The Lets Read Podcast - 140: I WAS ALMOST HUMAN TRAFFICKED | 21 True Scary Horror Stories | EP 128

Episode Date: June 21, 2022

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Canada, Human Trafficking, & Spring Break... HAVE A STORY TO SUBMIT?► www.Reddit.com/r/LetsReadOfficial FOLLOW ME ON - ►YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/letsreadofficial ► Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsread.official/ ► Twitter - https://twitter.com/LetsReadCreepy ♫ Background Music & Audio Remastering: Simon de Beer https://www.instagram.com/simon_db98/ PATREON for EARLY ACCESS!►http://patreon.com/LetsRead

If it's a flat or a squeal, a wobble or peel, your tread's worn down or you need a new wheel, wherever you go, you can get it from our Tread Experts. Toyo's open country family of tires will get you through tough weather in a variety of terrains. Until May 31st, save up to $100 in rebates on select Toyo tires. Find a Toyo Tread Experts dealer near you at treadexperts.ca slash locations. From tires to auto repair, we're always there at treadexperts.ca slash locations. From tires to auto repair, we're always there at treadexperts.ca. Discover the exciting action of BetMGM Casino. Check out a wide variety of table games with a live dealer

or enjoy over 3,000 games to choose from like Cash Eruption, UFC Gold Blitz. Make instant deposits or same-day withdrawals. Download the BetMGM Ontario app today. Visit BetMGM.com for terms and conditions. 19 plus to wager Ontario only. Please gamble responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connex Ontario at 1-866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge.

BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. The Mark James Kilroy was born in Chicago on March 5th, 1968, the eldest son of Jim and Helen, who were employed as a chemical engineer and a volunteer paramedic. Not long after he was born, his family moved down to Texas and Mark spent most of his childhood living in a small town called Santa Fe, not far from Houston. As he grew into his teenage years, Mark proved to be that rare breed of person that excels in both athletics and academia, leading him to earn a basketball scholarship from a Texas state university. By all accounts, Mark was such a talented basketball player that there's a chance he could have turned pro, but he was also a mature and practical young

man, and in 1989, he opted for a transfer to the University of Texas at Austin to become a pre-med student in preparation for his medical college admission test. Mark's parents had instilled a strong work ethic in their son, and there's no doubt that Mark worked his butt off to earn his shot at medical school. But all work and no play make Jack a dull boy, and by spring break of 1989, Mark was about ready to let off a little steam. He and a few college buddies hatched a planned drive down to South Padre Island for seven days of sun and surf. The trip seemed like it would be a whole world of fun, but for one of them, spring break would bring a truly harrowing and deeply disturbing ordeal that remains ingrained on the minds of all who hear it. This is the story of the Santa Elena Death Cult.

On March 10th, 1989, a friend of Mark's drove over to Austin to pick him up for their trip. They made a brief stop in Santa Fe to pick up two other friends, then hit the road for the nine-hour drive down to South Texas, arriving at the Sheraton Hotel just before midnight. The following morning, they awoke to a college kid's fantasy come to life. Beer sponsors were staging a variety of entertainment events, including free movies, music concerts, free calls home, surf simulator activities, and opportunities to appear on TV commercials. There was even a daily Miss Tanline contest down at the beach. But most importantly, there were college girls, and given that Mark was raised Catholic, the idea of cavorting with the opposite gender

filled him with a rebellious excitement. A few nights later, Mark and his friends were having dinner at a Sonic Drive-In in nearby Port Isabel. It was there that they met a group of college girls from the University of Kansas who were planning a trip south of the border to a Mexican tourist town known as Matamoros. The two groups flirted a little before the girls invited Mark and his buddies to join them. They agreed on a time and meeting place and then went their separate ways. That evening, Matamoros was flooded with almost 15,000 spring breakers, who piled into the many bars and cantinas of the town's main tourist strip, the Alvaro Obregón.

And somehow, throughout the course of the evening, Mark's friends seemed to lose track of him in the throngs of drunken college kids. The last they saw of Mark was him talking to one of the Miss Tanline contestants on the steps of a house, but being the good friends that they were, none of them were in any rush to interrupt his attempted conquest, and each figured that they would just meet him back at the Sheraton back on South Padre. Mark eventually said goodbye to the Miss Tanline's contestant, but saw that his friends were nowhere to be found. As he wandered through the narrow streets and back alleys of Matamoros, inebriated and confused at the disappearance of his friends, it wasn't long before Mark found that he was completely lost.

It seemed like the ultimate stroke of good luck when a red truck pulled up next to him as he walked, with the truck's two occupants asking if he needed to ride anywhere. Mark told them that he needed to ride back to the International Land Bridge. He had parked his car there and it was his only way he knew of to reunite with his misplaced college buddies. Pretty much every Mexican that Mark had met during his time south of the border had been warm, friendly, and welcoming. Mark had no reason to suspect that these men were any different. But the next morning, Mark's friends discovered that he never made it back to the hotel that previous night, and what followed him climbing into that

red truck is like something out of a horror movie. The driver and passenger of the red truck that offered Mark a ride were named Serafin Garcia and Malio Torres. Mark was obviously unfamiliar with the layout of the town of Matamoros, but he knew enough to know that the truck wasn't headed back towards the border. But when he confronted his new friends with this fact, they put a gun to his head and told Mark to shut his mouth, lest a passive aggressive complaint be his last words on this earth. At some point, Mark was handcuffed and transferred to a different vehicle. After that, he was driven through the back streets of the city and past an industrial area. The number of bars and vendor stands in the street began to thin out

as they drove Kilroy through a highway on the city's outskirts. One of the last things Mark saw before he was blindfolded was that the truck he was being held prisoner in began to turn down a dirt road that ran between two dense cornfields. Robbed of his vision, Mark felt the truck come to a stop before he heard his kidnappers climb out and slam the doors. He expected that he too would soon be dragged from the truck, but no one returned. Mark was left handcuffed and blindfolded in the truck overnight, condemned to a cycle of terrified thoughts for seven straight hours. By the time the sun began to rise and the temperature inside the truck began to soar, he was dehydrated, starving, and scared at this wits. Sometime that morning, Mark heard footsteps approaching the truck and felt his heart begin to race. But instead of the maltreatment he expected,

the person who opened up the truck's rear door treated Mark with an unexpected kindness. He was fed fresh bread and given a glass of cool water to drink, but when he asked where he was in broken Spanish, the kind stranger remained silent. After he was fed, Mark heard another set of footsteps approaching the truck, a group of men this time. Only these people were not so kind. They wrapped duct tape around his head, completely covering his mouth, then did the same to his wrist after removing the handcuffs. When their prisoner was properly secured and silenced,

the mysterious men frog-marched Mark through a field to some kind of storage shed, where he was locked inside for the remainder of the day. That night, Mark heard a strange sound echoing around the fields outside of his makeshift jail cell. As the sounds drew closer, Mark began to realize what was happening. It was a chant, a long slow droning from a large group that drifted ever gradually towards him. Still blindfolded and restrained, all Mark could do was listen as the large group of people opened up the door to the storage shed, terrified at what they were about to do to him. And he was right to be terrified. A handful of the group stepped forward, and using machetes, cigarette

lighters, and a variety of agricultural tools, they began to torture him. As he was being tortured, soundtracked by the sounds of his muffled screams, the men took turns in violating Mark as the straw below him soaked up his blood. When the men were finished torturing him and the horrifying, unintelligible chanting of the crowd reached fever pitch, one of them brought a machete down hard against the back of Mark's neck, severing his spine and rendering him paralyzed. He was very well on the verge of death by that point, but the fact remains that Mark was still alive when one of them began to crack open his skull, scooping out his brains and placing them in a large metal pot known as a nanga. When they were cooked, each member of the unholy congregation ate a small piece of Mark's brain before they commenced yet more grisly work.

After that, the congregation dug an unmarked grave, tossed Mark's remains into it, and covered them with earth. When Mark didn't show up at the hotel the next day, his friends began to worry and contacted the police to report him missing. Initially, South Padre law enforcement were reluctant to open a missing persons case, as had been the case many times before. College kids were reported missing in Matamoros, only for them to show up with a hangover and a patchy memory with no hint of foul play.

The police told Mark's friends that they'd do their best to find him, but what they didn't tell them was that Mark was just one of 60 people who had vanished from the streets of Montemoros over the last three months. It seems the police would have remained slow to act on the report if it wasn't for the fact that Mark's uncle was a high-ranking member of the United States Customs Service over in California. His intervention meant that a police task force was put together in Brownsville, Texas, whose sole purpose was to locate and potentially rescue their missing U.S. citizen. During the first days of their investigation into Mark's disappearance, both U.S. and Mexican authorities suspected foul play. But whether Mark had vanished as a result of drug-related violence or from a robbery gone wrong was an entirely different question.

In a desperate, radical bid to glean more information from Mark's friends, Texan law enforcement actually hired a hypnotist to see if they could access untapped subconscious memories in each of the boys, and in one case, it actually worked. While under hypnosis, one of Mark's friends stated that he saw a young Hispanic man wearing a blue plaid shirt with a visible scar across his face talking to Mark. He recalled that the man walked up to Kilroy and told him, Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? It's shortly after this encounter that Mark was thought to have disappeared. This had investigators considering two possibilities. One, that Mark had been kidnapped for ransom, and two, that Mark had been stripped of all of his valuables then executed. And seeing as there had been no ransom call, the cops began to fear the worst.

Meanwhile, Mark's parents drove down to the Rio Grande Valley to aid in the search effort. They handed out around 20,000 informational leaflets throughout Southeast Texas, and even offered a $15,000 reward to anyone who could help find their boy. Texan politicians also arranged a meeting between Mark's parents and the governor of Tamaulipas. Publicly, U.S. law enforcement praised the efforts of the Mexican federal police on the case, but privately they distrusted the state and municipal officials. They suspected that because state and local authorities were acting slow and not sharing enough information, Marx murderers had inside men within the local government. On March 26th, 1989, the case was featured on America's Most Wanted, generating

nationwide attention. This added interest meant that more and more police resources were spent on the case, with Mexican authorities doing all they could to avoid an international incident. Less than a week later, Mexican police officers were stationed at a routine checkpoint near a place called Santa Elena. It had been a long and sweltering day, and mostly one without incident. But all of a sudden, a vehicle coming from the direction of the Texan border raced through the checkpoint without incident. But all of a sudden, a vehicle coming from the direction of the Texan border raced through the checkpoint without stopping. Instead of opting for a conventional, noisy pursuit, local police called in an unmarked cop car, tasking it with tailing the offending vehicle to gather intelligence. The undercover cops watched as their offender turned their vehicle

down a dirt road that ran between two dense cornfields, but chose to remain at a distance and observe instead of making any kind of arrest. A short while later, the checkpoint dodger reappeared in their vehicle and drove off in the direction of Matamoros, giving the undercover officials a vital chance to perform an impromptu search of what appeared to be a run-down old ranch. What they found terrified them. In a filthy, crumbling old farmhouse, the undercover cops found evidence of rampant drug use, including traces of marijuana, peyote, and LSD. But they also found other things, small, strange-looking carvings of men and beasts, handmade wooden percussion instruments on which were carved the obscene images of ritual violence. They also found an animal horn that for some reason had been capped with a mirror. Inside an iron pot the cops discovered would appear to be some kind of animal brain, chicken feet, a turtle, several herbs, a horseshoe, and coins mixed with

animal blood. Neither of them could make sense of what they were seeing, but they knew something terrible was going on at that old ranch and they suspected it might have something to do with the missing gringo that people kept talking about back at the precinct. The cops returned to the Santa Ella ranch a week later, only this time with serious reinforcement in tow. A team of heavily armed officers arrested a handful of the ranch residents on drug charges, but also knew the arrest would buy them time to search the place for any sign of their missing American college kid. One of the first people interviewed was the ranch's caretaker. Despite the circumstances, the caretaker seemed bizarrely relaxed and was open and honest with cops when he was shown a

photograph of Mark Kilroy. See, senor, he said. I saw him. Then went on to describe the small wooden shack Mark was being held in. Another of the arrested suspects stunned police when he openly admitted to his involvement in Mark's murder, saying he had been one of the men in the red truck who abducted him from Montemoros. When asked by police why he was being so honest with them, the man replied that the things they did on that ranch made them immune from law enforcement as well as giving them extra strength and virility. It was then that it all came out. Mark Kilroy had been murdered as part of some kind of occult ritual on the orders of a man named Adolfo Costanzo. Costanzo had ordered his followers

to bring him a gringo to sacrifice and that doing so would bring them preternatural power. When the man then showed Mexican police officers where Mark was buried, they noticed that the grave was marked only by a small piece of wire that stuck out of the dirt. The man told them that this wire was attached to Kilroy's spinal cord, so that they would be able to pull out the bones and wear them as necklaces after the body decomposed. Surrounding Mark's body was the corpses of 15 other people. It was a hellish scene, one of horror beyond description, but there were still so many unanswered questions.

What was this ungodly, bloodthirsty cult that practiced human sacrifice. And who was its leader? In the course of their investigations, a joint task force of Mexican and U.S. lawmen discovered that Mark's murderer was none other than the leader of the cult, Adolfo Costanzo. 27-year-old Costanzo was actually an American citizen. Born in Miami in 1962, his father passed away when he was just a boy, and his wealthy stepfather died in mysterious circumstances, leaving behind a sizable inheritance. His mother then married a third time, and on that occasion, she became the wife of a man who was heavily involved in drug trafficking. But Adolfo's new stepfather had other, far more sinister interests too. He introduced young Adolfo and his mother to an ancient Afro-Caribbean religion known as

Palomeambe, brought to the Americas by African slaves who partook in ritualistic animal sacrifice. The stepfather taught Adolfo a philosophy that he carried for the rest of his life. He told them that they should let non-believers take their own lives with narcotics and that they could get rich selling it to them. And so, Adolfo grew into his teenage years. He began training in the ways of Palo Mayombe. He started off as a Palero, the name for a rank-and-file follower of the religion, but eventually graduated to the status of padrino, a position equivalent to that of a high priest. Adolfo then took all that he had learned to Mexico City, which is where he developed a small following that grew

into a powerful narcotics-funded cult. By all accounts, he was extremely charismatic, and the fact that he was formerly employed as a male model is a testament to his good looks. It was in Mexico City that Adolfo met the co-founder of the Santa Elena Death Cult, a Texan honors student and cheerleader by the name of Sara Andrete. Some of her former classmates found it suspicious that she drove a 1989 vehicle with an embedded telephone, while others recall she preferred to dress in black. But for the most part, students and teachers at her college in Brownsville activities, using her beauty and charm to become the cult's primary recruiter. She recruited people by first showing them a 1987 movie called The Believers, which depicts a New York City-based cult that practice human sacrifice for money and influence. Sarah forced prospective cult members to watch the movie over and over again in order to indoctrinate them to the necessity of human

sacrifice. Investigators believe that her proximity to the US-Mexico border allowed Aldrete to keep her two lives separate for years, to the extent that she showed signs of having a multiple personality disorder. Along with Adolfo Costanzo, Sarah had been orchestrating the kidnapping of young men from the streets of Montemoros for years, and sometimes personally luring them to their dooms herself. Two weeks after Mark's body was recovered from the Santa Elana ranch, the Mexican federal police returned to burn down the shack he was held prisoner in. When there was nothing left of it but ash and smoke, a large wooden cross was placed over the

ground on which it stood. A traditional Mexican folk healer known as a curandero then said a few prayers over the site, sprinkling salt and making the sign of the cross to purify the land. Many media outlets claim that the reasoning behind this was purely supernatural, but the real reason is that the police were trying to draw Adolfo Costanzo out of hiding and burning down the shack would send him into a rage. After the flaming shack and purification ritual was shown on national television, it's said that Adolfo flew into a blind rage. In killing Mark Kilroy,

he had prompted the destruction of the cult he had worked so hard to create, and the international attention that was garnered would mark the beginning of his downfall. The Mexico City Police Department noticed that Mark's murder was remarkably similar to murders carried out in Mexico City between 1987 and 1989, apparently having the same disturbing occultic hallmarks. Homicide detectives found themselves questioning a motley crew of local witchcraft practitioners and heard from a handful that Adolfo might well be hiding out in an area of Mexico City called Cuauhtemoc. Detectives cased the area and surrounded a house that they believed Adolfo was using as a

hideout. Just as they were about to raid the premises, Adolfo Costanzo himself began to open fire on them from a window, spraying the street outside with submachine gun fire. After 45 minutes of panic, shooting at the police and burning US dollars on the home's kitchen stove, Adolfo decided to give up the fight, but he would not give himself up to the police. Instead, Adolfo ordered one of his followers to execute him. At first, the follower hesitated, refusing to kill their beloved leader. Everything is lost, Adolfo said to have screamed. If you allow those pigs to capture me, you'll burn in hell. Now do it. Shoot me.

The follower gave Adolfo one last hug, readied his submachine gun, and then fired off a full magazine. Adolfo was dead before he hit the floor. The Santa Elena death cult died that day. The remaining members were rounded up, with some having once pledged their lives to Adolfo, denying knowledge of the cult altogether. But the judge and jury saw through their cowardly denials and each was condemned to prison with an average sentence of 50 years. Mark's parents would go on to found the Mark Kilroy Foundation, a campaign which promotes drug awareness. Besides counseling children and teenagers with drug advice, the foundation staff also advise young people who plan to travel for spring break, suggesting to stay in groups,

keep an eye on each other, and not wander off on their own. They also suggest tourists be aware of travel warnings and abide by foreign laws and regulations when they travel outside the U.S., though they reiterated that people can get hurt in the U.S. too. On the 20th anniversary of their son's murder, Jim and Helen Kilroy visited Rio Grande Valley in Montemoros to thank those who aided them in their search for their son. In a heartwarming address to the townsfolk, Jim stated he was overwhelmed by how supportive people have been and that it

was easier to overcome their son's death because of the support they received. Helen added that she received a cross from a Brownsville woman when she was searching for her son in 1989. It's a reminder every time that I know that the Lord was involved in everything, she said, touching that same cross which hung around her neck. The strength that Helen shows in the face of something truly nightmarish is indisputably inspirational, and we can only hope that she, her husband, and their beloved son can find the peace that they so richly deserve. Tammy Lynn Leppert was born February 5th, 1965 in Rockledge, Florida. One of five children, Tammy's parents divorced when she was just seven, and she was the only one still at home with their mother, Linda. She began participating in beauty contests at four years old, competing in nearly 300 beauty pageants and winning almost all of them.

In her teenage years, Tammy was employed primarily as a model, appearing on the front of CoverGirl magazine in October 1978. But as she got older, Tammy began to land big parts in several movies, including Little Darlings, Spring Break, and even Al Pacino's Scarface. By 1983, she was set for major roles in three different movies, and critics were predicting that she would become one of the big stars of the 1980s. But in August of the previous year, after finishing up the production of a film called Spring Break, Tammy had attended a weekend wrap party for the movie at an undisclosed location. A close friend of Tammy's, Wing Flanagan, says that after she returned from the party, Tammy seemed like a completely different person. She became intensely paranoid, refusing

to leave her room or answer the door. She no longer ate food from open containers and often made Wing taste food before she ate it, fearing it had been poisoned. When Wing finally confronted her regarding her bizarre behavior, she responded with six terror-soaked words, Someone is trying to kill me. Then in March of 1983, whilst filming a shootout for Scarface, Tammy had a straight-up nervous breakdown on set after seeing some fake corn syrup blood. She was inconsolable, so much so that the movie's producers had to escort her from the premises so she could be properly calmed down. She ranted and raved about money laundering, how she was marked for assassination because she knew too much.

Tammy later confided in a close friend that an associate of hers had bragged about a large money laundering and drug trading operation involving high-profile citizens in Brevard County, ranging from police officers to bankers and prominent locals. She also said that she had seen something horrible at the Spring Break Wrap-Up Party, something that she wasn't supposed to see but refused to elaborate. Tammy Spren drove her over to the Brevard County Sheriff's Department so she could file a report. Yet when he was interviewed several years later, police officer Michael Wong said he couldn't recall many of the details regarding the meeting, just that Tammy was convinced that she was being targeted. A few months later, on July 1st, 1983,

Tammy was standing outside her home when a gust of wind caught the open front door slamming it shut. For some reason, this triggered an extreme fight-or-flight response in Tammy, who grabbed a baseball bat from the front yard and began smashing the small glass window on the front door. Screaming in panic, Tammy reached through the hole she'd smashed, unlocking the front door and hurtling back into the house, wailing as she went. She had to be pinned down and restrained by her roommate before she could do any additional damage. The following day, Tammy's deeply concerned roommate drove her over to the Brevard Mental Health Center for a three-day

evaluation. Doctors observed that she was displaying some extremely erratic behavior, but Tammy's blood work showed that there were no drugs in her system. With no formal treatment plan laid out for her, Tammy was released on July 4th. Yet despite having time to calm down and collect herself, Tammy insisted that she was still in danger and made her roommates swear to avenge her should any harm come to her. A couple of days after the window smashing incident, Tammy met up with an old high school friend by the name of Rick Adams. That night, she is said to have had some kind of emotional breakdown, bursting into tears and

telling Rick that she had seen something she wasn't supposed to see at the spring break rap party and that someone was trying to silence her as a result. Rick pressed her for more details but again she refused to give any, telling Rick that the less he knew, the safer he would be. The only thing that seemed to calm Tammy down was the offer of driving over to Rockledge's Evangel Temple Church so the pair could pray together. The experience had a profound effect on Tammy, bringing her a sense of peace that she hadn't felt in months. The pair planned to return to the church the following day, but when Rick dropped Tammy off back at her house, she gave him a rather cryptic message

before she climbed out of the passenger seat. I just want you to know that I may have to go away for a while, but I also want you to know that I love you. When Rick called the next day to confirm their trip to the Evangel Temple, Tammy was already gone. Because 11am on Wednesday, July 6th, Tammy's roommate heard a car horn beeping in the street outside their place. She peered out of her window and noticed that Tammy was climbing into the car of a man who turned out to be 22-year-old Keith Roberts. Keith was a young banker who had met Tammy in an acting class around three years prior. According to him, Tammy had called him earlier that morning and asked him to pick her up. As they drove around Cocoa Beach, Tammy told him she was desperately unhappy with her current living situation,

how those close to her had attempted to have her committed to a mental hospital, and that she was so scared she slept with a knife under her bed. Keith insists that it was during this drive that she expressed a desire to run away from home, and asked him to drive her down to Fort Lauderdale after loaning her some money. Keith says he gave her $300, but refused to drive her the 170 miles down to Fort Lauderdale. His refusal upset Tammy, who began screaming, Let me out, let me out, stop, stop. Keith obliged and dropped her off on North Orlando Avenue at 1pm, about two blocks south of the now defunct Glass Bank. Sometime after being dropped

off, Tammy used a payphone to call both her Aunt Ginger and a friend named Ron Ables, but neither picked up. Phone records show that she placed multiple calls to each person in a very short space of time, suggesting she was in something of a panicked state. But what makes these calls particularly pertinent is that they were the final time Tammy Lynn would attempt to communicate with anyone before she dropped off the face of the earth. Five days later, with a heavy heart, Tammy's mother would report her missing to the Brevard County Sheriff. At first, Tammy's unhappiness at home meant that the police strongly suspected that she had simply run away. In 1992, Florida Today interviewed Tammy's mom, Linda, who told them that despite law enforcement insisting they were working on the case,

very little progress had been made. All I hear is, we're working on it, we're working on it, but they can't tell me exactly what they've done, Linda said. It leads me to believe they've come up with their own scenario and they won't budge from it. The case became such a high-profile mystery that one of Florida's top private investigators offered to work the case for free. For the PI in question, a man named Mike Angeline, it was personal. He actually knew Tammy personally and he promised her mother that he'd do all he could to bring her home. Mike was shocked to find that out of all the key witnesses in Tammy's disappearance, only one single person had been interviewed.

Not even Rick Adams, who had taken her to church the day before she vanished, had heard from investigating police. What's more, when Unsolved Mysteries featured the case on their show, producer Matt Kleiman confirmed that the Cocoa Beach Police Department requested he not share information or leads with Tammy's mom, Linda. Matt was quick to add that this was the first time any police force had asked something like that of him. Why they would do something like that is a complete mystery and in a case with so many unanswered questions, only one thing is clear, that Tammy Lynn Leppert was never seen again. It's entirely possible that Tammy really did just run away from home, opting to change her identity and live out the rest of her life anonymously.

Yet all of her family and friends were insistent that if Tammy really did want to take off, she'd have at least talked to someone first, left a note or maybe some contact details. Rick Adams had mentioned her, I may have to go away for a while, comment to police, but was quick to clarify that this was in reference to her upcoming three-month stay in California while she looked for acting jobs there. To him, no matter how scared Tammy was, she would have talked to someone and the fact she just seemed to vanish had him fearing the worst. There have been many suspects in her disappearance, with some pretty wild speculation as to who might be to blame. One of the earliest

suspects was a man by the name of Christopher Wilder, an Australian spree killer who murdered eight women between February and April of 1984. Wilder's bloodshed only ended when he took his own life in a New Hampshire motel and he became known as the Beauty Queen Killer due to his penchant for targeting aspiring glamour models. Police theorized that Tammy Lynn might well have been an early victim of Wilder's and her mother was so convinced of it that in May of 1984, she filed a million dollar lawsuit against him. Wilder's killing spree officially started just eight months after Tammy disappeared, and at least one victim of Wilder's was abducted in mere seven miles from where Tammy made her final phone calls to her aunt. Tammy's mother was also insistent that she recognized Wilder as a man who had visited her modeling agency several times in 1983, hoping to photograph Tammy. A judge later threw the

lawsuit out of court citing the lack of physical evidence, but Chris Wilder had always remained a potential suspect in the eyes of investigating homicide detectives. Another potential suspect in the case had earned himself the rather terrifying moniker of The Vampire. John Crutchley lived just 30 miles south of Rockledge and was arrested in 1985 on some seriously heinous charges. According to his hitchhiker victim, John welcomed her into his car, drove her back to his home at gunpoint and held her captive. He repeatedly violated her while cutting her and collecting the blood that he spilled, which he then made a show of drinking. His victim eventually escaped from a bathroom window, alerting police who then took her to the hospital where doctors found that Crutchley

had drank almost 50% of the blood in her body. Tammy Lynn was added to the list of the vampire's potential victims in 1988, but by 1995, the Brevard County Sheriff's Office was no longer actively pursuing him as a suspect. The final solid suspect is obviously the last person to see her alive, 22-year-old banker Keith Roberts. But bizarrely, law enforcement didn't get in contact with Keith until years after the event and by 1990, had only a few brief phone calls with detectives regarding Tammy's disappearance. Detectives also noted that Keith appeared to be ducking any kind of face-to-face meeting and knew much more than he was comfortable sharing. Another interesting question relates

to Tammy's state of mind in the days leading up to her disappearance. As we've mentioned, Tammy returned from the wrap party of a film called Spring Break fearing for her life. She mentioned money laundering, having seen something she shouldn't have, and that she was being targeted for assassination as well. But were these fears actually based in reality or was Tammy suffering from some kind of paranoia? Police found no evidence of large-scale money laundering among any of the film's acting or production staff, but bear in mind that these were the same officers that had already displayed gross negligence in their investigation, to the point that Tammy's mother hinted at a cover-up in a radio interview in 1993

when she publicly named a specific detective who she believed knew Tammy's killer's identity. In 37 years, Tammy's older sister had never given up hope of finding her sister. Susan Leppard frequently posts about her sister on social media, hoping that the information-rich digital age we now live in can help her dig up clues from the past. She doesn't believe that Chris Wilder or the vampire John Crutchley killed Tammy, but has often stated that she believes her sister's disappearance may be connected to the death of Nancy K. Brown, a 25-year-old tourist from Illinois whose remains were later found in a wooded area near Cocoa Beach in March of 1984. Both Nancy and Tammy were young, petite, had light hair and eyes,

were last seen on the same street, and vanished exactly one month apart. Nancy's murder has never been solved, but there's every chance that the culprit is also responsible for Tammy Lynn's disappearance too. But for now, the truth behind Tammy's murder and the vast conspiracy that is supposedly behind it will remain a mystery, and the person responsible for her fate is free to walk among us. Listen, it's very clear the supply chain issues are creating a huge ripple for the price of everyday grocery items. And we can always use ways to save more. And that's where EveryPlate comes in, which ends up being 25% cheaper than your normal trips to the grocery store. And this is what sets EveryPlate apart as America's best value meal kit. It's delicious dinners that don't break the bank. In the summer, I'd rather be out enjoying the

sunshine than cooking in the kitchen. And EveryPlate helps me do just that. Simple, stress-free recipes come together in just six steps and are ready in around 30 minutes or less. You can choose between 17 recipes that change each week and swap proteins and size to your liking so you can switch up your dinner routine however you want. Now me and the fam had the chance to try the cherry glazed pork meatballs with mashed potatoes and roasted carrots, which is just as delectable as it sounds. It's sweet cherry jam, sultry garlic, and a little kooky ketchup. Buttery mashed potatoes and tender sweet roasted carrots round out the meal with a dose of pure comfort.

It was amazingly delicious and a super fun and easy experience to cook with family. I was kind of amazed at how quickly we whipped up something so gourmet. So give it a try yourself. Try EveryPlate for just $1.79 per meal by going to everyplate.com and entering code READ179. That's $104 value by going to everyplate.com and entering code-D 179. Back in 2018, a couple of my frat brothers and I were partying down in Panama City over spring break. I was a sophomore at the time and I'd already gotten all my initial spring break excitement out of my way the previous year so myself and my frat bros are mostly just taking it easy. Still partying sure but just not nearly as wild or dumb as our first year. Thing is we can blatantly spot all the freshmen and it was pretty cringe thinking that that was what we looked like just the previous year. Those freshmen became the bane of our lives

at some points, showing up and puking right as we're parlaying our way into hanging out with a bunch of hotties, generally making idiots of themselves and causing a bunch of nonsense drama. So at one point, we hook up with these girls from Tennessee who say they're going on a booze cruise and we manage to secure ourselves some invites. It was pretty dope for a while, the music was good, no one was asking for IDs while handing out the beer bottles and after a while, we all started jumping into the water for a swim. Granted, I know that drinking and swimming is a really dumb thing to do but I'm pretty sure it was only confident swimmers that decided to get in and besides the whole drinking and swimming thing wasn't even the danger. Because in the distance we can see these jet skis approaching and as they pull up we can basically tell that these kids are either straight freshmen or just incredibly dumb. They're asking to party with us, but the boat

is at capacity and then they ask for some beers and they're turned down. They seem to take this on the chin at first, but after a while they start turning nasty, hurling insults, revving their jet skis past us. It gets to the point that they're like swooping past us, getting closer and closer to the people swimming in the water. We're calling out to them, warning point that they're like swooping past us, getting closer and closer to the people swimming in the water. We're calling out to them, warning them that they're slowly getting near to colliding with one of our swimmers, but I think the engines of the jet skis were just too loud for them to hear. It gets to the point where people are climbing back onto the boat because they just don't feel safe, and the captain is talking about calling the cops on these guys because they're obviously drunk and just came out to cause trouble. Then there's literally only one more person in the water when one of these absolute idiots on the jet skis makes one last pass super fast and super close to the boat.

You heard the impact of his jet ski smashing into the girl when he hit her, like this big hollow dump noise, and the screaming started. This kid is panicking, and he's revving his engine trying to turn away from the boat he only barely avoided colliding with. Then one of his revs catches something in the water. There's this horrible mechanical crunching sound, and then the water around his back end just starts turning red. People are seriously panicking by this point but when this poor girl's body floats to the surface and people see how the propeller blades of that jet ski had made mincemeat out of her head, people straight freaked. If I thought the screams were bad before, these new screams made the others sound like a choir of angels, Even the guys joined in, just absolutely horrified by what they saw.

People are running to the other side of the boat to puke. One of the girl's friends is just absolutely inconsolable, wailing like a banshee while the people around her just don't know what to do. About an hour later, the place is just a small fleet of cops on boats and EMTs on boats. I mean, it was real bad. People were just in shock, giving statements to the cops, telling them about the kids on the jet skis who, by that time, were long gone. When we finally got back onto dry land, no one was in the mood to party. We just found a senior that could buy us some beers and

just sat there in one of her hotel rooms trying to process what we'd just been witness to. One of my brothers said that he's been flirting with her like minutes before everyone decided to jump in the water. About a half hour later, she was dead and she died in one of the most horrific ways imaginable. We managed one more day down in Panama City before we decided to throw in the towel and drive back to Tuscaloosa. I remember hearing that Tory Lannes song that mentions jet skis in a bar the next day and thinking it was like a sick cosmic joke. And that's when you know you just need to go home. But yeah, be safe on the water people,

it ain't no joke out there. Back in my freshman year of college, me and a few buddies thought that it would be a good idea to drive down to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. Florida was awesome, and I guess all the stress of transitioning to college meant we needed to blow off a little steam because we partied our balls off for a few days and eventually met up with a dude who hooks us up with something a little stronger than corona. He asked us what we wanted and we're just young and dumb and excitable so we're like whatever you got bro lay it on us. So one of my buddies is talking to this dude and we're just messing around on the beach and sharking some beers from some unwary seniors and he calls over like you guys want to try some ex? And we're like yeah sure let's try it. We buy a tab each and down it with a little beer and then the guy starts

telling us how he has this stuff called GHB for sale. Now I didn't notice at the time but GHB was pretty popular in the southern states and it stands for gamma hydroxybutyric acid. Try saying that ten times fast. Some places register it as an anesthetic it's so strong and this guy was just selling it out of the trunk of his car but that's what you get when you spring break in florida i guess anyways the way the dude sold it was like yeah man your body like naturally produces this stuff it's totally natural and it'll get you way messed up We're just out of our minds at this point and in no fit state to make rational decisions but even in that state of mind

I wasn't all that keen on buying some weird drug I've never heard of from some guy's trunk. Only, here's where the problem comes in. I'm not exactly a little guy. I'm 6'1", I played right guard on my high school football team so a half hour after I swallowed that tab I wasn't feeling a freaking thing. So I confront the dealer, complaining that he sold me a dud and this guy is no gangster so he offers me a free dose of GHB instead,

telling me that it will mess me up, all this other stuff. He opens up his trunk and there's this gallon jug of what I guess was GHB. He's telling me to take a shot from the bottle cap and goes around front to get some from the glove box or something. So I do as he says, take a shot of this weird salty concoction from this gallon jug's cap. Next thing I know, the dude is looking at me with this horrified look on his face. I'm already feeling the effects of this stuff as he's looking at me. Turns out, good GHB hits you really hard. But I'm like, what dude? He then reaches into his trunk and pulls out a much, much smaller water bottle,

like an 18 ounce bottle, and tells tells me that's the bottle I should have shot from. Picture it, little water bottle cap, that's maybe half a shot of whiskey in there, but a gallon jug has like two doubles and that's how much GHB I drank in one go. So there's me, having done something that had an actual drug dealer scared and I'm like, I've taken way too much of this, haven't I? This is on top of the fact that GHB mixed with alcohol can potentially be fatal. But for a while there, I felt great. Like it sounds messed up, I know, but there was maybe 10 or 15 minutes where I was just flying high.

I walk back over to my friends. We walk off in search of more beer and more girls and boom. That's all I can remember from that day. The next memory I have after that is bright lights. I'm peeling my eyes open and wondering where I am and all I can see is bright white lights and they were the lights on the ceiling of my room in the hospital. I can't move, I can't talk. All I can do is just move my eyes to look down and see all these tubes coming out of my mouth like trailing down my chest. Before I can think another thing, this nurse appears and tells me not to worry, that I'm in the emergency room having just woken up from a medically induced coma because I overdosed. The first thing that runs through my mind is how mad my mom and dad are

going to be. Like I seriously could have died and that's one of my first actual thoughts after waking up. Not how lucky I was to be alive, not how dumb I had been to mess around with GHB, just I wonder what mom and dad are gonna think but in the end I think they were just relieved I was okay I knew how dumb and irresponsible I'd been I didn't need some lecture or punishment a brush with death was punishment enough but it's weird because aside from that initial uh-oh moment I I wasn't scared. I was too messed up to be scared and by the time I woke up, the danger was over. It's something that gives me chills when I look back on it, how I look at everything I have now, everything I've earned, and realize I only have it

by the grace of God. A couple of years back, me and a few of my sorority sisters were driving down to Miami Beach for spring break. It's like a 10 hour drive down from North Carolina, so we decided to stop over for an hour or two in Savannah to grab a bite to eat before driving the rest of the way. It meant we wouldn't be rolling into Miami until late at night But we knew each other a lot better than to attempt a road trip whilst hangry So right after we passed Jacksonville We end up taking a wrong turn And we decide to turn around to get back on the highway using a bunch of smaller roads It's pitch black

Every other street light is broken or flickering Just not the kind of place that a car full of college girls wants to be at that time of night. And to make matters worse, we're all stressing out, using a bunch of different sat-nav apps on our phones to try to find the right way back to the highway. I'm not even sure how it happened, but I'm in the back seat and all I hear is like, Sarah, look out! Sarah slams on the brake and we all see why she did so. Looking out into the road in front of us to see this guy just standing there, staring into the car's high beams. He obviously couldn't see who was in the car, like he had to have been blinded by Sarah's headlights but what was so creepy is that he was staring at the windshield

like he could really see us and he did not look happy. The guy has all this camouflage clothing on but not like military camo, like the sticks and leaves patterns that you see hunters using. He had this real thick salt and pepper facial hair too, so bushy you could barely make out his features with these long strands of greasy grey hair coming over his shoulders. I think if it was anyone else, Sarah would have honked her horn and shouted a few obscenities but the guy in front of us that night honestly looked incredibly creepy and considering what he did next, I know we were right not to antagonize him. We're so distracted by this guy that no one notices what's at his feet. Then all of a sudden he slowly kneels down and picks something up off

the road. Then when he stands up, the headlights are shining on what he picked up and we all just gasp in horror. It was like this pear-shaped flattened mass of blood, guts, and fur. It was like this pear-shaped flattened mass of blood, guts and fur. It was so messed up that it actually took me a second to work out that it was a raccoon. And the guy was holding it by what was left of its tail. This guy was out there, in the middle of the night, with no flashlight or nothing, picking up roadkill for God knows what reason. One of the girls starts saying, Go around Sarah, go around him!

Sarah just goes into full-on action movie mode. She reverses, revs her engine a little, then powers around the guy in a wide arc before speeding off down the road. That was most definitely the freakiest thing I'd ever seen. Thankfully it didn't ruin our spring break. We were definitely shaken up, but obviously no one was hurt. I guess I have my own little Florida man story now. But I feel like that's too light-hearted of a way of explaining it.

Whitewashing what could have been a pretty horrific situation. That guy collecting, or eating, or maybe doing something even worse with the bodies of roadkill animals. God only knows what he'd have done if he got his hands on a car full of college girls. The End Born in Alberta, Canada in the late 1970s, a young Mark Twitchell dreamed of directing big-budget Hollywood blockbusters. It's only fitting that Mark was born around the same time as the first Star Wars movie was released, as the series became a lifelong passion of his. So much so that in 2007, he actually directed a feature-length fan-fiction movie set in the Star Wars universe named Secrets of the Rebellion. The film depicts a series of events that occur just a few days prior to those of the original film,

and also happens to include a cameo from Boba Fett actor Jeremy Bullock. Secrets of the Rebellion was shot in full, but remains in post-production, and is unlikely to ever see the light of day. The same goes for another short film that Mark tried to make named House of Cards, a horror movie filmed entirely in an Edmonton garage he'd rented. Yet Mark's films are forever doomed to remain in the editing phase because, aside from filmmaking, Mark seemed to foster another passion. It was one that was not only considerably more sinister,

but one that would result in him being sentenced to a minimum of 25 years in prison. About the same time that Mark was filming a short horror movie, a 38-year-old factory worker named Johnny Altinger was on top of the world. Having recently dipped his toe back into the dating pool, he was delighted to inform his colleagues that he'd actually managed to bag a date with a woman he'd met on Plenty of Fish. Given that Johnny believed he was well past his sell-by date, we can understand how excited he might be and how eagerly he might agree to meet a woman he'd only just met online. Johnny's co-workers were happy for him and wished him luck with his budding romance. So much so that when he failed to show up for work one day and they received an email from his account telling them that he and his date had eloped to Costa Rica, they were incredibly understanding. Sure, it takes some extra work to cover his shifts, but love is love and Johnny

deserved happiness. Needless to say, Johnny's co-workers were heartbroken when they then received a resignation letter from him via email. They'd missed him but it sounded like he'd been caught up in something of a whirlwind romance. It was impossible not to be happy for him. The only matter that remained was getting Johnny's forwarding address so his employers could mail his final paycheck to him. But bizarrely, Johnny didn't return their emails, and the likelihood of him being content to miss out on the hefty sum of money seemed extremely slim. Finally, after weeks of waiting and worrying, a handful of Johnny's friends broke into his apartment.

They harbored a great deal of suspicion regarding their friend's little Costa Rican vacation and weren't prepared to just sit back and wait for the cops to do something. Yet the break-in only worried them even further when they found Johnny's travel luggage and passport still in his home. To them, it still wasn't entirely clear what was happening yet, but they knew it certainly couldn't be good. Johnny's friends went straight to the Edmonton police service with their foreboding collection of evidence, and it wasn't long before a homicide investigation was officially launched. By chance, one of the individuals interviewed in relation to Johnny's disappearance was none other than our wannabe Spielberg, Mark Twitchell.

It appeared that Johnny had sold his car to Mark at some point in the previous weeks, and this might prove a rather fruitful lead. Mark might well be able to provide them with an insight into Johnny's state of mind, perhaps even recall something Johnny said that might point them in the right direction. The police had no reason to believe that Twitchell was a potential suspect, but they also knew that there was no way Johnny was in Costa Rica unless he had smuggled himself across the border. So, when Mark mentioned that Johnny had expressed a desire to take a vacation, the police immediately became suspicious. The inclusion of such an obviously false assertion was enough for the police to arrest Mark Twitchell on Halloween of 2008 as a suspect in the murder of Johnny Altinger. As part of their investigation of Twitchell's involvement in the disappearance,

police seized and analyzed all of his electronic devices. They hoped to find an incriminating text message, a sinister search history, anything to prove it was Mark who was guilty of the murder. The chances of finding anything were slim and even then, proving its implications would be another task entirely. So, we can only imagine the pure shock of law enforcement officials when they found a document on Mark's computer that was simply titled, Serial Killer Confessions. The opening passage of Serial Killer Confessions read as follows, This story is based on true events. The names and events were altered slightly to protect the guilty. This is the story of my progression into becoming a serial killer.

The document went on to present an account of its narrator's planning, failed first attempt, and successful second attempt to lure a man to his garage and murder him, with fake online dating profiles used as bait. It also described the process of dismembering the body in attempts to dispose of the remains. It was a thinly veiled attempt to fictionalize what had evidently been a very real murder, as the account was so horrifyingly detailed that it was quite obviously a retelling of Mark's own experiences of murdering Johnny. Slowly, the truth became horrifyingly clear. Johnny lost his life so that Mark might be able to author a better true crime story. At his trial, Mark attempted to fabricate the idea that

he had murdered Johnny in self-defense, and that the serial killer confession document he had authored was merely a coincidence. Yet, he was hard-pressed to explain another document that law enforcement had recovered from his laptop, one which was titled, A Profile of a Psychopath. Despite his own insistence to the contrary, the prosecution argued that it was Mark's attempt to deeply analyze his own bizarre behavior and personality. This second document also detailed how, in the days leading up to Johnny's disappearance, Mark had purchased knives, plastic sheeting, saw blades, and a meat cleaver, all in preparation for creating what was described as a kill room in the rented garage. But perhaps the most damning piece of evidence

the jury heard was the plot of Mark's short horror movie, House of Cards. They were told that the movie centered around an unfaithful husband, one that was lured to a discreet location under the pretense he was meeting a woman from a dating website. However, once he arrived, he was attacked and killed by a masked man as punishment for his infidelities. Mark hadn't just killed a man so he could write about the process more accurately, he had staged a grim reenactment of his own short film. Once these details emerged, the police were contacted by a man named Gilles Tetral, a computer company contractor who seemed desperate to talk to them regarding the Mark Twitchell trial. Gilles told investigating officers that he too had been lured

to a secluded location under the pretense of meeting a young man named Sheena, whom he'd been flirting with online for the past several days. But when he arrived, he found himself ambushed by a man in a hocket mask who attempted to subdue him with a stun baton. After a violent struggle, Gilles managed to escape but did not report the attack to police out of sheer embarrassment. It was a clear replication of Mark's modus operandi, and suddenly, it became clear that Gilles was the one Mark mentioned in the first court document, a man the media dubbed the one who got away. As the trial progressed, the prosecution slowly pieced together a picture of who Mark Twitchell really was, a violent, deranged psychopath who masqueraded as a filmmaker, using the art form to recreate violent fantasies that he would later delight in making a reality.

The jury had no problem finding him guilty of first-degree murder, and in April of 2011, Mark was given the maximum sentence by Canadian law, life in prison with no parole eligibility for a minimum of 25 years. But even after his imprisonment, grim details of Mark's fascination with murder and dismemberment continue to reach the ears of the public. Apparently, Mark's favorite TV show was Dexter, a series that chronicled the life of Dexter Morgan, a man with homicidal tendencies living a double life. He works as a forensic technician for the police department during the day,

but after dark, he continues his work as one of Miami's most prolific serial killers. In May 2013, it was reported that Twitchell had purchased a television for his prison cell. Twitchell stated that he had caught up on every Dexter episode that he missed since he was arrested and convicted of first-degree murder. Word of Mark's love for the show was met with such revulsion by those that heard it that Dexter's lead actor, Michael C. Hall, was confronted with the news on a live radio show up in Canada. I would hope the people's appreciation was more than some sort of fetishization with the kill scenes, he said.

And I wouldn't stop making Dexter because someone like Mark Twitchell was fascinated by it only in that way. I try to tell myself that their fixated nature would have done it one way or the other, but it seems that Dexter had something to do with it. It's genuinely horrifying. Perhaps Michael C. Hall is correct. Perhaps Mark Twitchell had fostered a fascination with the macabre and the headlong predated his love of Dexter and was bound to hurt someone sooner or later. But there's also little doubt that the violent imagery presented in shows like Dexter have a very particular effect on some people. They act as triggers, making people like Mark want to turn their darkest fantasies into violent, permanent realities. In British Columbia, Canada, there is a 450-mile stretch of Highway 16,

running between Prince George and Prince Rupert, that has become one of the most hauntingly ominous places in the entire country. Since the 1970s, the highway has been the site of a disproportionate number of murders and unsolved disappearances, especially of indigenous Canadian women and girls. Law enforcement have attempted to explain the prolific nature of the disappearances as well as the difficulty in investigating them as being down to the widespread poverty, drug use, domestic violence, and poor social care. The poverty suffered by the people in the area leads to low rates of car ownership and mobility, meaning that hitchhiking is often the only way for people to visit family, go to work,

or seek medical treatment. Another factor leading to abductions and murders in that area is largely isolated and remote, with soft soil and an abundance of carnivorous scavengers to carry away human remains. These factors make the area a prime hunting ground for violent criminals, as perpetrators feel a sense of impunity, privacy, and the ability to easily carry out their crimes and hide evidence. So much so, that the locals have christened the stretch of road as the Highway of Tears. The grim nickname the Highway of Tears was coined during a vigil held in Terrace, British Columbia in 1998 by Florence Nazial, who was thinking of the victims' families crying over their loved ones.

Publicity of the Highway of Tears was met with righteous indignation by the Canadian public, and in 2005, the RCMP launched a provincially funded project, EPANA, which started with a focus on some of the unsolved murders and disappearances of young women along Highway 16. Ipana sought to discover if there was a single serial killer at work or a multitude of killers operating along the highway. Accounts vary as the exact number of victims, and according to the RCMP, the number of victims is fewer than 18. However, indigenous organizations estimate that the number of missing and murdered women is well over 40.

One of the first young women to go missing on the Highway of Tears was Ginny St. Pere, who vanished on October 14th, 1971. Her cousin Alvin was the last person to see her near a bridge on Highway 16 in Gitzgukle. He left Ginny to ride his bike home and retrieve a jacket, but when he pedaled back to meet her, he heard a pickup door slam. When he reached the road, there was no pickup and his cousin was gone. There was some speculation that Ginny ran away or took her own life after her boyfriend vanished, but her family disputed these theories. But regardless, her boyfriend's body was found drowned in the Skeena River not long after she disappeared. Then on July 3rd of 1976, pregnant 21-year-old Corrine Thomas was just days from giving birth when she was struck and killed by Richard Reddykop's truck as she was hitchhiking home. Both her and her unborn baby were killed.

Numerous witnesses reported seeing Ready Cop swerve to hit Thomas. Most of these witnesses were under the age of 16 and were taken into police custody where, after three hours of unsupervised interrogations, they were coerced by police to lie and say that Thomas was playing chicken with Ready Cop's truck. The local coroner stated publicly that the death was a complete accident, but he later retracted his testimony after it was made public that he was let off with a lesser charge after the drunken hit-and-run death of an indigenous man which he was responsible for ten years prior. The same coroner also presided over an inquest two years before in the death of Larry Thomas, who was killed by a vehicle operated by Reddy Cop's younger brother

Stanley on the same road where Corrine was killed. A formal public inquiry found numerous witnesses who confirmed that Reddy Cop's truck actually swerved to hit Thomas. Despite the inquiry, the Canadian government did not proceed with charges, citing insufficient evidence. But even a layman could see that it was the brothers' attempts at systematically murdering two members of the same family. Yet still, nothing was done about it. A breakthrough came in 1981 when 36-year-old Jean Mary Kovacs' nude body was found in a watery ditch by a man gathering firewood around 40 kilometers east of Prince George on October 11th. Police said she died from four.22 caliber bullet wounds to her head and was last seen alive at about 1.30 a.m. on October 10th at the intersection of Old Caribou Highway and Highway 16 East. Not long after, 13-year-old Rosavita Volksbichler was reported missing and her dead body was later found dumped in some dense

woodland just north of Prince George. Her body had been mangled and mutilated, but she died from a single stab wound to the heart. She had been stripped naked, stabbed, and slashed before dumped. Police spoke to a man named Edward Isaac, who witnesses said had given Rosavita a ride on the same day she went missing. Shockingly, Edward later fully admitted to the young woman's murder, stating he had taken her life because he wanted to see what it felt like. His conviction was practically concrete by the time the police secured the testimony of his ex-girlfriend who helped him dispose of the body. It was only that which prompted the full confession, otherwise the murders may have

remained unsolved. Isaac was also convicted of Jean Mary Kovacs' murder. He was sentenced to life in prison on May 11th, 1987, and was believed that, in light of Isaac's arrest and conviction, that the steady stream of murders and disappearances around the Highway of Tears would cease. And for three long years that seemed to be the case. There were no more disappearances around Highway 16, and for a while, the police believed they'd got their man. Yet the illusion of peace was shattered in 1989 when an entire family, including 26-year-old Doreen Jack, was reported missing. The Jack family left their home on Strathcona Avenue in Prince George, heading to a logging camp where they had been offered jobs and daycare for the children. Ronald and Doreen, along with their two small

children, Russell and Ryan, were last heard from during the early hours of August 2nd, 1989, when Ronald called to check in on his mother in the Burns Lake area. Previously, it had just been individual people that had gone missing. This time it was a whole family. Not only had the true Highway of Tears killer not been caught, but they were stepping up the scale of their attacks to target entire families. Just a few months later, 18-year-old Marnie Blanchard was also reported missing, having been last seen leaving the Rock Pit Cabaret in Prince George. Witnesses claimed they spotted a girl matching her description

entering a gray Toyota pickup truck at around 2 in the morning, but all they could see of the driver was that he had black, shoulder-length hair. The truck drove west down 2nd Avenue, disappearing into the night. Marnie was never seen alive again. Then around three weeks after she was reported missing, a married couple named Wilfred and May Peckham were partaking in a little cross-country skiing on an unmarked road just west of Foothills Boulevard. Gliding through a serene winter wonderland on their well-worn skis was one of the couple's favorite festive activities, but on that particular occasion, they were to make a truly horrifying discovery. Lying just off the trail was a human corpse, so badly mutilated by hungry wildlife that it was completely impossible to identify by sight alone. The person's face and eyes had been entirely eaten away, their limbs were nothing but bloody stumps,

and the abdominal cavity had been completely stripped of all soft tissue. It took x-ray and dental analysis of the corpse to identify it as that of Marnie Blanchard, the same First Nations girl that had gone missing just weeks before. February 5th of 1990 marked another grim landmark in the Highway of Tears murders. Up until now, the various killers had satisfied themselves with kidnap and close quarters execution or vehicular homicide. Within the early morning of February 5th, Prince Rupert Fire Department received a call warning them of a fire at an address of 3rd Avenue West. Upon their arrival, they found the building completely engulfed in flames. The dark street echoed with the screams

of a woman trapped on the second floor of the building, but they were soon silenced by the black, choking smoke that billowed from below. Family members from three different generations died in a blaze that police discovered was the result of an arson attack. Helga Roshan, her daughters Sherry and Pauline, and their grandmother, Kimberly Dumais, all lost their lives in one fell swoop after being targeted during an overnight visit. It wasn't even the first time there had been an attempted arson attack on their house either, as the previous Halloween someone had thrown a burning rag into the family's porch, obviously hoping it would start a fire. Years later, surviving members

of the Roshan family received a letter from an anonymous source claiming to be responsible for the arson. The author gloated that he had completely gotten away with snuffing out the lives of four innocent First Nations women, and that if he had the chance, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat. The fact that the letter came years later seems to rule out convicted serial killer Brian Peter Arp as a suspect in the arson attack. Brian was arrested and sentenced to life in prison for the murders of Marty Blanchard and another woman, Teresa Umphrey, in the summer of 1990, and unless he wrote the anonymous letter from his prison cell years later,

which is not entirely out of the question, the implications are highly disturbing. Brian Arp and Edward Isaac weren't the only killers attracted to the Highway of Tears area, drawn by their twisted desires to burn, crush, and kill. The location seems to continually attract those who wish to indulge in grim, murderous fantasies. But why? In September of 1990, the disappearances continued with 22-year-old Donna Charlie being reported missing. To the shock and horror of all who knew them, Donna's boyfriend was eventually arrested on suspicion of her murder. It seemed impossible. Donna and Jerry were a couple very much in love, and given Jerry's gentle nature, it seemed out of the question that he might have

harmed a single hair on Donna's head. But when confronted with strong evidence of his guilt, Jerry Smalley admitted to murdering his girlfriend after their pair went on a weekend binge of marijuana, magic mushrooms, and hard liquor. The perennially kindly Jerry told police that he had no idea what came over him and could barely remember the event. But the fact remained. A guy that was admittedly scared by the sight of blood had somehow found it in himself to cut off his dead girlfriend's head before burying her in a shallow grave near the motel they were staying at. Forensic investigators who excavated the site of the shallow grave found Donna's body but were unable to locate her

severed head. Jerry then told them he couldn't remember exactly what he'd done with it, but assumed he'd buried it along with the rest of her remains. For all intents and purposes, Donna Charlie's severed head is still out there somewhere, hidden in the woods around the Highway of Tears, just waiting to be found. The list of those who disappeared in the area goes on and on, with the last body of a murdered First Nations woman being found just a few months ago, in August of 2020. It's clear that something about the area around the Highway of Tears has attracted countless murderers over the past 50 years or so, but why exactly they're drawn to such a place to ply their grisly trade remains a complete mystery. Or perhaps it's something in the psychosphere,

something in the water that made a perfectly loving young man like Jerry Smollett turn into a bloodthirsty monster, capable of beheading a loved one whilst in a haze of hallucinogens. In June of 2016, after pressure from a number of First Nations advocacy groups, Canadian Transportation Minister Todd Stone announced that, as the result of collaboration across local communities, a bus service would become available along Highway 16, being jointly funded by the federal government and the government of British Columbia. A year later, a subsidized transit service began operations on alternating days along a 250-mile section of the highway between Prince George and Burns Lake. The idea of the bus service was to reduce the amount of hitchhiking that was occurring in the area, thus reducing the chances of kidnap and murder.

But given that there have been nine murders around the Highway of Tears since then, it's safe to say that those who wish to take the lives of the innocent have failed to be dissuaded. Because something keeps drawing killers to that particular area, and whatever that thing is, it doesn't appear it's going to cease anytime soon. Robert William Picton and his brother David liked to think of themselves as simple country folk. The pair owned a small suburban farm in western Canada, about seven miles east of Vancouver, and for many years they made a meager living in selling their produce over in the big city. For a long time, the brothers seemed perfectly content to live the quiet life of a farmer, but sometime in the mid

90s, the Picton brothers seemed to tire of country living. They began to seriously neglect the farm's operations, which had a devastating effect on their productivity. Robert in particular began to have bizarre mood swings, and his behavior around the farm grew steadily more concerning. An employee of the Pictons named Bill Hiscox said Robert used to be a pretty quiet guy, but his strange new personality frightened the farm workers. Bill also mentioned that the farm became a creepy looking place over time, but that he needed the money too much to put in his notice. But instead of knuckling down and getting the farm's operations in order, they thought up a scheme to fund what would become an increasingly wild lifestyle.

In 1996, the brothers registered a non-profit charity with the Canadian government named the Piggy Palace Good Time Society. In their mission statement, they claim to organize, coordinate, manage and operate special events, functions, dances, shows and exhibitions on behalf of service organizations, sports organizations and other worthy groups. The Canadian government then approved the payment of a grant to the Piggy Palace Good Time Society and Robert and David were flushed with free government money. But instead of using the cash to help worthy groups, as they put it, they used it to throw wild parties in a converted slaughterhouse that stood on the property.

These parties were attended by none other than the local chapter of the Hell's Angels, along with scores of Vancouver escorts, and were known to attract as many as 2,000 people at a time. But it seems that the Pictons' parties got a little too wild, and on March 23, 1997, Robert Picton was arrested by Vancouver Police Department on charges of attempted murder. The alleged victim was an escort named Wendy Lynn Eyestetter, who had been stabbed several times during an altercation which occurred at one of their many charitable events. Hickton insisted the stabbings were in self-defense after Wendy attacked him with a broken bottle, the claim he could back up since he also walked away from the confrontation with serious injuries. But Wendy had a different story entirely, asserting that she had only attacked Robert after he had attempted to handcuff and kidnap her. Not only had she

managed to escape the handcuffed attempt, she also disarmed Robert of the knife he was threatening with, which is what she then used to inflict the wounds that sent him to the hospital. Despite the obvious indications of Robert's insidious, predatory nature, the fact that both had wounds meant that police and judicial officials alike believed it was nothing more than a tit-for-tat lover's tiff that happened to turn bloody, and on January of 1998, the charges were dismissed. But the negative press forced the brothers to shut down the Piggy Palace Good Time Society after its non-profit status was removed after a federal financial committee was unable to procure financial statements.

Yet fraud, zoning violations, and debauched biker parties weren't the only thing the Pickton brothers were up to, and farm worker Bill Hiscox had begun to notice something chilling. Over the years, Bill had noticed that many of the young ladies who visited the farm seemed to just vanish. They'd walk down the driveway of the farmhouse all smiles and sunshine, asking for a job or if they could pick fruit or if they could feed the pigs. Robert Pickton would smile back, say, Sure, why not? and invite them inside. But Bill noticed that despite lots of young women walking into the farmhouse,

not many of them seemed to come out again. Over time, Bill began to seriously worry about what was going on in the Pickton's farmhouse. He'd have to wait four long years to get any answers and when he did, they'd only confirm his worst fears. On February 6th, 2002, Vancouver police executed a search warrant for illegal firearms at Pickton's farm who were rumored to be engaging in weapons trafficking in partnership with the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang. Robert and David were arrested and an intensive search of the farm was conducted. The cops were only looking for unlicensed rifles and signs of illegal automatic conversion, but instead, they discovered something far more disturbing.

Based on their grim new discovery, police quickly obtained a second warrant to search the farm in conjunction with officers from the British Columbia Miss and Women's Investigation. Personal items belonging to several different girls were found in Robert's possession, and the farm was subsequently sealed off for excavation. When specialist forensic investigators arrived at the Picton farm to begin the exhaustive process of digging through the dirt, they figured it would make for grim work. But they couldn't have imagined the sheer scale of Robert's evil, which would only be evidence in the number of bodies they found. Police were slow to release information to the public, but on February 22nd, Robert was arrested and charged with the murders of Serena Abbotsway and Mona Wilson. Six weeks later, three more charges were added for the murders of Jacqueline McDonald, Diane Rock, and Heather Bottomley. A sixth charge for the murder of Andrea Julesbury was laid on

April 9th, followed shortly by the seventh for Brenda Wolfe. In September, four more charges were added, with another four murder charges laid on October 3rd, which brought the total number of homicides to 15. Then, on May 26th, 2005, 12 more charges were laid against Pickton for the killing of a dozen more women, bringing the total number of first-degree murder charges to 27. It was the largest investigation of any serial killer in Canadian history, costing more than 70 million Canadian dollars by the end of 2003, and was partly so expensive because the process of forensic analysis and victim identification was so difficult and drawn out. Many of the bodies had been underground for years, exposed to the raw earth and all its necrophagic creepy crawlies. Other corpses were fed to the collection

of pigs that the Pictons kept. The fact that such a neglected farm had such fat, well-fed pigs speaks to what a prolific killer Robert was. This meant that some bodies were simply impossible to identify without the use of complex and expensive methods. For example, during the early days of the excavations, forensic anthropologists brought in some seriously heavy equipment, including two 50-foot flat conveyor belts and soil sifters to find traces of human remains. But still, even after hundreds and hundreds of man-hours were poured into the excavation, it's not entirely clear just how many women Robert Pickton really killed. Despite being officially convicted of six murders, some believe Pickton could be behind the deaths

of up to 49 other young women. What's more, there's evidence that Pickton's depravity extended far beyond simple murder. On March 10th, 2004, the Canadian government released a statement saying that Pickton may have ground up human flesh and mixed it with pork that he sold to the public. This was followed up by the British Columbia Health Authority issuing a warning confirming that their concerns were warranted. After Pickton was convicted, many people started coming forward and talking to police about what was going on at the farm. One of the witnesses that came forward was named Lynn Ellingson, who claimed to have seen Pickton skinning a woman hanging from a meat hook years earlier. She did not tell anyone about this out of fear for her life. Additionally, Ellingson admitted that she blackmailed Pickton over the incident on more than one occasion, which only further secured her silence. The items police found inside Robert Pickton's trailer also speak to how disturbed he

was. Cops found a loaded.22 revolver with a martial aid over the barrel and one round fired, boxes of.357 Magnum handgun ammunition, night vision goggles, two pairs of fox fur line handcuffs, a syringe with three milliliters of blue liquid inside, and some Spanish fly aphrodisiac. But even more disturbingly, police got their hands on a videotape which contained footage of Picton's friend Scott Chubb. In the short home video, Chubb is filmed saying that Picton had told him a good way to kill a female heroin addict was to inject her with windshield washer fluid. A second tape was also played at Robert's murder trial, in which an associate of his says Robert had mentioned killing escort workers by handcuffing and strangling them, then bleeding and gutting them before feeding them to pigs. On December 11th, 2007, after reading 18 victim impact statements, British Columbia Supreme Court Judge Justice James Williams

sentenced Pickton to life with no possibility of parole for 25 years. The maximum punishment for second-degree murder, and equal to the sentence which would have been imposed for a first-degree murder conviction. As of 2015, the Picton farm had been completely fenced off to the public and is under lien by the Crown and Right of British Columbia. All the buildings on the property except a small barn had been demolished. The place will never stand as a sick memorial to one of Canada's most prolific killers. In the end, the place merely had the appearance of being a farm. A drove of pigs, a broken down tractor, all things that

might fool the ignorant. But in fact, the farm had become a cemetery for vulnerable young women who, as their killer knew, would barely be missed. It seems we like to think of Canada as America's friendly neighbor to the north, a land of bacon and apologies with a room temperature crime rate. But the idea is a myth, and the whitewashing of Canadian culture, or maple washing as it's come to be known, is a very real thing. There appears to be a deep well of evil in the Great White North too, and it is just as deep and troubling as the one down here. The Amund Roseholdt, Valerie Theret, and their ten-month-old daughter, Adele Roseholdt,

all lived in a small log cabin northeast of Mayo, a remote community about 250 miles north of Whitehorse, the capital of Canada's Yukon Territory. The family had owned the cabin since 2015 and had flown there in the autumn of 2018 for the yearly wilderness vacation they took. The plan was to stay and trap animals to live off of until after the new year when Theore was set to return to her teaching job back in Whitehorse. The couple were an experienced pair of outdoorsmen, skilled in bushcraft and extremely cautious of the risks involved in their unusual form of seasonal lifestyle. But in the end, no amount of experience could save the family from the grim fate that awaited them,

and as the years went by, the family's luck would finally run out. On the morning of November 26, 2018, the family had a simple breakfast of fruit and porridge together before Yermund departed the cabin to check on the family's trap lines. Being able to provide for his family in such a primal, primitive manner was a huge source of pride for him, and he was extremely diligent in his work. But while Yermund was literally putting food on the table, something was creeping through the trees back near the family cabin, something watching his wife and baby through the trees with wild, hungry eyes. Yermund wasn't all that far from the cabin, and didn't hear anything that might concern him while he was out, so there was no need for him to rush back.

But as he was returning to his family with a brace of rabbits, he noticed some rather large animal tracks in the snow ahead of him, and to his horror, they led in the direction of the cabin. After checking the family cabin for his partner and their infant daughter, Irmun found it empty, so he walked towards the nearby sauna, After checking the family cabin for his partner and their infant daughter, Yermun found it empty, so he walked towards the nearby sauna, keeping his loaded rifle at the ready. When he was about 240 meters from the cabin, Yermun felt his blood turn to ice when he heard deep, angry growls coming from some bushes nearby. Whatever the foliage concealed was huge. Yarmoune turned just in time to see a huge grizzly bear charging out from the scrub just 15 meters from where he

stood. Despite his terror, he managed to get four shots of his rifle off in as many seconds, with one of the bullets smashing into the bear's skull, killing it instantly. He had neutralized the threat, but felt his heart break in his chest when he had discovered he had been too late to save his child and her mother. Adele was lying still in a baby carrier attached to Valerie's back. Both had been mauled to death, with huge chunks of flesh missing from both their blood-soaked bodies. But grizzly attacks on humans are extremely rare, and a bear has to be truly starving and desperate to resort to human flesh for sustenance. Yet unfortunately for Yermun's partner and child, that's exactly the condition that this grizzly was in. A post-mortem examination performed on the 18-year-old male bear found that it was so emaciated that it would not have been capable of hibernation given its complete lack of body fat.

Conservation officers said they had no idea what might cause the bear to be in such distress, so much so that it turned to extremely uncommon food sources in its desperation, including a porcupine. That particular meal had gruesomely injured the grizzly, which was found to have multiple quills penetrating its digestive system. While officials said the death of Thierry and her infant daughter appeared to have been an unavoidable tragedy, they cautioned it showed that the danger of bear encounters remained year-round. The hibernation period in the region usually lasts from around November to late spring, but as we just heard, some bears are in no condition to hibernate. It just goes to show that even somewhere like Canada,

which we think of as a civilized modern country, has vast swaths of wilderness that are simply not as accommodating as we might like to think. Even when we think we've learned the rules of Mother Nature's game, she'll just throw us a curveball that results in the tragic death of a young mother and her child. But it seems that sudden horrific deaths like that are the price we pay for mankind's continued desire to tame the great, wild spaces on the earth. And so, as we go on taking from nature, so nature continues to take from us. The End Sometime before the year 1850, at a remote hunting camp in the Canadian Arctic near King William Island, a group of native Inuits were skinning and butchering their freshly caught game. Suddenly, one of the hunters spotted something moving through the dense, freezing fog.

It was a sight that might well have been one of the most unearthly and chilling things ever to be seen by human eyes. A dozen decrepit figures lurched towards them through the snow, with vacant eyes and icy blue skin. None of the skeletal figures made a single sound as they moved, and to the Inuit, it was as if though they had materialized out of thin air. They're not Inuit. They're not even human, one First Nations woman was said to have stated, her voice shaking with fright when she rushed to warn her people of the ghostly creature's approach. No sooner than she'd spoke, her family began to hear snow crunching under the boots of the skeletal beings that approached their igloo, and there was a horrifying moment of realization that the girl was speaking the truth. Everyone got scared, very, very scared,

said Joe Haven shaman Nicholas K. Utenawak when he described the encounter and we can easily understand why. These Inuit were among the most isolated people on earth and although they knew of Europeans, they had never met a white person. They had never even met any of the Dean people, another group of First Nations people who had made their home nearby, so it stands to reason that any incursion by outsiders would be met with anxious reactions, but to have a group of what they assumed were monsters invading their home would have been a truly horrifying experience. At last, when the ragged boots of the ghostly figures could be seen from the entrance of the igloo, an elderly member of the tribe went out to investigate.

As the older man exited the ice block shelter, he laid eyes on a figure who seemed so completely disoriented that at first, he didn't think the figure could even see him. The figure laid a gloved hand on the exterior of the igloo, apparently fascinated by the thing, and didn't resist when the older man reached out and touched the blue skin of their cheek. Their skin was cold and blue as ice, the man later said. I'd never in all my life seen a devil or a spirit. I've heard the sounds they make, but I've never seen them with my own eyes, not until that day. Those things weren't human. As it turned out, the ghostly skeletal figures

were none other than the last survivors of the doomed Franklin Expedition, sailors who had survived one of the most harrowing ordeals imaginable. The Franklin Expedition was a British voyage of arctic exploration led by Captain Sir John Franklin that departed from England in 1845 aboard two ships, HMS Erebus and HMS Terror. The task assigned to them was to traverse the last unnavigated sections of the Northwest Passage in the Canadian Arctic. The expedition was met with disaster after both ships and their crews, a total of 129 officers and men became icebound in Victoria Strait near King William Island, in what is today the Canadian territory of Nunavut. After being icebound for more than a year, Erebus and Terror were abandoned in April of 1848, at which point Captain Franklin

and almost 25 others had died. The survivors, now led by Franklin's deputy Francis Crozier and Erebus' captain James Fitzjames, set out for the Canadian mainland and disappeared. The few that survived had buried their captain, witnessed their ship being swallowed by the creeping ice, and even eaten the flesh of their dead shipmates in order to survive. They were thousands of miles from home, lost and traumatized, having only escaped death by the narrowest of margins as they attempted to escape the Arctic on foot. To the native Inuits, the encounter with the starving, freezing men was one of the most terrifying of their lives, but to the Franklin survivors, the event was one of the

most joyous occasions imaginable. They knew that they were still hundreds of kilometers from any fur trading post or whaling station that might have mounted any sort of rescue attempt. It was an incredible stroke of good luck, and although a handful of the expedition had now found salvation, scores had already fallen victim to the deadly frozen wastes. The survivors seemed far too weak to be dangerous, so a group of Inuit women tried to comfort the men by inviting them into their igloo, but being face to face with the skeletal figures only made the native women increasingly nervous. The survivors were painfully quiet, and although they were quite obviously starving, they refused to eat any of the Inuit food. They spat out the chunks of cooked seal that they were given, seemed repulsed by the pot of soup that the women had boiling

away on a stove, and savagely held on to their meager belongings when the Inuit women offered a trade for some dried meat. When the men of the tribe returned from a seal hunting trip, they were so astonished by the condition of the survivors that they hastily constructed an igloo for them, built them a fire, and even outfitted the shelter with three whole seals. But then, after the survivors had gone to sleep, the Inuit were still so terrified of them that they quickly packed up their belongings and fled into the night. Whether or not their pale-skinned visitors were actually natives or from some other far-flung place, the group decided that staying too long around these strange skeletal figures with their iron knives might get them all killed. But in their haste to escape, the Inuit had

abandoned several of their personal belongings, and when a small party went back to the camp to retrieve them, they found an igloo filled with corpses. The seals were untouched. Instead, the men had eaten each other. In the 1990s, Canadian anthropologists began to compile an oral history which detailed the age of Arctic discovery, but from the viewpoint of First Nations people. What they discovered was a plethora of haunting tales which recalled ghostly encounters with doomed men. The First Nations group of North America had encountered Europeans for the first time in all manner of different ways. But while groups in warmer coastal climates had communed and clashed with explorers who were well-fed and well-dressed,

the Inuit people were more often encountering small, ragged groups who were on the verge of death. But it wasn't just their appearances that so disturbed the native Inuits. It was the behavior of the surviving Europeans that indigenous peoples found most alarming. Inuit hunters came back from trips into the wilderness with horrifying tales of pale, skeletal men who didn't seem to be right. And given that the Franklin survivors would have been ravaged by scurvy, botulism, or sheer desperation, we can understand their diminished mental state, but the details of their degradation are truly harrowing. Men raved in languages the Inuit couldn't understand, and although this was nothing more than a simple language barrier, it must have compounded the terror that the First Nations people experienced.

One group of hunters came across some European survivors who had been sleeping for days in the hollowed-out corpses of seals they'd caught and killed. They were said to be so shriveled with hunger and so caked with frozen gore that they were barely recognizable as human beings. Another group of native hunters stumbled upon a small group of white men huddled together for warmth under a rocky outcrop. The men appeared to be eating strips of frozen meat that the hunters assumed was coming from a seal or perhaps a seabird, but when they got closer, they saw that the haggard-looking group were butchering and eating a human leg. Realizing they had been discovered, the Europeans barely reacted,

and simply carried on filling their stomachs with morsels of human flesh before they carried on southward. Morbid remnants of the expedition continued to be found by generations that followed, and as late as the 1960, it was still possible to stumble across a uniformed skeleton, still carrying some variety of naval couturement. By the end of the 19th century, the coasts of King William Island were littered with the grim leftovers of failed expeditions. The deadly failures caused a national scandal over in Great Britain. The Brits imagined that if the expeditions had indeed been lost, then surely the survivors had met a noble British death. Yet hearing of good British sailors resorting to such savage means of survival was too horrifying to keep quiet about. Facing death from frost or hunger, thousands of miles from home, is most certainly a terrifying

prospect. But it seems the doomed voyage was all the more terrifying for some of the native people of Canada, who, having never seen a stranger before, saw grim visages of famine stumbling at them through the icy fog. Some believed they were spirits at first, but they were wrong. It was death that visited them on that cold winter's day. Let me start by saying that Utah is an interesting and odd place to live. As you can guess, the LDS population is the majority and its influence is unavoidable. But it's also shockingly a place plagued by human trafficking. When you were raised and taught that where you are living is the holiest and safest place on earth, you were kind of set up for disappointment. When your parents, family, friends, neighbors, and pretty much everyone you know is Mormon, you feel a false sense of security.

You feel immune to those horrible stories you see on the news or share it online. I was 17 at this time in my life. I had recently broken up with an incredibly abusive boyfriend, my first boyfriend. I won't go into details but he had intimately abused me which if you know anything about LDS culture you're considered chewed gum and given the cold shoulder. My parents of course knew and had facilitated the breakup but they were not aware of just how broken and vulnerable this experience made me. I felt used and awkward, and like I now had nothing to offer my future husband in regards to my purity. It was a very terrible time for me. I come from a rather large family with five other siblings. This kind of

thing is normal in Utah, the go forth and populate the earth kind of stuff. So when one of my older brothers announced that he and his girlfriend got engaged, we were elated and so happy for him, but also concerned about how we were going to afford a wedding when we could barely afford to pay for gas and meals. At that point, my father was unemployed, working a few freelance jobs here and there to make ends meet and my mother was a housewife taking care of us six kids. We didn't exactly have a dependable source of income. Now I love my older brother dearly.

He had recently returned from serving a religious mission for two years and just having him around again was so nice. We bonded over playing video games together all while growing up. Our dad owned a video game store way back then but had to close shop and we got to keep his excess inventory consisting of SNES games and whatnot but it's a story for another time. I didn't really fight with my other siblings but he and I got along better than most and I really valued that friendship. So when it came to light that we were struggling to finance this most special event for him and his fiance, I felt the

need to pitch in somehow. I'd never had a job before. I was still in my junior year of high school and was barely passing as it was, but I thought that my brother's wedding was more important than good grades. I began my search with local restaurants and grocery stores but they already had a surplus of graduated kids working and weren't looking for any more help. Okay, I thought. I've done this the old-fashioned way and came up with nothing. Maybe I should try looking online. We'd only recently gotten internet at our house in 2010 so I was quite behind on the internet street smarts and safety. God, I wish I had asked my siblings for help or something. It would have saved me from what shortly happened after I took my search to the web.

I had heard of a site called Craigslist and had considered it to be some kind of bulletin board for the internet. People sold stuff on there and I heard they also posted job listings so I dove in and began searching in earnest. All the listings seemed way out of my league, requirements way above my pay grade as a 17 year old. I just needed something simple for a few months to help save up enough money for my brother's wedding I could put up with a terrible job for a few months I thought. It was only while perusing the jobs listings that I found this one particular post asking for a house cleaner. Being one of six kids, our home got pretty messy pretty fast and I was rather skilled at cleaning up after others and enjoyed making spaces clean.

But listings seemed simple enough, though the language had created a small twinge of discomfort in my gut. House cleaner wanted, need someone to keep my home, workspace tidy, would be very nicely compensated, especially if you're easy on the eyes. Does that mean they'd pay me more if I was kind of cute? It was weird, but I didn't pay much thought to it. Being a sheltered Mormon girl at 17, I didn't have any exposure to these kinds of things. I thought that it wouldn't hurt to reach out and ask about the position. I would probably be rejected anyway for lack of experience, but to my surprise surprise the lister replied back rather quickly. They were polite and proper as we talked over the craigslist messaging system. Now I should mention that I

didn't have a phone at this time but I did have an old hand-me-down Nintendo DS that could connect to the internet which was how I was communicating with this person. So sad I know but I worked with what I had. After exchanging a few messages the odd feeling in my gut grew more and more. The lister had introduced himself as a 60 something year old man. Divorced, small business owner and currently working out of his lavish condo which he lived alone in. That wasn't odd but he began asking me what I looked like. I wasn't a bombshell or anything. I had rather long legs and stood at 5 foot 7, a little underweight at 105 pounds, reddish hair, rather flat chested, tomboyish look. He seemed pleased with these small descriptions but he became intensely interested when I mentioned being 17. It was like a switch

went off and all the politeness went out the window. The questions became more invasive. Had I been with a man before? What kind of panties did I wear? Did I like older men? I was overwhelmed. Talking about these kinds of things was against everything I had been raised with, not to mention talking about it with some random old guy I've never met. It was gross. As much as I was considering just not messaging back and blocking him, a small part of me just kind of gave in. My ex had used me. I wasn't pure anymore.

I felt ugly, uninvolved, and like no one would ever take an interest in me. God, this hurts to think about. Ever since my breakup had become public knowledge and my dirty laundry had been hung to dry, my mental health had spiraled. Purity is probably the most important thing in the Latter-day Saints culture, and everyone around me knew that I was unclean. If that was the case, I truly wasn't worth anything anymore then what was the point? If working for this man earned me a little money to help my family, what would it matter if this old guy was a little dirty with me? It didn't seem like he was going to try anything and even if he did, well, that was a risk I welcomed. Either I came out of this with

a little cash to offer up or something happened to me and I didn't have to worry about existing anymore. It seemed like a win-win. Weeks went by and the messages continued. They grew worse and worse with this man eventually writing out entire small fantasy novels of what he'd like to do to me in his perfect world. It was revolting. We had not had the chance to meet up yet. I couldn't drive and it was hard for me to get out of the house without raising suspicion. The day of my brother's wedding was coming closer and my family was still struggling to make ends meet. Most days I pretended to sleep when it was dinner time so my younger siblings would have more food to eat and this man was promising me a lot of money just to come see him. To come and visit for a little bit, to get to know one another. Money that we really,

really needed. After weeks of being cajoled and groomed by this man I caved in and accepted his invitation to meet up. I wish I had known how bad this was going to get. I would never have stepped foot out of that house that day but I guess everyone has something that they really regret doing. The day came and I was preparing to leave. He had told me to say that I had a job interview as an in-house artist for his company. I was a self-taught artist and my parents knew that about me so they weren't too surprised at this position I was looking into. They were however very suspicious of how too good to be true the offer seemed. I assured them the best that I could that I had done my research and that this was a reputable

company and that they would offer me flexible work hours if they chose to hire me. The man had made sure that I knew the importance of traveling alone when I came to his condo. I wasn't to be driven by anyone, I was supposed to take the bus. I wasn't even to tell anyone of his address. When my parents asked where it was I skirted around the question, directing their attention towards how excited I was for the interview and for the chance to help out the family. They consented, but with one exception. That my other older brother, the one not being married, would drive me to the location. Honestly, I found this as a relief.

I wouldn't tell the man that I had been carpooled, he didn't have to know. And I wouldn't have to endure the awful public transport that is the UTA system. I patted down my black formals I had donned and went to tell my brother I was ready. He begrudgingly set down his Xbox controller and we got into his run-down car and set off. The entire ride there I was on the verge of puking. I was petrified. I had no idea what this man had in store for me. He said he would just talk.

But was that really all that was going to happen? He'd pay me to chat with him for a bit and then we'd call it a day. I desperately hoped that was the case. I was fine if something was going to happen to me, but the fear in my stomach was becoming unbearable. It was like I knew that something wrong was about to happen. My self-destructive attitude was giving way to a newfound thought. What if what he had in store for me was worse than death? But I didn't have time to back down. My brother and I had reached his lavish condo. God, it looked so derelict and run down it was hard to believe that anyone was actually living in the building. My brother glanced at me worriedly.

Yeah, you uh, you sure this is the right spot? This place seems kind of sketch. Yes, um, I was told that this was just a temporary workplace until their new locations all set up. I stammered out. Lying on the fly was not on my skill list. He seemed, however, to accept this reply and shut off the car's engine. Do you know how long you'll be there? I was hoping to check out the game store across the street.

I actually didn't know how long the man had wanted to talk. Would it be more than a half hour? Probably not. Uh, maybe come back in 45. I heard it's a pretty thorough interview process and... I'll come out and wait if you're not here when it's over. He nodded at this and watched as I exited the car and approached the awful building. I was surprised he couldn't see how badly I was trembling. The area around the condo was rank with the smell of old cigarette butts and evaporating beer. My shaking got worse as I

approached the back of the condo, going to the entrance he told me to use when I arrived. I hesitantly stood in front of his door, thinking, would it be rude of me to say that something had come up, to request that maybe we could try this another day? But I chastised myself. No, your family needs this money badly. Your brother deserves a lovely wedding and your siblings need to eat. But what would my family do if they found out where the money had come from? It would break their hearts. They'd be devastated. Then I guess that I'd have to make sure that they never knew about any of this and this would be my burden alone to bear. I knocked on the door so timidly that I meekly hoped that maybe he wouldn't hear and I could just walk away.

But I think that he must have been anxiously awaiting me because the door swiftly opened and I came face to face with my horror. He was definitely in his 60s. He had a huge beard that looked not very clean. His clothes were rather worn down. It was odd that I was actually taller than him, but he was definitely heavier than I was. He looked me up and down with eyes that just burned, so predatory and hungry with their gaze. Did you follow my instructions? He asked quietly, looking around me for any sign of other people.

Yes, sir. Um, I came here on the bus. I'm ready for my interview. I smiled shyly, not able to meet his eyes. His horrible, horrible yellow eyes. Good girl. Come on then. He waved me inside, resting his arm on the small of my back as he closed the door behind me.

My entire body shivered in revulsion. His home was not as he had described at all. I could see traces of his home business scattered about and bits of nerd paraphernalia here and there. Maybe he really did just need a house cleaner and I was worrying over nothing. The hand on my back pressed me to his body and I had to hold my breath as his stale breath washed over me with each hungry pant. It was very bad old man breath. Well, aren't you going to kiss me? What? He must have seen the nervous look in my eyes because he didn't give me room to react or say anything. He pressed my lips to his and I just about died right then and there. I was kissing

this disgusting old man and I was alone, all alone. I pressed my shaking hands against his chest until he stopped assaulting my mouth. I timidly showed him the folder I had brought of my art, on the off chance that he really was considering hiring me for his business. He kind of huffed at me and ran his hands over me while taking the folder from my hands. Hmm. Your art is actually quite lovely. I think you shall promise. If you're a good girl girl I'll hire you on and you can work for me

On top of the housekeeping business He stepped away towards what must have been his kitchen area though it was incredibly tiny It's scorching outside you must be thirsty Here have a bottle of water. He withdrew his hand from the fridge holding a water bottle, the really cheap kind with those tiny inefficient caps. I shakily accepted the bottle but just held it politely. I'm actually not that thirsty, thank you though, I stammered.

He stared at me firmly before unscrewing the cap and pressing the bottle to my face. Drink the water. Don't refuse a kind gesture, little lady. I once again took the water but by this point I was getting really afraid. Why was he so insistent on me drinking his water? I really wasn't thirsty but he was starting to look angrier the longer I delayed taking a sip. I tipped't thirsty but he was starting to look angrier the longer I delayed taking a sip. I tipped the bottle up and allowed some to slip into my mouth and pretend to swallow. Good, good. Try and finish the bottle, sweetie, he murmured.

He briefly looked away and I took the chance to let the water fall from my mouth silently back into the bottle. It had a really odd odor and taste and I wasn't about to drink more of it if I could help it. He turned back to face me and I got chills from the look he gave me. I'd never felt this naked and uncomfortable while being fully clothed before. He approached me once more and ran a scratchy finger across my cheek. I'm going to get the upstairs cameras ready for us, sweetheart. We're going to have a little fun first, and then I'm going to take some photos of you. You're so cute. You should consider being a model.

He turned around and began making his way upstairs, calling down. Make sure you finish that water. Can't have you getting dehydrated now, can we? I was frozen stiff to the spot. Fun? Photos? We hadn't discussed that. My head was spinning. His upstairs wasn't that far away.

It really was a small condo. Whatever I did, he could hear. This is more than I bargained for. This felt wrong. Really wrong. My inner voice was screaming at me to leave, that this place was very dangerous and that I needed to get out of there, now. I frantically set down the bottle and waited until I saw him go deeper into his room and I swiftly opened his front door and just ran. I was sure he heard me but I didn't care. I ran around the side of the building and saw my brother sitting in his car. In reality he hadn't left. He had a bad feeling about the situation and had decided to stick around to make sure that I was okay and thank god for him.

He saw me speeding over to his car and quickly turned on the ignition while I swung the door open and clambered inside as fast as possible. He peeled out of there as fast as he could, all while demanding to tell him what had happened. I couldn't speak. I opened my mouth but no words came out. The entire car ride home I was in the fetal position trembling in the passenger seat, tears streaming silently down my face. My brother gave up demanding that I tell him what happened. He calmed his voice and just asked if I was okay.

I nodded, letting him know that I was alright, but I begged him not to tell anyone of this. I said that I had gotten weird vibes about the place and just left mid-interview, but that was it. He nodded slowly and surely knowing that there was much more to the story than I was telling him, but he left it at that. He waited until I was ready to go inside her house where I put on a sad smile and told my parents that the interview hadn't worked out and that I wasn't hired. They gave me a pat on the back and told me that it was okay, that it was better for me to focus on school rather than getting a job. It felt so surreal, to be back home and to be safe. I hopped in the shower and scrubbed my body furiously. I couldn't wash away the spots where he had touched me.

They felt permanently soiled. I cried in the shower. After putting on my sleeping clothes, I shakily opened my DS and saw so many messages from the man. He was at first worried, asking if I was okay, that something wrong had happened. Then he just got angry, demanding why I left, telling me that he wasn't going to pay me for such a short visit, demanding that I come back and that I apologize to him. I blocked him immediately and tried to get some rest, not that it would come for a long time. After a few months I went to the police to report him,

only to learn that he was known and convicted for stuff like this before, with counts of suspected human trafficking in regards to some missing female associates of his. He was never jailed though, even my accounts of him and me being a minor were moot because I had no physical evidence to show of it. I had blocked and deleted everything he had ever sent me. It sucked. Nothing would happen concerning him for a few years. I became more sure of myself, realized I was bi and left the LDS church of my own accord,

and was generally in a much better mental place. That was until I was attending the Salt Lake City Comic Con with my fiancé and now husband. I dressed up as D.Va from Overwatch and was having a great time walking around and buying other artists' merch until I walked past a particular stall. For anonymity's sake I won't say its name or what it was selling but all it took was one look at who was running the booth and my knees began trembling. It was him. The man who had taken advantage of my vulnerability years ago was there selling his products without

a care in the world. He looked over my direction but apparently didn't recognize me amongst my costume and makeup. My fiancé immediately noticed my distress and took me out of the convention center. We sadly haven't attended since and I don't think we will again until we can be sure that this guy isn't peddling his terrible wares to people there anymore. So to the young ones out there who have been abused in any way, you are more than your abuse. What happened to you doesn't represent who you are. Don't allow yourself to not care. Life is too precious to not care. And to the man who ruined my adolescence, I hope you find yourself in jail, enjoying the brunt end of what you've done to me and other girls. All my life, and even now, I have experienced everything from creeps, pure bad luck, paranormal,

and the downright unexplained. I will most definitely be sharing all of these stories. But today, I will be talking about my late grandmother. To preface this, I am a 29 year old female. It was the summer that I had just turned 13. I came home from a friend's house to find my mother packing a suitcase. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was my clothes she was packing. She sat me down at the edge of her bed and told me that my grandfather was in the hospital with severe pneumonia. She told me that I was being sent to my grandmother's house for two weeks to take care of her

while the rest of the family helped my aunt clean out her big house and move what they could to Florida. My mother would be staying with my grandfather in the hospital while my father watched my siblings. It's not that I didn't love my grandmother, but I had just turned a teen and all I wanted was to play video games and go to the beach for the summer. So I was already dreading having to spend 24-7 taking care of my grandmother in an incredibly hot, stifling house because she hated the sound the air conditioner made. She was also in the early stages of dementia. Now I had heard horror stories that involved my grandmother and honestly thought that they were either hearsay or my aunts and uncles were exaggerating. So here I was alone with my grandmother in a tiny apartment,

with walls as thin as paper and the hot summer heat refusing to have mercy for two weeks. My grandmother was not sweet by any means. She was as mean as they came. Whatever food I made her, she would throw at me and say I was as useless as my mother or she would actually mistaken me for my mother and proceed to hit me or throw the closest thing near her at me. And what's worse, she only spoke Spanish. Now I could understand Spanish better than I could speak it, a small detail I figured I'd mention. I'm telling you this so you can understand what kind of person she was and always has been. I had to sleep on the couch that was pushed up against the wall next to her room. You'll understand why I'd mention this in a moment. A few nights in the

taking care of her, it was 1am and I was on the couch trying to fall asleep, but it was just too hot. My grandmother liked to fall asleep watching novellas, that's Spanish dramas for those that don't understand what it is. The TV was on low, but I could hear my grandmother whispering in a language that wasn't Spanish. I honestly couldn't make out what it was, it just sounded like slurred whispers if I had to describe it. She started knocking on the wall in processions of three. I got up and went to her room. I softly opened her door to see her sitting upright, staring at a specific corner of the room. She paid no attention to the fact that I had just entered the room. Abuela, did you need something?

I called out to her. She slowly rotated her body towards me but never taking her eyes off the corner of the room. Leave me alone, her raspy whispered voice enunciated. I looked to the corner of the room she stared at and saw absolutely nothing. I shrugged, backed out of her room and slowly closed the door. Not once did she look at me. Throughout the next day my grandmother was oddly quiet, docile even.

She ate the food I made her, didn't fuss when I moved her to the wheelchair to change her bedpan, and even let me brush her weak brittle hair. I pushed her in her wheelchair to the bathroom to bathe her. Normally when I would help her in the bath, she would hit and slap me, telling me I was as useless as I looked. But today, nothing. She just kept staring at something over my shoulder, and when I would turn around there was never anything there. As I finished bathing I saw her on a stool just beside the bathhouse while I dressed her. I became increasingly aware of the silence that passed through us. Now just a quick explanation of the apartment setup, if you come in through the back door you are automatically in the kitchen

All the way in the left corner was the door to the bathroom Straight ahead of you was the doorway to the living room And in the living room was her one and only door to her bedroom Again this was a tiny apartment As I got ready to help transfer her to the wheelchair I noticed it wasn't in the bathroom with us where I left it. Confused I sat my grandmother back down in the stool to look for the wheelchair. My grandmother couldn't walk unaided.

My grandmother began to chuckle softly, the first sound she had made all day. I found her wheelchair in the living room, wheels locked and everything. I unlocked the wheels and pushed it back towards the bathroom. I was surprised to find my grandmother wasn't in the living room, wheels locked and everything. I unlocked the wheels and pushed it back towards the bathroom. I was surprised to find my grandmother wasn't in the bathroom where I left her. Niña, my grandmother called from her bedroom. I run to her bedroom to see her sitting up in bed pointing to the small TV in her room. I walked over and turned it on to her favorite novella. I walk back to the bathroom and push her wheelchair to her room. I'm confused because 1. My grandmother can't walk much less stand without assistance. 2. This all happened within the span of a few minutes and 3. My

grandmother would have had to have passed me to get to her bedroom from the bathroom. I do my best to push that weird occurrence out of my mind as me being delirious from the heat. Can you tell I was a skeptic yet? As I go to sleep that night I wake to the sound of heavy footsteps in my grandmother's room as well as the sound of white noise coming from the TV and the same slurred whispers. My heart is racing as I look to the tiny digital clock from the TV and the same slurred whispers. My heart is racing as I look to the tiny digital clock on the entertainment center, exactly 1am. I get up slowly and walk quietly to my grandmother's door. I listen for a minute and it sounds as if though the heavy footsteps are pacing. The door rattles against the frame with each step. In one fluid motion I open the door and peer in.

This time my grandmother actually acknowledges my presence. Her eyes were filled with malice but she formed a small smile. What, niña? She says softly with a coo, as if she was soothing a crying baby. What was that sound, abuela? I asked her. She chuckled from deep in her throat. My friends came to play, she said in a sing-song voice.

Now, get out, she barked. I slammed the door shut and fell onto the couch, my heart still racing. I didn't fall back to sleep. The next few days passed and my grandmother was back to her usual demeaning and insulting self. My mind was still not at ease. In fact, I began to fear falling asleep at night. One afternoon, my mother called to check up on me and I told her how rude my grandmother was and of the strange occurrences. Your grandmother has dementia, you know that, she said. She was always

hateful and abusive towards me while I was growing up. When you were born, she called you her doll and said that having you was the only thing I ever did right. She sighed and I could tell how sad she was. She still loves you, no matter what. It was all she said before she hung up. It felt like I had been dismissed. That night I woke up to the couch being moved violently away from the wall to my grandmother's room. I thought I was dreaming at first and didn't make any move to get up until I was forcefully pulled from the couch by my ankle. It wasn't until I was on the floor that I got up and looked around the room. I quickly turned on the lamp and saw that the couch was moved a good foot away from the wall.

I looked over and saw the door to my grandmother's room was open. I walked to her door but not before it slammed shut in my face. Shocked, I stood there for a moment. Munyaka! My grandmother called from the other side of the door. I opened the door to see her laying down, staring at the same corner of the room as before. Don't be scared. You'll make him mad. Was all she said before she closed her eyes and turned over to her side.

I closed the door. I moved the couch back against the wall and sat down. I fell back to sleep with the lights on. The next few days passed without incident. My grandmother was sweet to me, which was unnerving. While in her room, I brushed her hair. She told me stories of when she was younger. She then reached into her vanity table and pulled out a small tube and handed it to me.

I read the label and it said Arnicare. Confused, I asked her what it was for. She pointed to my leg and said, It's for your bruises. I lifted my pant leg to see a deep bruise on my ankle. I looked up at her in the mirror and saw that she was visibly upset. I will protect you, was all she said. The day my mother came to pick me up, my uncle came with her.

I heard what happened. He said as he placed a hand on my shoulder, a look of concern on his face. I'll take over from here. I gathered my things and said goodbye to my grandmother. She grabbed my hand and placed a small golden cross on my palm. For protection, she said. She then lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal deep bruises on both her ankles. He doesn't want to be my friend anymore,

she whispered, and then looked over at the same corner of the room. I felt a chill down my spine. My mother came in and asked if I was ready to go. On the way home, I told her about the occurrence that happened the night after she had called and asked her more about my grandmother. My mom rubbed her forehead and then told me.

Your grandmother is a Satanist. She worships the devil. She always has for as long as I can remember. But you were her one and only favorite out of all of her kids and grandkids. I still don't know why. The rest of the drive home was quiet. I still don't know why either.

My grandmother passed away ten years later. The night I turned twenty-three, I had a dream that my grandmother knocked on my apartment door. When I opened it and saw her, she was standing in the hallway. I have to leave now. I love you, Mounika, was all she said. I woke up to the sound of my mother knocking on the door. I opened it and she sobbed in my arms. Your grandmother has passed, she said. There are many things in my life that I can't explain, but I just wish that there were answers. To start this story I should mention my occupation.

I'm a 30-year-old female journeyman electrician. I often work alone and in people's homes, so needless to say, I often find myself in rather interesting situations. Being a rather small woman, as I'm only 5'2 and maybe 125 pounds, I am very aware of my limitations when it comes to physically dangerous situations, especially when it would apply as a target of just about any male. I served in the military so I have a rudimentary knowledge of hand-to-hand combat and am adept, trained, and licensed to carry certain tools of self-defense. I also have experience as a

paramedic in a major city. Needless to say, I feel as prepared as someone my size and gender could possibly be for most situations. However, this situation triggered a visceral response, so I thought I would share my experience with who I refer to as the man with mannequin legs. In the interest of privacy and simplicity, I will refer to him simply as John Doe. It's a Friday, approximately a year ago. The time was 19.30 or 7.30pm for those of you not using a 24 time clock. I received a dispatch to an apartment complex several towns over. The dispatch was for a loss of power to a condo unit in one of the

older lower income buildings. There are certain home buildings I go into which automatically trigger a certain amount of caution. Upon seeing the building, I had a gut feeling already that I would proceed with an air of caution. I immediately texted both my office manager, my boyfriend, and my mother my GPS location with a message saying, This is where I am. His name is John Doe. This is his address and unit number. If you don't hear from me every 20 minutes until I tell you I have left, please call me first. If I don't answer, please call the police. When I rang the bell, a gruff voice of a man who smokes far too many cigarettes forcefully inquires as to who is there.

I answer stating that I'm the electrician that was dispatched. He hits the buzzer and lets me in. I walk up the stairs and the first thing to hit me is the smell of the building. A building full of unwashed bodies, unemptied wet ashtrays and stale alcohol. He opened his door and the smell intensified. He wore grubby, unkempt, ill-fitting clothing, stained with fluids bodily or food in origin. His face, thin and gaunt, unshaven with dark heavy bags under his eyes. Entering the door I noticed a small table that was stacked with empty beer cans toting the champagne of beers. A plastic whiskey bottle went thunk off the toe of my steel-toed boots and skidded across the floor.

I look up at him, though on the skinny side he was tall. I ask him for details regarding the loss of power and he explained that some things work while others don't. I won't bore you with the details but but in the end, I had to see the panel. He leads me to his bedroom as I pick my way across a sea of discarded items. We pass the kitchen, the sink stacked high with plates, unwashed with rotting food precariously balanced atop one another, like a perverse game of Jenga. Stepping over clothing, garbage, and discarded

alcohol containers, burn marks in the carpet from someone nodding out and dropping a lit cigarette. I enter his bedroom. A mattress with a tattered blanket and no sheets or pillows sits in the center. The furniture is all second hand and distressed and broken in places, water stained as if it were saved from some unknown curb which was not sold during the estate sale. The top half of a naked dirty mannequin, appearing as if though it were stolen from an abandoned storefront of a long dead store lays in the bed. I trip over something as I'm making my way around the bed. Looking down, I see two things that make me take pause. The more alarming of the two happen to be a set of legs from the mannequin, carelessly hacked from the top half with what looks to be a very dull hacksaw.

A hole crudely drilled between the legs, lines drawn at the natural human joints, though it was a hard molded plastic. I also see a dimly flashing red light coming from the ankle of my creepy host. It's a Department of Corrections GPS ankle monitor. I have to turn my back on him to make the repairs which makes my hair stand on end. He watches me, smoking a cigarette and sneaking to the living room often to take a swig from a brown paper bag. I make a few temporary repairs, tell him I'll have to come back to finish the rest of it. I take payment and leave.

He watches me walk to my truck, following me to the apartment landing and to the main front door. I'm almost running now and I jump into my work truck and lock the doors. I finally breathe. I finally feel safe. Until I see him in my mirror staring back at me from the rear section of my truck. Not threatening, just staring. I leave without finishing my paperwork and go a few blocks down. I stop and start shaking as the adrenaline slowly leaves my system.

I reassure my family that I am safe and tell my boss that I cannot go back to that address. He offers to send me back with another person and my heart drops and I look for a reason not to. I quickly google John Doe and find out exactly why he was wearing an ankle monitor. He just got out of prison. This John Doe served two years in state prison after stalking a woman. When she threatened to report him, he broke into her home, demanded her to disrobe. When she refused, he told her he would kill her and he threatened to dismember her. My heart leapt into my chest as I realized what this man may have been truly capable of. With the evidence of the mannequin staring me in the face, it appears his fantasy is alive and well. Needless to say, my company never sent any

technician back to the man with the mannequin legs and I ended up with nothing more than a story. A story that shows no matter how prepared you may be for a situation, you never know exactly who you're dealing with. To be continued... when this all happened. This was back in 2016 and I had recently started walking home from school. I didn't live too far, it was only around a 20-30 minute walk depending on how much I wanted to go home that day. The school day had just ended and this was my fifth or sixth time walking home. I decided that I would go the long route instead of the shorter one that I normally take. Little did I know what I was walking into. After getting out of the parking lot, there was a long road that led to a neighborhood just behind the school. On one side of the road there was the baseball field and on the other was

a small factory looking place. To this day I never really bother looking into what it actually is. Usually I would follow this road down into the neighborhood and cut through there until I reached the main road, where I'd be roughly 15 minutes away from home. So I climbed up the side of the hill between the back road and the factory place, I'll just call it the grey zone I guess since most of the buildings were a dark greyish color, and began my walk through. There were multiple buildings on each side of the path that I was walking on. Some were bigger than others but most were roughly around the same height, not that it matters. Anyways, I had headphones on because it's what I usually did

when I walked home. Only this time since the only cars that would pose a threat if any would come from where I can see them, so instead of having one side, I had both sides of my head covered with music blaring loud enough to drown out any noise surrounding me. It was a joyful walk for the most part. I kept swapping between staring at the sky and the trees behind some of the smaller sized buildings. It was the middle of spring and I lived in Michigan so I appreciate the small breeze and greenery when it finally rolls around. I had walked past one of the buildings but it seemed off compared to the rest of them. This one had no windows and the outside of it was worn down like someone had been chipping away at it for a while with a chisel. I brushed it off like it was nothing and continued on walking.

However, during the time that it took for the current song to swap to the next, I heard an extremely loud scream. I took my headphones out and let them rest around my neck. I stood confused for a few seconds wondering if I was imagining things or if it was part of the song. After those few seconds, another scream filled my ears, only much louder than the one before. Now if you've ever heard something like this when you're walking somewhere, I advise you to stop what you're doing, find out where you're at and just call 911 to report it. Being the curious person I was and given that I didn't have much to do that day, I decided to check it out and see if everything was okay. The screams sounded almost staged but I couldn't be sure without checking it out for myself.

I walked up to the building so I could look through the holes in the door. It looked old and had a fair bit of rust around it so it was an average peephole but more of a rusted away you need to replace the door kind of hole. I looked inside and what I saw made my stomach turn faster than I ever thought it could. Inside was a man. He was wearing all black clothing and a mask that you could probably have bought at a party store if I had to guess. There was also a woman who was on the floor. She had bruises and blood stains on her shirt. The man was holding a hammer that had blood covering the tip. From what I could guess, he had just hit her with it because there was no way this would have been staged for the luck that a random stranger would happen to come by and hear it.

The man raised his hammer and hit her in the back of the head with it. She fell over and began twitching, almost like she was having a seizure. I don't know why, but I had the sudden urge to throw up. I guess seeing these kinds of things are much different than it would be in TV or a movie. I backed away from the door and hurled. Only nothing came out because I hadn't eaten much that day. A few seconds after that I heard the sound of the man's shoes practically stomping on the floor inside the building and they were getting closer. I gathered my composure quickly and started to pull out my phone when the door swung open and the man stepped out. I pretended that I had been

recording the entire thing to hopefully scare the guy into letting me live if I told him I wouldn't tell anyone if he let me go. Thank god it worked, and he just started to back away inside the building. However, he proceeded to slam the door shut after a few minutes, even though that whole standoff felt like an eternity, staring at each other without muttering a single word. My heart was beating so fast that I was beginning to get distracted by it as well as the fear that this could be my last moment if he decided to try something. After he slammed the door and went back inside, I just took off running, immediately dialing 911. They stayed on the line with me until I got far enough away to feel safe telling them my location. A couple cop cars showed up roughly 6-7 minutes later and I pointed them to the building that I had found the man in. There were four of them, all armed and ready

to shoot someone if they needed to. When they came back, nobody else was with them. The man had took off during that short amount of time and must have taken that woman's body with him. They did find some hair and blood on the floor, but other than that, it was as if those two were never there to begin with. The police never found the guy and I never saw any reports or articles about a missing woman or murdered woman. After that day I never walked home again. I always either rode the bus or had one of my parents pick me up. About a half year after that I eventually transferred to an alternative high school that was much further away from the grey zone than my old school. I was 16 at

the time and now I'm currently 20 going on 21 in August and that moment has been with me ever since. I've always been skeptical about my situations around me but after that I was never the same again. This happened about 10 years ago. My group of friends and I had just turned 21, so we were all in the bar hopping and clubbing phase of our lives. We would literally go out Thursday through Sunday and drink and honestly get into drunk and ridiculous situations. On a random Saturday night, the group decided we wanted to go downtown and hit up a few bars and clubs. This was a time before Uber and Lyft, so like idiots, we jumped in any available car and drove ourselves there. We all parked in an underground parking garage about two blocks away from the strip with all the bars. We had a group

of about 15 people, half guys and girls. Being 21 and broke we had a bottle of liquor in the car and we all pre-gamed to save money. We all got into the club and after about an hour the girls in the group wanted to go back to the car and drink from the bottle a little more. They asked me to go with them since usually a group of five girls walking downtown would attract a lot of creeps and weirdos. I was the only guy that decided to walk the girls back to the car. I live in a pretty big city and usually you can avoid any bad situations if you knew where you were going. The one bad thing I always hated about going downtown is that every group of people who you usually don't see or run into always goes

downtown to party. We finally go to the car with surprisingly no random hassle or annoying drunk persons bothering us on the way. We headed underground to where we parked. When we got to the car all five of the girls jumped into the car and I ended up the odd person out because there was no more room for me to sit. I decided I was just going to stand outside and smoke a cigarette while the girls drank. They started blasting music and taking swigs of the bottle with the doors closed. While I was standing outside minding my business I hear someone say, Sup homie, where you from? And if you know anything about street gangs it doesn't mean they're asking about you and what city you live in but what gang you're in.

When I finally looked up my heart dropped. There were five Hispanic gangbangers walking towards me. I grew up around different gangs so I immediately can tell that they were part of the Norteño street gang by all the red that they were wearing. They all had a bottle of beer with them and I could tell that they were intoxicated. When the guy who was the obvious leader of the group got closer to me he asked if I was a member of the Crips street gang. It took me a second to realize why he asked me this. I looked down and realized I was wearing all blue. Literally a blue hat, blue flannel, and blue shoes. I was just trying to match my clothes

and my stupid self didn't realize I dressed myself like a gang member. At this point I was panicking inside. The bangers had surrounded me and all the girls I was with were all in the car drinking. Even if they did notice what was going on a part of me really didn't want the girls to come out of the car because what might possibly happen to them? I was just praying the girls were seeing what was going on and someone was calling for help on their phone. I put my hands up and was trying to defuse the situation

and tell them that I wasn't a gangbanger and I didn't want any problems. It did not work. The group was so drunk and I could see in their eyes that they wanted to hurt me. The leader again asked me, are you a crip? And I just kept saying no and without even listening to my answer he responds with, crips put my homie in a wheelchair last month. And I just kept saying, I'm sorry to hear that but honestly I'm not a gangbanger. After a few seconds he looks me up and down and he pulls a screwdriver out of his back pocket. When he did this, the rest of the gang did the same thing. I was now surrounded by a group of gangbangers with sharp screwdrivers all by myself. I literally thought to myself, this is how I'm gonna die. At that moment my best friend friend who was one of the girls in the car hops out and screams, please don't hurt him he's my brother. She was half El Salvadoran and she spoke

fluent Spanish. She was speaking in Spanish trying to beg them not to stab me and convince them that I wasn't a gang member. This goes on for about a minute with them not saying anything just staring at me and my friend begging them. At that very moment I hear and see the sirens of a police car pulling into the garage. The gang members saw this and all ran away to get away from the police as fast as they could. Luckily for me the girls in the car had seen what was going on the whole time and were calling the police while I was being surrounded. My friend jumped out of the car to buy some time for me when she noticed they pulled out the screwdrivers. After everything calmed down, I wasn't in the partying mood and just wanted to go home. My best friend had saved my life with her smart thinking and I will always be forever grateful for her.

I kept telling her she was my guardian angel, and she would just always smile. Unfortunately, a few years later, during a camping trip with everyone, my best friend who saved my life ended up passing away in a car accident on the way to the campsite. I miss her, and honestly, I still feel her presence sometimes when I go into situations that can end bad for me. This happened about 10 years ago when I was 16 or 17. I was honestly in a really dark place due to my dad's terminal cancer diagnosis, so most things surrounding that time in my life were a bit fuzzy. This little event sticks out pretty sharply in my memory just because of how incredibly bizarre it was. It still gives me the creeps thinking about it. One day my aunt called the home phone. Not an unusual thing on its own so my mom didn't hesitate to answer. As mom was busy making

something in the kitchen or something she put her immediately on speaker and placed the phone on the counter. If she only knew what was coming. I don't think she would have picked up the phone at all and let alone let me or possibly my dad hear it. My aunt sounded really excited and started saying that we won't believe who she found. Her and my dad's long lost brother, she said. What luck, with my dad being basically on his deathbed and all. Great, right? Well, you see, the problem with that is that he died well over 30 years ago when he was 15 in a terrible drowning accident. So, not very likely. At this point my mom snatched up the phone, turned it off speaker and put it up to her ear.

I'm not sure exactly what my aunt said next but I assumed it was something in the realm of we're here now. Following that my mom's face went slack with shock and she quickly went to one of the front facing windows in the living room. Being super weirded out and curious myself, I followed. Since we were on the second floor, we could easily see that my aunt's car was parked in front of our house. Further inspection revealed that there was definitely some guy in her passenger seat. Properly freaking out, mom basically told her to get away from our house and that she doesn't want her or whoever this person was to come back. She hung up after telling my aunt to get some help. I was fully expecting chaos at this point but they just drove away.

Thankfully my dad had been in a heavily medicated slumber during all of this and as far as I know no one ever told him about it before he passed. I honestly don't know how badly this would have messed him up. I mean, we already knew that my aunt had some sort of mental illness based on previous incidents in which she believed she was God or, for some reason, singer-songwriter K.D. Lange, but this was an entirely new level for us. She never tried anything else like that again again but I still have so many questions. Who was the guy? Did he know what he was there for? Was it his idea or my aunt's? It was never brought up again with her, even at or after my dad's funeral. We don't speak anymore due to her general state and the fact that my dad's family wasn't super close or big to begin with,

so I guess I'll never really know. I am a Native American, a Lakota Sioux to be exact, from the Standing Rock Sioux tribe. A long time ago when I was 8 years old, I'm now 26, my father used to and still takes business trips. This particular trip was not too far from my reservation, but to a kid it felt like it was the longest trip ever. Also considering me being that annoying, are we there yet type of kid every waking second. You know that kid. It also didn't help that I had and still had chronic ADHD that's the cherry on top. My ADHD is so severe that I tend to forget a lot of things and names because my brain is constantly active. Heck, I forgot most of my childhood in the process.

But this particular day has always stood out to me. For others, not many were as fortunate as I was, sad to say. I have never been the least bit organized, so I'm not a quick thinker most days, and this day which needed 100% of my brain power to be as active mentally as it was always physically, but that didn't happen. We arrived at our destination unpacked and were settled in in her hotel room. My dad had to go to his meeting that evening, I'd say at around 4 or 5 and this was also mid-summer. So it was just my mother and I. We went through the strip mall to purchase souvenirs and the like. There was a cafe gift shop that she wanted to take me to as she had been there before. She bought me a shirt from there. I still remember it being a red shirt with a rooster

design on it. After hours of our shopping escapade my mother went to her car to smoke a cigarette so she allowed me to play on the cement walkway next to the little mall. I was not far from her, maybe 20 feet or so. I'm not very good with distance but I was certainly in eye's reach. As I'm playing, minding my own business and letting my imagination take care of my boredom, a couple comes up to me. Generally I was a very naive and friendly little kid as typically we usually know everyone closest to our reservation district. Sure I was taught your average stranger danger tactics that are usually advised to closest to our reservation district. Sure I was taught your average stranger danger tactics that are usually advised to us in our youth. For some reason which confuses me to

this day I didn't have a fight or flight response. Basically no red flags crossed my young mind. They started to talk to me saying, hi little boy what are you doing out here by yourself? At the time I wanted Halle Berry's short haircut. I even have school pictures as proof and yes I did look like a boy with that haircut at the time. I explained something along the lines the Uh, just playing and I'm a girl. And they both look at each other and say Where are your parents? I pointed behind me saying that my mom was right there. Not listening to me, the woman grabs my arm and stupidly I didn't scream

or try to get away. I started to walk with them. I said, where are you taking me? My mom's right there. She responds, Don't worry little boy, we'll find your parents. With tears starting to well up in my eyes, I'm a girl, my mom is right there. Still with me in tow, my mother bursts out of the car and screams, What the F are you doing? Let my daughter go. I'm not sure how my mom didn't know right away, but this ordeal happened in what I assumed a minute's time span. I don't blame her, because in all honesty, with my memory loss, I can't say how quick it actually did happen, but in my mind it felt like an eternity. The woman let me go and said, oh, I thought she was lost.

My mom in a rage said that she was there the whole time to get lost themselves. I ran back to my mother and she hugged me. But she did call the cops and did a statement but nothing ever came of it. And just like that it was over and I forgot about it. But I think of it some days wondering what if and if I was the first of a list of many. I pray that they didn't try it any further or that it was innocent and they did actually think that I was lost. Being a mother myself, I often remind my daughter of stranger danger advice and just because I'm talking to someone doesn't mean she could. But she is also a spitting image of me down to her behavior, so I never let her out of my sight wherever I go because I live in fear that she may also be very naive and walk away with someone and I might never see her again. The scary part about living on a reservation

is that human trafficking is very common and kidnappings do happen, some people going missing without a trace. So to any mothers, fathers, brothers, please teach your little ones of those situations so you aren't left with a possible kidnapping. I may have been lucky, but it may have gone a lot worse. I drive a newspaper route every night, 365, even Christmas. It's a pretty awesome gig, actually. I start at 1am and ends around 5am daily. The only few times it really sucks is during snowstorms. I'm sure a lot of listeners have been affected by the recent snowfalls. I'm here in Wisconsin, so I feel ya. My paper route is about half residential areas and half rural county roads,

sometimes a half mile between stops. It's dark and obviously I've seen some things that have creeped me out out but this time was different. The snowstorm was hitting pretty hard overnight so that country half of my route was going to have to wait until the plows came out. I returned to finish my work after the roads were plowed. Now a quick side note, I'm used to working in the dark. When I come across someone outside 9 times out of ten they're drunk or drunken

up to no good. For this reason I carry with me a taser and a wooden dowel rod in my truck when I deliver newspapers. Shifting my weapon under my arm when I have to deliver a paper on an elderly customer's porches. It makes me feel better but back to the story. It's 11.20am in broad daylight. Sun is blaring and blinding. Tons of folks are outside moving snow out of their driveways. I make my way out of town to half of my route I needed to finish. I pull up to a customer's home that I have delivered to daily for about two and a half years. Never one complaint. As I'm putting the newspaper in the paper box I look up to see an old man standing in the service door of this garage with the overhead

door shut. I holler over to him, morning, want me to run your paper to you? I didn't want him to fall and for context I'm a 30 year old female, 5'3 so in my mind I was trying to help this man out so he didn't have to walk through all the snow that had fallen on his unplowed driveway. He smiled and nodded. As I jog down his driveway, I then again speak, some storm, huh? Here's your paper, and I smile warmly. This man then takes two steps backwards into his dark garage and says, Come in here, and smiles. I laugh nervously.

Oh, no thank you. I have your paper for you though. Still advancing my hand out holding his newspaper. Step in here. I have something to show you, he utters. It was at this moment I realized the fresh snow has swallowed up all sound around me. I was alone with this man, standing next to his dark garage with neither of my weapons. Why would I bring them? It was an old man in the morning, and my mind begins to race.

I'm sure he's about to lunge and pull me into his garage. I take a step back as he takes a step towards me. He says, What is your name? Trying to remain polite, I respond, Katie. Katie what? Pretty girl. He says as he smiles creepily. Uh, Katie, your paper girl. I say as I looked around in my surroundings, keeping my guard up on the man and still holding

the paper. Trees and fields. One neighbor about a football field away. He states one last time, I need to show you something. Step in here. My body screamed for me to bolt. I say, No, I'm already late. Have a good day. I toss the paper and run up the driveway.

I made it to my truck. He was still standing at the door, just looking at me. I began breathing heavily and sort of freaked out at the thought of what he wanted to show me. The whole ordeal lasted about two minutes and I delivered to his house, nightly still. I pull up very slowly and rubberneck all around before opening my door to deliver his paper and nothing since. I can't be sure, but I could have sworn that as I was running away, I heard him whisper, Darn. For context, I live in the UK and it's currently 2140 and this happened about 15 minutes ago. I had just gone to the shop, which is around a mile walk as this is the only shop that would sell me energy drinks. To cut this walk short, I had decided to cut through the park, which is fairly large and contains football or soccer fields as well as this thick portion of woodlands.

The walk there went fine however, the walk back is where things really hit the fan. So bear in mind it's relatively late so this pitch black dark park is near deserted. Bar from a group of lads I can see off in the distance, illuminated only by the light of their cigarettes. They are standing about 50 feet away and I notice them staring at me and I can immediately sense that they are out to do me harm. As they approach I am able to read the group more and I see that there are about 3 of them, all male and have a good 5 years on me, 15 by the way. I decide I have no choice but to pace them. They come within 10 feet of me and the big guy, obviously the leader or whatever, demands I hand over my phone and wallet. I refused,

simply because I had no clue what to say. He then goes on to produce a knife and repeats those words. Hand them over. This is when fight or flight kicked in and my body chose flight. I kicked the guy in the shin as hard as I could. I ran, and his two goons or whatever were giving chase. I sprinted as hard as my legs would carry me and I managed to lose them in the trees, where I hid out for a solid five minutes before cautiously walking home. The scariest part was that as I was walking back, I saw one of the guys walking on my road and he was looking in my direction. I pray the darkness was enough to hide me as I scampered into my house, but I think I just escaped death. To be continued... listening click that notification bell to be alerted of all future narrations if you got a

story be sure to submit them to my subreddit r slash let's read official and give and receive feedback from the community and maybe even hear your story featured on the next video and if you want to support me even more grab early access to all future narrations for just one dollar a month on patreon and maybe even pick up some let's read merch on spreadshirt and check out the let's read podcast where you can hear all these stories in long compilation form and save huge on data, located anywhere you listen to podcasts. Links down below. Thanks so much, friends, and I'll see you again soon. We'll be right back. TreadExperts. Toyo's open country family of tires will get you through tough weather in a variety of terrains. Until May 31st, save up to $100 in rebates on select Toyo tires.

Find a Toyo TreadExperts dealer near you at treadexperts.ca slash locations. From tires to auto repair, we're always there. TreadExperts.ca.