The Lets Read Podcast - 160: MY LARP CHAINMAIL SAVED MY LIFE | 22 True Scary Stories | EP 148

Episode Date: November 8, 2022

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Basements, LARPing, & Vigilantes...  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: INEKT https://www.instagram.com/_inekt/ PATREON for EARLY ACCESS!►http://patreon.com/LetsRead

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If you have questions or concerns about gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connex Ontario at 1-866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. Ben MGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. To be continued... This is probably going to turn out less of a story and more like a confession. Only my ex-misses and a few close mates know about what I'm about to tell you. Otherwise, you'd never guess it just from looking at me. You'd think I was some boring, balding, church-going middle Englander whose pulse had never risen above 70 beats per minute. But for about six months back in the mid-1980s, I led quite a different life to the one I have now.

You see, I'd just married my then-girlfriend and we were in the process of starting up a little family. Then right when she was three months pregnant, Margaret Thatcher's Tory government decided to throw a spanner in the works. I lost my job. I was on the dole. I had a baby on the way and it was looking like we were going to lose the house. I tried my best to find a job that would meet our expenses, but it was almost impossible. And as time went by I got increasingly desperate and increasingly depressed that I wasn't doing my job as the main breadwinner. Now, this is where Jib comes into the picture. Obviously Jib isn't the real guy's name and I don't reckon he'd appreciate me gobbling off about our mutual history, so I'll just use his old nickname that I don't imagine he goes by anymore. Me and Jib knew each other from secondary school

and although we weren't exactly best mates, we were still quite pally and Jib knew each other from secondary school, and although we weren't exactly best mates, we were still quite pally and let on to each other if ever we were out and about. So one day, I'm on my way back from the dole when I see Jib outside one of the local pubs. I say hiya, have a whinge about the lines of the dole, and turns out he was on his way into the pub, so he invites me in for a drink. I'm absolutely skinflint at this point. I didn't have two pennies to rub together after putting food in the cupboards but as much as I politely decline him, he insists on getting me a few pints. The clincher for me was him saying,

you look dead stressed, mate. I reckon you deserve a pint. Never a truer word was said. First sip of the pint, it was like a wave of calm rushed over me. Not so much because of the ale, but because I realized it had been about two or three months since I'd actually sat down and drank a freshly pulled pint of lager. And let me tell you, I hadn't half missed it. Then when it comes to pay, Jib pulls out this proper wad of notes, all 20s as well, and immediately my mind is back on my money troubles. So obviously this seeps into conversation and I end up telling him all about the redundancy,

how the dole wasn't enough to get baby clothes, all my woes basically. Jib then gets out this little wad of notes, looks me in the eye and says, how much do you need? This is where I can hear a lot of you saying, why didn't you just take the money? Are you mental? And you know what? You're right. I should have just swallowed my pride and taken his money, even if it made me feel pathetic. But that's just it, isn't it? Pride. People get weird when it comes to their ego and for whatever reason, my ego just couldn't let me accept his charity. And even if loads of you don't get why I refused it, that doesn't really matter because Jib did. Jib saw that pride in me and, true to his nature, he saw an opportunity.

You see, Jip came to remind me of an old war film my dad used to watch whenever it was on the telly. It's about this American prisoner in a Japanese POW camp who basically ends up running the place because he smuggles in whatever contraband people want. He gives people what they want and in turn, he uses that to manipulate them. This bloke ends up with the name King Rat and let me tell you, Jib was King Rat. So instead of just offering me money, he offered me a job. He said he'd pay me 300 pounds to pick up a car for him. Only trouble was is that he bought the car from a bloke in Bristol, so that meant getting the train down there so I could drive it back. For reference, £300 was a lot of money for what he was asking me to do,

which amounted to maybe half a day's work at the most. I knew that there was a catch, that the car might be in a bad nick or, god forbid, it might be stolen. But I really wasn't in the position to be turning that kind of money down, especially when he said that if I got the car back in one piece, that there'd be more work in it for me. So that's how I started working with, or more accurately, for, Jib. I thought he was a used car dealer. I really was that innocent. But after a couple of runs, he let me in on a little secret. The cars weren't the object of value in those little transactions. It was what was in them. I'd driven four different cars around various parts of the UK at that point, and not once had I realized that hollowed out compartments in the

doors had been stuffed with imported Moroccan hashish. What was I going to do? Kick off? Resign? I knew that there was a catch. I was just a bit annoyed that I hadn't been fully informed from the get-go. But then again, ignorance is bliss, isn't it? And Jip said that very same ignorance was like a superpower. I'd passed police cars countless times, and I even stopped to ask directions from one at one point, and at no point was I nervous or twitchy or anything else that might have alerted them to exactly what I was transporting. And on top of that, I was 26 going on 40. I looked like a bloody PE teacher or something. You'd never suspect me. I'll admit that after that, I got way too comfy making the journeys. My doll disguise must have gone to my head a bit, because when Jib offered me what amounted

to a promotion, I jumped at the chance. On these new jobs, my pay would be about £650 a run, just over double the pay, and some of the trips would be to the next city over from us, an hour's driving time tops. It was a no-brainer, half the work for double the pay. The only question was what I'd be transporting, and I'll never forget what Jib responded with when I asked him what would be in the cars. Do you really want to know? He said. No, I really didn't. As long as it wasn't a dead body in the boot or something equally as sinister, I really didn't want to know. So I started making these runs to a city relatively close by to us three times a week. Getting the train out there, picking up a car from these Turkish blokes and then driving it back home.

And I was getting just shy of two grand a week for it. The wife was ecstatic. I was telling her the half-truth that I was selling used cars with an old mate from school. And she was far too chuffed to ask any probing questions. But others did, and I ended up losing a couple of old workmates because they thought I was holding out on them, hoarding the wealth or something. But Jib had made me swear not to say a thing to anyone, and if I'd tried to get them in the door, he'd probably have dropped me like a live grenade.

For three months I worked that job and the whole time the cash was just rolling in. There was only ever one close call too when a traffic cop on a motorbike pulled me over for having a faulty brake light. When I brought it up with Jib, he assured me that every car would undergo a full MOT before I ever touched it. After that, there were no problems. I actually got quite pally with the Turkish blokes I picked the cars up from too. They ran a little restaurant slash cafe type thing and I used to pick the cars up from the delivery entrance around the back. The blokes would be sitting around this little table, chain smoking ciggies and drinking this muddy-looking coffee. They'd say hello, shake my hand, sometimes offer me a coffee or one of their little syrupy pastries. Sometimes I'd partake, but mostly not. Then I'd take the keys

off them, get in the car, and bugger off back home. Every single time, the restaurant would be buzzing. The shutters at the back would be open. It was a seamless transition of goods. Very subtle, but right in plain sight. There was never any fuss, never any serious danger. It was always the same routine. Which is why when I turned up at the Turkish place one Friday night and the place was closed, my spider senses started to tingle. I go around the back to see the shutters down, but it's not like I could have just said, Oh well, it's closed, I'll have to just get the train home. There was a lot of money at stake.

It's not like I could have just gone back empty handed. People have been killed for losing smaller amounts of drugs than that. It's just assumed you've stolen it. So, I walk up to the shutters and I can hear someone talking on the other side. Brilliant, I think. The meat's still on. So I give the shutters a few knocks and wait for them to be opened. As soon as I knock, the voices go quiet and then no one opens the shutters either.

Again my spider senses are tingling so I take it upon myself to announce who it is just in case they think I'm the police or something. As soon as I do, I hear someone fiddling with the shutters, then they start to slide open before stopping at about two feet. Again, very weird and it's just silent on the other side. I call out hello quite softly using one of the Turkish bloke's names. All I hear is come in from the other side so doing as I'm asked I crouch down to crawl under the shutter. Then, just as I emerge on the other side, someone kicks me in the face so hard it made my ears ring. All I can hear as

I pick myself up is, get on your front, lie down on your front, before someone starts kneeling on the small of my back. It's the police, I remember thinking. You absolute chucklehead. You've gone and got yourself caught red-handed, I thought to myself. Only when they didn't handcuff me, instead they started to dye my hands with something that I'd later learned was a kind of industrial strength sticky tape. My bell had been well and truly rang, but even in my punch-drunk haze, it hit me that there was something horribly wrong with the situation, and unless he was some undercover bloke forced to carry tape instead of cuffs or whatever, I might be in a lot more trouble than I first anticipated. Once my wrists, mouth, and ankles are taped up, the bloke then drags me to a corner of the stockroom

where I find he'd tied up and gagged the four Turkish blokes. Each of them has had the absolute senses beaten out of them and my heart's racing as I get to thinking that I'm about to get the same treatment. But instead, he seems to just ignore me and resume some kind of speech he must have been giving the Turkish blokes. And that's when it slowly became clear who it was. It wasn't the police. It wasn't even some other gang of drug dealers with some axe to grind. It was a vigilante.

I won't repeat exactly what he said. It was quite a long, drawn-out, and terrifying affair, and I think every third word would be the F word. And this is about to get obscene as it is, so I'll just sum it up at what he said. What he kept referencing was someone who died. I thought the Turks might have killed someone, and in a manner of speaking, I suppose they did. Because the bloke then lets on that it was his daughter that had died from heroin use, possibly of an overdose, but it could have been some other complication resulting from her addiction he never specified. Then at one point, he started ranting about how

you sell it but you don't use it, and I suddenly see that there are these big, cling film wrapped packages on a table. The bloke must have arrived before they'd loaded the car up, and maybe even before the staff had arrived for the evening service, and all the evidence he needed that they'd sold heroin was right there for all to see. God knows how he found them, but he had, and for a long while it didn't look like any of us were going to get out of there alive. The first thing he did was start cutting open some of the packages

while he was on his sell it but don't use it rant. Then he starts trying to shovel it up some of the bloke's noses, working his way around until he actually tried doing it to me too. I thought I'd had it. After some well times, exhaling, clean my nostrils out as he moved back onto the other blokes in a frenzy. The whole time, I'm just terrified he's gonna start using the knife in his hand and that we're just seconds away from being slaughtered like sheep. But instead, he starts cutting the package wide open and dumping the contents all over us. He goes back for another, dumps the one on us, ranting and raving the whole time about He starts cutting the package wide open and dumping the contents all over us.

He goes back for another, dumps the one on us, ranting and raving the whole time about how we're going to regret the day we're born. I just kept picturing the little girl I'd never get to see grow up. My ex-missus was less than a month from her due date, and the thought of her getting the news I'd been murdered was all I could think about. Not only that, but her finding out where I'd been getting the money from. That's what really got me. The shame she'd feel and the secrets she'd have to keep from our daughter. I started to well up. I was so very, very out of my depth. I'd have given every bloody penny of that money back if I could just get

back to my wife safely. And for the first time in my life, I actually prayed to God for literal salvation. Remember way back at the start when I said church going? This is why. The whole time I'm praying, I've got my eyes sealed shut. I couldn't bear to watch the vigilante bloke start stabbing, knowing he'd probably work his way through all four Turkish blokes before finally turning his attentions to me. But in the end, I had to open them. I just couldn't stop myself and when I did, I saw that God had answered my prayers. One of the Turkish blokes had somehow, God only knows, managed to work one of his hands out of the tape. To this day, the only way I can see him managing it is if he was cursed or blessed with being extremely sweaty, but either way, I just watched as the vigilante turns his back on

us to fetch another package before the Turkish bloke just launches himself at him. I didn't really get a good look at what followed. It just looked like a lot of squirming arms and legs from where I was lying, soundtracked by this manic cacophony of grunts and Turkish swear words. But eventually, the vigilante fella goes limp, and the Turkish fella rolls off of him and crawls over to cut us free. About a half an hour later, I'm sitting in a shuttered and empty Turkish restaurant, drinking this ultra-strong Turkish spirit and smoking my first ever cigarette. The Turk took my clothes off of me, I'm guessing to burn, so I was sat there in what was basically a waiter's uniform, just smoking and drinking until the shakes wore off.

In the meantime, all kinds of different Turkish blokes turned up, presumably to deal with the vigilante's body and to clean everything down. By the time they let me back in the delivery room, it looked as good as new. Everything was clean and sparkly. The car had been wiped down. The fella had just been completely disappeared Finally, about three hours after I arrived I took the car keys and drove back home When I arrived I collected my wages and thanked him for the opportunity But told him that that'd be my last delivery

When he asked why I told him everything everything, and when I was done, he had to pick his jaw up off the floor. He ended up offering me a few hundred quid more on each run if I chose to carry on, but all I could think about was the moment I realized I might never see my kid grow up, and how no amount of money was worth risking that for. I ended up going back to university during my daughter's first few years, and I'm happy to say that by the time she'd mastered potty training, I was working in this newfangled field of information technology, a career choice that turned out to have a lot more longevity to it than I foolishly first anticipated. I retired this year and I'm proud

to say I have a few quid tucked away, at least enough to make myself comfortable. Me and the ex-misses are on good terms. I see my daughter and younger son a fair bit too, so can't complain there either. I'd like to think I've earned my twilight years, and I might sound a bit up myself here, but I think I'll appreciate them more than most, because I still remember a time in my life when things could have gone very differently in more ways than one, and I remember how that horrible cycle of greed, suffering, and death just carries on rolling, sight unseen, forever and ever. The End Born in a relatively small family in the Indian city of Nagpur, Akul Yadav became something of a local menace as he grew older.

As he entered his late teens, the miscarrying child had graduated into a full-time criminal, and given how frighteningly intelligent the boy seemed to be, it wasn't long before he was running his own cartel of cruel and violent thugs. The gang ruled over the Kastabar Nagar slum they called home, robbing, killing, and torturing all those who stood in their way, and with near impunity. After just a few years, Aku found he rarely needed to resort to violence anymore. The atmosphere of fear he and his underlings had cultivated meant he'd made most of his money from simple extortion, and he made weekly rounds to collect protection money that each small business owed him. That, and leaving dead bodies around the slum was a massive inconvenience

for him. It meant he'd have to pay handsome bribes to local police officers to ensure his little fiefdom went untouched. Murder was bad for business. However, Aku found a form of punishment much more suited to his mode of operation. Indecent assault. As we've mentioned, murder was only likely to cause even more trouble for Aku and his gang, and part of their problem was figuring out how to effectively silence those who stood against them. A person could recover from a beating, one that would most likely just make them angry. But in India, as with many parts of the world, being the victim of an indecent assault can be a very stigmatizing event. Attack a woman in that manner and she wouldn't breathe a word to anyone and what's more, you effectively have something to hold over her, a piece of information

one might use to manipulate and coerce. It's a form of terrorism that Aku employed on a nearly basis, and those who fell victim to it had absolutely no form of legal recourse. Handsome police bribes ensured that no investigation would be opened, allowing Aku and his minions to rob, assault, and intimidate at will. Some Kasturba Naga residents said that every single shack or cramped apartment in the entire slum housed some victim of Aku's horrifying malice, the youngest of which was a ten-year-old girl. In one incident, Aku personally took the life of a woman named Asha Bai. We were eating dinner when he came to the front door and pretended to be a friend of my brother, said Asha's daughter. When my mother opened the door, he dragged her out and stabbed her.

He then cut off her ears for her earrings and her fingers because he could not get her rings. Asha's mother, a woman named Anjana Bai Bukhar, was also forced to witness her death. Another woman described how she and her husband were attacked by Aku in the middle of the night. He arrived at our house at around 4 or 5 in the morning, banging loudly on the door and telling us he was from the police. When my husband opened the door, Aku stabbed him in the thigh, almost completely immobilizing him. Then, in full view of my husband, Aku violated me over and over again, until long after the sun had risen. The number of accounts like that are seemingly endless, with some of the worst describing how Aku defiled women in the hours after they were married, or how he cut off another's

chest after her daughter was unable to pay her protection money. But perhaps the worst account is the story of how Aku carnally violated a woman just ten days after she'd given birth. The shame was too much for her, and as a result, the woman marched into a bustling marketplace, doused herself in kerosene, then set herself on fire. Finally, after years of terrorizing the Kastabar Nagar slums,

the police decided that Aku's iron-fisted rule had to be curtailed. Numerous attempts to ban him from the area, including being detained for over a year under emergency powers, was completely ineffective. Aku simply delegated to his lieutenants who still operated in the slums or ignored the rulings entirely. What's more, Aku had found a way to kill and maim with complete impunity, by targeting the minority communities known as Dalits. With their name rooted in the Sanskrit word for broken, the Dalits belong to those inhabiting the lowest caste in Indian society and are often known simply as the Untouchables. They are subjected to some horrendous forms of bigotry, and according to a 2007 report by International Human Rights Watch, the treatment of Dalits is India's hidden apartheid,

and that the Dalits endorse segregation in housing, schools, and access to public services. Needless to say, the police weren't so interested in investigating crimes committed against the Dalits. They didn't even ask for bribes to keep them quiet. Yet what's clear is that, despite the fear Aku had instilled in the Kasturbar Nagar slums, the people could only take so much abuse before they began to lash out. And it seems that any serious and organized resistance began with a woman named Usha Narayani. You see, Usha refused to be intimidated by Aku and his goons, and continually demanded that local police take action against him on her behalf.

Every single day she called by to check if her complaints were being dealt with, and each time, she took her indignation further and further up the chain of command. But instead of actually dealing with her complaint, the police warned Aku that Usha was causing trouble for them and needed to be dealt with. And so, that night, Aku and 40 of his most brutal foot soldiers surrounded Usha's home and demanded she come out. It was reported that Aku carried only one weapon, a bottle of sulfuric acid, and told Usha if she merely withdrew her police report that everything would be fine. She refused. Aku then began to bark out, I'll throw acid on your face and you won't be in a position to file any more complaints. If we ever meet you, you don't know what we'll do to you.

Being violated is nothing compared to what we'll have in store, you hear me? Nothing. We'll burn you alive, cut you into pieces, and then feed you to stray dogs. Yet, instead of kowtowing to such threats, Usha began to barricade the doors to her home. This only infuriated the criminals, who made short work of the barricades and forced their way into the house. However, once they were inside, a frighteningly familiar smell graced their nostrils. It was the smell of gas, and standing before them, box of matches in hand, was Usha Narayani.

Get out of my house or I will burn us all, she growled. And for the first time in a long time, Aku was the one who was terrified. They were forced to abandon the attack, but Aku obviously didn't take the defeat well and began to plot a terrible revenge against the woman who had so embarrassed him. The next day, news of Usha's successful defiance spread like wildfire among the Kosturba Nagar slums. Many celebrated, but many also saw it as an opportunity to make even further gains from Aku and his men. Dalits flooded the streets, armed with sticks and stones, and began to attack Aku's lieutenants on sight.

Then, on August 6th of 2004, a group of furious Dalits closed in on Aku's lavish house on the edge of the slums. They smashed their way inside, chased away the guards, looted the place, then put it to the torch. The cheers and celebratory singing could be heard from miles around. Aku was on the run, and in a hilariously hypocritical twist, he turned to the police to protect him from the mob. And it's while he's in police custody that those wishing retribution against him began to make their moves. A coup was held in one single static location, a location known to thousands of Kostobar Nagar residents. And on the 13th of August 2004, they made their move. After hearing that a coup was about to be released after a corrupt bail hearing, hundreds of angry women marched down to the

courthouse that a coup was being held at. At first their gathering appeared to be a furious but relatively peaceful protest, and police even allowed a few of the women into the courtroom to bear witness to bail hearing, having assured them that it would be fair and impartial. Yet when a coup appeared in the courtroom at around 2.30pm, he was arrogant, disrespectful, and entirely unrepentant. When one woman took the stand to accuse him of violating her, Aku laughed out loud, mocking her and saying he'd do it again if he could. This elicited laughter from a few of the police officers in attendance. Some say the laughter was in response to how immature Aku was acting.

But what's clear is that to the women on the stand, as well as those in attendance, the laughter was the final straw. One woman launched herself at Aku, taking off her sandal and striking him about the head with it. Officers of the court tried to restore order and, the sight of them protecting the very man who had terrorized them for so long, sent the women into a frenzy. Yet what followed wasn't outright chaos, so much as orchestrated chaos. The women of Kasturba Nagar hadn't just shown up that day on a whim. Oh no, they had a plan. A plan that was perhaps as simple as it was effective. You see, the women who showed up to the court that day did so concealing all manner of bladed articles. They knew well that the Nagpur courthouse had metal detectors, ones that would easily reveal any kitchen knives or other steel weapons they tried to smuggle in.

To get around that, the women of Kasturbanagar had conspired to start something of a cottage industry, one focused solely on the production of what we might call prison shanks. They made knives out of plastic, out of wood, out of glass, and when they ran out of material, they made knives out of sharpened pieces of rock. But in addition to these deadly homemade blades, the women carried small baggies of what would prove to be a surprisingly effective non-lethal weapon, chili powder. So when the officers of the court moved to restrain them, all it took was one handful of chili powder blown into a cop's eyes and he was out of the fight. Once all of the officers protected him had been incapacitated, Aku was no longer the cocky, gloating figure he'd been just minutes before. Instead, he begged for his life.

Forgive me please, he said to have wailed. I won't hurt anyone anymore. I'll leave Nagpur for good. None of you will ever hear from me again. Just please don't kill me. A single woman approached him and the room fell silent. It was Anjana Bai Bukhar, whose daughter had been murdered by Aku before her very eyes. Aku, Yadav, she began. We can't both live on this earth together. It's either you or us.

And with that, the attack began in earnest. It's thought that Aku Yadav was stabbed by almost 400 women that day as he lay helpless on the marble floor of the Nagpur courtroom. They had agreed to all stab him at least once, plunging the blades into his body before passing them on to the next woman. The women poured the remainder of the chili powder into his eyes and up his nostrils, while one began to slice off his reproductive organs before holding them above her head like a bloody trophy. Some say it took Aku at least 30 minutes to actually expire, and when he was dead, the entirety of the courtroom's bright white marble flooring

was soaked in his blood. The man himself lay dead from literally hundreds of stab wounds, at just 32 years of age. When the attack was finished, the women of Kastabar Nagar returned to their husbands and fathers to tell them that they had killed Akul Yadav. The entire slum seemed to burst into celebration. That night, families blasted out music into the streets, dancing and cheering in pure jubilation. Households gifted fruit and food to their neighbors, a tradition normally associated with the holiest of Hindu holidays. The police honed in on the woman who had given birth to the resistance, the same woman who had flooded her own house with gas before threatened to roast Aku and herself alive. Usha Narayani was arrested and charged with murder, but a crowd of 400 women

and more than 100 men and children gathered at the courthouse, each saying that they were the ones solely responsible for Aku's murder. And as a result, no one could be charged and in 2012, Usha was officially acquitted of all charges. Retired Indian High Court Judge Baha Vahani publicly defended the woman who lynched Yadav, saying that, in the circumstance they underwent, they were left with no alternative but to finish a coup. The women repeatedly pleaded with the police for their security, but the police failed to protect them. If they took law into their own hands, it was because the law and law enforcing agencies had not given them succor. Some did attempt to condemn the murder, saying that extrajudicial killings were completely

unacceptable. And as much as they're legally and morally correct, there's no denying that the women of Kosturba Nagar were only capable of taking a certain amount of abuse before they decided to lash out and wreak a terrible retribution. And in the case of Aku Yadav, that retribution came in the form of an agonizing, terrifying, and drawn-out death, and arguably, one that he very much deserved. I grew up in a place called Derry in Northern Ireland. You know that Norn Iron meme that's been going around? Hey, that's us. Anyway, I came up on a housing estate called Carnhill. A wee bit rough, but generally an alright place to live. Carnhill is basically like 9 or 10 little clusters of houses on like a ring road, but all with lovely green spaces

between them. You could run about them, play football, just generally messing about, you know, and most of the rest of the estates could see you, so your mom always knew someone was keeping an eye on you. Carnille took a lot of guff from the British army during the troubles, so naturally we had a big IRA presence here too. And when the violence ended, not all the paramilitaries decided to give up the cause. Not only that, but younger lads who glorified all that bollocks wanted a piece of it too and so they joined continuity organizations like the Real IRA or Ogley and Heron to carry on the fight. But who do you fight when there's no British soldiers around no more? You can't really go

around shooting the police, because as much as we don't like to admit it, they do keep us safe from mad huns when it suits them. So, who do you go for? Who are the enemies of the community? If you're a real IRA man, the answer is obvious. You go after drug dealers, and an even bigger prize. You go after those that predatorize children. Historically speaking, the IRA used to do most of their punishment beatings or shootings in the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere. Seeing them be violent towards people who weren't outright Brits was bad PR, but after the continuity lot started targeting dealers and creeps, PR was a must-have. They wanted people to know that they were doing it, and they were proud of it.

And what's most relevant to my story is that they wanted people to see it. So it's 2010. I'm 13, and I'm playing out with my friends during this lovely summer's evening. It's humid out, but with just the right amount of breeze and I'm honestly dreading my mom calling me in for the night because I'm having such a good laugh. Normally she'd call me in and I'd always manage to haggle a few more minutes out of her. It'd be this playful back and forth of five more minutes mom please and hey go on but here, make sure you're no longer than five. The bath's running for you, so it is. Only this time, my name gets called and when I give my usual pushback, it's immediate like,

Selena, get your backside in here right now, young lady. My mom didn't shout, she barked it. And she was about to go through me for a shortcut and I knew she most definitely wasn't kidding on. I say bye to my friends then notice all their moms are coming out too calling them inside. I was only 13 but I wasn't soft and I quickly worked out that mom was so agitated because four men had appeared on the green and were walking towards the wide open spot in the middle. As I reach my mom, she just tells me, go right up to your room and don't come out until I say.

Now my bedroom faced the street out the front and all the commotion was out the back, so I only half obeyed my mom by heading upstairs, but then creeping into my parents' bedroom at the back of the house so I could watch what was going on. As you just heard, the entire green was deserted except for four men. Two were younger lads, two were a bit older. One of the older fellows had this terrified look on his face and was being flanked by the two young lads with their faces covered, who every so often had to kind of push him along like he was dragging his feet. It was clear he didn't want to be there, but I could only wonder as to what had him so spooked like that. Anyway, right when the four men reached the middle of the green, they stopped. The older one at the back, who also had his face covered and was obviously the fellow in charge, started shouting all this stuff that I didn't quite understand at first. But then it became clear that the man they had with them had done something really bad, and it dawned on me that they were about to publicly punish him for

it. But then, just when my sympathy for the man had reached its peak, the fellas with their faces covered said one of the few things I actually really understood, that the man they were about to punish was someone who had touched a child. I think that might have gotten a gasp out of just about everyone in the estate, and it completely shifted the dynamic of what we were witnessing. Because as much as what happened next was grim, I now understand that the real horror of what happened that day was that those men had the consent of the community to do what they did. Most people in Northern Ireland are tired of violence, but the vast majority of us, older and younger,

just want to live our lives in peace. We've lived through more than a hundred years of struggle, both north and south of the border, and if you can manage to elicit a bit of bloodlust from us, trust me, that's no mean feat. Then right before our eyes, the younger men forced their prisoner onto his stomach and held him in place while their leader took what looked like a gun out of one of his jacket pockets. Then bang. The man screamed like nothing I'd ever heard before. It was blood-curdling. I know that's cliched, but it's true.

It was a sound I found myself physically recoiling from, and from what I understand, this first shot was to the back of the man's kneecap. Bang. Another shot, and another scream. The second sounded sadder than the first. I know that sounds weird, but it was more like a groan than a scream towards the end. Maybe he just didn't have the breath in his lungs anymore, who knows, but what's for certain is that this shot was to his other kneecap. He'd probably never walk properly again,

not for the rest of his life, but I doubt that there was a single ounce of sympathy on their entire estate. I don't think they have flinched if they had blown his head off, but they didn't blow his head off. They shot something else off instead. Bang. Just when I thought I'd heard the most horrifying scream in my life, the third one tops it all. It was this undulating howl up and down and rasping at the end, but all you could hear was sobbing, this ugly sobbing as the masked men stood up and walked away. I don't really know what I was expecting to happen next. I mean, a man had just been shot three times.

There could be little doubt that he was in danger of bleeding to death. You'd think someone in a good Christian community like ours would bother to check on him, regardless of the crime he'd been accused of. But no. It took half an hour for ambulance crews to reach us, and this isn't a place where the average response time is about 10 minutes. To me, that means people actually debated for a full 10-15 minutes whether or not they'd actually call for help for that guy. There were people on the estate who were happy to let the man die in front of their children that day, based on pure hearsay.

Well, I say hearsay, but it did turn out to be true. The statement released by the PSNI condemned the way the man was attacked, but it didn't deny what he was. Lo and behold, the man, who will remain nameless here, was convicted of offenses just a year or so prior, and had moved over to Derry to start a new life. The paramilitaries tracked him down and told him to leave, and when he refused, they came for him. There's a lot of people, both at the time and now, who tell me they don't care if that guy was shot, how he got exactly what he deserved. And if he couldn't properly walk again, oh well, it meant our kids would be a wee bit safer. But I don't want to live in a place where that kind of violence is on view to the public. Civilized societies deal

with their criminals without violence and away from the innocent eyes of children. They shot that man because he abused children, but what's shooting someone in front of children if not child abuse as well? I'm not trying to equate the two, don't get me wrong, but I'd like to think that monsters can only live on the fringes of society, and I don't think I could handle the realization that monsters are all around me, just pretending to be normal, regular people, when really, they're just as savage and brutal as those they profess to hate. I used to live in this really, really rough apartment block in an east coast city that will remain nameless. I was pretty much forced to live there when I first started writing as

there was literally nowhere else within my budget and it was honestly one of the best and simultaneously worst times of my life. The sense of community there was just second to none, and now that I live in a sterile apartment building where I barely know any of my neighbor's names, I kind of miss that. There was community barbecues in the summertime, some of the graffiti art was spectacular, and there was always something happening, be it good or bad. But if there was one single thing that made living there difficult, it was the drugs. As nice as the place could be, it was like a running battle with fiends and dealers to keep the place livable. At one point, the cops raided an apartment that was

being used as a stash house and an officer was shot in the line of duty. You'd think they might have come back stronger, show that they couldn't be intimidated, but the mayor seemed to have the opposite opinion, that basically leaving us to fend for ourselves was the answer. Over the course of one summer, the block went from a fairly nice, albeit cheap place to live, to an open-air drugs market. It was every bit the living nightmare that you might imagine. Sleep was at a premium. Dealers set a stereo system up in the middle of the courtyard and played music at all hours of the night. People were beaten up, robbed, fiends were breaking

into empty units and turning them into drug dens. They were leaving needles everywhere too. It was the absolute worst, and people could only handle it for so long before something had to give. But at the time, you'd have to absolutely be crazy to stand up to a bunch of dope dealers, right? Enter Shuley. Shuley looked to be in his 50s, but he took such little care of himself that he might not have been a day over 35. He smelled weird, he looked weird, he acted weird, and he was basically harmless. Essentially, Shuley was our resident crazy person.

But I had no idea that Shuley would be crazy enough to actually stand up to those dope dealers in his own little way. Because one day, I hear this brand new sound coming from down in the courtyard. I was used to people shouting, music playing, and actually all manner of messed up new things since the dealers put up shop down there, but I'd never heard what sounded a lot like a handheld siren. I walk out of my apartment, looking over the balcony to see just what in God's name is going on, and I'm greeted by the sight of Shuley, holding up one of those megaphone things that

evidently had a super annoying siren feature to it. He's aiming it at this little dope dealer, obviously too scared to actually confront him, but so sick of what's been going on that he couldn't stand to just sit in his apartment and wait for someone to kick the door in or whatever. He was like the littlest vigilante or something, a five foot nothing batman whose sole crime fighting gadget was the power to irritate. Obviously all the dope dealers did at first was laugh. Shuley looked objectively incredibly dumb, standing there trying to be all menacing with the silliest high-pitched wee-woo coming out of what was basically just a child's toy. It didn't take long before the noise started to get to them, and when they started not being able

to hear their friend's orders properly, they chased Shuli back up the stairs and into his apartment. But then, he just started hanging over his balcony and blasting the noise at them, then just running back to his apartment when they ran up to beat him. It was kind of funny for a while. Annoying, yes, but no more annoying and considerably less depressing than what we normally heard. I'd long since taken to using headphones whenever I was in my apartment, so none of it made a difference to me, but after a while, Shuley's efforts did actually start to have an effect on the dope dealer's business. At least, we can only assume it had an effect on their business, because the next time I actually saw cops inside the apartment block was when they came to get Shuli's body. I was at work when it happened, but one of the dope dealers must have just snapped at some point and gone berserk. First thing I noticed was that

all the fiends and dealers were gone, so I knew something weird was going on. That's when I saw the cops at Shuli's door. I had to walk past Shuli's apartment on the way up to my own, so as much as the cops tried to stop me at first, I had to insist on getting past in order to actually get home. Once I told them that, they relented and I managed to slip past the open apartment door to briefly get a look inside. I honestly didn't expect him to have been killed. Like I know it sounds mean, but my first thought was like, oh god, what's he been up to in there? Thinking that he might have been up to some deviant act or something. But no, I saw the blood all over that apartment and I just did the math. I moved out like three months later. I was doing well enough at work that I could afford to be someone's roommate.

That was a horror story on its own. And as much as I was sad that I had to leave, living somewhere where there had been a murder on the floor below was just a bridge too far for me. Drugs had just sucked the life out of that place. And I'm just glad that I got out of there before it got to me, too. To be continued... outside of Portsmouth, which you might actually have heard of. It's about the last place you'd think of having an active vigilante, but back in 2006, we actually had one. Alright, he wasn't Charlie Bronson and Death Wish or anything, but he definitely spooked a lot of people who just so happened to be breaking the law, and I had a neighbor who was one of them. One day, my neighbor wakes up, has a shower, has his brekkie, then heads

out to his car to go to work. It's then that he happens to see a piece of paper tucked under his windshield wiper, so naturally he goes over to see what it says. Lo and behold, using cut-out newspaper letters like it's a 40s noir detective film, the note just says, Warning. You have been seen using your mobile phone. Bizarre, isn't it? Until you understand that it's actually referring to them using their phone while driving. This is actually against the law here in the UK and I'd be surprised if it wasn't in the US too as I imagine it can cause a lot of accidents. Obviously my neighbor is a little bit embarrassed but otherwise just screws the paper up, lashes it in his bin and dismisses the person as some weird nosy parker. That's when they noticed the tires. All four had

been slashed and he would most definitely not be making it to work on time that morning. And this didn't just happen the one time either. This mysterious person repeated the act of slashing tires and leaving notes on more than 20 different cars. Apparently one of the women didn't even own a mobile phone, and that she was furious that she'd been targeted to begin with. But between you and me, I reckon that's a load of tosh. Everyone and his dog has a mobile, even back in 2006, and our little town is quite well off if I say so myself, so it's not like anyone's struggling. We know each other's business too, can't help talking in a small town like ours. You see things too, all sorts of things, but it seems like one of us is a little bit more observant and indignant than the others.

If I'm honest, I like that there's people out there willing to step up and defend what's right. But the weird note, and the knife, that's making the whole thing a bit frightening, don't you think? When we were kids, we don't always listen to the adults around us. Part of growing up requires us to push boundaries or we never know when we've gone too far. It's just a fact of life. Adults know this and try their best to let us learn on our own. Even then they won't hesitate to put their foot down in the best interest of our safety. I know this now and did the same to my kids when they were young. However, there was a time you couldn't tell me anything. I constantly pushed the boundaries and never learned from my mistakes. That is, until I almost died. In my youth I was a handful, too much for my mother in fact.

My dad had been shot down and killed in Vietnam, I had only been two at the time. My mother didn't date and both my grandfathers had passed. I lacked any male role models in my life and mom tried but just couldn't fill this role. This was another time and mom was a small town simple lady. I was old enough to know that she was overworked and not the assertive type. I naturally exploited this. I had not yet fallen in the crime but she feared I soon would. She searched out a solution and soon came up with a perfect one. Spring break would soon arrive. She searched out a solution and soon came up with a perfect one. Spring break would soon arrive. She would need someone to look after me during the day.

This is when dad's mother, Granny Jean, came into the picture. Mom and Granny Jean never saw eye to eye, but they kept things civil. As I'd soon discover, Granny Jean was just what I needed. She'd grown up in the Depression. It made her tough, a no-nonsense type of woman. She had no time for foolishness but was still capable of showing love when appropriate. The two spoke on the phone and she agreed to take me for the week. I left for the farm on that Sunday morning and arrived by bus later that day. A daunting trip for a lone nine-year-old. Not that I would have admitted it.

Granny Jean picked me up at the station and we drove the 25 miles back to the farm in silence. I say silence, but there was a preacher talking on the radio for most of the ride. I began to speak once until I got the stink eye from Granny and figured I'd be better off shutting up. Not until breakfast the following morning did she truly talk to me. Afterwards I received a quick lesson on feeding the animals and then was left to entertain myself. So naturally I took off in search of trouble. Most of the day was spent walking the fields and exploring the woods. I returned briefly for lunch then renewed my explorations. Around 4 I came across this old abandoned farmhouse. It was a massive thing. Two stories and a big wraparound porch.

I couldn't resist. I quickly looked through the windows to make sure no one was inside. Seeing nobody I walked around back and entered. There wasn't much to see, but to me it was like a giant clubhouse. It was getting late, so I left, with all the intention of returning. That evening at dinner, I happened to make mention of the old house. No sooner had I said it, Granny Jean jumped down my throat. That's not your property. Don't you go back there. It's old and dangerous. It's not safe,

do you understand? I was terrified by her reaction and sheepishly I said, yes ma'am. I was shocked by my own words. I'd not been in the habit of respecting my elders but she was in full control and she knew it. Well, almost full control. That night as I lay in bed all I could think about was the old house. There was still so much to explore. I had to go back. And I did the next morning, borrowing a flashlight on my way out. Beginning where I'd left off the day prior, I climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor. Had I been smarter about the layout of the old houses, I would have tried to explore the attic, but I didn't realize it was there. I did encounter a door that likely led

to it, but it being locked, I moved on. I had much more to see. Having found nothing of note at this point, I returned to the kitchen. A door I hadn't yet tried was located there. It was difficult to open, but after a few hard yanks it broke free. Ahead of me were stairs leading into a basement. The darkness before me screamed come down with my borrowed flashlight in hand I descended down those stairs. One step had long since rotten away and I jumped it. It's a miracle this step I landed on didn't snap too. Reaching the bottom, I swept the large room with the beam of light. I couldn't see much from my

position. Therefore, I made the mistake of taking a closer look. I took two, maybe three steps and the door above me slammed shut. To this day, I'm not sure what caused it to close. A gust of wind is the most likely guess, but I'm almost positive I closed the back door behind me. I could be wrong. I was never good about closing doors, so no matter how improbable it is actually possible, I'll not entertain any other of the more outlandish theories. I jolted back up the stairs, skipping two or three at a time. I threw myself against the door, but it wouldn't budge. Again and again I did this, but to no avail.

And I was trapped. I began panicking. Then, suddenly, I remembered the big swinging doors I'd seen when I arrived. I frantically raced back down, jumping steps in pairs. The second to last broke under my weight, sending me tumbling across the floor. The room was now very dark. I realized my flashlight wasn't working. I shook it rapidly and it came to life. I returned to my feet and renewed my sprint to freedom. The doors were two heavy wooden things that opened out. I'd need a lot of power to budge them. I summoned up all my strength and threw my body against them.

But nothing. I repeated this twice more until I was too tired to continue. I took a break and tried to think. I closed my eyes and concentrated intensely. I pictured the doors as I'd seen them the day before. My mind's eye scanned every inch, every nail, every board. All hope I had disappeared in an instant. I should have remembered the large board straddling the doors from the outside. It was a sturdy-looking 2x4, something of similar size. It spanned the entire breadth of the opening, slid tightly under four metal braces.

I had not lost complete hope just yet. I wandered back and forth around the room, examining every square inch. There were a couple of small windows. Perhaps if I broke them, I could squeeze out. A nearby brick was put into use but it just bounced off the panes. I know now that it was reinforced, storm-proof glass. No matter the amount of foolish optimism or stubbornness I embodied, as the hours passed, my courage began to fail me. Things wouldn't truly begin to suck until night came on. Although the days had been somewhat warm, the nights still dipped below freezing.

As the sun set, my prison became colder and colder. Then, just after 11pm, the flashlight gave out, and shaking it no longer worked. With no moonlight, it was completely pitch black. Rats began scattering about all around me, and I was now at the lowest point in my young life. My surroundings terrified me more than the thought of freezing to death. Visions of rats gnawing on my limbs, being too weak to move, overwhelmed me. Sleep became harder and harder to avoid. Even then, I knew if I fell asleep, I might not wake up again. I had no doubt that help would be coming, but would they reach me before I froze,

or worse, was eaten alive? Sometime in the early hours of the night, I lost the battle and slipped into unconsciousness. In that sleep world, I could feel my soul being carried upward. I was no longer shivering. My body was warm and I no longer hurt. This had to be heaven, I thought to myself. But fortunately, it was not my time. I awoke the following morning. But rather than heaven, I was back in bed.

The smell of baked things floated up from the kitchen and was all very disorienting. Had I just dreamed this, I thought. I looked around, and nothing was out of the ordinary. The sun was shining through the white lace curtains. Rags, granny jeans, tabby cat was curled up in the chair, watching me. I was wearing my favorite flannel pajamas, and all seemed well. Yet just below the surface, something gnawed at me. I slipped quietly into my robe, not wanting to ruin the peace of the morning. Rags followed close behind and I stepped softly down the stairs. The rotten stairs of the basement flashed in my mind. Maybe I was in hell. A proper punishment for such an unruly child like myself. This would be a particularly bitter pill.

I expected to be swarmed by a horde of rats any moment. Maybe Rags was their leader. He ran ahead of me and turned the corner, and I braced for the Grusamon slot, but it never came. I reached the bottom. Looking left, I could see Granny Jean, her back to me. The same grey hair wrapped into a tight bun. She sat at the kitchen table.

The calm swaying of an old string instrumental flowed lazily from her little radio. I just stood and watched for a long time, a slight tug of tension lurking just below the surface. A few minutes passed and Granny Jean turned in her chair, kindly wishing me a good morning. I joined her in the kitchen, still unsure of what to say. Are you hungry? The words were comforting yet unsatisfying. Yes, I answered with a quick jerk. I stood still and watched as she gathered the food. She was consumed with her work, yet perhaps even then aware of the turmoil raging inside of me. She cracked two eggs into a skillet. The sizzle and captivating scent of bacon rose in the air. I don't think we need to discuss what happened last night.

You're safe now, and I'm sure a boy even as stubborn as you has learned his lesson. The relief was indescribable. I fought back the tears, but a few escaped. Their warmth, all the more soothing. I didn't want her to see, and I turned my back to her and spoke. No, ma'am. I see now just how difficult I've been, and I'm sorry. And that was it.

Granny Jean plated up my breakfast, and we sat together as I ate, not speaking, the soothing swaying strings blending into the warm, fragrant air of the kitchen. For the remainder of my visit, I stayed pretty close to the farm. There were plenty of reruns on TV and chores to keep me occupied. I had meant every word I'd said that morning. A veil had been lifted. All the trouble I'd caused, my willful headstrongness, had led me to that cold basement. The adults around me only had the best in mind for me, yet all I ever heard was no. The old version of myself did die that night. When the week came to an end, Granny Jean drove me back to the bus station. As we parted, she gave me a little peck on my cheek.

I had never felt so grateful in my life and I still hold a very special place in my heart for her. On my way to the bus, I turned back and waved goodbye to her. Had I known it would be the last time I'd see her, I would have thanked her for it all. She'd not just saved my body that dark, cold night. She'd done one better. She'd saved my soul. For the last few days, I've been reading about various Reddit members' run-ins with creepers, stalkers, and other downright freaky people. Now that I've gotten good and inspired, I figured I'd add my story to the list. This starts about five years ago. My family, consisting of myself, my brother Alec, and of course my mom, were moving around a lot.

At this time, my mom was having a hard time finding a full-time job that paid well. On several occasions we'd been forced to move out in the middle of the night. This would all change when she got on a well-known lock manufacturer just a city over. The company even provided her with the money to rent a house near the factory, and things were starting to look up for sure. The move proved to be unremarkable, as was our first few weeks in the new place. Despite being nothing special, it was almost paradise to us kids. The neighborhood was a regular working class area loaded with other kids and plenty of things to keep us busy. Ever since our dad passed when I was about 10,

life had been pretty touch and go, but now it was almost like things used to be, at least for a while. During this time we all did our usual stuff. Mom worked as much as possible and Alec and I attended school. Then we started hearing noises. I was the last to notice them. I think Alec mentioned them once, but I wrote them off as nothing. Mom hadn't bothered to say anything for a few days, but one morning at breakfast, we all heard it together. This one resembled a ring chime on a phone. It only happened twice that morning, one after another. We all three began comparing notes and were relieved to know we weren't the only persons hearing things

We agreed it was probably a bird outside This was not the only sound we'd been noticing but for the day We put them out of our minds and began discussing more important goings on Nothing else of note would occur this day, but the idea had been brought up. We'd all be far more tuned in and probably wouldn't hesitate to mention anything new in the future. For the next few weeks, one of us would hear a bump on the floor or a scratching sound. We'd make a mental note of it and go on with what we were doing. On weekend mornings when we were all together, we'd mention the week's

experiences. We even searched the house once and discovered a small hole leading into the attic. We figured a little critter was going in and out and making some of the sounds. There were still a few sounds that would have been impossible for a rat or squirrel to make. We thought we may have our answer, but some lingering doubts remained. The real trouble started when the food began disappearing. This part of the story affected me specifically. For as long as I can remember, I've had a problem with my weight. I've learned to control it in the years since, but my childhood was made very difficult because of it. This was made worse by my mom. She'd always been thin and beautiful

and couldn't understand why I wasn't. When food began disappearing from the kitchen, she blamed it on me. This incident, in addition to a few others, damaged my relationship with my mom so badly, her and I still don't speak that often. But you aren't here to listen to my problems. You want to hear something scary, and that part comes next. I'd estimate we'd been living at the new house for around five months. Mom and I were barely speaking, and the noises were still an ongoing problem. We'd since decided the house was haunted. Almost a month after covering the hole in the attic and another leading into the basement, the sounds continued.

What had once been a strange problem had become frustrating. We'd all had our own issues. Alec himself had been having breathing problems akin to chronic bronchitis. He'd just started his freshman year of high school and was playing in the school band. He had been up and down with his symptoms. On this particular week, he had been doing well enough to go on a trip out of town. Unfortunately, soon after arriving, his symptoms blew back up and he was sent home for treatment. He arrived back home in the middle of the day when my mom and I weren't around. Things were quiet at first, but soon, he heard noises coming from the front bathroom. He called out, but no one answered. Not thinking anything was wrong, he went to the door and opened it. To his horror, a man he didn't know was standing half-dressed, staring at him.

He said the man moved toward him. Believing he was going to be attacked, he fled from the house and ran to a neighbor's residence for help. This was where he stayed until the cops completed their search. What they discovered would destroy our newfound sense of peace and cause long-term damage. When I arrived home, mom was still speaking with the police. My confusion quickly gave way to terror after hearing their story. As they cleared the home nothing appeared out of the ordinary. That was until they searched the basement. There they discovered a makeshift bedroll under the stairs hidden behind a large

stack of boxes. Although the intruder was gone from what they found, it looked as if though he had been sleeping there for some time. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach and I became slightly hysterical for a moment. Once I'd gotten myself composed, I asked about Alec. He was still across the streets and refused to return home. His hands were shaking and sweat was pouring down his face. A few hours passed and the authorities had all they needed for the time being. We all returned to the house in a vain attempt to move on. The side effects began to show themselves almost immediately. Alec was eventually convinced to return, but he was never the same.

Nightmares became a nightly occurrence. He was unable to sleep until mom or I showed him the basement was empty. Worst of all, his breathing trouble grew worse by the day, and I too was greatly affected. Every minute inside the house made my skin crawl. As for mom, she said nothing but the strain showed on her face. Her sleep too had obviously been hindered. With no news of an arrest, we were all drowning in fear. We did all we could think of to comfort each other, but it didn't do any good. At the end of the seventh month, we moved into a new place. This was a three-bedroom condo without

an attic or basement, and I remained there for another two years before getting my own place across town. I've been here ever since. After moving from the house, it seems all of our lives have improved. I'm fit, happy, and in a loving relationship. My mom found love with a gentleman from work and they married a year ago. Even poor Alec is doing well. His breathing problems slowly disappeared after the move. Doctors would discover his problems were likely related to the massive amounts of black mold we had been inhaling. After the diagnosis was made, the health department contacted the landlord only to discover the house had been demolished soon after we left.

I see this as an omission of guilt. Alex's night terror is gradually lessened with the passage of time and from what he tells us, he rarely thinks about the incident anymore. I'm not sure he's being totally truthful, but I'm happy to hear it nonetheless. The intruder is still on the loose as far as I know. He's not even been identified. We'll probably never know the full story. He could have gotten in through an unlocked door or window. At that point he could have had a key made for the back door. Our big ring of keys that hung on a hook next to the kitchen wouldn't be hard to find and from then on he'd have free reign over the house during the weekdays.

He more than likely heard us discuss our plans from his cubby in the basement, and that idea still gives me shivers. He'd be content in knowing when he would come and go safely without fear of being caught. That was until Alec arrived home unexpected. I suppose it's no longer important if he was arrested for his crime. All three of us have moved past the experience for the most part. Any long-term effects have dolled with time. A small thing does arise, however. I do wonder if our intruder has moved on to another basement. It's a part of the home most of us spend little to no time in. Perhaps you reading this are one of these people. Can you be so sure no one is lurking undetected below you,

listening to your every word and move? Maybe you should go check, just to be sure. It wasn't until I reached my thirties that I realized the mistake we'd made. Although what happened was technically illegal, nobody got hurt. Animals aren't people after all. Only when I began to learn about psychology did Isaiah's behavior actually cause concern. Don't get me wrong, after we made our discovery I wouldn't have left him alone with an aunt. All I'm saying is, it took a long time for me to understand how dangerous the kid truly was. By then it was too late.

Mark, nor any other member of his family, has heard from Isaiah in years. I haven't had a good night's sleep since learning this. I'm sure once I tell all of you what the two of us found in that basement, your sleep might be affected too. First things first, a brief layout of the people involved. None of the names I use here are the actual subject's names. I don't want innocent people getting harassed. It was 2003, neck deep into the summer. I'm pretty sure it was just after July 4th. Both myself and my best friend Mark were 18. Mark also had a younger brother Isaiah. He was 12. I'd spent almost every day of the past 10 years hanging out at their house. Things at my house were out of control but this isn't about my home life. Back on the subject,

this specific day was super hot. Even the AC was having trouble keeping up. We decided to retreat to the not often used basement in hopes of a cooler place to hang out. Mark and I remained down there for a few hours. At some point we became restless and decided to dig through the boxes on the surrounding shelves. At the very top of one shelf was a big box lacking any labels. We naturally had to know what was inside. I was a little taller at the time so I was chosen to climb up and bring it down. Since I was unable to grab it with both hands I made the stupid decision, depending on how you look at it, to knock it off the shelf. It hit the floor with

a dull thud and fell onto its side. That was when the first corpse fell out. We thought it was a hat or something, but when Mark picked it up, it was obviously a dead cat. As soon as he realized this, Mark let out an, ugh, and dropped it. Our curiosity was only stronger then. I grabbed a curtain rod and flipped it over. The poor beast appeared to have had its insides ripped out. After a short discussion, we came to conclusion that it had crawled into the box and died, only to have a rat come along and feast on its innards. Satisfied with this conclusion, we agreed to continue our search. I pushed the box back onto its bottom and pulled the flaps open to get a better view. It was immediately clear we had far more disgusting discoveries ahead.

I will take this moment to warn anyone who is sensitive to these types of situations to stop now. Although I have already described the death of an animal, it's going to get a lot worse from here. With that out of the way, I'll continue. As I said, I opened the flaps of the box only to be met by a menagerie of dead animals. Most were local pets from the look of them. Mark and I were both appalled and confused. What was this? Sheepishly, I reached in and began to pull out the dried husk. In the end, I found six different dead animals. Underneath the corpses, the box was filled out with Isaiah's old toys. I pushed it aside and started surveying my ghoulish discovery. Five out of the six were cats with an additional one tiny dog.

From what we could tell, they had all been strangled or had their throats cut. I still shiver when I think of it. A few of the cats still had the cord wrapped around their throats. This was all too much for the two of us to handle. Mark was adamant that this wasn't his work. So, we did the only thing we could. Mark walked back upstairs and asked his parents to join us in the basement. They were understandably disgusted at what they saw. Once again, Mark swore he wasn't the culprit. There wasn't any question of his parents' guilt. This only left Isaiah.

He was in his room at the time. He was called down. When he saw the box, he automatically looked down. This was a clear indication of his guilt. What followed was an hour-long interrogation. I left soon after it began. This was a family matter. Not to mention my view of Isaiah had drastically changed. The little monster freaked me out. Mark would tell me the specifics later.

The decision was made to get Isaiah counseling, and that's it. The police were never contacted, and the pet owners never knew what had happened to their beloved family members. I can understand not wanting your 10-year-old being labeled as a monster, but that's what he was. Mark said he tried to say the animals had attacked him at first and he was just defending himself. Their folks weren't buying that. He eventually accepted responsibility and apologized. I wasn't comfortable with this result as a kid, but now that I know that this is a sign of a serial killer, I'm terrified. For a few years,

I lost contact with Mark. I went off to college and moved to a new city. I began searching for him soon after. They had moved to a new city not long after I had. It was a fresh start, as he put it. Apparently Isaiah had stopped attending counseling within months of starting. He began acting out and residents started asking questions. I knew none of this, of course. When I did track Mark down, I would be updated on everything. Our reunion soon fell under a cloud when Isaiah came up.

I could tell by his tone, Mark was worried. In subsequent calls, he admitted he was scared of his brother. Although he was relieved to have lost contact with him, he feared for those around him. As I write this, no one has had contact with Isaiah in over seven years. His name does come up in searches, but he makes sure to move around a lot. So far he shows up in Denver, Los Angeles, Chicago, and most recently Long Island. Obviously these are all cities with unsolved multiple crimes and murders. I'm not sure I'd want to talk to him even if I did track him down, And no, Mark doesn't. And now maybe you'll see why my nights are fitful and long. I often blame myself for saying nothing. I catch myself

searching crowds for Isaiah's face, but I'll admit I probably wouldn't recognize him now. The hair stands up on my neck anytime a person gets too close to me in a crowd. My fears may be unfounded. Why would he come after me all these years later? Stupid as it sounds, I still feel terrified thinking about him. Somewhere in the world, maybe in a city just like yours, a real-life monster stalks the streets. Am I his next target? Is he reading this right now? Even as I pray for everyone's safety, something tells me someone won't live to see tomorrow. In the name of all that is holy, stay vigilant, and beware of strangers. The End Somewhere on the windblown plains of middle America, there stands a home.

It's a regular unassuming home. Nothing in its appearance draws your attention, nor marks it out as different. But this home once held a dark secret. One that would remain hidden for the most part until today. You see, once upon a time, not all that long ago really, this was my home. I was among a small number of young men. We resided in the dark depths of the home's basement. Five in total, we existed there not by choice, but by decree.

Our days were consumed in work while our nights were spent in dreaming. Among those dreams we often entertain the idea of freedom. Fortunately for myself and the others, one brave member of our community would make these dreams flesh. She is the reason I'll be able to share my story today. I suppose I should start with the larger aspects of the tale before focusing on myself. No real names or locations will be used. It all began way before I was born. Around the mid-1960s, a young charismatic preacher built a dedicated group around him. His theology was different from most in the faith.

According to his teachings, Mary Magdalene was given the power to speak the word of God by Jesus himself. Upon his ascent to heaven, Mary effectively became the head of the Christian church. Through the generations, this line was passed down until our Holy Father, who traced himself back to Mary Magdalene herself, ascended to the position. This idea was surprisingly well received at the time. By 1980, he had amassed a congregation of over 3,500. However, as times changed, more and more devotees left the church for a number of reasons. When I was born in 1993, our group had dwindled to around 125. A few years earlier, the church

had purchased a small piece of land in the upper area of the midwest. All the buildings were built by hand, by the congregation. Everyone was required to live on this compound and all labor was evenly divvied among the members. It was very similar to the communes popular in the 1960s and 1970s. I can only assume our church was built around the same model. I'm leaving a lot out but I hope you get the idea. The community was similar to the agrarian lifestyles of centuries past,

and most work was still done by hand in my time. Machines were not shunned. Still, many took pride in doing things on their own, no matter the hardship. This was the type of family I grew up in. Now I'll take a few moments to better explain what led us to living in a basement. Almost from the start, females enjoyed an exalted position in our faith. They served as apostles and teachers to the young and newer members. Other than our leader himself, no man held any position of power.

This was an accepted part and was rarely questioned. A male had to be married to remain in or join the congregation. In later years, our leader put a severe restriction on new marriages. Therefore, the younger males unable to find a partner or simply uninterested in marrying would be forced out soon after reaching the age of 21. Near the end, we became a little more than beasts of burden, strong hands for the field, among other things. The biggest change yet came in 1998. The Holy Father decreed that all males must be sent to live in the youth dorm at the time of puberty. For propriety's sake, the basement was termed the youth dorm, but we all knew it was just a regular old drafty basement.

This pronouncement only served to further fracture an already ailing group. Unfortunately for me, my parents were diehards. We remained on the farm along with the last 75 or so devotees. When my time came at 13, I did as I was told and took my place in the basement. Although the adjustment period was difficult, a strong bond soon formed with my fellow prisoners, as I put it. From dawn to dusk, we worked ourselves ragged, our only respite coming on Sundays in which we spent the mornings in holy services. The remainder of the day was our own. However, those who did not volunteer for additional tasks were required to remain in our quarters. While far more terrible things would be suffered by us during our time there,

I'm still unfortunately unable to discuss them. Maybe it's better that they stay buried. Out of nowhere in 2010, an unlikely individual would change everything. Ruth was just another congregant, but by advantage of being born a woman, she held a leadership position in the church. Although not lofty by any means, it held a substantial amount of power nonetheless. Unknown to anyone inside the group at the time, she had been building a large body of information implicating the Holy Father and multiple crimes.

On several of her visits into town, she met with law enforcement and their colleagues in the district attorney's office. They were especially interested in the Holy Father's treatment of males in the church. However, he had also been cheating on his taxes. This was the crime he was ultimately imprisoned for. When the day came that Ruth turned over all her documents to authorities, the church ceased to exist. A judge ruled our treatment to be inhumane and immoral, and we left the basement for the final time later that week. Everything else was handled quietly, behind closed doors, as to prevent embarrassment to the local community. When I was finally able to speak with

Ruth face to face, I asked her why. She said the treatment of men within the congregation had always bothered her. Her father's in particular. And just the year prior, she had begun a secret relationship with one of the young men in the dorm. She knew they would likely not be allowed to marry as long as things continued as they did. The final straw was what she discovered while digging. The extent of the Holy Father's corruption sickened her. Her intent had not been to destroy the church, but she eventually realized it was inextricably interwoven with him. I greatly admired her, or any person willing to sacrifice everything for those they love.

Fortunately, she had managed to build a respectable and happy life outside the church. My wife and I named our first daughter Ruth as a sign of respect to her. We also hope Ruth's selfless deed will serve as an example to her as she grows into womanhood. I couldn't think of a better woman for her to emulate. To close things out, I want to share the fate of my fellow dorm mates. It seems our horrible experiences haven't had any noticeable long term side effects. All but one of us are now married, with families. Mark, my closest friend from the church, has been with his partner for some time.

They two are discussing a future together. While this story does have many dark aspects, I'd like to end it with a positive message. I know many of us around God's beautiful creation have suffered terrible things. Many of us may still be suffering. Rather than my story being one of sadness, I'd prefer to view it as one of hope. Make note of this. No matter how dark things may be, hold fast and maintain faith. Better things are always waiting just around the corner. When the headline screamed, Local man tortured in basement, I was naturally curious. Little did I know I would soon be in the same position, not a week later. According to the story, a group of home invaders had burst into a nearby jewel dealer's home to steal a stash of diamonds he was rumored to have on site.

Having caught the dealer unaware, they demanded to know the location of said stash. The dealer, as it would turn out, truthfully told the gang no such jewel stash existed. What he did have was an empty safe in his bedroom closet. This revelation didn't make the group happy. They chose to disbelieve the homeowner, and for the next hour, the burglars took turns torturing him for the location of the non-existent stash. It would be the arrival of a nosy neighbor that would cause the thieves to scatter. But by this point, the homeowner was mere minutes from death had he not been rushed to the hospital. It was a harrowing story to be sure, but never once

had I ever thought that I was in any danger. The extent of my riches amassed to about 25 grand or so. This consisted of a 19th century gold and silver coin collection my father had left me. I had just had the collection appraised the year before. This is probably where I was chosen as a target. The appraiser offered me $10,000, but I kindly declined. The coin sat collecting dust in my floor safe after that. A week or more went by. I was loafing on my couch watching a movie. It was about 2pm on a Saturday when a loud crashing sound came from the front door. I was so focused on the television I nearly jumped out of my skin, and I peeked around the corner in time to see three masked figures pouring one by one through my shattered door. They were surrounding me, guns raised within a few seconds.

I was told to get on my knees and naturally I did. My heart was pounding and my mouth bone dry. Instead of shooting me, one of them demanded I give him the combination to my safe. This was the first moment that I realized who I was dealing with. I tried to play dumb. There's no safe. Why would I have a safe? I said. I know, my ability to lie is usually better, but I wasn't exactly prepared. The shortest of the group gave me a quick attitude correction with the barrel of his pistol. Still, my pride wouldn't allow me to tell. Actually, my pride and my love for my father,

to be honest. I wouldn't be caught dead if I was going to let some thug steal his life's work. Had I been more clear-headed, I would have chosen a wiser path. To their credit, I was given plenty of opportunity to concede, but once they had me tied up, in the basement, they were all business. Even as they tightened the knots and applied the gag, I was convinced that it was all a fear tactic. Surely after what happened to the jeweler, they wouldn't repeat their mistake. By god was I wrong. Right out of the gate, my left hand was smashed with a hammer. The pain was unimaginable. My right was next. This was even worse, if that's possible. I was ready to tell anything at this point, but I had angered them, and I was going to pay for it. My feet were next, then my knees.

I was barely conscious now. Only then was I allowed to speak. While one guy was upstairs, the remaining two huddled in the corner, talking. I could imagine my fate was being discussed. I'd never seen their faces. There was no reason to add murder to their list of crimes, I thought. I knew this, but I was convinced that I'd see the morning. The next few hours were hazy. All the adrenaline had since worn off. Pain was coming in waves so severe I passed out more than once.

Death would have been preferable, but due to some fortune it never did. I can't tell you when the gang left. I wouldn't have known how long that I'd spent tied up had not my son told me so later. Yes, my son. His stubbornness would be my savior, just as mine was almost my undoing. After multiple unanswered calls, he began to believe that I was dodging him. The young man drove 45 miles one way just to give me an earful. I thought I was dreaming. His voice echoed down the basement stairs, and I thought that I was hallucinating. It was the paramedics moving me that finally woke me up. For a split second I believed them to actually be my captors.

Their faces were bare and I was sure death was coming, but my son calmly placed his hands on my shoulders and assured me that everything was over. It's probably clear what followed next. My time in the hospital extended a long period of time, with multiple surgeries, and the recovery after that was spent in various casts and a period of time even in a wheelchair. For the most part, I have completely healed. The cold and damp are a chore, but since I moved south, I experience that pain very rarely. As sad as it may sound, I harbor no lasting hatred of those thieves. They may have taken something valuable, but they gave me much more important things back. My life.

Nonetheless, when I was notified of their arrest seven months later, I was relieved. Only a small amount of the coin collection was reclaimed, most being fenced long ago. I was surprised to get any of it back at all. Presently, all of these gentlemen are a guess of the correctional system, likely for the next thirty years or more. I briefly returned to work after my recovery, but had subsequently since retired. The majority of my days are now spent in leisurely pursuits like fishing and hunting. I learned an important lesson all those years ago. Life is a special yet fleeting thing. You should enjoy every day like it's your last.

I'd gladly sacrifice a million coin collections for another day with those I love. Sorry, Dad, but I think you'd agree. Stay safe, everyone. The End It was August 28th, 1984. Elizabeth Fritzl had just turned 18. What should have been a happy time in her life was soon to become a living nightmare. At some point that day, Elizabeth would disappear and not be seen again for 24 years. Soon after her disappearance, Rosemary Fritzl, Elisabeth's mother, filed a missing persons report. No trace of her daughter could be found.

Then, almost a month later, her father Joseph Fritzl produced a letter postmarked from Braunau, a city a hundred miles from their home in Austria. According to the letter, Elizabeth was staying with a friend. She demanded her family not search for her or she would leave the country. Joseph told the authorities she had probably joined a religious cult. They must have taken him at his word, and nothing else was done to find her after that day. Another 24 years would pass until the world would hear from Elizabeth again. She was never missing. At least, Joseph knew where she was the entire time. As it turned out, that same day that she had turned 18, he had trapped her in a hidden chamber that he had

specifically built for her, in the basement. From then on, he would visit her at least three times a week, bring her food and other supplies. What followed involved graphic detail. Because of Joseph's repeated indecent assaults, seven children would be born to Elizabeth in her prison, although one died soon after birth. Three of the children, Lisa, Monica, and Alexander were removed as infants and raised by Joseph and Rosemary. This was all approved by local social services after Joseph claimed the babies had just been left on his doorstep. Upon the birth of the fourth child, Joseph was kind enough to allow the chamber to be enlarged. Elizabeth and the children were made to dig out every inch of soil by hand.

The undertaking lasted several years. As terrible as all this must have been, it could have been far worse. The captives were allowed to have things like a refrigerator, television, and VCR. During their ordeal, Elizabeth taught the three remaining children, Kirsten, Stefan, and Felix, how to read and write. Occasionally, Joseph would shut off the power and forget to deliver them food in order to teach them a lesson. In a couple of different instances, he went as far as telling them that they would be gassed or electrified to death if they attempted to escape. Then, on April 19th, 2008, the eldest daughter, Kirsten, fell unconscious. Elizabeth managed to convince Joseph to seek medical attention for her. She assisted Joseph in carrying their child

out to an awaiting ambulance. It would be the first time she had been outside in 24 years. Although she was forced to return and stay another week, her nightmare was soon to end. Once again, Joseph arrived with a letter supposedly written by Elizabeth. Fortunately, staff at the hospital found many aspects of his story puzzling and called the authorities. That was when the investigation into Elizabeth's disappearance was reopened. Joseph was questioned and an expert on cults found his story improbable. Because her illness was so severe, Elizabeth pleaded to be allowed to visit Kirsten in the hospital. Amazingly, Joseph agreed and Elizabeth, along with her two sons, were allowed to leave the basement for the final time. During the visit, a doctor tipped off authorities and both adults were taken into

custody. Once she was assured that she was finally safe, Elizabeth shocked Felice with a story of her decades-long imprisonment and abuse. Shortly after midnight, Joseph, now 73, was formally arrested. The next day, Elizabeth, the children, and Rosemary were taken into protective custody. It's believed Rosemary never had any idea of what was happening to her daughter. Over the next few days, DNA would prove Joseph to be the father of Elizabeth's children, although his lawyer would insist this did not prove false imprisonment. Police believe Joseph was planning on contriving a story of how he rescued his daughter from the supposed cult to cover for the unexplained appearance of Elizabeth. The trial of Joseph Fritzl commenced on March 29th, 2009. He stood

trial for the death of the newborn, kidnapping, false imprisonment, and several other despicable actions. Persuant to an agreement made to her by police, Elizabeth would be allowed to give videotaped testimony before prosecutors. Joseph pled guilty on all charges except murder and threatening to gas Elizabeth and the children. The jurors spent 11 hours that first day watching footage of Elizabeth's testimony. The tape was said to be so upsetting that eight of the jurors could only watch two hours of the testimony at a time. Four alternates were put on standby in case any juror asked to be excused. Elizabeth's older brother, Harold, also testified

to being abused by Joseph as a child. The second day, Elizabeth herself appeared at the trial. Joseph was visibly shaken by her arrival, going pale and breaking down. The next day, he would change his plea to guilty on all charges. He's currently serving on a life sentence at Garston Abbey Prison in Upper Austria. He is eligible for parole after 15 years. On a good note, Kirsten was reunited with her family after being put under an artificially induced coma. She has since made a complete recovery.

For the sake of the privacy, I won't say where Elizabeth and the children are living today. I will include that they are doing their best to live normal lives and heal from such a traumatic experience. The house that bore witness to these crimes was put up for sale and purchased in December of 2016. The purchasers planned to convert the property into apartments. The basement itself was filled with concrete in June 2013 at a cost of 100,000 euros. Although in an interview in 2017, Joseph still showed no remorse for his actions, and in April 2019, it was reported that his health was in decline and he didn't want to live anymore. But we can only pray that he gets what he asked for, after creating a generational nightmare

in a subterranean prison. To be continued... Everyone around him knew him as Big Joe, but his parents called him Joseph. The Gibsons were friendly and cool for older folks. A lot of parents would have been overprotective of a child with Big Joe's disability, but he was allowed to live just like every other kid. I know now that Big Joe had a condition called Down syndrome. As kids, we knew he was different, but we didn't care. If he was picked on, we were usually there to stand up for him. Those kids never spoke a word crosswise about him in our presence again.

He was everyone's best friend and never expected anything in return. That's why his disappearance affected us all so much. I don't remember the exact date, but I do know that I was nearing 13. Several of us had met up to play baseball. We knew Big Joe loved playing and he would be sad if we didn't include him. We went to the Gibsons' house and when Mr. G told us Joseph had went away, we asked when he'd be back. I'm sorry, boys. Joseph won't be coming back.

He wouldn't say anymore, so with a heavy heart, we walked back to the field and tried getting by without our favorite pitcher. Big Joe may have gone away, but he wasn't forgotten. My friends and I would do our darndest to discover the truth, but it seemed nobody had a clue. Not even the adults. There were loads of theories though. The most popular was that Big Joe had become too much to handle for his older parents. We assumed that he'd been sent off somewhere for his own good. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion, but there wasn't much we could do about it. Life went on and time passed quickly. I worked my way through community college and would

eventually become a child psychologist. A few of my childhood friends would reach out now and then. The discussion would always get around to Big Joe. The institutional theory was taken as fact by then and we hoped he was happy and well treated wherever he was. My practice was just beginning to support itself and I decided to take a short vacation with my family to visit my folks. Our first night was without note. It was the next morning when everything changed. The whole family was sat around the table for breakfast. My dad was talking about a new housing development being built and that was when he dropped the bomb. Oh yeah, did you hear about the old Gibson house? I figured he was talking about being leveled for the new development And I was only half right

They did demolish it, but during the process they found a body buried in the basement He said it like it was an everyday occurrence I began to choke Something like this demanded an explanation I'm sorry son, I assumed you already knew I began to choke. Something like this demanded an explanation. I'm sorry, son. I assumed you already knew. They were in the process of digging for leftover pipes or wires and exposed a skeleton. All kinds of questions were rushing through my head, all except the most obvious one.

Both Gibsons passed long ago. No one had lived in the house for at least ten years. I asked if they identified the body, and it was obvious that he was about to make a guess. Come on, boy. You know who it is. You're avoiding the most probable option in favor of the most improbable. This is one of his favorite sayings. He'd throw it at me whenever he thought I was being dense. I fought for a moment, but nothing came to me. He could see the strain on my face. I remember all of these words like they were yesterday. Okay, stop.

Take a few breaths. Close your eyes. And it will pop out in front of you. My old man knew me well. I did as he suggested and calmed my mind. Then bang. It hit me like a truck. And my old man had always been able to read me like a book.

Big Joe? My excitement quickly switched to confusion and concern. Once again, he could read my thoughts. No, son. It's not what you think. The doctors are almost certain the man died of natural causes. I do want to mention here that although we saw Big Joe as a kid like us, it turned out he was actually nearing 25 when he passed.

Although relieved, I was unable to overcome my confusion and disgust. Why hadn't they just buried him the regular way? It's not fair that we didn't get to say goodbye one last time. I wanted answers, but asking dad would have been pointless. Now that I knew, I had to visit his grave site as soon as possible, and after a small amount of research I did find it, and this was something I was going to have to do alone. I just remember as I stood beside the grave, I began telling him everything he missed since he went away. I told him about my wife and kids, how the Sox finally won the pennant. And then I realized, he hadn't missed a thing. He had been with me all these years. I'd been carrying him in my heart the whole time. When I was a freshman in college in October of 2018, a guy called Ron Jones stalked me. I met Ron through one of our mutual friends, Chris, because they were in a school club together.

When I met Ron, I thought he was kind of strange, but he was nice and seemed interesting. He claimed to be Slavic and had an accent to back that up. I just thought that he might seem weird because of cultural differences. I go to school in a rural southern area and I figured the culture shock between here and wherever he was originally from was a lot to handle. Anyway, we exchanged numbers and texted infrequently for a couple of weeks. On October 3rd, 2018, a friend of mine and I went to a drag show on our campus. We weren't out super late, but it was dark when the show ended and we began walking back to our dorm. I'd been texting Ron a bit during the night because he was unable to get a ticket to the drag show and he wanted to know how it was. At some point in the conversation,

I mentioned that I wanted to grab some orange juice on the way back to my dorm. Don't know why I mentioned that to him, I think I was just making conversation. My friend and I stopped in the convenience store near our building so I could get said orange juice and Ron was already there. He said something about buying the juice for me and I thanked him but declined. He got kind of mad and started to walk away which was odd to me but I let it go. My friend and I walked out of the store and saw that he was standing outside. Our dorm was actually right across from the building the convenience store was in so he saw us enter the building. My friend and I parted ways and I walked

up to my room which was on the second floor of the building facing the convenience store. I kicked myself for doing this now but I went to my window, opened it, and yelled down to Ron when I saw that he was still standing there. I apologized for declining his offer to buy the juice for me because I felt like I had been rude. Guilty conscience, I guess. He stood below my window and started talking to me about random stuff and at one point he said something that was odd. He was like, Can I flirt with you? I enjoy doing that. And I just laughed and said, Uh, okay.

Because I had no clue how to respond to that and I just figured he was a flirtatious person. Stupid, I know. But that's not the dumbest thing I did. I ended up going outside to sit and talk to Ron for a little bit because I felt bad for being rude earlier. As if declining someone's offer to buy you something is rude, I don't know what I was thinking. While we were outside, he didn't say anything of note and he was acting pretty normal. It got cold out so he asked if we could go inside to talk and I said sure. At this point in the year I'd had several guy friends over to my room just to do work and chat so I didn't see an issue with it.

And things started out normally, but they quickly got scary. Out of nowhere, Ron basically turned into a different person when we were alone in my room. He stopped blinking, he held eye contact super intensely and he was laughing in this really low, creepy way. On top of that, his Slavic accent disappeared. That's when he told me he had lied about being Slavic and that he's native to our state that the college is in. He got increasingly more creepy and there was nothing I could do about it because I had a single room my freshman year. At one point he grabbed me in a hug and wouldn't let me go until I said let go of me right now three times or so. He told me he'd done a lot of bad things and that if I wanted to put him in jail he could give me the names of people who have evidence against him.

He said that he hates certain ethnic groups and everyone until they give him a reason not to hate them. He said a lot of weird, really just outright overt stuff about my body. Like he went on and on about how showering alone isn't fun and that it's better with another person and that he'd be willing to do that if I wanted to. Keep in mind this guy had a girlfriend and he acknowledged that. He even said that he'd go after me if he weren't dating someone, which freaked me out. He asked if he could sleep in my room and I said no, and I used that to tell him that I was ready for bed and that he needed to leave. As he left, he said, do you want to know how unsecure the locks on your door really are? He also pulled a few IDs out of his wallet, all with different names.

I closed the door on him and looked through the peephole. And he stood there, looking at the door for an uncomfortably long period of time before leaving. After that, he called me multiple times throughout the month, always at weird times. He started appearing everywhere I was around campus. The friend who had introduced us, Chris, actually started walking everywhere with me because he noticed Ron following me around and lurking around corners when I couldn't see him. Apparently, he was around me a lot more than I realized because Chris began carrying a knife whenever we went places. Ron was everywhere, and he would come up to me and

put his arm over me and whisper stuff like, I need to talk, whenever he saw me. And for a while he would lurk outside my dorm, but that stopped all of a sudden one day. I later found out that Chris had told my RA about Ron, and that he had been banned from the building. I hadn't done that myself because I thought I was overreacting, even though I clearly wasn't. I blocked him on my phone and he hasn't contacted me since. He did apologize to me one day on campus last semester when we ran into each other and I was actually willing to accept it and move on. Until recently. So here I am, two years later, and everything that happened with Ron has come back up again. I found out recently that he has a history of stalking women,

like an extensive history going back at least five years. I met another victim of his who he stalked before coming to my university. She had gone to a community college for a bit, and he stalked her while he was also a student there. He followed her to our university after apparently being suspended from the school after three separate stalking incidents were linked to him. The victim I met told me something worrying. Ron is currently an RA on our campus and she was one of his residents. When she told the residential office that Ron had stalked her in the past, they told her all they could do was have her move dorms, which she did. They then said they couldn't do anything to discipline him because the stalking didn't occur at their university.

She and I both reported our experiences with him to the residential office, who then tipped off the campus police, who then spoke to the dean of students. The thing is though, when I gave his name to the residential office they had no idea who I was talking about. He'd given me a fake first and last name and I had to do a lot of searching to find out his real name. I knew he was sketchy when I saw the four separate IDs in his wallet and I didn't ever think he'd give me a fake name when I'd met him. After talking to residential living, I talked to the police. When I talked to the police, they didn't seem to care about what I had to say.

Actually, the officer I spoke to talked over me while I explained the times he followed me and said that he'd heard all he needed to hear. I spoke to the dean of students, who asked me some clarifying questions about the police report he'd received. The police had mixed up several details in my story with the stories of other victims. Apparently more people than just myself and the girl I had met have come forward with information about this person. There are even reports that he got physical with two separate people before coming to this university. Last week I saw him on campus. He's still an RA, even though multiple women have spoken to higher-ups about his behavior. If I hear from him, I'm issuing a no-contact order

to ensure that he stays away from me. Right now, though, that feels like too much of a hassle because we're all going home for a two-month break due to COVID education anyways. And that's kind of it. It's anticlimactic and there's no sense of justice in all of this, but hopefully this story teaches all of you to stay on your toes and not to think you're overreacting when someone is being sketchy. I work at a popular coffee chain, generally doing afternoon and closing shifts. This night in particular we had a very young crew for closing which happens around 10.30. For reference, we have our shift lead, a 19-year-old female who we'll call Sarah, myself, a 17-year-old female, my co-worker, another 17-year-old female, Maya, and another co-worker, a 13-year-old female who we'll call Dee.

It had been a relatively slow night with only a few loyal regulars dropping by. Both drive-thru and the cafe were empty as heavy rainfall had started and no one wanted to be out. I was in the front of the store cleaning while the rest of the coworkers were in the back of the store when an older man walks in. He was wearing odd clothing, a bit strange for the humid weather, full black attire with combat boots, a heavy red jacket, and a beanie on his head obscuring his hair. I brushed it off as protection from the storm and figured that he worked outside and went to ask if he had placed an online order as he stood at the mobile counter. Putting on my customer service voice, I smiled and went through my standard spiel,

but was alarmed when, instead of responding, he places a bag on the counter and starts pulling out DVDs. Once he finishes pulling out the stack of about 10 or so, he stares past me into the back room where my co-workers were obviously chatting and then makes a lap around the store. Eyeing me the entire time and not speaking a word, he backs out of the front door and walks out to his truck, which I now see as a large black pickup. Freaked out, I stupidly grab the stack of DVDs and run back to my co-workers. They're immediately alarmed by my demeanor and ask me what's wrong. I hold out the DVDs and let them inspect them while I explain what happened.

Much to my discomfort, Sarah points out that all of the movies are either murders or kidnappings. Slightly angry and extremely uncomfortable, we make the decision to call my manager. He picks up and Sarah explains the situation, while I comfort Dee and Maya who are freaked out, probably more so than I am at the time. He tells us that there's nothing we can do about it but to call back if anything else happens. So, we hang up and move back to the front of the store as a group. Things go on as usual, but with an air of fear about us. Maya sticks to my side and D to Sarah's. The man's truck had pulled off at that point, but much to my dismay, it only pulled into the now closed grocery store next door that had a clear view into the drive-thru window. A few cars pull through the drive-thru and I even had a few customers ask us if I was alright due to what I assumed to be my terrified

face. I've always had a pretty good intuition about things and this felt more wrong than anything else I had ever felt. A bit more time passes by and it's now time for D to leave. With a man still in the parking lot next door, we decided it would probably be best for her boyfriend, Daniel, to come pick her up. This wasn't an irregular occurrence and we didn't want him following her home. Maya then points out that a van had been sitting in the back of the parking lot for almost an hour at that point, which we had not noticed previously. Another gut feeling hits and I make the decision to lock the door. Daniel tells her he's on the way and I inform my manager that we

closed the cafe for peace of mind, which he was fine with as business was slow. Now Sarah and Dee are in the back and Maya and I are up front. I go about cleaning machines and trying to make idle chatter to keep her calm which is no small feat as she jumps every time she hears someone steaming milk. As we're talking and I have my back turned to her, she screams mid-sentence, get out. Alarmed, I whip around to where she is standing near the counter closest to the drive-thru window and I saw her pointing to a shadowy figure, climbing through the window. The next few moments were a bit of a blur as adrenaline rushed through my thoughts, and what I can only explain is extreme divine intervention.

It genuinely cannot be explained by anything other than some grand divine plan to keep myself and my co-workers alive. Grabbing her arm, I yank Maya behind me and grab the hot bucket of sanitizer I had been using to scrub the counters around the machines. I throw the liquid onto him, simultaneously pushing the man out of the window which it only had his shoulder through with a big red bucket now on his head. If you work in food services, you know the ones. Those bulky ones. At the same time, Daniel pulls up outside. Maya is now yelling for someone to call the police and I see Dee and my peripheral running outside to our new savior. I slam the drive-thru window shut and lock them, with the man still lying on the ground struggling to get his bearings. I couldn't tell

you how much time had passed, although it couldn't have been more than about 15-30 seconds, before I see Daniel rush the man who was now on his knees and pin him to the ground. Sarah and Maya were now pulling me to the back of the store with both fighting back sobs and Sarah on the phone with the police. Thankfully we have some awesome regulars who are also deputies that arrived within 5 minutes of our call and arrested this man. The aftermath was messy, but they eventually pinned him as a member of a local trafficking ring that had been caught years prior and let out on bail. Oh yeah, and the van in the back that had kept Dee from leaving in the first place, it hightailed it out of the parking lot in the middle of all the action.

It was eventually traced back to people who were also part of that ring. Even though I won't be releasing names or such as legal proceedings are still happening, but I figured I would tell my story here. I still work there and am very grateful for Daniel who very well could have saved all of our lives in that moment. He managed to keep the man pinned the entire time until the police arrived and disarmed him. The true hero of the story, although I do pride myself on my quick thinking for getting him out of the store. The moral of the story, trust your gut feelings and always have a steaming hot bucket of sanitizer on hand. I'm 20 years old.

I live in the suburbs in a small residence of about six houses. My gate is very, very often broken, including today. That means that 80% of the time it's wide open and everyone can come into the small courtyard. My house has one floor, there are four bedrooms including mine, and downstairs there is a guest bedroom which is used as a treatment room because I have a lot of health concerns. And this is where all the equipment, medicines are stored, like morphine and doses that could potentially kill the average person. And this is where the care takes place. Also, I have a dog. I'm very, very close to him. He's wildly connected

to me, even to the point of feeling my epileptic seizures before they happen, to recognize the nurses who are arriving. He recognizes them by the sound of their tires when they arrive in the yard. He never barks, except when there's a problem. And finally, a nurse comes about four to five times a day to give me care at home, including infusions. That morning, like every morning, my nurse arrives at about 8am. For the rest of the story, I'll call her Sandra. She takes care of me as usual. That is to say, with the infusion of my painkiller, she replaces antibiotics that we're infusing,

she does a blood test, and replaces the cassette of my morphine pump. We usually chat about everything and nothing all at the same time. She tells me stories about patients and their treatment. My nurses are an integral part of my life. They have looked after me for about six years now. She leaves after 40 minutes and says to me, See you later. I'm sure I'll be a little late, but don't worry.

That day, I have a medical appointment in the morning and I'm alone all day because my parents are working. Once back from my meeting, I sit on the sofa with my dog while waiting for my next nurse. After a while, I hear their tire noises. I get up because I think it's the nurse, but my dog started to growl behind the door. I looked at the time, 11.50am. I tell myself that it is a bit early but sometimes instead of going after, my nurse exchanges me with the patient from before. I hear a knocking and surprised I go to open it, usually the nurse just comes in, and I see a young woman standing whom I'd never seen before. She says to me, hello, are you Jason? I'm Camille, a third year nursing student. Your nurse will be a little late so she told me to come and start preparing and then she'll arrive.

I'm not wary at all. I'm used to students coming but I'm just a little surprised that Sandra didn't warn me because usually she tells me in the morning or sends me a message and then she never leaves a student alone when it's the first time we meet each other. I tell myself she must have forgotten to tell me. I bring her in and show her the way to the treatment room. I take out the things for treatment while she washes her hands. My dog is acting weird. He growls at her as soon as she approaches me and turns around towards me. I was embarrassed so I left him in the living room and closed the door to be quiet. I don't really care what she does, I just let her do it while I'm on my phone at the moment.

She begins to put the IV on the infusion stand and takes a syringe. Normally we rinse my central catheter with a syringe of a serum that's already made and you just have to open the packaging. And there I see it's not a pre-made syringe, but a syringe that she has prepared. I look up and see the ampules for my treatments are intact and have not been opened, yet I did hear the sound of the ampules breaking. I'm starting to think this is getting weird. And there she starts to approach me to inject the syringe when I get a message from my nurse.

I'll be there in five minutes. Can you start pulling out the materials? Oh my god. My blood has only run for one spin and I got up and said, uh, I gotta go use the toilet. I ran and locked myself in the downstairs bathroom. The whole time my dog was barking and growling, so I let him into the bathroom with me. I sent a message to my nurse. There's a Camille here, your student, don't worry. And then she replied, who? I started crying in the toilet and was really, really scared.

Camille came and said, is everything okay? I think she could see that I was staying in there a long time and I responded, yes, yes, I'm just taking my time. And then I heard my front door slam. Two minutes later I hear it reopen but I hear my nurse. I came out of the toilet crying. She asked me what happened. I told her about it and showed her the treatment room. We immediately called the police.

They arrive. They examine the area, took samples, looked at the syringe, and the rest of what Camille had prepared. The test results were received a few days after receiving the products in the syringe. And in the syringe was some sort of paralytic. She had put a dose that could have paralyzed a man 120 kilos and I'm only 40. And in the IV, it was a medicine to lower the heart rate. But it was so concentrated it could have stopped anyone's heart. Today, we still don't know who Camille is, and luckily, I never heard from her again. I should tell you that she also stole all my opioids, but

no other things like my tablet, which was on the bed, bed or my computer which was in the living room. In retrospect, I realized that my dog had sensed that this person had ill intentions for me. And I tell myself that I should have watched her because she did say she was just a student. And that my treatments were not what she was preparing. And I keep wondering what would have happened if I hadn't checked my phone. To be continued... in a urology clinic. I see this guy in his 50s. There was just something off about him. Something slimy. I don't think much of it and do my job. His main complaint was ED. Now, I'm new and inexperienced, so I help him thoroughly. Read maybe a bit too thoroughly. This would include extensive questioning about his intimate life, physical examination of his external stuff, and a digital examination, if you know what I mean.

Bloods, the whole nine yards. Now, I try to make my patients comfortable. It's not always easy for an older guy to talk about his junk to a stranger, so I make an effort to chat with them, make a few jokes, make them feel special, stuff like that. And I do it with this guy also. I prescribe a PDE-5i and give him a follow-up date to come and discuss the results of his blood work. Skip to two weeks later, I'm in the clinic again, and I pull the file of this guy, Mr. Smith.

Now Mr. Smith comes in my consultation room and comes and sits next to me. The room is spaced in such a way that I'm behind a table, but his chair is right next to my chair on the same side of the table. I know, right? Public hospitals. He shoves his stool closely next to mine and sits facing me, his legs wide apart, and he starts, You know, doctor, I'm so glad you got my file today. I missed you. Well, how are you, Mr. Smith? He ignores my question. You know, I'm glad it's you because the other doctor working here, I think he's one of those gays.

And we don't like gays, do we, doctor? He touches my leg. Do we, doctor? I don my leg. Do we, doctor? I don't really know what to make of this, but I take his hand off my leg and continue. Um, Mr. Smith, how are those tablets working for you? He giggles. Wouldn't you like to know? You know, I love how personal you get with me.

I even get a funny clip on my phone the other day that reminded me of us, and I promised myself I would show it to you. He takes out his phone and starts scrolling through clips. Oh, this isn't the one, but it's funny too. He holds the phone eagerly to my face. It's a clip about a guy drawing a palm tree, but then as he keeps drawing it, it turns into a male's member and the coconuts is, you can guess what, and the palm leaves is, well, you can keep guessing. There's a couple sketches like that. Uh, Mr. Smith, let's just get on with it, okay?

No, doctor, please. Just that one clip just get on with it, okay? No, doctor, please. Just that one clip. You were so friendly last time. I like you too. He scrolls further. Then his little eyes light up. Here it is, doctor.

This is the one. Very funny. Oh, it reminds us. Well, it reminds me so much of us. He eagerly holds the phone to my face. The clip starts with a huge white guy. He's just standing there, nude. I think, okay, this may still be funny.

So you hear a door open and in comes another massive man in a doctor's outfit. So, you were the patient, he says patient he says yes doctor the naked man answers lie down the doctor says so the naked man lies down i'm still waiting for the punchline the huge doctor starts examining the naked man and he accidentally touches the naked man's crotch. Nice wiener, he comments. Why thank you, says the patient. Something starts feeling horribly wrong to me. I look at Mr. Smith. He is eagerly holding the phone in my face but he isn't looking at it. He's looking at me, almost giddy, smiling from ear to ear, childlike excitement in his eyes. Mr. Smith, why would you think I'd want to see this? No doctor, just keep watching. It gets better. It's us.

The last thing I saw before forcefully removing the phone from his hand and shutting off the clip was the doctor starting to give the patient, well, I won't go into details, but this was essentially smite. I rushed through the consultation, dismissed Mr. Smith, and then I got up, walked out of the clinic, across to the other side of the hospital. I went and stood on the landing pad of the helicopter and freaked out. I thought, no, I'm overreacting. I'm just taking it badly because I was touched as a kid, I thought. It was just a pass he made. Anybody can make a pass at anybody, right?

Right? It's normal. I'm saying these things to myself as I'm standing there sobbing like a six-year-old child. So after I pulled myself together, I went to the trauma unit next to the landing pad. The clinic could wait a few minutes and told the story to the doctors on call there as a joke, like it's just a funny anecdote. But nobody laughs. They look horrified. They keep asking me if I'm okay, if they could maybe make me some coffee or something. And that's the only reason I knew what happened to me was unacceptable. How messed up is that? Mr. Smith came a few times again but I made a point of never taking his file.

To hell with him. And then, apparently, I locked this whole thing out until I wrote another story the other day, and it all came flooding back in. I do want to clarify that I don't have a problem with people of that orientation, but I do feel that it was wildly, wildly inappropriate for him to do that. Another good old story from South Africa. As people from there know, there is a lot of game farms and lodges, especially around the area of Kruger National Park. This incident took place on the very tranquil, four-star game farm close to the southern tip of the above-mentioned

Kruger National Park. We have frequented the lodge often over the five years before this incident as it was a favorite with me and my wife. At the time she was my girlfriend. The lodge had a very nice central area with a pool and restaurant and then the tented chalets were spread out around with the furthest one about one kilometer from the restaurant. The chalets were very private and set up in the bush so you could not see the one next over and could only hear your neighbors if they were very loud. Sadly, the lodge has fallen on hard times and has gone backwards a bit. The weekend this incident took place, only two of the 25 plus units were occupied for the Friday night, and we were the only ones there for that Saturday evening.

It made me feel a little uneasy. To make matters worse, the lodge slash farm manager came by on Saturday morning saying he's leaving the farm for the weekend, if we need anything to just help ourselves in the restaurant's fridges and leave a note that we can settle the bill the next week. Sure, no problem. We have the pool and jacuzzi all for ourselves. We left to go for a visit to the KNP after the manager left and stayed out most of the day. We got back at around 3pm and as we got out of the car I suddenly got goosebumps. It was 35 degrees celsius which was over 100 degrees fahrenheit so I definitely didn't get cold. As we approached the chalet we parked about 150 meters from the chalet and at a little path we walked down. As we approached the chalet

I noticed big shoe prints over me and my girlfriend's prints from this morning and this seriously put me on edge. I approached the chalet and noticed the prints turn around and walk back the way they came. Everything seemed in order at the chalet. We went for a swim and a bit of a game drive around the farm and returned at around 5.30. Started to make the fire, barbecue the meat and prepare some other food. Both me and my girlfriend seemed on edge and very quiet. We sat down to eat at around 8pm. As we sat down I looked at my girlfriend. She looked worried. I asked her what is wrong. She said she had a bad feeling and that we should probably go. I said that I feel the same, and that we need to leave now and not after we ate. We chucked our food in the cooler, grabbed our bags and ran to the car, jumped in and almost

raced out of there. As we went out the gate, dropped the keys in the box and drove away with that feeling of dread slowly fading. We made the 150 kilometer almost 100 miles drive home in the dark and slept in our own bed. Woke up that Sunday and went about our day as normal. At about 4pm that afternoon my phone rings and I see it's the number for the lodge manager. I answer and he frantically asks if we're okay. I say yeah why? He starts explaining and I get ice cold. Apparently the lodge was broken into and ransacked the Saturday night. They took everything of value and what they could not take they destroyed. It was a group of five men that did it.

Apparently there was evidence that they had ransacked a chalet as well. Only one. The one my girlfriend and I was booked in. The one we would have been sleeping in had we not left so abruptly the previous night. So it means they were watching us. The lodge had cameras but the chalets did not. We left just after 8pm, probably at about 8.10 when we had everything in the car and started driving. About 8.20 when we left the farm as it was about 2km from the lodge to the gate down a gravel road. And the cameras caught the first signs of movement at the lodge just before 8.30.

At least one was visibly armed with a firearm in the footage and a few had machetes. I shudder to think what would have happened had we been there. The nearest people would have been over 3km away in a straight line and we were completely alone on the farm. Only a little bit of cell reception at the lodge and none at the chalet itself. We would not have been able to call for help. Needless to say, we did not go to the lodges or isolated areas for a long time after that, and sadly the lodge and farm went under not long after and I saw ads that it was being sold on bank auction. That incident had shocked both of us a bit and we vowed to always trust our instincts and intuitions and to tell each other if something felt off. We both have had that

uneasy feeling since about three that afternoon when we came back, and the reason neither of us said anything was because we did not want to spoil the weekend for the other. That almost cost us, possibly in the strip mall out in a fairly rural area. Most people are recognizable even if you don't know them personally. People from out of the area frequently stop on their way through to other towns, so it's not like there are never out-of-towners, just that they might be easy to spot. Like many places, we have a few homeless folks that hang around the shopping center, and they occasionally ask people for change or food. It can be a nuisance, but the folks that

worked at the shops kind of kept an eye on them to help them out or to keep track of how they're doing. There's this one guy, Shane, that over the course of a few years has slowly gotten worse and worse in shape. He would be filthy and was clearly not doing well mentally and was usually intoxicated. He always had several layers of clothing and the pants that he wore on the outside of his other pants always sagged making it hard for him to walk. He'd go missing for days and then just show up again. We'd wonder what happened to Shane and ask around a bit and a few days later he'd appear again. He was always so dirty. I always wished that there was a way we could get him some help but I didn't really know

what to do. One day I was out in a major city that is about 80 or so miles away from where I work. I happened to see a well-dressed, very well-groomed gentleman that looked exactly like Shane. But at that moment I figured my eyes were deceiving me. This guy has an expensive looking shoulder bag, a new iPhone, and an Apple watch. We were both in line at a popular food truck and it was usually a long wait to order and get food. Most people just minded their business and scroll on their phones while waiting. This guy on the other hand is staring daggers at me. I keep avoiding looking that way but I keep glancing to see if he's still there.

At the same time I want to look at him because I'm so curious about how he looks so much like Shane. I glance his way and I have to stumble back because he's practically right up against me. He has incredibly intense eyes. He sort of whispers to me but really intensely and he tells me he knows where I'm from and what shop I work at. He gets closer and I can tell he smells okay and I can even smell his minty breath. I ask how he knows and he just smiles. I ask again and he smiles brighter, exposing a perfectly clean set of teeth, minus one tooth. I'm almost positive Shane is missing that exact tooth.

I edge away, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. His order gets called up but they say his name is James. The next few days I don't see Shane anywhere around the shopping center and I ask around and no one had seen him for a few days. Someone says that he hopes he's okay. Another person shrugs and says that they wish they could do something to help him. The next day, here he is, filthy as ever, grimy teeth, dirty fingernails, and wearing all of his layers. He sits on the curb outside my shop and asks people for change. I decide to venture out and confront him. I'm 100% sure it's him, but I don't understand how he could get so filthy and smelly in such a short period of time.

I ask him if he was in the city and he looks at me through bloodshot eyes and mumbles that he'll kill me if I tell anyone. This takes me aback and I look at him puzzled. He slurs again that he'll kill me if I tell anyone and that he's not actually homeless. He starts to get worked up and I end up calling the police because I didn't know what to do at that point, I didn't know what he was capable of and he just wandered off and thankfully I haven't seen him since. This This happened around 2008. I was about 12 years old and I had a Facebook. One day I got a friend request from someone I didn't know that went by the name of Madi. I forgot the last name.

I accepted it and looked at their profile and they didn't have any photos up and it seemed like they just created the account. But I didn't think anything of it. Like most 12 year olds, I was dumb and you'll soon see why. Mati messages me and I message him back. He asked my age and I gave him a fake age. I told him I was 15 instead of 12. I don't remember him stating his name but he eventually tells me he lives in Saudi Arabia.

I remember we spoke about Islam a lot and around that time and age I was super into learning new religions and Islam always piqued my interest. Madi then tells me he has bodyguards. I thought that was a little odd but I thought maybe he was just messing with me so I ignored it. Anyways, weeks go by and Madi and I are messaging back and forth almost daily. Just typical conversations and him occasionally telling me how beautiful I am. I would just reply with thanks and move on with the conversation. On this day I forgot what we were talking about or how this led to this but he gave me my exact house address. Why it didn't freak me out that much then i don't know but i asked

how he knew my exact address and all he said was a little bird he told me i went to block him and before i went to block him he bragged how much he was a good hacker and then i thought maybe that's how he got my address was from my ip address or something. I know nothing about computers by the way. I blocked him and thought it was all over with. Nope. The very next day I see him in my messages again, almost like I never blocked him in the first place. He messaged me with pictures of me, with a message saying, I liked watching you after your shower. There were photos of me in my towel and more i can only assume he got from hacking my webcam i immediately closed my computer and just tried to forget about it

why at this point i never told my parents is beyond me i went to block him again and it seemed like he was gone for good this one day still confuses me and still has me wondering. I went to get my hair cut and there was one other guy in there. I faintly remember what he looked like. I just remember he had blue scrubs on, black beard and black kind of curly hair and I think he was wearing glasses and reading a newspaper. We made eye contact and when he saw me, he looked shocked and quickly held the newspaper closer to his face and from time to time would peek behind it to see me. When I saw him, a thought came into my mind saying, that's Mahdi. But I was like, how could it be him? He's apparently all the way in Saudi Arabia. I dismissed that thought and just got my hair cut. The next day I log into Facebook in the school library and

Madi somehow became unblocked and messaged me again and said, nice haircut, you were cute. Mind you, I didn't post any photos of me after that haircut and I never posted anything on my Facebook saying I got one. I asked him how he knew I got a haircut and he replied, a little bird he told me. I don't really remember what happened after that, I just remember that was the last time I heard from him. Still to this day I often wonder if he was stalking me in real life and through that webcam. And still to this day I don't use Facebook or any social media besides Reddit because of Madi. It just makes me wonder if he ever actually stopped watching me. The End This story happened just a few years back when I was visiting an old friend in Cologne,

while at the same time taking advantage of him as a free place to stay for a meeting with my LARP group. For those that don't know what LARP is, it's basically real life roleplaying. Imagine a D&D game but instead of people sitting around a table with dice, you have people actually dressed up as their character actually roleplaying IRL. LARPing was my hobby since I was 14 and after I got a job that paid pretty well, I started to go a bit more all out when it came to stuff was my hobby since I was 14, and after I got a job that paid pretty well, I started to go a bit more all out when it came to stuff from my hobby. One of those things I spent a solid amount of money on was my character's armor, this is important for the story, the chainmail that I wear under my outer armor. After meeting with my group, I got mostly out of my LARP outfit because I didn't want to walk through Cologne-Mulheim,

which is one of the more dangerous places in the city as a medieval knight. But since I couldn't fit it all in my backpack, I kept my chainmail on, as well as my tunic and pants. On my bus ride home, I noticed some guy seemed to have an eye on me, but I guessed it was because I still looked very out of place. When he got on the same station as me, I didn't really pay him much attention. I was almost at my friend's place and decided to call him, asking if we should meet and get doner, which is like kebab, which he agreed to before I even ended my question. I arrived at our meeting spot first and waited. Then I noticed that guy from the bus again, who now walked straight towards me. I got closer to the wall to make

space, but he didn't pass by. He stopped right before me and pulled a knife on me, demanding my bag, wallet, and phone. I was willing to give him my wallet, but tried to explain that my bag only had some armor and some foam weapons. But it seems that even just talking was enough to set this guy off and suddenly I felt two fast stinging pinches in my stomach. It hurt incredibly bad and I dropped down and the guy grabbed my bag. Honestly, the next things are kind of like a blur. I was barely able to notice anything other than the voice in my head screaming, you just got stabbed. So the next thing I noticed was my friend shaking me. My bag was open and my stuff was all over the place. And my friend was

holding my helmet which seemed to have blood on it. As my friend said that he saw the guy throwing my stuff around after the bag was most likely too heavy for him, so my friend, seeing me on the floor, managed to grab the first thing he could, which was the helmet, and bash the guy with it until he ran away. We later checked my stomach and even though I had two giant deep blue bruises which hurt incredibly bad, I only had two small cuts since the chainmail stopped the knife. Until this day I get sick to my stomach when I think back on that day and remember that if I had not worn a piece of my LARP clothing that day, I'd be dead, literally killed over a bag full of costumes, 150 euros in my wallet, and a ten year old phone.

This world is messed up. This is an incident that occurred when I was 9 years old. Even today, as a 34-year-old female, I still think about what could have been. As a child both my parents worked full time and sometimes they couldn't find or afford a babysitter when I had winter, summer, spring break. So I would be home alone until either one of them returned from work. There were two main rules. One, never answer the door. Two, don't play too close to the windows in case someone is watching. I was 100% guilty of hanging near the window. I liked the lighting and I was a bored kid, come on. And no one had ever knocked on the door before while I was alone. So my father leaves for work and he goes over the rules again. After a few hours of playing near the window, someone knocks on the door.

I freeze. I don't answer. They knock again. At this point in my little mind I'm thinking it has to be someone I know if they're knocking twice. So I answer. I open the door and there is an intimidating woman with a clipboard, wearing a hat with an American flag on it. Very official looking to a child. She asks how old I am. I lie and say I'm 12. She says that she's from some institution that I can't remember. She tells me, you're a liar. You're home alone and it's illegal. You have to come with me

now. Let's go. I start crying very loudly because I'm scared to get my parents in trouble and after all, this woman is an adult. She must be right, right? And I almost went with her. I started crying even louder. A neighbor made a noise in our complex and the lady all of a sudden tells me, never mind, it's okay. You don't have to come with me. Shh. She hurried off. At the time, my parents weren't doing well financially, so I didn't have a landline. Cell phones? Not in 1996. Couldn't call my family.

Couldn't call 911. I waited all day for my dad to come home. I am assuming that she knew I was alone because she had been watching me. I never really spoke on the incident because I felt like it was my fault for breaking the rules. I often think about how lucky I am that I didn't leave with her. To be continued... Click that notification bell to be alerted of all future narrations. I release new videos every Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 7pm EST. If you got a story, be sure to submit them to my subreddit, r slash let's read official, 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,

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