned from a vacation with some of my high school friends. Since most of us live far apart now, meeting up once a year is how we stay connected. After being away for a week, I was absolutely wiped out. All I wanted was to spend the weekend at home, recovering before diving back into work. When I walked in, I didn't even bother unpacking. I headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed some snacks to substitute for dinner, then turned off the lights and flopped onto the couch.

I didn't even turn on the TV. My plan. Eat, scroll on my phone for a bit, and pass out. Sure enough, my eyes grew heavy before long. I set my phone on the coffee table, closed my eyes, and drifted off. It was late, though I can't remember checking the exact time before conking out. Sometime during the night, I woke up abruptly. It wasn't like I heard a loud noise or anything, I just snapped awake, instantly alert. It was a strange sensation, like my body knew something was off. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and grabbed my phone, figuring it was time to head to bed. Maybe my brain just felt weird because I'd fallen asleep in the living room. As I glanced toward the stairs, I noticed the backyard porch light was still on. Not surprising, since

I'd left it on during my vacation to make the house look occupied. But when I went to turn it off, my eyes landed on the back door. It was unlocked. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. Maybe I was imagining it. I opened the door to check, and it swum open. My heart sank. Quickly, I closed and locked it. No way had I forgotten to lock that door before leaving. meticulous about double-checking doors and windows before trips. I do it every time. Turning around, I flipped on every light downstairs and did a sweep of the house, looking for signs of a break-in.

But everything seemed untouched. Still uneasy, I returned to the door and tested the lock. Even with it engaged, the door opened. Upon closer inspection, I noticed part of the latch was broken. At that moment, pure fear gripped me. had been here, recently. I knew the chances of them still being inside were slim, but I couldn't shake the feeling until I checked. Here's where I should have called the police. Honestly, I'm not sure if I was too tired to think straight or just overconfident that no one was still

there. Either way, I decided to check the upstairs rooms. Turning on the hallway light, I saw all the doors were closed, just as I'd left them. My bedroom was at the far end, with a bathroom and guest room closer to the stairs. I checked the bathroom first, opening the door cautiously. Empty. Nothing out of place. Next, I moved to the guest room. This room mostly served as storage, so there were boxes and furniture scattered around. I carefully walked through, checking behind every object. Then, suddenly, I heard it, soft, almost imperceptible footsteps coming from my bedroom. They crossed the floor toward the door, then stopped. It was as if the intruder and I were both frozen, listening, waiting for the other to make a move.

My anxiety skyrocketed. I could hear my heart pounding as I stood there, paralyzed, staring at the doorway leading to the hall. Then, I heard the creak of my bedroom door opening. A second of silence passed before loud, rapid footsteps thundered down the hallway. A shadow dashed past the guest room doorway, and I couldn't move. Frozen in fear, I listened as the footsteps raced through the house and out the back door. Still shaking, I grabbed my phone and called the police. This wasn't just a break-in for theft, whoever had been in my house had plans, plans I didn't want to think about.

Nothing was stolen, and the police didn't find any evidence suggesting they'd been there long. They must have broken in that day, somehow knowing I'd be back. And they hid in my bedroom, waiting for me to walk in. I don't like to think about what would have happened if I had. I worked at a gas station for a couple of years when I was 30. It wasn't a glamorous job, but it paid the bills. If you've ever been at a gas station late at night, you know it's usually just one employee on duty. Maybe bigger stations have more, but at hours, it was just me.

There wasn't much to do, so one person was enough. But it could definitely get creepy. I'd often stare out the window by the counter, looking at the faint glow of the gas pumps surrounded by darkness. Our station was on the outskirts of town, a few minutes from anything else. Most of our traffic came from truckers and travelers passing through. On this particular night, it had been raining non-stop. The upside of the rain was fewer people coming into the store, meaning less work for me.

By midnight, only a handful of cars had stopped to refuel. I was struggling to stay awake from sheer boredom. Then, suddenly, a car pulled in. later, another. And another. What are the odds, right? I started paying attention. Looking out the side window, none of the drivers got out. They all just sat there with their engines running. After a few minutes, I debated going out to tell them it was unsafe to leave their cars running by the pumps. But before I could, a few doors opened. Five men stepped out, all wearing heavy winter jackets despite the rain. Leaving their cars running, they walked toward the door.

entered, each one made direct eye contact with me. I was bricking it. The fact that they left their cars running felt like a bad omen. One of the men approached the counter while the others spread out through the store. How's your night, buddy, he asked with unsettling confidence. Glancing past his shoulder, I saw the others grabbing products off the shelves and stuffing them into backpacks. The sheer boldness of their actions scared me more than if they'd been shouting or waving weapons. They knew I couldn't do anything. We'll be out in a couple of minutes. Everything's going to be fine, the man said. One of his buddies walked over, hopped onto the counter, and said, open it. I complied, letting him empty the register.

But being late at night, there wasn't much cash in there. The guy pulled out a few bills and showed them to the first man. Where's the rest? He asked. We don't keep much cash overnight. My boss empties the register before shift changes, I explained, my voice shaking. The man stared at me for an uncomfortably long time before smiling. Have a good night, buddy, he said, gesturing for the others to leave. They returned to their cars and drove off. As soon as they were gone, I called the police. I was almost certain they'd hit another gas station nearby, and I was right.

The police arrived too late to catch them, but they found the worker at the other station injured, nothing life-threatening, but enough to make my stomach turn. I've never seen those guys again, and I'm not even sure if they were caught. But I'll never forget how powerless I felt that night. I'm 22, and this happened a few months ago. I live in an apartment just off my college campus. The building is nice and new, but the surrounding area is sketchy. Still, I never felt unsafe since I mostly kept to myself, driving to campus and back.

It was a Friday, and I'd stayed late at school to study, so I got home around 7 p.m. I parked in the lot, climbed the stairs to my fourth floor apartment, and walked in. Stopping my backpack by the door, I grabbed a pre-made salad from the fridge and plopped onto the couch. While scrolling through YouTube, I heard a sudden, loud banging sound from the floor below me. Startled, I paused for a moment but shrugged it off. A few minutes later, the same sound echoed again. This time, I paused my video and sat still, waiting to see if it would happen again. Curious but not alarmed, I figured it was just one of my neighbors.

Still did I know, I was dead wrong.