The Lets Read Podcast - 146: THE CREEPIEST CLASSMATE EVER | 15 True Scary Horror Stories | EP 134

Episode Date: August 2, 2022

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Cabins In The Woods, Creepy Classmates, Terrifying Churches... 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 SPONSOR:  find and book in-person or telemedicine appointments for medical or dental care -- Zocdoc.com/READ.

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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. Spätsommer Since my very youngest days, I was treated as a golden child. My mother heaped buttloads of affection onto me and bragged to her friends how great of a son I was. I fear my younger brother missed out because she had already spent all of the love she had on me, so to speak. I joke about this, but I am somewhat serious at the same time. His upbringing lacked much of the praise and attention I was given.

When I began playing in organized sports, the rest of the world joined in. Soccer came first. It all came so naturally and before long I was the top scoring member of the team. Once I discovered football, everything else went by the wayside. Posters of Brady and Bledsoe covered my walls. My large strong hands allowed me to grip and throw the ball with the power and precision not many twice my age had. All three years of middle school I remained the starting quarterback. I did so well that by high school I was playing on par with most seniors.

My prowess in sports, of course, made me very popular in school. One of my teachers called me the big man on campus. I was never lacking the attention and approval of the staff and most of my fellow students. I didn't get a free ride, though. Without good grades, I wasn't qualified to play. Luckily for me, I had always been good at most subjects, except for perhaps math in which I scored lower B's. I had decided by my second year which college I would attend. I knew if I continued on my current path, I'd be quarterbacking for a professional team right out of college. To encompass all I had achieved, I quote a line I had once read that described a man

as having the world in the palm of his hand. That's probably the best way I could describe the trajectory I had put upon myself. I was destined for success and nothing was going to get in my way. I tell you all this in order to show just how far I was soon to fall and exactly how much I was about to lose. I was a junior. I had already been named the starter on the varsity team. While not studying, I split my time between the weight room and practice. It was just before the third game of the season when Rosalind arrived. I had my mind off somewhere else when she entered our class. I still remember it like it was yesterday. A few of my classmates were grumbling about

something and it caught my attention. I happened to look up just as she was passing near me, and her beauty was breathtaking. I can honestly say with confidence you've never seen her equal in Hollywood. The rich silkiness of her auburn hair, to the sensual fullness of her lips and her porcelain skin, on an inch of her image had a flaw. I gave her my heart in that moment and I knew nothing would equal her in my life. She took her seat at the back of the class. None of the shyness that usually existed in the newly arrived student showed in her actions. The room was hers completely now and she knew it.

My focus was on her for the remainder of the period. She had to have known. My gaze would have burned right through her had my eyes been lasers. This day marked the beginning of a long downhill slide, and I would give anything to experience every second of that time again. Concentrating on anything else was impossible. Class after class, only Rosalind existed. Practice was much the same. I wasn't on a football field. I was still in that class, soaking in every inch, every curve of her body. From then on, my only thoughts were about her. I used my charm to get her a dress from an office worker. That Friday evening, as I led the team to another victory, my only desire was for the game to end.

Afterwards, I sat outside her house dreaming about her and I, walking hand in hand through the halls as everyone watched jealously. I resolved in that moment that I would own her body and soul until the end of my life. My first action upon arriving at school that following Monday was to locate Rosalyn and bear my heart to her. I did just that, but her reaction wasn't what I'd envisioned. I spoke from my heart. Every word was true, but rather than collapse into my arms as I'd seen on TV so many times,

she replied with four short words. I don't think so. I will admit to being disappointed, but her response left me with a ray of hope. She hadn't been cruel or mocking after all. Perhaps she had been playing hard to get. I knew I had to pursue her as a hunter pursues his prey. Maybe I would even be required to make a large sacrifice to prove my love. After all, that's the way it works in the great Hollywood films and novels. She would realize she belonged with me. I just needed to

help her realize that. I searched my soul, day and night, for a way to make this happen. Suddenly it hit from out of the blue. If I gave up football, she would have to see how dedicated I was to her. That day I informed the coach of my decision. It went about as well as you would think. He was angry and yelled for almost an hour, but at the end of our meeting, he wished me well. I was elated. I had to tell Rosalind that very second. She didn't answer my text right away, but when she did, her only answer was,

why? The queasiness churned up in my stomach. Even after all I'd done to let her know I loved her, putting it into words still made me very nervous. I did it for you, I said. My hands shook as they moved a push send. It was now or never. She would be left with no doubt as to how I felt about her. After sending it, the time seemed to drag on forever. The hours passed with no word from her. I couldn't take it any longer. I sped over to her house and waited outside her window. I watched as she changed for bed.

Every curve, every line of her body remains with me to this day. I sent a new text to let her know that I was waiting. She appeared at her window within seconds. Seeing her in the nightgown made my heart race. There was only one reason she would let me see her this way. My mouth was dry with anticipation. I broke into a sweat. I expected to be met with soft words but instead she began yelling, almost screaming. Her words didn't make sense. I was confused by her behavior. It only got worse when her father came outside. I tried to explain my love for his beautiful daughter, but he was deaf to my words. Rosalind began to curse me from her window. Terrible things I don't dare repeat here. I never dreamed this could have happened. With every word, her curses knocked me lower and

lower. It was a pain I'd not wish on anyone. I was so distraught I didn't hear the word police until it was almost too late. I fled just as I noticed flashing lights up the street. I laid down in my car as they passed and sped away as they pulled up to Rosalind's house. My sobs grew and grew until I was consumed by my grief. I laid curled up upon my bed wailing uncontrollably. However, as my tears began to subside, another fire kindled inside. My anger roared by the second, until it consumed any sadness I once had. By dawn, I had transformed into some sort of beast. A monster I never knew existed in me had taken control of my body.

I began to rage. I thought, no one says those things to someone who loves them. They know the power they have over them. The idea of punishment fleeted in and out of my brain, briefly at first, then more and more until it set root and fostered a plan for retribution. I see now just how far I had gone. My love, if that's what you can call it, had transformed from obsession into hate. The quickness in which this occurred still terrifies me. In that day and in that time, I could only think of one thing. Revenge. She had to feel my pain. There was no other way she could learn

what she had done. I entered the school that morning with a single, focused purpose. My anger had clouded my mind from considering the consequences of what I was about to do. I could see the terror in her eyes as I drew closer, and I can remember feeling satisfied by this. I said nothing. I just grabbed her by the throat, both hands gripping as tightly as possible, and I knew it wouldn't take long. My grip was strong and my hands were large. I was oblivious to the grabbing and pulling of others around me. Her face took on a dark red, then almost purple hue hue And I knew it wouldn't be long now I stared into her beautiful green eyes

Eyes that I had dreamt of for countless hours and was awed by them Even as they filled with the streaking of blood My adoration angered me even more The next thing I remember was lying on the school floor being held down The din of their yells seemed muffled. I was miles away, lost in the confusing pattern of the ceiling tiles above me. I'm not sure how long it was before I was told Rosalind had survived. It appeared I had been stopped before I was able to achieve my goal.

This news didn't anger me, nor was I relieved. I had become numb It's taken me many months to reclaim the identity I once was I was terrified to feel anything I'd become nothing more than a frightened child I've been fortunate enough to be sent to an institution that focuses on therapeutic rehabilitation I'm by no means fully healed, for the lack of a better word. There still are moments where I find myself giving over to my dark side. I don't necessarily

blame the entertainment industry for the way they betray relationships or the pursuit of love in a wider context. I'm responsible for the way I handle the situation. Something inside of me is broken. However, in the same breath, I do question what impression they intend on presenting. A young, naive, and romantic man such as myself is inundated with talk of the so-called game and the premise of sacrificing for love among other trite concepts. Without any real guidance from a more experienced adult or father figure, a young male often uses images from the popular entertainment around him. It is a discussion that should be had considering more boys are growing up without a positive male

role model in their lives. Please pardon me for going off onto my own path. I still require a lot of work. The purpose of writing this was to recount the events that led me to my own path. I still require a lot of work. The purpose of writing this was to recount the events that led me to my current position. My counselor and I agreed that it would be a good idea to put my story and my feelings at the time on paper. It could serve as a motivating factor for myself and others to see how far I've come in my therapy. Now that I have, it is certainly encouraging to see the progress I've made. At the same time, it's shed light upon the darker side of my personality and that has been a horrifying vision. Despite this, I'm confident I'm on the path to regaining my true self and perhaps one day you'll recognize the brother you grew up with. I've just about

written down everything I can recall from that time and lights out is quickly approaching. I'll make a copy of this for my counselor minus a little epilogue to you. Of course, I'll be sending you this version for yourself. Feel free to share it with your mom or anybody else in the family that may be curious. I've written mom a short note just about regular stuff and sent it last week so she should receive that soon. If you have the time, I'd like you to do something like we discussed and seek out the proper place on the internet to share this. All I ask is that you leave out my name, but I probably don't have to tell you that.

I'm sure you don't normally tell people your older brother is... psycho. I'd like young people to be able to read an authentic account of what goes on in the mind of someone like me without all the sensationalistic fluff. I don't seek notoriety or fame for what I've done. It is an inexcusable act against one I profess to love. My hope is that it can serve as a template for the young, a diagnostic instrument to help them recognize the same patterns in their friends,

or themselves, and stop them before they get out of control. I'd like to think if more people had access to this type of information, things like stalking and the crimes that go with it may be able to be stopped completely, or at the least greatly reduced. I'll continue to do all I can to stem the tide from here. Perhaps, if enough on the outside can see this, we can create a better world for everyone. To be continued... Everybody in school knew Natasha was different. I suppose different is being kind. When you live in a town where everyone around you acts and looks very much the same, a girl like her would of course stand out. I'd have to describe her as a goth girl, if that term is even still used.

Her skin had a naturally pale tone, but she did all she could to make sure it never got any darker. The Victorian parasol she carried everywhere with her blocked out any possible ray of sun from touching her porcelain-like skin. As if her skin and hundred-year-old umbrella didn't make her stand out, her choice of clothing just made her appear stranger to most. I don't think naughty, as we called her, owned any color but black. From her coal black hair all the way down to the tips of her patent leather boots, only the chalkiness of her skin offered any contrast. If you were to guess that she was quiet and reserved, you wouldn't be far off. When she did speak, it was only in reaction to another's rude remarks. Even then, she was a girl

of few words. She had a cutting type of wit. It didn't take her long to put folks in their place. Most people never got to see her other side. This version of naughty was terrifying and most likely the cause of her future ghoulish behavior. Before I get to the meat and potatoes of my story, I want to warn my readers. If you are triggered or get excessively upset about the subject of animals getting hurt, stop here. Although I will try to be as family friendly in my descriptions as possible, some things just have to be said. You've been warned. With that out of the way, I'll finally get to the heart of the matter. Despite knowing not everyone who looks and dresses like Naughty are capable of doing the things she did, I think that look was a reflection of how she felt inside. I could never excuse her

behavior, but coming from someone who knew her rather intimately, she had to have struggled with that evil inside of her. The naughty I knew was an intelligent and sensitive person. Nonetheless, she harbored a deep-seated anger that drove her to commit a string of unforgivable acts. I never learned exactly what caused it, but I suspect it stemmed from some form of abuse she suffered. I foolishly asked about her grandfather on one occasion. This regular everyday question caused a 30 minute tirade. Safe to say, he wasn't a good person. This is likely what led to her compulsion to have power over another living thing. I was already off at school for my first year of college. Nadi, who was a year younger than me, was a senior. We were still on speaking terms after our separation, but I'd not heard from

her for a few months. When I had a spare moment, I called to catch up. Her mother answered her phone instead. This naturally surprised me. My surprise soon turned to concern when I was told that Nottie wasn't around anymore. I was shocked and asked what had happened, expecting her to say that she passed. Mrs. Ellis coldly stated that Nottie had not died, but she wouldn't be free to speak to me ever again. Then she quickly said goodbye and hung up. I was confused and hungry for answers, so I called a friend who had stayed behind to work. The story I heard still chills me to this day. My friend's dad was a retired cop and still had a lot of contacts inside the department. I knew he'd probably know what happened.

A lot of the details concerning her punishment were hazy, but the gruesomeness of her crimes were not. The story goes something like this. Not long after her and I separated, people's cats began to disappear. The ones that were eventually found, the bodies had been drained of their blood and ripped to pieces. Initially, the deaths were attributed to a coyote or dog attacks. With no blood found at the scene, this theory didn't hold up. A few of the wackier folks around town even claimed the deaths were the work of the chupacabra. A total of 22 pets would be lost to the cat slasher in all. Owners who had once let their cats out began keeping their pets in and neighbors watched their fellow citizens with distaste and distrust.

Then, late one evening, the true culprit was caught in the act. A man was out walking his dog when he took notice of a car driving slowly up and down the street. It had passed him several times, but he assumed the driver was searching for a particular address. This changed when he turned onto a new street and witnessed the driver get out and attempt to catch a cat. When the driver realized they'd been seen, they returned to the car and sped away. It was too late though. The man copied down the license plate number and turned it into the police. The crime that hadn't had much attention from the police until then drew much more of their interest when the car's owner was discovered.

Natasha was no stranger to the police. She'd had multiple complaints filed against her in the past. Most were actually just baseless accusations from older people who distrusted her simply because she looked different. She's a devil worshipper and other equally stupid fantasies. However, she'd also been caught shoplifting once or twice. Fortunately for her, she had some mysterious family connection that made everything go away. Things wouldn't be any different this time. Despite admitting everything to the cops that interviewed her, often in gory detail, she would be let off with

no repercussions. In fact, the press didn't even mention a suspect had been arrested. Despite knowing her name and all that was said, it was almost as if none of it had even happened. The disappearances just stopped, and almost nobody even knew why. At first, I was in complete shock but as time passed it began to make sense. Noddy had always hated cats. I never discovered why but something major had to have occurred to cause her behavior and before anyone asked if she took this dark turn because of our breakup, just forget it. She was more than happy to be free again. In fact, I may have been the only thing keeping her from going down that path sooner. For all I know, it had already started prior to our

separation and nobody had noticed. I'm guilt free, my friend. During my visits back home, the subject was brought up a few times. One guy even said he had heard she had been drinking the blood of the cats. She wasn't beyond doing something so crazy but the girl I knew would have thought something so ceremonial was stupid. Through the grapevine I did eventually discover where she had gone. Mere days after her release she was shipped off to a mental health facility out west. What happened to her after that I had no clue. Despite the terrible and cruel things she did, I still catch myself hoping she'll call from time to time. Mostly, I just want to hear her explanation.

Whether I do or not, I hope she gets the help she needs. I'd hate to know more people's pets could be in danger because she couldn't resolve the problems from her past. If she does contact me, I'll post right back. through tough weather and 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. TreadExperts.ca I attended most of my schooling in a small town in southern Oklahoma.

In a place with such a small population, you get to know everybody pretty fast. When you're a kid, this can be a big headache. You can't make a single mistake without everyone around knowing about it, including your folks. To this day, I can still tell you the name of the girl that ate paste in kindergarten and the boy who peed his pants in third grade. It's not a way I'd like my kids to grow up. Nonetheless, even in a place so small, there was one kid who managed to live a second, invisible life right under the noses of the nosiest of citizens. For the sake of the story, I'll call him Elliot.

He was the last person you'd expect of having a secret life. His family had run the largest business in the county for a hundred years, and if I recall correctly, he even had two uncles who had served in the state legislature. He had been raised to be a successful person, and on the surface, nothing about him gave you the impression that he was anything else. All the teachers loved him, his grades were always better than everyone else's and he never hesitated to make himself the center of attention. Even with every eye in the area on him, he had one habit no one had any clue about. Elliot liked to watch. This clean-cut, unassuming young man was a peeper. A peeping tom. A voyeur, if you will. Of course, nobody knew this, or admitted to it, at least. This would all change on the night of homecoming. Our classmates were all kitted up in their finest,

each waiting their turn to get their pictures taken so they could head to their real destination, a local hotel where loads of cheap booze awaited them. Normally, Elliot would be one of the few actually attending the dance with his girlfriend. Instead, while the rest of the town had their minds on the celebration, he was creeping through his quiet neighborhood in search of something to see. Just before 11, he came upon the open window of a 10-year-old girl. He later told the police that, on a prior expedition, he had noticed the girl's open curtains. Upon getting closer, he watched as she removed her clothes for bed, and despite knowing it was wrong, he realized for the first time that he was attracted to very young girls.

He claimed he was disgusted by this and cut his nighttime journey short. As time passed, however, the urge to return overtook him. Because of all the people on the streets that night, he wasn't able to return early enough to relive the previous adventure in his mind. When he arrived and saw the open window, a little voice told him to go inside. The house is dark, everyone's already in bed, so no one would see you. Besides, you just want to watch her sleep, that's all. Unfortunately, Elliot listened to this voice. Entering as silently as possible, he walked across the room toward the

corner. He was just inches away when he stepped on a squeaky dog toy apparently. The high-pitched noise echoed through the room. He froze and prayed the girl wouldn't be awakened. God was not with him that night at all. She shot up in bed as if she had been awaiting such a moment, and things just got worse from there. She turned on her bedside light and Elliot was fully illuminated. The terrified girl began screaming, and Elliot knew he only had a few seconds to flee. He turned and ran for the window, and he was mere feet away from where a strong hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back in. He'd barely hit the floor before a hail of powerful kicks and punches rained down upon him. The most he could do was curl up and take the abuse.

A moment later, the violence stopped and he peeked out from his arm. Looking down on him was who he'd assumed to be the girl's father. The man's face terrified him. He'd never seen such anger until then. The police arrived quickly and within minutes, they had Elliot in cuffs. It wasn't long before the whole town knew. Although he hadn't done more than trespass into a house at night, district attorney tried to charge him with every

crime possible. Even with all the money and influence of his family behind him, there was no way he was getting off scot-free. He had foolishly spoken to the cops. They had his words to use against him. His lawyer was able to get the DA to drop most of the charges in exchange for a plea. Ultimately, he served 13 months in jail with an additional five years probation tacked on. The length of the sentence meant nothing. His life in town was over. After he was released, he became a prisoner in his own home. He didn't dare leave. A day didn't go by without some death threat or other harassment on his phone. To the relief of everybody, the day his probation ended,

he quietly slipped out of town in the middle from the university. After shopping loads of schools, I had been accepted to my first choice. I won't name it here for reasons you'll discover later, but I will say it's a fairly prestigious school out west. I can't really say any more. Before I knew it, my first semester was here. My folks helped me move my stuff into the dorms and classes began within days. This was going to be my new home for the next year at least, so I went out of my way to make friends as soon as I could. That first night I ran into this pair of nerdy types who had known each other since first grade. I'll call them Greg and Bradley for the sake of the story. Both were well over 6 feet, easily towering over my 5'6 frame and wore almost

the exact same glasses. As the days went on, they and I got to know each other really well. My first time in their room, I happened to notice a copy of the Satanic Bible on a table. My curiosity was piqued and I asked if one or both of them were Satanists. They looked at each other and then looked back at me and laughed. My face must have shown my confusion. Bradley, the more outgoing of the two, laughed again and said they treated it more as a meme than anything. In the past, they used it to shock their friends back home. It sounded just as good a reason as any, so I let it go and went on to the next subject. School carried on as it does. As the end of the first semester came to an end,

I ran back into the pair after not seeing them for the past week. Everyone had been occupied with studies and I was looking forward to catching up. Things had changed quite a bit since the last time I had visited their room. An altar had taken pride of place in the corner. If it hadn't been for the pentagram poster on the wall above it and the statue of the devil, it wouldn't have drawn my attention. I pointed to it and made some half-hearted joke. The laughter I expected didn't occur. Rather, Bradley gave me this long monologue about how they had been wrong about the religion, how the Church of Satan were a bunch of cosplayers and how it actually had a lot to offer. I'll admit I didn't hide my skepticism, but I didn't push the matter.

For all I knew, he was right. It was just another religion like any other. A bit unorthodox perhaps but I felt I had no right to criticize them. I've been raised to be open-minded towards others' beliefs. Besides, I had no reason to be concerned so once again I changed the subject and steered the conversation on to another subject. So the semester ended and we all returned home for the break. I had a great time seeing my parents and catching up with my friends. Before I knew it, the vacation was over and it was time to go back to school. It was two days after the start of classes when Bradley and Greg came to visit my room.

Something was different about them. They had a very somber air about them. Both guys were dressed in all black. The biggest change was their glasses. Neither one was wearing any. I brought it up and they said that they had gotten contacts over the holiday. Sounded like a good idea, but for some reason Bradley made a point of saying they wanted to be taken more seriously, which struck me as a weird thing to say. We talked about our holiday and then Bradley suggested we play a

game of magic with a group of other guys from the dorm. Later that day we all got together and played late into the night. More than once Bradley would go off on a tangent about power and the accumulation of it. I wrote this off as a side effect of the game. I played with guys who enjoyed getting into their characters in the past and this seemed like a thing he and Greg would do. He wrapped up at around 2am and I hit the sack soon after. After that night I'd see Bradley and Greg less and less. I could see no reason for them to be angry so I figured something was keeping them busy. Out of the blue, I ran into them on the last week of the semester. They had become almost unrecognizable. Both guys had lost a bunch of weight and looked as if they hadn't slept in weeks. Initially, they hadn't noticed me, but I gasped in surprise at their

appearances and it got their attention. They began walking toward me. A feeling of unease crept up from my stomach. I wasn't sure why until Bradley began speaking in an erratic, clipped manner. I thought he may have been on drugs. Greg, who usually let Bradley do the talking, chimed in. His manner was less manic, but the glee in which he spoke creeped me out even more. He was eager to tell me how he and Bradley had discovered a way to make the other students respect them, and they were on their way to get their sacrifice when we met. For a brief second, I thought it was an act. I looked closer at both of them for reassurance, but only madness looked back at me, is all I can really describe it as. And a shiver ran through me and I

could feel the goosebumps spring up on my arms. I was terrified just being near them so I did the only thing I think I could and played along. All I wanted in that second was to get away and find help. Some evil force had consumed my old friends and I was afraid it was making them do something terrible, even if it was just in their mind. Thinking quickly, I played it cool and wished them luck. They didn't appear alarmed as I walked calmly toward my room. When I was out of sight, I fumbled with my phone as I called campus security. I feared they wouldn't take the threat seriously and I I was right, so I hung up and dialed 911. I explained my concerns to the operator in as dramatic a manner as possible, and she must have believed me. Less than 30 minutes later,

I watched from a window as Bradley and Greg were actually taken into custody mere moments before they would have driven away. My initial misgivings that I may have been a tad overzealous were discounted when news reached me about what the cops had found in the car. Apparently not only did they have in-depth notes on the habits and photos of a certain female student, a large ceremonial Indian-style knife was discovered in a small bag belonging to Bradley. I awaited with bated breath some news about the arrest of my old friends, but none ever materialized. Other than a small blurb in the local newspaper which greatly downplayed the story, no other coverage occurred, and I have no clue what truly happened, although I have a few suspicions.

Among them, and my favorite theory, was that the school hushed it up. Rather than have their incompetence in the matter become public, they may have cut a deal with the cops to keep it quiet. I do know Bradley and Greg took a plea. They never returned to school, and may have done some prison time, but that's never been ascertained. I'm not even sure if the poor girl who had been the target of their ghoulish plan was even notified.

I somehow doubt she stayed ignorant for long. Although, the incident may not have reached the wider world among the denizens of the school. It was far from secret. From my experience, most everybody had that creepy dude they knew from school or hung out with. In my school, we all called him Jay, and he was perhaps the creepiest of the creepy. I had the unenviable honor of being there on his first day. It was kindergarten and a lot of the kids threw a fit when they were separated from their parents.

I don't hold that against them. We were only five after all. Rather than accepting the separation and joining the others in class, he made things even worse. His mom hadn't been gone ten minutes and he soiled himself. This wasn't a reaction to stress, like you may expect. It turned to be out of pure spite. He must have used this before to control people. When the teacher called his mother she returned in a matter of minutes and took him home. He had such a smug look on his face as he left and I knew even then as a little kid that things

weren't getting better. The following day his mother dropped him off in class and he repeated the disgusting behavior and, of course, his mother was called again to pick him up. This vicious power play continued for a week. His mom would leave. He'd ball his head off for five minutes straight only to soil himself again. You probably get it by now. That Friday morning would be the last time I'd see Jay for almost 10 years. We move forward to the first day of sophomore year. We were all sitting in our chairs and the teacher calls out everyone's names. When she called out Jay's, I almost soiled myself. I looked around frantically until this short, overweight kid raised his hand. He was almost a carbon copy of the little kid I remembered.

Except now, he looked even worse. His hair was long and greasy, his face covered by patches of hair, and he was wearing this old grey jacket with stains all over it. I think it may have been a members-only one. This was 2013. I was unable to grasp why he looked so bad. As far as I was aware, his family wasn't poor. In fact, I believe his dad was a dentist with his own practice. My amazement toward him would only grow. As class was let out and he passed

by me, a cloud of stink almost knocked me down. Man, did he smell. Similar to wet garbage. I probably should have expected it considering his appearance, but this level of funk was all new to me. I did my best to keep my head down and slip out unnoticed. As far as I could tell, he didn't remember me, and boy was I relieved. Little did I know, his hygiene would become the least of his cons. A month passed and school was as lame as ever. Jay remained offensive to the nose and eyes. His grey jacket had become dirtier than his hair. I think he even had Dorito crumbs falling off of it one morning.

Unfortunately, his behavior would be far nastier. I caught wind of a story going around that some kid was showing other male students lewd photos of his sister. When I discovered it was Jay, I can't say I was shocked. Disgusted, but not shocked. Eventually, my time came. He approached me in my locker and shoved his phone in my face. Once I was able to focus on the screen, I realized it was indeed a photo of a girl who looked disturbingly similar to himself. I can't say I recall the quality of the picture. His stench was just too distracting.

Even though I was in a constant state of discomfort I was taken aback at how proud he was of the picture. His smile stretched from ear to ear. It was like he was showing me a hot rod he'd built with his dad. And perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the encounter was when I learned that the girl was only 13. I couldn't imagine how strange his relationship with his sister must have been. No matter how gruesome things connected to this dude were, he always managed to outdo himself. I guess the shots were so popular he took things up a level and began selling the videos of her showering. Although I was lucky enough not to see those atrocities, I was told by folks who did that rather than being some creep videos, the subject was well aware that

she was being filmed. I can't say she was aware her brother was selling them though. Of course, Jay's dirty little secret wouldn't stay that way for long. It wasn't more than a week after he launched his filmic endeavor before it was shut down. The principal and others in power at the school got word of his actions and he was brought in for questioning. Once they had a full grip on what had been going on right under their noses, law enforcement was informed, thankfully. The rest came to me by word of mouth, so take it with a pinch of salt.

According to some people, things between Jay and his sister were even more shocking than we believed. She would admit that her and Jay had been involved in some form of physical relationship for the last three years. In addition to that, he wasn't just selling videos around school. He'd been peddling far more explicit clips on the dark web, believe it or not, at least what I was hearing. The rumor mill was churning in overdrive. Jay's sudden disappearance led to all kinds of theories and suppositions. What I do know is that he was gone almost as quickly as he'd arrived and not many missed him. The same source I had gotten my information from prior claimed he had done a

few months in a juvenile facility and was released. Basically a slap on the wrist. However, at the time, there was still the question of how hard the feds were going to go after him. Unfortunately, life moved on and I guess folks forgot about Jay, and I can't tell you his ultimate fate. Despite him being a disgusting mess of a person, I feel bad for the others who suffered because of him. The strain revolving around the situation caused his parents to divorce, but perhaps the person who suffered the most was his younger sister. Not only had her public life been ruined, she was forced to drop out of school soon after it all came out. The abuse she had suffered at the hands of Jay has to have done some major long-term damage. I pray she's been able to make something of her life. As for Jay, I could care less how he is. Creatures like him never change. They destroy lives of all those around them, and the world will be a much better place without

him. We'll be right back. 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 I can't say Andre was a particularly weird dude. I didn't know him well, but every time we did speak, he came across as completely normal. He was a pretty quiet guy, not very talkative, but then again, I've never been either. His personal interactions with others, at least the ones I witnessed,

appeared totally above board. And as far as I'm aware, he did okay in classes and never had any more trouble with his teachers than anyone else. What I'm saying is nobody I hung out with had any concerns about his sanity. The events of the coming years would show how horrible and terrible a judge of character I had been. Maybe those closer to him knew the true face behind the mask. As for me, when the facts of his case came out, I was shocked. Then it only got worse from there. As often happens, life moved on after high school, as did I, and Andre became a small part of my childhood.

Then one morning as I flipped through my newspaper, a face from my past was staring back at me, and what I read in the article adjoining it made my blood run cold. Since I'm not a professional writer, I thought I'd use the account the Texas Tribune's managing editor Brandi Grissom used in a feature she wrote for Texas Monthly. She states, By 2004, Andre was 21 years old, deeply mentally ill and receiving no treatment. On the bright clear morning of March 27th, he charged up the stairs to the third floor apartment where Laura, his estranged wife, lived and kicked in the door. Her boyfriend had already left for work.

Andre was holding three knives, one for each of his intended victims. He first encountered Laura, who ran toward him screaming no. Andre plunged a knife into her chest. He then reached in and pulled out what he believed was her heart. He had, in fact, extracted part of her lung. Next, he headed for the children's room, where Andre Jr. and one-year-old Leia were sleeping. Andre held down his four-year-old son and stabbed him before moving on to Leia. He carved out each of the children's hearts. Finally, Andre jammed a knife into his own chest three times and laid down beside Laura on the living room floor, expecting to die. Confounded when he didn't, he slipped the organs he had removed into his pocket and walked more than five miles home.

A few hours later, he went to the Sherman Police Department where he confessed to the murders and asked if he would be forgiven. I thought it was what God wanted me to do, he later told investigators. After undergoing emergency surgery to repair his life-threatening stab wounds, Andre was moved to the Grayson County Jail, where his behavior became more and more psychotic. He gestured wildly and announced that he was going to save the world. He claimed to be the 13th warrior of the dollar bill and said that Laura and the children weren't dead but that their hearts had been freed from evil. Horrified doesn't begin to describe my feelings upon reading this. Had he always been hiding the monster inside him, or as often happens, had the specter of schizophrenia gradually taken hold of him as he entered into his early 20s?

It's an answer I doubt I'll ever really get. Almost everything written on the case focuses on the monstrosity of the crime rather than its causes. As shocking as this all was, the case was destined to only become more bizarre. I figured once the trial eventually came around, Andre would eventually be found guilty and given multiple life sentences or the death penalty. No matter the result, he would do just as he had before and slip to the back of my mind, perhaps only being thought of on very rare occasions. It appeared, however, he wasn't quite ready to be forgotten. Just six days after taking the lives

of his family, my old school acquaintance gouged out his right eye. It was claimed he did so because of a bible passage he'd read. Even after all this odd behavior, he was deemed fit to stand trial for capital murder. Just as I'd imagined when the time came, he was found guilty for all three murders and sentenced to death. The people for Texas had spoken, and the time had come for Andre to move off to his new home on Death Row. As before, I foolishly believed his and my stories had diverged for the last time and nothing more could happen. Andre had one more card up his sleeve to play, however, and one more eye left to pluck out. Once again, the story said he'd blinded himself because of the very same bible verse, however, this time he upped the ante on two counts. Rather than stabbing out the offending eye,

he yanked it from the socket. The second part was far more gruesome. When the guard who discovered him in his cell, covered in blood, asked the location of said eye, the answer was simple. He'd eaten it. Despite what's been printed in all of the sensationalist newspaper articles, the true reason for blinding himself seems to be an attempt to force the state of Texas to give him the psychiatric care he'd been asking for since his arrest. It appears he'd gotten his wish, but as it stands now, his death sentence remains standing. The way things are currently, Andre is being held in a state psychiatric facility awaiting his day with the executioner, and that's the extent of

any information I've been able to come across. As recently as 2013, a Texas Court of Criminal Appeals judge found the defendant clearly crazy, but also sane under Texas law. While I'm not here to discuss the finer points of whether the death penalty is a good or bad thing, that's a far deeper lake than I'm prepared to wade into. I think we could all agree the man has some problems. I've included only the most important facts in my retelling but you'll have no problem finding more through a simple internet search if you're so inclined. However, I do warn you, the remaining details are not for the faint of heart.

For some readers, the outright gruesome nature may prove to be too much. You've been warned. Born on April 18th, 1947, Herbert Mullen grew up as the only son of a World War II veteran in Salinas, California. Befitting his wartime service, Herbert's father was the very definition of the strict combat veteran father and ran his household like a military base. He often spoke of his time in combat, reminding his family and particularly Herbert that he had spilled German blood so that they didn't have to. As a result, Herbert's worldview revolved around loyalty, discipline, and martial combat, so you might be surprised to hear that Herb grew up to be a remarkably well-adjusted young man. His father was strict but not brutal or mean-spirited,

and he taught Herbert the social skills that led to him being voted most likely to succeed by his fellow students at San Lorenzo Valley High School. Yet in 1965, shortly after graduation, one of Herbert's best friends was killed in a freak automobile accident after a drunk driver plowed into him after racing around a blind turn on a Californian highway. Herbert was absolutely devastated by the senselessness of the sudden passing, and it prompted him to enter a period of deep depression that he arguably never recovered from. Within a month of Dean's death, Herbert had constructed a small shrine to him in his bedroom, consisting of a few lit candles, a yearbook photo, and a few of Dean's possessions. When Herbert's girlfriend saw the shrine,

she was extremely creeped out. To grieve the sudden death of a loved one was one thing, but Herbert seemed to be dangerously obsessed with his late friend. Her suspicions were confirmed when Herbert actually expressed fears that he might be gay, and that the loss was so painful because he was actually in love with Dean. Whether or not this was actually the case, no one can really be sure of. As open and accepting as his girlfriend tried to be, Herbert's crushing depression caused a deep rift between him and his girlfriend. Herbert began experimenting with marijuana and LSD,

self-medicating in the hopes that the hallucinogenic would bring him a greater sense of acceptance. This only widened the schism between he and his girlfriend, and not long after, the couple broke up. Things got so bad that in 1969, at the age of just 21 years old, Herbert agreed to his family's suggestion that he check himself into a secure psychiatric facility so that his depression could be properly treated. Yet since his committal was purely voluntary, Herbert only remained a patient for a relatively brief period of time. He hopped from institution to institution, professing a desire to better himself but never making any progress. After apparently giving up on mental health treatments altogether, Herbert's behavior took a drastic turn for the worse, and he began to display symptoms

of paranoid schizophrenia. After only a short tenancy in a Salinas apartment block, Herbert was served an eviction notice after repeatedly pounding on the floor of the apartment and yelling at people who weren't there. Now effectively homeless, he attempted to enter the priesthood, but those he spoke to recognized something was horribly wrong with Herbert and he was turned away. In 1972, Herbert was 25 when he was arrested for vagrancy by a police officer who found him burning himself with a lit cigarette. Since it was clear he was completely incapable of looking after himself, Herbert's parents took him back in and for a while,

living in their Felton home caused a positive spike in his behavior. But it seems this period was merely an opportunity for Herbert to arrange his scattered terrifying thoughts into a structured but dangerously insane worldview. Mullen's birthday was April 18th, the exact same date as the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. Just before dawn, the quake hit the coast of Northern California with an estimated magnitude of 7.9 on the Richter scale. Terrifyingly intense tremors were felt from Eureka on the north coast to the Salinas Valley, and devastating fires soon broke out that lasted for several days. More than 3,000 people died, and over 80% of the city of San Francisco was destroyed in what was

one of the deadliest earthquakes in the history of the United States. Reading about the disaster during his childhood seemed to have a profound effect on Herbert, and the event became a central piece of his twisted ideology. He convinced himself that only human sacrifice could quench the bloodthirst of some ancient subterranean evil who caused the mass of tremors in order to give it fresh souls to feast on. This idea was only cemented when Herbert collated a timeline of California earthquakes with a timeline of American foreign wars. The 1906 earthquake had been devastating, but it had occurred in a time of peace between the Boxer Rebellion and the so-called Crazy Snake Rebellion, which saw U.S. cavalrymen

face off with the Muscogee Native Americans. Earthquakes during the two world wars and Korean conflict dropped off dramatically, with the highest death toll of any being a mere 12 people. However, in 1933, the same year the U.S. withdrew from Nicaragua, an earthquake hit Long Beach that killed around 120. The same also applied for the height of the Vietnam War, with earthquake deaths dropping off to next to nothing. However, in 1971, with the fighting between US forces and communist insurgents dying down, the San Fernando Valley was struck by an earthquake that might have only killed 50 or 60 but injured thousands. Herbert saw this as a warning from whatever ancient devil dwelled deep beneath the earth and took it upon himself to save his fellow Californians from imminent danger,

even if blood had to be spilled to do so. It's important to note that these earthquake statistics are entirely accurate, to the point where even a sane and sober man may note a curious correlation between combat deaths and earthquake casualties. But to Herbert, it was absolute proof of what was required of him, and so began a bloody campaign of murder and assassination with some horrifyingly supernatural implications. The first stage of Herbert's plan was an application to join the United States Marine Corps, emulating his father's national service while providing the ancient one with fresh souls to feed on, thus keeping his fellow Californians safe. He passed the mental and physical testing

phases with flying colors, yet was refused entry when he admitted to previously using illegal substances. This rejection fueled the paranoid aspect of his schizophrenia, and he began to theorize of a vast conspiracy in which powerful politicians and subversive hippies alike sought to worship the evil one. Herbert began to foster furious delusions regarding an old high school friend named Jim Gayanara. Jim was the one who had turned Herbert onto marijuana in the first place, so it stood to reason that it was a deliberate sabotage and that Jim was in cahoots with those who worshipped the evil one. He knew his old friend lived in an old log cabin out in the

woods near Mystery Spot Road, but when he drove out there, he found that Jim had moved away. However, the new owner, a woman named Kathy Francis, was only too happy to give Herbert his old friend's contact details and directed him to his new place over in Santa Cruz. It was there that Herbert talked his way into Jim's home, lulled them into a false sense of security, and then shot them both before mutilating their corpses with kitchen utensils. When he was finished, he drove back to Kathy Francis' place and thanked her by shooting her and her two sons dead. Damon and David Francis were just four and nine years old, respectively, and Herbert murdered them without a second thought.

The murders of Kathy and her children severed Herbert's connection to the Guyanera murders, but to him, they no doubt served another purpose, more blood for the blood god. This led police to surmise that the murders were connected to Kathy's husband's occupation as a narcotics trafficker and never once considered Herbert's guilt. Yet, we're left with no doubt that Herbert's actions were cold and calculated. Killing a witness shows a disturbing level of lucidity for a man so incontestably insane. On top of the Guianera and Francis murders, Herbert managed to commit a string of other killings before he was finally arrested. He beat a homeless hitchhiker

to death with a baseball bat after tricking him into looking at his car engine, later claiming that the man was the reincarnation of Jonah from the biblical whale story. He had chosen the man after receiving a telepathic message from him saying, pick me up, throw me over the boat, kill me so that others shall live. Next was a 24-year-old college student who was running late for an interview. After deciding to hitchhike, she was unfortunate enough to be picked up by Herbert, who drove her to a secluded spot before stabbing her to death. Much like the Guianeras, Mary Guilfoyle had her body mutilated by Herbert once she was

dead, who lined a hillside road with her limbs and organs before he fled the area, leaving a horrendous discovery for the next unsuspecting driver. Yet despite having committed such horrifically brutal crimes, Herbert's visit to St. Mary's Catholic Church in Los Gatos reveals his apparent remorse. We can deduce that although Herbert was more than willing to make the human sacrifices that were demanded of him, it evidently weighed heavily on his conscience. And this is evidenced in his visit to a confessional booth, manned by a one Father Henri Tomei. Father Tomei had been a French resistance operative during the Second

World War, and had traveled from his native Marseille after the war to seek a new and peaceful life in the United States. He was a man with everything to live for, but for some reason, Herbert believed Father Tomei wanted to volunteer to be his next sacrifice. He got up from the confessional bench, walked around to Father Tumay's section, then stabbed him to death where he sat. Witnesses who saw the clergyman's limp and bloodied corpse fall out of the confessional booth said they saw a tall man in black clothing fleeing the scene. But their speculation that the man was some kind of burglar only slowed the investigation. Herbert killed again in early 1973, executing a retired fisherman with a high-powered rifle as he preened the front lawn of his Santa Cruz home. He was driving alone on the west side when he cruised past Fred Perez,

then for no apparent reason, Herbert made a U-turn, stopped his station wagon, and laid his rifle across the hood to aim. Then, with one shot, killed the man instantly with a single bullet to the heart. Then he got back into his car and calmly drove off. Given that this was broad daylight and there was a number of witnesses, one was able to provide police with Herbert's license plate number. Slowly, the net was closing around him. Yet Herbert's most notorious murders also occurred out near a cabin in the woods. In February of 1973, he was wandering around Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park when he stumbled across a group of teenage boys camped illegally near an old cabin.

They appeared to be acting rather boisterously and Herbert got it into his head that they were trying to vandalize or break into the aged timber structure. He approached the boys, claiming to be a park ranger and began lecturing them on respect for the natural world. When the boys belittled him, he ordered them to leave, saying that they were polluting the forest. After they refused and ramped up their mockery of him, Herbert pulled out a pistol and shot each of the boys dead. Their bodies lay there until their discovery the following week, but by that time, Herbert was in police custody. He was initially described by the arresting officer as docile when he was pulled over at the intersection of Highway 9 and Coral

Street. Because Mullen's rifle was in plain sight in the passenger seat, the officer initially drew his weapon in preparation for a close-quarter shootout, but thankfully, Herbert did not resist arrest. But whether or not this was the best thing for public safety is something we're soon to explore. Whilst in police custody, Herbert made a full confession, but also explained his role as a kind of sacrificial priest charged with preventing hugely destructive earthquakes. He also asserted that the reason there had not been an earthquake recently was due to his blood-soaked industriousness. And indeed, between the period of October 13th of 1972 and February 13th of 1973,

there wasn't a single earthquake in the state of California. The Santa Cruz County District Attorney's Office charged Mullen with 10 murders, with his trial commencing in July of 1973. The only question was whether or not he was legitimately sane and therefore responsible for his actions. The fact that he had covered his tracks and shown premeditation in some of his crimes showed some degree of sanity, but the defense's argument detailing his history of paranoid schizophrenia was more than compelling. However, the following month, the verdict was delivered, and Herbert Mullen was found guilty of first-degree murder in the cases of Jim Guianera

and Kathy Francis, while for the other eight murders were declared second-degree murder, since they were deemed to be much more impulsive. He was sentenced to life imprisonment in Santa Cruz County, and has been denied parole 11 times since 1980 since his mental state is highly unstable. It's frankly a miracle that he avoided permanent detention in the mental hospital. But then again, maybe Herbert Mullins isn't as crazy as he makes out. Because just 11 days after he was arrested, Southern California's Point Magoo was hit by an earthquake measuring 5.8 on the Richter scale, causing more than a million dollars in property damage. It's a terrifying prospect, even when you tell yourself it's just an interesting coincidence that Herbert Mullins really did stop California's earthquakes with bloodshed,

and that America's foreign wars directly coincide with the scale of the nation's natural disasters. But even the most ardent skeptics will raise an eyebrow at such a thing. Eleven days was all it took for Herbert to be proven right, at least in his own mind. So, was Herbert Mullen simply a dangerous, twisted psychopath? Or was it the case that Herbert knew something that we don't? Something that concerns hitherto unknown horrors that lurks somewhere deep beneath the earth. 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.

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Dad was in and out of psychiatric hospitals before he took his own life. The only living relative I was aware of was my paternal uncle. But one of the few dark secrets concerning my family that I actually knew was that my uncle blamed himself for my dad's death. As a result, he built himself a log cabin up in Maine and had been living in seclusion ever since. But since I only had a rough idea of where the cabin was and even less of a desire to reach out to him, he was just as dead to me as my parents were. Because the truth is, I blamed him for my dad's death too. Having someone to direct my anger towards, someone to blame, it was the only thing that allowed me a measure of peace after a terrible, miserable childhood. Against all odds, by the summer of 2015,

I actually built something of a life for myself out here in Boston area. I was an assistant manager of a brewery pub, I had a small but nice apartment, I even got a couple of dates here and there. I was firmly in the process of putting my old life behind me and that felt better than I can possibly describe. Then came the letter that changed everything. It was from an attorney's office in Augusta, Maine, and as soon as I saw which state it was postmarked from, I had an inkling of the news that followed. Lo and behold, it was a letter stating that my uncle had died, and that this guy had been tasked with dividing my uncle's estate among his surviving relations. I'd always assumed he didn't have much money,

and I was right about that, but that didn't mean I hadn't been allocated something in his last will and testament. Yet, irritatingly enough, I'd have to go all the way to Augusta to find out what it was. I gave the attorney's office a call, lied about being too busy to make the drive, and just asked them straight up what I'd been left in the will. So, imagine my curiosity when this guy tells me he has no idea what it is, that all he has is a key to a security deposit box located in an Augusta bank. He's been paid to ensure I open the box and understand the significance of the contents, nothing more, his only motivation being that his

payment is locked inside the box too. It sounded like the plot of a bad movie, and only once the attorney had assured me that he was deadly serious did I actually start to believe it. Part of me wanted nothing to do with it, and told me it'd be nothing but picking at old wounds, dragging up a past I'd worked so hard to leave behind. But peace of mind doesn't pay the bills, and as greedy as it sounds, if there was money to be had, I wanted a piece of it. So I took a half day one Friday in mid-July the 17th, or the 19th I think it was, and I began the five and a half hour round trip to Augusta up in Maine.

It's a pretty nice drive in the summertime and the views quiet and the growing feelings of dread for as long as they were able to. But as I pulled up outside the quaint, homely offices of the law firm, Stevens and Day, I felt like I was on the verge of a miniature panic attack. I'd gotten it into my head somehow that all I was going to get was a letter telling me some awful truth about my family that had ruined all the progress I'd made over the past four or five years. So you can only imagine my trepidation as I meet with the attorney and drive over to Banger Savings Bank to unlock the box with him. I was actually clammy with nerves by the time the bank manager ushered

us into the room housing the deposit boxes and when I cracked it open to reveal nothing but a wad of cash in a single letter, I thought my worst fears were confirmed. The attorney took the money, but when it came to me opening the letter, I was obviously hesitant. It reached the point where the guy asked me if I was actually going to read it, or if I wanted some time alone. When I hit him with what I thought was a pretty unusual request. I wanted him to read the letter for me, then summarize it as clinically and coldly as possible. I knew I wouldn't be able to bring myself to read it for a long, long time, yet at the same time, I had to know what it said. He was blood and as much as I hated him, I knew that honoring

his final message was, at a minimum, the right thing to do. I watched the attorney's face the whole time as he unsealed the envelope, took out the letter and began reading. He briefly scanned the contents before a look of puzzlement came over his face and sensing my impatience, he just showed me what was written. It wasn't some long-winded apology or explanation. It wasn't a goodbye or a dying request. All what was written were a set of numbers that I figured were coordinates and three scrawled words. Burn. It all. When the attorney asked me what the significance of the coordinates were, I didn't have an answer for him. But all it took was a quick google search to work out that

they pointed to a seemingly random spot in the Debsconig Lakes wilderness area. I wasn't certain, but I was 90% sure that this was the location of his cabin, but whatever he wanted me to burn was a complete mystery to me. In the space of about 10 minutes, I went from wanting nothing more to do with such a grim situation to being consumed with morbid curiosity. My imagination went into overdrive, and I theorized on all the dangerously illegal or disgustingly immoral things he might have been up to out there. I just had to know more, because if he'd left some terrible, shameful legacy behind, you could bet I wanted to destroy it. The ride back to the Stevenson day gave me an opportunity to politely grill the attorney on my uncle's death.

I figured if he'd fallen ill or died at home, then someone must have seen the inside of his cabin. But according to the attorney, my uncle had driven himself to the hospital about a week before he died, and had made the deposit box arrangement with him months before. So for all intents and purposes, the only person that had ever seen the inside of that log cabin was my uncle. Before I left the guy's office, I asked him his advice and I'll never forget what he said. Well, as my grandpa used to say, sometimes things bury you if you don't bury them first. And he was right.

I couldn't lose any more sleep over this nonsense. It almost killed me once before and there was no way I was going to let that happen again. It was clear what needed to be done. I'd drive out to that cabin, do my uncle one last favor, and burn whatever horrible truth contained ashes. I planned to check into a nearby hotel, then set out at first light the next morning after eight hours of sleep. But eight hours sleep turned to be rather ambitious. When the clock on the motel wall ticked over to 2am, I figured a better use of my time would be to scour google maps for the best route out to the cabin. Then by the time the first slivers of

blue dawn began to creep onto the horizon, I was packed up and ready to go. I didn't figure I'd need much, just a jerry can of gas and a box of matches, and those were easily procured. Then once I had one of those extra large gas station coffees in my drinks holster, I was just about ready for the three hour drive out to the lakes. The entire drive I had those three words just echoing around my skull, burn it all. I have never been so fully consumed with curiosity in all my life. It was an ache, like that feeling when you hold your breath for too long and just need to let it all out. I had to know how my uncle had been living for the past 30 years and what it was he wanted me to burn.

But to explore that cabin would be to risk my sanity, when I could just burn the thing to the ground and walk away and go on living. I tried so hard to make up my mind, but the truth is, I didn't know what I was going to do until I was face to face with the old rotten cabin, face to face with the truth. When I was almost certain that I was within walking distance of the letter's coordinates, I parked my car up in an old lot near a trailhead, then headed northwest towards what I assumed was going to be the cabin. But about a half hour or so into my hike, I began to notice something rather unusual about the area's flora, and it wasn't long before one particular sight stopped me dead in my tracks. There, lying in the dirt in front of me was what looked like a mix between

a pile of beef mints and a brain. At first glance, I really did think it was living or at least once living flesh. The shade and texture of it was almost identical to meat but I soon realized that what I was looking at was actually a kind of fungus. I later discovered it to be Girimitra escalenta, or more commonly, brain fungus. And although it can be highly poisonous, it's not an uncommon sight in northeastern forests. However, what was uncommon was the frequency with which I sighted the distinct looking fungus around the woods. And those weren't the only weird mushrooms I found out there, and the next variety I saw was even creepier than the last.

While the brain fungus was just kind of gross looking, I mistook the devil's tooth mushrooms for chunks of bloody human tissue. Go ahead and look those up by the way, you'll see what I mean. Younger specimens basically bleed this bright red substance that I later discovered contains anticoagulant properties. In plain English, it looks like blood and it can make you bleed easier. Creepy, right? But again, not nearly as creepy as just how many of the disgusting little things were dotted around the forest. They were everywhere, sometimes two or three around the base of every tree, and the closer I got to the coordinates, the more there seemed to be. I had this GPS app on my phone that was helping me keep track of where I was,

and I didn't have to worry about the cell service cutting out because it worked offline too. But as it turned out, I didn't need any fancy equipment to find my way to the cabin. All I had to do was follow the mushrooms. I smelled the cabin before I saw it. It was this pungent, almost stewed meat smell, but with a sickly rotten taint to it and by the time I actually laid eyes on the filthy wooden paneling through the trees, I almost had to cover my mouth and nose in order to push forward. The thing was covered in those brain fungus and devil tooth mushrooms, nestled in where the wood met the soil or where moisture and dank was able to cling under windowsills. I can't stress how utterly exhausted I was by this point either.

It was almost noon, one of those cloudy summer days that just seals all the humidity in like a lid on a jar, and I'd been hiking with about two gallons of gasoline in my backpack, which let me tell you, was no easy feat. I just wanted to get things over with so I could set off back to my car. But a thought struck me as I was pulling a gas can from my backpack. I had no idea what the smell was. If it was due to some kind of flammable gas, maybe that's what my uncle meant when he told me to burn it all. Maybe it was primed to ignite and all I needed to do was toss a match on it. But if it

was indeed flammable, the intensity of the fumes meant I'd risk blowing myself up if I just tossed on an open flame from arm's length. So that raised the question of just what was making that god awful stench. But finding out meant looking into the cabin, something I'd promised myself I wouldn't do. But what harm could one little peek do? The journey out here had been depressing and confusing enough. Seeing how some miserable old hermit lives his life couldn't be so bad, could it? Of course not. So why was I so terrified to open that front door? Well, as it turns out, it's because I just couldn't compute what I'd see on the other side. The inside of the cabin was just as infested with fungus as the outside,

and it was so humid in there that it felt like a freaking sauna. The first thing I saw as I attempted to cover my mouth and nose with the neck of my t-shirt was a huge pot on the stove. My uncle had been dead for about a week by this point, but before he died, he'd filled that pot with enough of whatever it was that it was only just beginning to boil down as it slowly simmered away. The opening to the pot was stuffed with rubber piping, arterial little tubes that seemed to run all over the cabin, each pumping out a kind of vapor that simply must have been the source of the stench. The place looked like a cross between a drug factory and some mad scientist's lab. There were sodden, moldy books lying on the floor,

a blackboard with some indecipherable pictograms on it. And that was just about all I could get a glimpse of before my eyes started to water and I was eventually forced to retreat from the open door where I promptly vomited. Those fumes, they were just unbearable. Like my head was spinning and I honestly thought that I might pass out for a moment. I have no idea what he was doing in there. All I know is that it had something to do with all those mushrooms. There were so many of them there that I thought I could almost hear them moving or something. It was this repulsive, intestinal hum that made my skin crawl to listen to. After I collected myself, I wrapped my shirt around my face to create a kind of makeshift respirator and set about emptying the contents of the gas can all over the outer wall of the cabin. Then, with a flick of a match,

it all went up in flames. And I know it was just my ears playing tricks on me, that what I heard was just the sound of moisture escaping the soaked wood, but I'd have sworn I heard the screams of that fungus as it burned. When I finally drove back home, I was no more enlightened than I had been before. If anything, I only had more unanswerable questions, more to keep me up at night when that not-knowing anxiety gets too much to bear. But still, I'm glad I burned that cabin down, that I didn't leave whatever darkness it contained to be stumbled on by somebody else. I thought I might hear about it in the news too and for a day or two I wondered if I'd accidentally started some kind of forest fire. But no news ever came, not even so much as a peep. And I figured that maybe it wasn't

just my uncle who wanted whatever was up there to stay secret, that it all runs deeper than I could possibly imagine. But I try not to think about it anymore. Like I said, I've made something of a life for myself, even got a long- term girlfriend who I've been talking about marriage and kids with and I'll be darned if I do anything to mess that up. And if you're ever out near the Debsconic lakes, keep an eye out for those mushrooms, because if you start seeing a little too many of them, it might be better for you if you went back the way you came. In June of 1976, the wealthy all-American Robinson family of Lathrop Village, Detroit, were vacationing at their Lake Michigan cottage just north of Goodhart, near the Straits of Mackinac.

Husband and wife couple, Dick and and Shirley made their money through publishing and advertising and had raised four wonderful children together in their almost 20 years of marriage. There was 19-year-old Richard, 16-year-old Gary, 12-year-old Randall, and 7-year-old Susan. To all who knew them, the Robinsons were the model of a successful happy modern family. But hidden just beneath the surface was a whole host of dark secrets, some of which were considerably more sinister than the others. Not only was Dick's new art magazine beginning to struggle, but his general financial situation was looking pretty dire. Company bills went unpaid, bank accounts were subject to some rather erratic activity, and investors were increasingly starting to doubt that Dick

Robinson could make a return on their money. But on top of that, the secretary turnover at Dick's offices had reached double digits over the past decade, with employee after employee handing in their notice without having even completed a full year in their employment. This was down to the incontrovertibly creepy and lecherous atmosphere that Dick fostered in his workplace, and he was known for his bizarre habit of asking female staff members to lift their skirts so he could touch their bare thighs. Yet as you can imagine, Dick's wife knew nothing of this, and as the family headed out to the summer home they called Somerset, a log and stone cottage set on a twisting road half a mile west of Lakeshore Drive, she could have never expected the horror that was destined

to unfold there. Around a month after the Robinsons first arrived at Somerset, the caretaker responsible with maintaining the vacation homes began to receive a number of complaints regarding a bad smell coming from the Somerset house. When the caretaker arrived at the property, he found all doors and windows to be locked or bolted, and assumed that the Robinsons had left out some food before they left or that maybe a sewage pipe had burst inside. Knowing the Robinsons would want him to do everything he could to ensure the safety and integrity of their property, the caretaker forced his way into the home as cleanly and non-destructively as he could. But when he did so, he was greeted with a sight so terrible and violent that it haunted him for the rest of his life. One of the first things the janitor noticed when entering the house,

aside from the overpowering stench of rot, was just how hot it was. The Michigan summer had been a relentless one, and even without central heating, the heat had been nearly unbearable. But here was the Somerset house in the third week of July, with its heat on full blast. He was then greeted with the sight of Shirley Robinson's corpse, the heat having ramped up the decomposition process with stomach-churning results. She was laying on her stomach with a plaid blanket covering her lifeless body from the knees up, with clotted blood having crept out from a single shot to the head from a.25 caliber pistol. Her husband Dick was found dead lying atop a heating vent and had been shot with both the.25 caliber that killed his wife

and what was later deemed to be a.22 caliber rifle. He had also suffered blunt force trauma to his skull, which had cracked wide open, giving the unsuspecting caretaker an unfettered view of its festering contents. The caretaker ran outside the home and immediately vomited, then rushed to call in local law enforcement. Police later found young Randall lying on top of his dead father. The 12-year-old had been executed with a single shot to the head. Much like his mother, the boy had been partially covered up with a blanket. The body of 7-year-old Susan Robinson was found just meters away from those of her father and brother. She had several gunshot wounds, but also had an acute skull fracture that appeared to have

been inflicted by some kind of hammer. The two oldest Robinsons were found in one of the bedrooms, having been shot several times in the head with the.25 caliber. 16-year-old Gary had been shot twice in the head, but had also apparently been shot in the back with a.22 rifle, as if he was fleeing from his assailants. The police ballistics analysis was later called in, whose job it was to paint a picture of just how the shootings had taken place, based solely on the positions of the bodies and the path of the bullets. This ballistics expert determined that someone had approached the cabin from a distance, observing until they had a clear shot on Dick Robinson through one of the cottage windows. Then once the opening shots of the attack were fired,

the killers closed in to finish the job. They approached the house, kicked in the back door, then chased the surviving family members through the house, shooting and killing them one by one. Once the killers had buried the Robinson family name, they drew the curtains so no one would be able to see the bloody scenes inside, ramped up the central heating, and actually covered up the broken window with a sheet of cardboard. The fact only a single set of bloody footprints were found at the scene of the crime indicated it was the work of a lone assassin. One who had covered up their tracks so well that not only did the murders go unnoticed for an entire month, but the state of decomposition meant it was difficult to determine exactly when the murders

had taken place. It was evidence of a well-planned, well-executed attack by someone who knew what they were doing, possibly having even killed before. The last people to ever see the Robinson family alive were a pair of tree surgeons who had been employed by Dick who trimmed the trees in the cabin's immediate vicinity. Neighbors also remembered hearing loud noises and raised voices around late June, but assumed the gunshots were from nearby hunters and failed to report them. Given Dick's sketchy financial situation, great emphasis was placed on the potential suspect being an aggrieved business partner, or perhaps an unpaid customer. This is how police came to interview a man named Joseph Scolero, a 30-year-old ex-soldier who'd been working for the Robinson advertising agency since the mid-60s. Investigators began to notice several glaring

inconsistencies in his given statements, and further digging brought up evidence that Scalero was actually embezzling large amounts of money from the company. Although seemingly unconnected to the murders, it was this tidbit of information that made Scalero a person of interest, and he soon became the focus of many hours of police investigation. It was subsequently discovered that Joseph had recently paid a visit to a local firearms dealer, where he had purchased two automatic Beretta pistols and an Armalite AR-15. Police cross-checked the calibers of these weapons and made a chilling discovery. The pistol was a.25 caliber, and the rifle a.22,

exactly the same size bullets as those used to kill the Robinson family. Then, through the course of their investigation, it was discovered that Scalero's father-in-law was the owner of a local firing range. On a hunch, police launched a thorough search of the facility and found AR-7 cases identical to those found at the Somerset house. Although Scolaro claimed to have given this weapon away, a neighbor had told police that he had seen the.22 caliber AR-7 rifle in Scolaro's house not long before the Robinsons were killed. During the interviews that followed this new suspicion, Scolaro failed two lie detector tests and a third test was judged to be inconclusive. It was also noted that he tried to deceive the polygraph interviews in his pre-test interviews.

But an Emmett County prosecutor decided not to bring charges against him at that time, citing the two missing murder weapons and the absence of his fingerprints from the crime scene. However, four years later in 1972, a newly elected chief prosecutor in Oakland County reopened the prosecution, believing he could secure a conviction against the case's prime suspect. But on March 8th of 1973, when Scolaro learned of the impending charges and arrest, he took his own life with the same handgun that was believed to be the Robinsons' murder weapon. Joseph left behind a blood-stained typewriter note on which he had written, I am a liar, a cheat, and a phony, along with a list of people that he had swindled in multiple business schemes. He then added a handwritten note to his mother on the same sheet of paper saying,

I had nothing to do with the Robinsons. I'm a liar, but not a murderer. I'm sick and scared. God and everyone, please forgive me. Since Michigan law does not permit an open murder case to be officially closed, the taking of the life of the prime suspect, Scolaro, placed the case in an inactive file. But as a result, many of the burning questions surrounding the Robinson murders will remain unanswered. Over the years, both amateur and professional investigators have come up with a variety of theories which attempt to explain the motive or name of a suspect, but to date, none have ever been substantiated. Those who personally knew Dick Robinson were quoted as saying that they had never known a better family man, friend, or business partner, and can't imagine why anyone would murder him or his family in such a horrendous, merciless act.

What's more, plenty of doubt has been cast on the supposed guilt of Joe Scolaro, thought to be nothing more than a small-time crook whose financial misdeeds got him caught up in a larger web of lies and murder. But regardless, the official stance in that murder of the Robinson family has never been found, and as years go by, the person responsible is less and less likely to be found. So, it might well be possible that in the past, present, or future, a person will go to their grave having executed fleeing children and completely gotten away with it. In July of 1979, Sue Sharp and her five children relocated from their home in Connecticut to Northern California, fleeing from the tyrannical temper of her abusive husband, James.

They moved into a small cabin in the sleepy Sierra Nevada suburb of Keddie, and it seemed the Sharps had finally found a place that they could really call home. Somewhere that actually made them feel safe, instead of constantly fearful. Then, on the morning of April 11th of 1981, Sue, her 14-year-old daughter Sheila, and her 5-year-old son Greg were driving back from a friend's house. They stopped by the Ganser baseball field to pick up 10-year-old Rick, then just so happened to come across 15-year-old John, who was hitchhiking home with a friend named Dana. After lunch, Sheila made plans to sleep over at the neighboring Seabolt family home While Sue remained at home with Rick, Greg, and the boy's young friend Justin Sheila left for the Seabolt's place at about 8, leaving her mother along with the kids 12-year-old Tina Sharp had joined her older sister for a short spell

But returned home for bed at around 9.30 Yet unbeknownst to all, this was the final time the Sharp family would be together, as a horrifying and preventable tragedy was about to change their lives forever. The following morning of April 12th, Sheila arrived back home from her sleepover to be greeted by scenes that would haunt her for the rest of her natural life. The dead bodies of her brother, older brother, and his friend were lying on the living room floor. All three had been bound with electrical tape, while her mother appeared to have been gagged with a blue bandana. Whoever had attacked them had done so in a particularly brutal manner.

Two bloodied knives and one hammer were found at the scene, with one of the knives having been used so hard that it was bent at a 30 degree angle. Blood splatter evidence from inside the house indicated that the murders had all taken place in the living room, yet the killer had taken the time to arrange the corpses of his victims into a horrifying tableau. Sue was discovered lying on her side near the living room sofa, nude from the waist down. She had been stabbed in the chest before her throat was slashed and the wound was so deep that it cut through her larynx and nicked her spine. On the side of her head was an imprint matching the butt of a Daisy 880 Powerline BB gun,

evidence she had been struck with one in order to subdue her. John and Dana both had their skulls smashed in with a claw hammer, but while John had a large gash on his throat, bruising around Dana's neck suggested that his killer had opted to throttle him instead of bleeding him out. Sheila then went upstairs to find that the three younger children, Rick, Greg, and Justin, were all safe and sound in the bedroom, but discovered that her younger sister, Tina, was nowhere to be found. Sheila and the Seybold family heard nothing alarming during the night, but a couple living in nearby house number 16 were awakened at 1.15am by what sounded like muffled screaming. Along with Tina's physical absence from the scene,

her jacket, shoes and a toolbox containing various tools were missing from the cabin. There were no signs of forced entry, the cabin's telephone had been left off the hook and the drapes were closed, leading police to conclude that the victims knew their killer, who had attempted to conceal his body works before departing. Immediate suspects included a man who disappeared from Keddie shortly after the murders and was later found in Oregon, but submitting to an uneventful polygraph examination, the suspect was cleared. One of the Sharpe's neighbors and the mother of young Justin, Marilyn Smart, later claimed she had found a bloody jacket belonging

to Tina in her basement and had turned it into police. Her husband also claimed that a claw hammer had recently been stolen from his home, and despite this little detail making him a person of interest, investigators were also forced to rule him out as their work progressed. Young friend of the family, Justin Smart went on to give conflicting versions of the evening's events, including that he had dreamt details of the murders. In his latter account of events, told under hypnosis, he claimed to have heard strange noises coming from the living room while asleep in the bedroom with Rick and Greg. After investigating these

sounds, he saw Sue with two men, one with a mustache and short hair, the other clean-shaven with long hair. Then, John and Dana then entered the room and began heatedly arguing with the men, after which Tina was taken out of the cabin's back door, never to be seen again. About 4,000 man hours were spent working the case, with some investigating officers describing the process as pointless and frustrating. Rumors regarding the crimes being ritualistic or motivated by drug trafficking were dismissed, as no drug paraphernalia or illegal drugs were found in the home. A family friend later told detectives that John's friend Dana had recently

stolen an unknown quantity of LSD from local drug dealers, though she was unable to provide proof of this claim. The police were so stumped by the murders that they even theorized that they were the work of serial killers Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole, but this possibility was ruled out by December of 1983. The disappearances of young Tina was initially the focus of an FBI kidnapping investigation, but after determining the Department of Justice was doing an adequate job, they backed off. Local officers searched a five-mile radius around the cabin with the help of police canines, but nothing could be found. Then, on April 22, 1984, more than three years after the Sharp family murders, a bottle collector discovered a chunk of a human skull along with a section of jawbone near Feather Falls in neighboring Butte County, over 100 miles from Keddie. After announcing the discovery, Butte County Sheriff's

Office received an anonymous tip claiming that the remains belonged to Tina, but for some inexplicable reason, the call was not documented in the case. The remains were confirmed by a forensic pathologist to be those of Tina Sharp, and detectives also discovered a blue nylon jacket, a blanket, a pair of Levi Strauss jeans, and an empty surgical tape dispenser near to where the bone fragments were found. The case remained closed for many years, until in a 2008 documentary on the murders, Marilyn Smart claimed that she had suspected her husband Martin and his friend Beau Bobetti were responsible for the murders of

Sue, John, Dana, and Tina. Marilyn claimed that on the evening of the crimes at around 2am, she awoke to find the two burning an unknown item in the wood stove. She also alleged that Martin hated Johnny Sharp with a passion. Yet in the same documentary, the local sheriff asserted that Martin had passed a polygraph test and was not considered a suspect, while Beau Bobetti, who was apparently connected to the Chicago mob, died there in the late 80s. It seemed as if, though, there would never be answers for the killings. But in March of 2016, a hammer matching the description of the hammer Martin claimed to have lost was discovered in the local pond. A Plumas County Sheriff stated that the location

it was found, it would have been intentionally put there, it would not have been accidentally misplaced, adding that he had a list of six potential suspects to explore, one of which was Martin Smart, the husband of Marilyn and father to young Jason. Marilyn once again argued his guilt, saying that shortly after the murders, Martin had left Keddie and driven to Reno, Nevada. From there, he had mailed a letter to Marilyn discussing personal struggles in their marriage, one which ended with, I paid the price of your love, and now I've bought it with four people's lives. A counselor whom Martin regularly visited would also allege that he admitted to the

murders of Sue and Tina, but claimed, I didn't have anything to do with the boys. He allegedly told the counselor that Tina was killed to prevent her from identifying him, as she had witnessed the whole thing. In April of 2018, police announced that DNA evidence recovered from a piece of tape at the crime scene matched that of a known living suspect. So, it seems the mystery of the Keddie murders might not be a mystery for very much longer, but the truth behind their deaths may well lead to some dark, disturbing implications. To be continued... I had a vague idea of what this country was. Meatball heads in the northeast, Dixieland to my south, and way out across the country was the hippie hole west coast. Now, that's obviously a grossly oversimplified version of American culture,

and those of you that took offense might be glad to know that I paid for my ignorance. Because this is a big wide country we live in, and there are places and people so radically different than ourselves and the generic big city lifestyles we're all so used to, that meeting them can be downright freaky. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, Little Havana down in Miami is one of the most baller places on earth. But sometimes, sometimes different can be dangerous. So in early 2018, I saw a post from a girl on Reddit's r4r sub saying she was stuck in her dorm, bored, and wanted someone to talk to. She seemed pretty chill, but after creeping on her profile and finding out she was hot,

I was psyched when she messaged me back and we got to talking. We got along even better than I thought we would, and it turned out we had a little chemistry too. So, after flirting back and forth for a couple of weeks, we started to talk about hooking up. Only trouble was, she was more than 500 miles away in Knoxville, Tennessee, which is like an 8 hour drive from Baltimore. She couldn't visit me because of school commitments and the car I had at the time would have fallen apart as soon as it hit the interstate. It took me like 4 months to switch up my ride and stack some spending money but once I had, I was itching to hit the road and hook up with my

Reddit boo. Driving down the I-81 was simple enough but since it was my first ever long distance drive, it wasn't long before I messed up and took a wrong turn. It was right after I hit Roanoke, Virginia. I pulled into this little town called Blacksburg to get something to eat. Then a little after driving out of town, I started seeing signs saying, welcome to West Virginia and stuff, which was most definitely not on my planned route. It was no big deal, just a minor hiccup and I figured I could just swing back southwest to get back on the interstate. But navigating those country roads proved to be easier said than done, and it wasn't long before casually lost became hopelessly lost.

And by the time I rolled into this little one-stop light town, I wasn't even sure what state I was in. To give you an idea of what this little town was like, I saw one post office and three churches in the space of a couple of hundred meters. I assume that isn't all that unusual for a small Bible Belt town, but the weird thing was that there wasn't a soul out in the streets. It reminded me on Sunday mornings in Greektown when almost everyone would pack into the Orthodox churches but this was a Friday afternoon. That being said, the fact that there was like 50 cars and trucks parked outside this one church told me everything I needed to know. And if I wanted directions, it was looking like I was going to have to interrupt the little afternoon worship session. It's not like I hadn't seen anything weird in a church

before. Like I've mentioned, I grew up in Greek Orthodox, and some of those priests look like they moonlight as wizards. That's not to mention all the carpet kissing, holy haircuts, and crawling marathons that go on. But I've never seen anything like what was going on in this country church. And unlike the love-thy- love thy neighbor Christianity that I feel like most of us are familiar with, these people were anything but welcoming. Walking into that church caused this record scratch moment where the guy at the pulpit just stops talking and looks up at me. This causes everyone, and I mean everyone, to spin around in their pew to look at me. I tried to speak up, but with all those eyes on me I just sort of seized up. By the time I got it together to

say anything, the guy at the pulpit cuts me off like, you from the government? Now, bear in mind, I'm wearing Hawaiian shorts and a George Carlin shirt. I'm about 240 at the time, completely bald, and I have a front tooth missing. I look as far from a fed as you can possibly imagine, but still, this guy is looking at me like I'm some kind of narc. I start explaining that I'm just looking for directions, but the guy cuts me off yet again and tells me, Patience is a virtue, son. Take a seat. We're almost done here. Now, I know I should have just left and bought a map from a truck stop like a grown-up,

but I was young, dumb, and full of, you know. So, my logic was just get directions, get to girl, instead of stopping to consider that I might be way out of my depth. For a while, the atmosphere among the congregation was tense, but still subdued. Their eyes are glued to the pulpit and their mouths are glued shut. But as the preacher's tone and intensity build, so does the energy in their responses and reactions. First thing that really keyed me into the fact that these people weren't all there was the whole speaking in tongues thing. I heard it was still a thing that happened, but you don't see anything like that in Baltimore

unless some dope fiend smokes too much spice, which is certainly no cause for celebration. But when this regular looking guy jumps up out of his seat and starts jabbering this complete nonsense, the congregation was hooting and hollering like it was the greatest thing they'd ever seen. And while not necessarily the scariest thing I'd ever seen, it was incredibly jarring to actually see it with my own eyes. I'm already incredibly nervous, but I figured if I just keep my mouth shut and let them do their thing, I'll be out of there with a solid route back to I-81.

Only the next thing I know, I hear the preacher calling out for their guest to join them at the head of the congregation. I just remember thinking, he can't be talking about me, there's no way he's talking about me. But that was pure wishful thinking on my part because once again, the whole congregation turns around to look at me. Come on up, son. The preacher's words were like daggers in my gut. I get pretty bad stage fright and anxiety as it is, but the idea of exposing myself to those people was almost too much to bear. I start making a show of saying,

no thank you, trying to politely decline the guy's offer, standing briefly to address the guy before I sit back down. Only right when I do, I hear this voice in my ear like, you'll get up there if you know what's good for you city boy. I turn around. Standing behind me is this freaking werewolf of a man, incredibly hairy and wide as he was tall. Dude could have crushed my skull with one hand if he wanted and he was blocking my route to exit. Suddenly it didn't look like I had much of a choice anymore. So in spite of my legs feeling like warm jello, I made my way to the head of the congregation and awaited my fate.

The first minutes or so were like appearing on a game show that I really didn't want to be on. The preacher asked me what my name was and where I was from, in a weird way too, asking me, were you given a Christian name, son? I tell him my name is Nick and that I'm from Baltimore, that I'm just passing through town on my way to Knoxville. He asks me why I'm going to Knoxville, if I had family there and I just nod instead of telling him the adulterous truth. Then he starts saying how outsiders have always plagued their community, how they try and protect their prim and proper ways onto good country folk, stuff like that. Then he starts talking about how they, who they were I have no idea, tried to string up his grandpa in the 40s for handling. So now I'm really confused.

What had he been handling, and why had they tried to kill him for it? Not knowing made the whole thing even worse for me and I could actually feel the sweat dripping down my back as I got more and more nervous. I've told this story a bunch of times before and one or two people knew exactly what handling meant in the context of some country preacher, but I didn't, and if I had known, I'd have just rolled through that entire town, content to be lost and ladyless, because the one thing I'm more scared of than anything else on the face of the earth is snakes. But what was the one thing that crazy preacher pulled out of this wicker basket he had up there with him?

A freaking snake. And not just any old snake. A legit rattlesnake. At first I just froze. I didn't know fear like that even existed. The kind where you can literally not move for a few seconds as you're confronted with your literal worst fear, that deer in the headlights effect. Jesus Christ, I can still hear the sound of its rattle like it was yesterday, like you just don't get how loud those things can be until you actually hear it for yourself. It's a sound that says, get away from me dude, I'm not to be messed with,

and it doesn't need translating for you to know what it means. But here's this preacher guy just straight up holding it in his hands and smiling like it's the most normal thing in the world. Not just that, but you'd think he'd be super careful handling a freaking rattlesnake. But this guy is like bouncing it up and down in time with some old church music that starts playing out of an old stereo. All the while the congregation are hooting and hollering like it's the greatest thing they'd ever seen. You'd think you'd want to keep that thing nice and chill, but nope. If I was nervous, you can only imagine how that snake must have been feeling. So like I said, I'm just frozen for a few moments until the preacher makes a move towards

me with the snake in his arms. I wasn't frozen after that, let me tell you, and I just about bolted off the stage and toward the main entrance to the chapel. I channeled all the touch football agility from my middle school years to faint and dodge the 300 pound werewolf dude on the way out, sprinted to my car, and then just took off out of town at what felt like a buck and change. I've done some stupid things in the pursuit of females in my time, but walking into that little chapel tops the list by far. I had no idea snake handling was even a thing until then and after I googled it,

I saw that dozens of snake handlers have died in the past. But that's not the stat that matters, it's how often they get bit. It messes up the muscles in people's arms and hands cause they get bit so much, like it happens a lot. And after seeing how that preacher was handling his rattlesnake, I'm not the least bit surprised. Anyway, I made it to Knoxville a couple of hours later extremely shaken but in one piece. I hooked up with the reddit girl, and after telling the story of accidentally walking into a snake handler chapel, I got all kinds of sympathy nookie. So, I suppose all's well that ends well.

Just know that as much as we're all Americans and all that patriotic stuff, there are places out there where outsiders are anything but welcome. Getting run out of somewhere probably sucks, but not nearly as much as losing your life because of some mentally deficient guy throwing a friggin' rattlesnake right at you. In the English county of Worcestershire lies the small village of Ottingley. These days, Ottingley is little more than a collection of sleepy country lanes and quaint Tudor-esque homes. But in the early 19th century, Ottingley was the site of a truly grisly unsolved murder with some terrifyingly feasible occult connotations.

In the late afternoon of June 24th, 1806, the Reverend George Parker of Ottingley Parish was out walking in his fields, looking to bring his cattle in for the evening. It had been a swelteringly hot summer's day, one that marked the feast of St. John the Baptist, or as it used to be known to the ancient pagan population of the British Isles, Midsummer's Day. Oddingly, village had been particularly empty because many of the farmers had gone to the Midsummer Fair in nearby Bromsgrove, but for some reason, the Reverend Parker had chosen not to attend. Just why exactly the Reverend would choose not to attend such a holy festival is up for debate,

but it's entirely possible it's due to the day's pre-Christian history. Yet whatever the reason, as Reverend Parker was walking across his fields that baking hot afternoon, someone was watching him. Someone who was watching from a thicket of trees nearby, someone who didn't want to be seen. As the reverend continued on his way and passed by the thicket, he heard something emerging from the bushes behind him. When he turned, the reverend was greeted by a masked man wearing a thick long leather coat. When asked his identity, the masked man said nothing. Instead, he simply produced a shotgun from under his coat and aimed it at the reverend's gut. The reverend raised a hand in his defense, foolishly hoping that he could stop a barrel

full of buckshot from ripping through him with nothing but his bare palm. He begged the gunman not to fire, for he had a wife and a child back at home, and only a true monster would slay a man of God such as he. But still the masked man stayed silent, offering nothing in response. Instead, he pulled the trigger of his shotgun and sent the reverend falling back to the dirt. The masked man could have aimed at the reverend's head or neck, opening an artery or busting his skull like a coconut, but he didn't. He deliberately aimed at the man's sternum, and it seems he did so to ensure his victim was alive for what came next.

The masked man took his time over the execution of his victim. Instead of ending his suffering there and then, the masked man kept the reverend alive long enough for him to let out a series of agonized pleas for assistance. It's not clear whether or not the masked man simply watched in silence or passed along one final message to the dying man, but either way, his screams were so loud that they echoed for miles around. Then, instead of finishing off his victim with another blast of his shotgun, the masked man then picked up a large stick that was lying in the grass nearby, then proceeded to beat the reverend about the skull so hard

that by the time he was found, there was very little left to recognize him. By chance, two butchers by the name of Giles and Lynch had been walking through the area at the time of the attack and had heard the reverend's blood-curdling screams as he was set upon by the masked man. They rushed towards the scene of the crime and upon realizing that he had been detected, the masked man fled across the field with Giles in hot pursuit. Lynch did what he could for the dying clergyman, but his skull had been so badly crushed that he simply didn't stand a chance of recovery. All the butcher could do was comfort the Reverend Giles as he uttered his final words. Meanwhile, Giles was racing after the masked man, unable to see the shotgun he held concealed under his long coat.

As he got closer and closer, the masked man appeared to be slowing, fiddling with something at his waist. Giles saw his chance to apprehend the brigand and accelerated in preparation to tackle him, but the masked man turned, brought his shotgun to bear, and fired off a spray of deadly metal shrapnel. But Giles was quick. He immediately dropped to the ground just before the trigger was pulled and the buckshot went flying over his head. Knowing he would be killed if he continued the pursuit, Giles stayed down as the masked man fled, forced to watch as the criminal escaped into some nearby woods. By the time Giles had returned to his colleague, Lynch, the Reverend had died,

but not before managing to splutter out one final word before taking his final breath. Midsommar. Given that the murder victim was a man of the cloth, the level of outrage was off the charts, and the local populace demanded that the perpetrator be apprehended. The descriptions of the crime as well as the suspect were circulated far and wide in the hopes he might be located, with authorities taking the matter so seriously that certain ports were closed so that the murderer would be unable to flee the country. Several people came forward to say that the description of the attacker matched that of a local tradesman named Richard Hemming, and when sheriffs stopped by the man's home, they found that he had been missing for several days. Convinced they had their suspect,

authorities scoured the surrounding countryside for several weeks, but not a trace of Hemming could be found. Finding him was one thing, but determining Hemming's motive was another thing entirely. It quickly struck investigators that the reverend wasn't a popular man since he had hiked up his tenant's rent when he took over as the landowner. But this was something of an oversimplification and as investigators dug deeper and deeper into Ottingley's history, they found some very disturbing things indeed. When the Reverend Parker had taken over as landowner some years before, he found he had waded into a very isolated and culturally unique area of Worcestershire. Unlike the rest of the country, who adhered to a fairly rigid lifestyle of tithes,

religious orthodoxy and a strict adherence to the calendar of Christian festivals, audingly seemed to play by its own set of rules. The farmers there had become accustomed to paying a much lower rate of tax than their counterparts elsewhere, and eschewed traditional Christian holidays in difference of midsummer. A man of the cloth such as Reverend Parker would have obviously found this kind of behavior abhorrent, maybe even verging on sacrilegious, but every attempt by him to bring the locals into line was outright rejected. Rumor has it that raising of their rent occurred after repeated threats from the Reverend Parker, who urged the population

of Oddingley to abandon their wicked ways and return to Jesus. If they did, the rent would remain at their accustomed rate. But they refused. The Reverend would bring their rent in line with the rest of the country. Then, following their defiance, the Reverend proved true to his word. Now, it's very possible that Reverend Parker was killed by one of his tenants as retaliation for raising the rent. It's also very possible that his contempt for the unique religious practices was also a motivating factor. However, there are some who believe that the date of his murder is perhaps the most relevant detail of the case, and that it gives us our one real hint into the dark, unholy nature of Ottingley

Village. Could it be that the reverend was actually the scheduled Midsummer sacrifice for that year, and that his ritual execution just so happened to kill two birds with one stone? The wearing of the long, leather coat certainly seems to suggest so, as it might well have been some kind of ritual garb meant for the Midsummer Executioner. It's also backed up by the use of the large stick as the weapon of choice. The murderer could have quite easily made the killing quick and painless, but they chose not to. Instead, the Reverend was killed with something natural, produced by Mother Nature, in a brutal and bloody fashion, possibly after some kind of rite or prayer was recited over his wounded form.

But without having apprehended the murderer, the true motive behind the killing was a complete mystery, one that would take almost 30 years to unravel. 24 years later, on a cold winter's morning in 1830, a groundskeeper named Charles Burton was tending to his duties on some Ottingley farmland. It seems like any other day, but little did he know, he was about to unearth a mystery that had plagued Ottingley for almost a quarter of a century. The farm had changed lease since the gruesome events of 1806, and the new landowner was keen to renovate one of the run-down old barns. On the 21st of January at 4 o'clock, as he was digging out the foundations of a particularly old barn that was to be completely replaced, the groundskeeper suddenly stumbled across a shoe, then bones and fabric.

To his horror, he realized that he had discovered a human corpse. Burton suspected at once whose remains it could be and alerted the authorities. The next day, constables accompanied him to the scene before spending a cold, frightening night guarding the skeleton. Over the next few days, the remains and the objects found lying with them were carefully examined. Investigators found that the victim's skull had been beaten into many pieces, and it was clear from the outset that whoever had been murdered had endured a savage and painful death before lying there, undiscovered for decades. Given that the victim was dispatched in almost exactly the same way as the Reverend Parker, it was initially speculated that their killer could be one and the same. But when the skeleton was examined, the skull reconstructed,

and the victim's belongings catalogued, investigators came to a shocking conclusion. That the corpse belonged to none other than Richard Hemming, the man suspected of murdering the Reverend Parker all those years ago. So how exactly did Parker's murderer also come to suffer an equally gory death in almost exactly the same way? Well, if the confession of Mr. Thomas Clues is to be believed, Hemming's murder was the work of other villagers who wished to keep the whole thing a secret. It appears as if Hemming had drawn the proverbial short straw when it came to deciding who would be the reverend's assassin, and that the plan was for the members to meet up with their fellow conspirators at a piece of Ottingley farmland to confirm the deed had been done. Yet for some reason, either to keep him quiet or as part of the wider midsummer sacrifice, Hemming was escorted to a

barn and then attacked by his fellow conspirators. But again, instead of simply cutting his throat or shooting him, Hemming was subdued before his skull was smashed to pieces. We could understand if this was some kind of eye-for-an-eye style of vengeance for killing a man of God, but we've already established that the reverend was extremely unpopular among the locals. Sure, the other villagers may have wished to keep Hemming quiet, after all, dead men tell no tales, but it also seems feasible that the ceremonial killing of the man who himself committed a ritual slaughter might well be part of some wider scheme of pagan sacrifice. Although no one was ever arrested for either murder, there were rumors that one of the

surviving conspirators was terrified of vengeful spirits right up until the day he died. Thomas Clue's confession was essentially on his deathbed, but his refusal to name the rest of those involved caused authorities to threaten him with prosecution. However, the old man died before he could ever face a judge, and the secrets of the Reverend Parker's murder was buried with him. Yet the village of Ottingley survives to this day, and the conspiring villagers no doubt had sons and daughters who in turn bore children of their own. The unholy traditions that led to the reverend's death might well have survived too,

passed from generation to generation, each taking up the bloody traditions of their forefathers. It's a chilling enough thought to avoid the country lanes around Oddingly in late July, lest you become the next Midsummer Sacrifice, whose final image on this earth will be a masked man in a long leather coat, swinging the limb of an oak tree down onto your skull. In the spring of 1980, 72-year-old nun Sister Margaret Ann Paul was serving at the Mercy Hospital in Toledo, Ohio as the caretaker of the hospital's Catholic chapel. One of her closest colleagues at the time was the hospital's chaplain, 42-year-old Father Gerald Robinson, and Sister Margaret often worked closely with the popular clergymen as, naturally, their duties at the hospital kept them very busy indeed.

Given that she brought so much comfort and solace to the many patients who visited the hospital, Sister Margaret was much loved by all that knew her. Sure, she could be strict, but that diligence and commitment to those in need proved objectively admirable. But that's what made Sister Margaret's fate all the more shocking, that a universally adored and respected member of the community could be subjected to what can only be described as pure evil. Unlike its calendar neighbors of Good Friday and Easter Sunday, Holy Saturday doesn't quite receive as much attention, and maybe that's because of its much darker nature. You see, Holy Saturday marks the so-called harrowing of hell, when Christ supposedly descended into hell

to liberate the righteous, who had previously been condemned to burn. The relevant Bible verses reference all kinds of terrifying unholy things that Jesus witnessed on his march to confront Satan, and it's difficult to think that the day in question didn't play a part in what happened to Sister Margaret. Because of Holy Saturday of 1980, a patient walked into the Mercy Hospital chapel to say a few prayers and found something so awful that the image would be burned into their memory forever. Lying on the floor of the chapel was the horribly mutilated corpse of none other than Sister Margaret Ann Paul. Following the post-mortem, it was found that the official

cause of death was oxygen deprivation as a result of strangulation. But for some reason, once her life had been snuffed out, her killer had chosen to stab her 31 times around her chest, neck, and face. But there had been a method to the killer's horrifying madness, with most of the deep stab wounds forming the shape of an upside-down cross on Sister Margaret's torso. Her killer had also taken the time to anoint her with her own blood, smearing a cross on her forehead in a sick mockery of the well-known Catholic rite. But that's not all, as Sister Margaret's killer had also wrenched open her habit,

denying her dignity even in death. And while it was clear from forensic examination that the killer hadn't carnally violated her, they had taken the time to violently shove a small wooden cross somewhere it seriously did not belong. The scream that the patient let out upon finding Sister Margaret's body had people coming running from all directions. No one could quite believe it. A nun of all people, slaughtered in such a horrendous way before being mutilated in a despicably sacrilegious manner. What kind of monster was capable of doing such a thing to a woman of God of all people? Obviously, Father Gerald Robinson was devastated

and insisted on presiding over Sister Margaret's funeral just four days later. Many described him as being in a state of shock, seemingly unable to handle the fact that his close colleague had been so horribly defiled. Some said he stayed with Sister Margaret's body as it lay interned at the funeral home, praying that she might find the peace and death that was so denied to her during her final moments. On top of that, he fully cooperated with the ensuing police investigation, the conclusions of which would rock the city of Toledo and traumatize the wider Christian community. After a long and painstaking analysis of the crime scene, homicide detectives discovered a rather interesting blood stain on an altar cloth near Sister Margaret's body. The stain was rough in places but in one part, an image of the US Capitol building is visible, almost like blood had gotten onto a ring

or medallion that was then pressed against the altar cloth. Sister Margaret certainly wasn't in possession of anything bearing that symbol when she died, so surely a huge piece of evidence would be finding whoever the medallion or ring belonged to. During the investigation, one of the homicide detectives found themselves in Father Robinson's office, discussing those who might have visited the chapel on the day of Sister Margaret's murder. Obviously, Father Robinson was a very busy man and was forced to leave his office several times to attend business, leaving the homicide detectives alone to nose around the room.

At one point, the detective noticed an ornate letter opener that lay on Father Robinson's office. It appeared to be a gift from some kind of federal politician and bore an inscription thanking Father Robinson for his service. But the thing that really grabbed the detective's attention was the small engraving of the US Capitol building, as if a small medallion had been welded onto the blade. There was a darn good chance that what the detective held in his hand that day was the murder weapon that had ended the life of Sister Margaret, thus making Father Robinson the case's only serious suspect. However, the detective in question was a devout Catholic,

and shockingly, he concluded that there was no way Father Robinson could have committed such an unholy crime, given his status as a man of the cloth. As a result, Father Robinson was never even interviewed under caution, let alone arrested for a crime he was quite obviously a suspect of. All was quiet for 23 years, with the then 65-year-old Father Robinson continuing to serve in three different Toledo diocese parishes. Then, one day, a woman wrote a letter to the local police department claiming that Father Robinson had done terrible things to her as a child, in a long campaign of abuse that involved satanic ritualistic behavior that included human blood sacrifice.

Father Robinson was then questioned by police, and whatever happened during the interview, it spurred detectives not only to investigate the abuse allegations, but also to reopen the cold case involving Sister Margaret's murder. Following the exhumation of Sister Margaret's body, a forensic pathologist noted that a stab wound in the victim's jaw could have been made by the letter opener found in Father Robinson's apartment. A DNA analysis of the victim's fingernail scrapings and underwear were somewhat inconclusive, but that didn't matter to the police. They had their murder weapon. As a result, the police went to Father Robinson's home in April of 2006

and arrested him on suspicion of murder. He was held without bail at the Lucas County Jail, where he violently denied any of the allegations leveled at him. Yet the fact remained that the cops had still arrested Father Robinson on little more than circumstantial evidence. There was no motive, no confession, no eyewitnesses, and no physical evidence linking him to the scene of the crime. However, call it a detective's hunch, but one officer in particular was transfixed on what happened during an interview in 2004. At one point during the interview, the two questioning detectives leave the room for a moment, leaving Father Robinson alone but monitored by the interview room's camera. Footage shows the priest folding his hands together in prayer before muttering something under his breath that included the words,

Sister, oh my Jesus, and forgive me. It was those two words, forgive me, that the prosecution brought up in court over and over again. The defense argued that it was simply part of a prayer that Father Robinson recited routinely and wasn't the priest directly asking the murdered nun for forgiveness. Yet it seemed far too much of a coincidence that those words should be picked up by the interview mic and in that particular order. The prosecution also argued that the letter opener was obviously the murder weapon, going so far as to see if it fit the stab wounds on the bones of Sister Margaret's ribcage. One member of the prosecution team told the jury that

it fit the wounds like a key in a lock, and a forensic scientist also testified that the altar cloth bloodstains were consistent with the general shape of the letter opener. So, on May 11th of 2006, a jury found Father Robinson guilty of murder. The 70-year-old priest became the second priest in American history to be convicted of a criminal homicide, and he was sentenced to serve 15 years to life at the Hawking Correctional Facility in Southern Ohio. Yet still, he protested his innocence, lodging numerous appeals over the years that were mostly centered around the possibility of the murder being carried out by a serial killer named Coral Eugene Watts.

But despite eerie similarities between Sister Margaret's murder and those of Watts' victims, the Court of Appeals repeatedly denied Father Robinson a retrial. It seems there was a fair amount of evidence that wasn't presented in court that only strengthened the prosecution's case. Although it has been made available to the public, we can only assume that the evidence shows Father Robinson to the satanic, homicidal monster that he so vehemently denies, and that he is simply masquerading as a man of the cloth to distract from the darkness brewing inside of him. Thankfully, Father Robinson died of a heart attack before he could ever be released, passing away on July 4th of 2014 after a long stay in the prison hospital.

Perhaps one day, the unseen evidence will come to light and the true depths of the priest's depravity will be revealed. But for now, we can only guess at the kind of evil he was if he was denied an appeal on three separate occasions and be grateful to a justice system that recognized a monster when it saw one. Way back when, I used to hang around with this crew that sold class A's in the city center on the weekends. We were making bare cash between us, flogging bindles of stag dues and students and all that. And we went all night too. About

9 at night until 4 or 5 in the morning just hanging around the clubs until we sold out or business slowed. Once we was finished, me and my boy would walk up to the street to this old ruined church left over from years ago. The council keeps it around for the history or whatever, and there's this little building around the back with some of those big wheelie bins. There's a security light and a CCTV camera, but if you just move the camera with a stick or something, it's safe as. So that's where we'd do our count at the end of the night before we went our separate ways. I won't lie, right? It could get a bit spooky if it was quiet around there but that worked to our advantage you get me just meant we wouldn't get interrupted with what we was doing so this one

night we finished up quite early because it was a busy Saturday like we walk up towards the old church round the back to the bins and the little port-a-cabin thing and start counting up. Like I was saying, you can make a lot of pee from selling on the street like that which is hard enough to count up on its own. But then you get given all fivers and tenors and it takes even longer to count up. That means when we're counting, no one's saying a thing. It's so quiet back there that you can hear a mouse fart, you know what I'm saying? So when something makes a noise behind my boy, he just about messed himself he's so scared. I start laughing cause we get rats around the bins near a block of flats all the time, it's no big deal at all.

But he's all tense because he's got stacks on him, absolute sussy baka behavior. However, we carry on counting and there's like another noise coming from the bins. I already told you, I know what rats sound like in bins. I used to take them out for me mum when she was still with us, god rest her soul. And I'm telling you, right when I heard that shuffling or whatever, I knew it wasn't no rats, you get me? I turn around, knowing something is wrong and there's me boy like, now who's scared big man? Right when he says that, the bin lid opens, both of them, and these three smackheads come jumping out on us out of absolute nowhere. All my days. Turns out that they was waiting there the whole time for us.

They must have spied on us like the night before, maybe the week before, cause they had us ambushed like smackhead commandos men. It was bad. But the thing that was actually proper scary right, is what they was gonna use to stick us with. I've been stabbed before, only on my baddie-like, so it was nothing. I know men who die cause the blade hits an artery or whatever, but that's just if you're unlucky, isn't it? But these disgusting people had needles on us, man. They were saying, give us your money or you're getting stabbed, and some of them go the big in that. Imagine, man, getting stuck with some needle and finding out you've got the hiv or something.

And that's exactly what was going through my mind that night. Thinking they might prick me by accident or something. Not even really mean to, but then I'm left with some death sentence disease that's gonna just eat me up from the inside out. Those smackheads took about two G's off us that night. Everything we made that Saturday snatched up in about 30 seconds before they legged it. It stung for a bit, I won't lie. But if you're smart and keep something stashed, you can make your money back in no time. That and the smack heads got caught up with fast. They was throwing that money around like it was nobody's business and

mouthing off about how they ate us up. Bad things happen to them fellas, let me tell you. The thing that sticks with me is the needle though. Like I could see it all shiny and the security light just glinting. It gave me a serious problem with needles too. Like for the longest time I'd actually like sweat if I had to get one at the doctors or whatever. I mean this all happened years ago, but even when

I got my vaccine recently I got way way nervous like back in the old days. I know no one likes needles, but honestly I was so anxious that the nurse was asking if I was going to pass out and all this. I get what people mean when they say moments like that leave lasting scars, but I'll tell you what, rather a bit of nerves around needles than getting some debilitating disease literally can't imagine a worse thing than getting it like that. In 1961, when I was just 20 years old, I joined the Freedom Riders. I grew up in Boston, the only son of two liberal Irish-Americans who never tired of reminding me that we hailed from the same part of Ireland as the Kennedys. My dad was a lawyer, and although he practiced real estate law, he had a real passion for

constitutional law. It was a document he was extremely proud of. I mean, you'd honestly think he wrote the dang thing. But as the years went by, I started to gain a growing appreciation for the freedoms our constitution guarantees, which is why I was so offended by the South's Jim Crow laws and their refusal to back Supreme Court decisions that guaranteed the rights of our African American brothers and sisters who were still stuck behind enemy lines as we saw it. That's about the same time I heard about the Freedom Riders, groups of mostly college-aged kids who would ride Greyhound buses down into the southern states so they could challenge the messed up racist status quo by, for example,

helping black folks get to their local polling stations come voting day or organizing boycotts of businesses that implemented racial segregation. I felt like I'd found my calling, like the riders were a spiritual successor of the Underground Railroad. Only instead of coming to us, we were going to help people get justice right in their backyards. But as you can imagine, we weren't exactly welcomed with open arms down there. We had allies, alright. Good, southern Christian folk who paid more than just lip service to the ideals of their savior.

But boy, our enemies were legion. Sometimes the only way to tell the difference between the cops and the Yankee-hating posses of good old boys were the badges. They acted exactly the same way, I guess they hated us the same way too. But while those good old boys used their fists and firearms to chase us out, the cops used the law. They arrested riders on all kinds of trumped up charges, like trespassing, unlawful assembly, and other alleged offenses. Even worse, they turned a blind eye whenever we were actually attacked by vicious mobs of anti-integrationists. But the thing I'll never forgive the cops down

there for is hooking up with a group of people who could do their dirty work for them. Anything too brutal or violent or evil for them to get away with, they handed off to a group of guys who only came out at night and were invisible during the day. A group I'll hate until my dying breath. By the summer of 61, the Freedom Riders gained a lot of publicity because of the reception they received when the first bus full of riders arrived in Anniston, Alabama. It was actually a Sunday morning when they arrived and people actually left church services still in their Sunday finest to attack the buses. The driver tried to leave the station but he was blocked by the mob while someone slashed the bus tires.

The mob then forced the crippled bus to stop several miles outside of town and then threw a firebomb into it with the passengers still inside. As the bus burned, the mob held the doors shut, intending to burn the riders to death. And it was only when a cop brandished a weapon that the mob retreated and the riders could escape. That's the kind of welcome we were expecting. We knew we were taking our lives and our hands going down there, but we didn't care. It was a worthy sacrifice. Thomas Jefferson himself said, the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and

tyrants. And boy did we take that to heart as we loaded onto the Greyhound heading for Newark to Little Rock, Arkansas. The journey down to Little Rock was much smoother than expected. I guess now that their hatred for us was out in the open and journalists were floating around, the mob wasn't so quick to try and burn us alive. But once we arrived at the place we were staying, the rider representative from Arkansas warned us about walking around alone. A network of locals was keeping careful track of all the buses that rolled in from the north, and potential freedom riders were profiled and followed by either the cops, local volunteers, or a mixture of both. It was a scarily sophisticated racket they had going on

down there, and it would have been admirable if it wasn't so downright dastardly. And the real genius part of it was that a bunch of college kids couldn't just stay in a room for almost a week straight. We had to come out sometime, whether it was to grab a bite to eat or a pack of smokes. It was only a matter of time. It was greed that got to me. I just got way too hungry one night, and the packet of peanuts I thought that would last me just really didn't cut it. That's how I found myself wandering the streets of Little Rock, trying to find somewhere selling food where I wouldn't get narked on for my obvious New England accent. I didn't even make it to a fried chicken place

before the cops rolled up on me. Then all it took was one look at my ID and I was screwed. They patted me down right there on the sidewalk and just so happened to find some marijuana in my jean pocket. I'd never smoked in my entire life, it was an obvious plant, but there wasn't much I could do about that. I'd gone against the rep's advice and gone out on my own and just as they'd described, I was picked up on some nonsense marijuana charges. I was furious, mainly at myself for being foolish enough to get myself arrested, but also at a system that turned good young people like myself into invasive criminals. I figured I'd get a few licks, spend the night in jail, then maybe get kicked out of state the next morning.

But the cops had far worse plans for me. It probably took me longer than it should have to work out that they weren't taking me down to the local precinct. And when it hit me, I was more terrified than I'd ever been in my life. Instead, they took me to some old burned down church they said used to be where they worshipped. But it wasn't so much the idea of losing my life that was so daunting. Like I said, I'd come to terms with that prospect. It was what they would do to me before they killed me. That's what I was so scared of. Only it wasn't the cops that had any plans for me, as I mentioned earlier. Because in order to deal with me, they'd enlisted the help of a

different organization entirely, one that didn't mind getting their hands dirty, one with no oversight, no rules, and no mercy. And when they walked out of the woods, all dressed in white, they were a hundred times more terrifying than the specters they resembled. The clan. Out of common decency, I don't want to repeat some of the things they said to me. They used some of the most disgusting language I've ever heard, before or since, and I won't do them the satisfaction of repeating their words. All that's pertinent to the story at hand is that they told me that they were going to do to me what they used to do to northerner spies during the war. They threw a noose around my neck, dragging me through

the woods by it, kicking and hitting me as we went while they sang some song about them hating the Yankee nation and everything it does or some craziness like that. Then, when they found a tree limb just right, they strung me up, and for what seemed like an eternity, I hung there in mid-air, completely unable to breathe. I think I must have passed out because I don't remember actually falling. I just woke up in a crumpled heap in the dirt with the skin of my neck burning. They then dragged me out onto the road, stripped me of most of my clothes, then pointed me in the direction of Little Rock and made me walk back, all with the noose still around my neck. I tried to hitchhike, but I think people just

knew not to touch me. Only one group of people stripped and subjected people to mock hangings, and they were evidently not to be messed with. It took me so long to get back into town that it was almost dawn by the time I arrived back where the riders were based. At first, no one would open up, thinking that a nighttime visitor meant only one thing. But once they heard my accent, they knew I wasn't a cop or any other hostile party. Like I might have said, I just thought I was dumb for wandering out to get food. But the others saw me as some kind of hero. This Italian guy from Newark told me that I had to have some brass balls for going out after being warned not to.

Brass balls is a phrase I've never, ever forgotten, and I consider it the highest of compliments these days. I don't regret what I did either. It's pretty well established that the Freedom Riders helped galvanize the public and helped get the Civil Rights Act passed. In fact, it's kind of strange because as much as having that noose around my neck was the most terrifying moment of my life, it's also the proudest. To be continued... 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 $1 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 in the bio. Thanks so much, friends. And remember, you are not in a simulation. We'll be right back. 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.